A Deadly Cambodian Crime Spree

by Shamini Flint

  Singh stopped marching up and down and faced them squarely although he did not sit down. He raised one hand and started ticking off suspects on his fingers. “OK, let’s start at the beginning. We have Sovann – good motive and good forensic evidence of fingerprints but some doubt about angle of knife entry.”

  Menhay snorted like an angry bull but Singh ignored him.

  “Second, the husband, Jeremy Armstrong – based on his confession.”

  “To protect his wife,” insisted Menhay.

  “I almost agree with you. But Armstrong’s carrying an enormous load of guilt over his role in Cambodia’s bloody past. He’s devoted his whole life to making amends to the people of Cambodia while keeping this secret from his wife. He might really have felt that killing Huon would give him some sort of absolution.”

  “How he must suffer to think that the woman he loves might find out that he has Cambodian blood on his hands.” This was Chhean. She blinked to keep the tears back.

  “That’s not sufficient punishment for what he did,” growled Menhay.

  “He was just following orders,” said Chhean.

  “Funny.” said Singh. “That’s exactly what Ta Ieng said at the trial.”

  There was a thick silence in the room like a heavy fog as they each remembered the testimony of Ta Ieng: torturer, executioner, child killer. Just following orders.

  “Do you think that he’s right? That Sovann would not forgive him if she ever found out about his past?” Chhean was frowning, trying to decide how she would act, or react, in the same position. Jeremy Armstrong had been a young pilot – not a cold-blooded killer. And he had worked his whole life to make up for what he had done.

  Singh shrugged. “He can’t forgive himself – I don’t suppose she would either.”

  “You were a child then, Chhean. If you had seen the flattened countryside, the burning villages, the screaming children and the silent adults – well, I don’t think you would forgive either.” Menhay spoke with enormous intensity.

  Chhean could almost hear the heavy drone of the bomber engines in the silence after the colonel’s description.

  It was Menhay who dragged them back to the matter at hand. “What else do we have?”

  “Som – shot to death – who had something to tell us about a rich man in a Mercedes-Benz with a fondness for books.”

  “What could it mean?” asked Chhean desperately, trying to forget the past and concentrate on the present. “There must be some connection!”

  The fat man raised his shoulders until they were almost brushing his ears. “It could be any number of things but my best guess is that Huon was being paid to do something, to say something…”

  “Or not to say something,” suggested Menhay.

  Singh’s eyebrows shot up with interest. “Paid to leave something or someone out of his testimony?”

  “Quite possibly – he might know of an ex-Khmer Rouge in a position of power.”

  “Who paid him to keep quiet about it? And perhaps eventually killed him?” Singh was excited now. “Any sign of extra money in Huon’s bank accounts?”

  “He didn’t have a bank account,” remarked Menhay, dryly reminding the inspector that they were in Cambodia, not organised Singapore. “If there was any money lying around the room he stayed in, there was no mention of it in the report.”

  All the occupants of the room refrained from pointing out that the cops tasked with searching the premises might have trousered any cash.

  “What about that thick gold chain around his neck that Savuth mentioned?” pointed out Singh.

  “That could certainly be a down payment,” agreed Menhay.

  “Cambodians prefer to keep their savings in gold because of the time when Pol Pot banned money,” explained Chhean.

  “What else do we have?” It was Singh with the question.

  “I went to see Samrin,” answered Menhay. “It is possible that he was behind the killing. If the war crimes tribunal is thrown into disrepute – or the trial postponed or cancelled – he might be released. Already there are some who are calling for an end to the ECCC since even the witnesses are not safe. They claim that the whole institution has been degraded.”

  “Could he organise a hit from prison?”

  “Sure – the shadow of the Khmer Rouge is long and dark. Many people believe that it is wrong to try these men in the first place. Samrin himself told me he was a patriot.”

  “What did he say when you accused him of murder?”

  “As a man on trial for mass murder, it didn’t seem to bother him much that we were trying to pin another killing on him.”

  The sharp ring of the old-fashioned telephone distracted them from their speculations.

  “It better not be Adnan with some other confession,” grumbled Menhay to no one in particular as he reached for the receiver. He listened for a while, barked a few sharp sentences in Khmer – he is arranging to meet someone, whispered Chhean to Singh – and slammed the phone down. There were white rings under his eyes and around his mouth that contrasted sharply with his ruddy face. “One of my contacts wants to see me – about this case,” he said.

  “Did he say what it was about?”

  “No – just that I would owe him a favour and he would not forget to collect.”

  Singh was familiar with the world of police informants. The ‘you scratch my back, I scratch yours’ arrangements that were often entered into and sometimes regretted. These people were an important source of information from an underworld to which the police had no access otherwise. On the other hand, it made for some pretty unsavoury encounters. What was the expression – politics makes strange bedfellows? So did murder investigations.

  “Shall we come along?” asked Singh.

  “You must be joking,” retorted Menhay. “Do you think I want this guy gunned down as well?”

  Chhean winced – she had almost been able to put the images out of her mind. Now Menhay’s words brought back the events of yesterday – Som walking towards them and then shot in cold blood.

  Singh was huffy. “Well, what do you want us to do in the meantime?”

  It was clear from his expression that Menhay was biting back all sorts of inappropriate suggestions. At last he said, “Why don’t you go and see Ta Ieng? Maybe someone is bumping off witnesses and his turn is next. Make sure you tell him that anyway. It’s nice to think of him feeling some fear for his life.”

  “Speaking of which, is there anything new with your serial killer?”

  “No, first break we’ve had since the killings started.”

  “I guess he must be busy…or on holiday.”

  Menhay was sarcastic. “He hasn’t run out of ex-Khmer Rouge, that’s for sure.”

  The colonel left the room for his appointment and Chhean said, “Are we going to see Ta Ieng?”

  “Yes,” said Singh, “but we have a stop to make on the way.”

  He led the way quickly down the stairs until they reached the holding cells. Despite what Menhay had suggested, the Armstrong couple were some distance from each other and ignorant, Chhean assumed, of the presence of the other.

  “Why are we here?” she whispered.

  “To tell Sovann about her husband’s confession!”

  “The colonel won’t like it.”

  “You heard Adnan earlier – I’m jointly in charge which means I’m entitled to follow a hunch.”

  Chhean refrained from pointing out that if he was confident of his authority there would be no need for this cloak-and-dagger approach. Instead, on the fat man’s whispered instructions, she asked that they be allowed in to see Sovann. The gaoler, familiar with their earlier visits with Menhay, did not stand in their way.

  As they entered the cell, they saw that Sovann was sitting upright in a chair as far away from the stinking toilet as possible. She looked worn, the lines on her face as clearly defined as highways on a map. She greeted them with a tremulous welcoming smile although she did not stand up or offer to shake
hands.

  “It is a pleasure to see you, Inspector Singh. What can I do for Singapore’s finest?”

  Chhean suppressed a smile. Singapore’s finest was looking distinctly uncomfortable in the filthy cell that housed Sovann.

  “I wish they would let you go or find somewhere less awful to lock you up,” he said roughly.

  “It’s certainly not quite up to the standard of the Raffles,” she agreed. “Although I always feel guilty staying in such luxurious surroundings when so many of my countrymen are poor.” She looked around. “I doubt that many of them would envy my present abode.”

  “I still don’t think you killed Huon,” explained Singh.

  “And does Colonel Menhay share this conviction?”

  “Not yet – but we have to prove it to him.”

  “I’m not sure I blame the colonel,” she admitted ruefully. “I have a strong motive and my fingerprints are all over that knife.”

  “There are other suspects,” said Singh carefully, watching her face. Chhean did the same. Were they supposed to be gauging her reaction? “In fact,” continued Singh, “there’s been a confession.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Chhean threw a dagger glance at the inspector. Surely, despite what he’d said earlier, he wouldn’t dare divulge Jeremy Armstrong’s confession without a go-ahead from Menhay? Her hopes that the Singaporean would have some tact or common sense were immediately dashed.

  “Your husband’s confessed.”

  If she had been pre-warned, she was an actress of Oscar-winning quality. Her face drained of blood so slowly it was like watching the sands run through an hourglass. She whispered, “My husband? Jeremy?”

  “Yes, he’s confessed to murdering Huon.”

  “Why?”

  “To avenge your father.”

  “That’s just ridiculous!” She looked up so that her eyes were fixed on the inspector. “You know why he’s done it, don’t you?”

  “Tell me.”

  “To protect me. He probably doesn’t think I’ll survive long in a place like this.” Only the merest tremor ran through her body but it shouted louder than words that her husband was quite likely to be right.

  “It’s an extreme step,” remarked Singh.

  “This is an extreme situation.” Her tone was embarrassed when she said, “Jeremy loves me and sometimes he gets carried away in his efforts to protect me.”

  “Look, Jeremy’s a big tough American. He’ll last a lot longer than you in here. Why don’t you just accept what he’s done with good grace and I’ll persuade Menhay to let you go.”

  Chhean held her breath. It was a good offer. It even made sense. Would she accept it, this woman of flesh and bone who looked more like a spirit creature?

  “Are you really suggesting that I let an innocent man rot in jail on my behalf?”

  It was interesting, thought Chhean, that she couched the question in the abstract. Sovann was a woman of principle who would not let anyone go to jail for her; the fact that the volunteer was her husband was a secondary issue.

  “This is a serious matter – it affects the tribunal. Menhay has to put someone away.” Singh sounded almost desperate as he ran out of options.

  “Don’t you think I know that?” She changed the subject. “Why don’t you think I did it?”

  He shrugged his fleshy shoulders. “Not the type!” And then, a small smile exposing the smoker’s teeth, he added, “I’ve been wrong before, of course.”

  “And my husband?”

  “No comment.”

  Her face hardened – Chhean thought it looked like water freezing into ice. “If you don’t let Jeremy go – I’ll confess as well.”

  Singh was alarmed and it showed in his widening eyes. “Don’t do anything hasty,” he begged. “There’s no way I’ll get you out of here if you confess too.”

  “You heard me – if you try and pin this on my husband I’ll make Colonel Menhay’s job easy for him.” It was her last word on the subject.

  ♦

  Menhay stood by a grubby little stall selling bottled water, kerosene and cigarettes. The glass display cabinet in which the limited wares were housed was on wheels. Menhay assumed that, at the end of the day, the proprietor would attach the whole ensemble to his motorbike and take it to the shack that he called home. The colonel glanced up and down the narrow dusty street. Every entrepreneurial enterprise had the same desperate poverty written all over it. Heaps of second-hand clothes piled on mats on the floor, baseball caps tied with raffia string to a pole, a basket of stale baguettes. He supposed that these were the first fledgling steps of a young nation towards commercial success.

  Hun Sen, the Prime Minister, was convinced that Cambodia would turn into a wealthy trading nation with his guidance. No doubt, Malaysia and Singapore had all begun from such simple roots as these. But the independence struggles of these countries had been quiet affairs involving negotiations, not violence. None of the other ASEAN nations had their intelligentsia murdered – although Burma was trying. The massacre of Cambodians with Chinese roots – the backbone of the flourishing market economies in neighbouring countries – all killed because Pol Pot suspected their commitment to the socialist ideal, hadn’t helped either. And this was despite the fact that Mao’s China had been the only country with which the Khmer Rouge had foreign relations during their entire tenure.

  An attack of almost uncontrollable rage caused Menhay’s face to flush and a vein to throb in his temple like an angry snake. No punishment was sufficient for those murderous bastards – the Khmer Rouge. It was just as well he had sent Singh to interview Ta Ieng. The way he felt at that moment he would quite likely throttle him on the spot. The colonel flexed his powerful fingers open and shut. He could almost feel the soft flesh of the throat, the wobbly sac of the Adam’s apple and the fragile bones of the neck vertebrae. It would not be difficult to summon up the will to murder someone like Ta Ieng. Unfortunately, it was Cheah Huon who had been killed. And although Sovann Armstrong was convinced that he had been a cadre with the ruling elite, Menhay was not prepared to take her word as conclusive evidence of culpability. That was not the way he operated. There had to be evidential certainty based on witness corroboration, confessions or forensic data before he would reach a conclusion of guilt. It was why he was a misfit within the Cambodian police force where a mild suspicion was usually equated with guilt and reinforced by a confession obtained with a beating. He twisted his head from side to side, trying to release the tension in his neck. Did these people, his fellow cops, not realise that they were no better than Duch or Samrin when they behaved like that?

  A tuk tuk swerved to avoid a pothole and Menhay took a step backwards. He had too much to do and too little time to complete his mission to add to the statistics on Phnom Penh road deaths.

  A thin man with large ears and a broad grin sidled up to him. “Colonel!”

  Menhay scowled at him. He hated consorting with low-lifes and this informant was a real bottom feeder. “This better be good.”

  “Oh yes! But before I tell you anything – you must remember that I, Keat, have helped the great Colonel Menhay.”

  “I’ll remember,” said Menhay curtly.

  “Because some day the little mouse might find itself in a trap and need the help of a good powerful friend…”

  More like a rat, thought Menhay, but he kept his observations private. “Within reason, Keat. I know you are a petty thief who hangs around with the big boys. They put up with you because you run errands, keep your mouth shut and lick their boots. But if you overstep that line, you’re on your own.”

  The ingratiating smile on the other man’s face receded like a setting sun. He nodded his head. “I would get away from them if I could but it is too late – I know too much.”

  Menhay felt a sudden wave of sympathy. “How about returning to your village?”

  “They would find me.”

  There was a silence as both men acknowledged the truth of what he
said. It was too late for this young man, drawn to the excitement and security of gang membership, to withdraw. He was in for life – and quite likely it would be a short life. It always was for those at the bottom of the pyramid.

  Keat was all business again, the moment of weakness had passed and the smile was back. “That’s why I need connections in high places, my good friend.”

  “What do you know?”

  “You are looking into the killing of that cripple at the trial?”

  “Yes,” answered Menhay. He was surprised that Keat even knew there was a war crimes tribunal ongoing. He had a fairly narrow range of interests: girls, guns and protecting his own skin.

  The smile was radiant now. “I know who the killer is!”

  ♦

  “Where are we going?”

  Chhean was huffing and puffing, her pale skin flushed a deep pink as she tried to keep up with the inspector. The fat man, who usually lumbered slowly from place to place like an elephant in white sneakers, could move very quickly when he was of a mind to do so.

  And he was of a mind to do so now. “Menhay might be back at any moment,” he explained. “We need to hurry!”

  “Are we trying to run away from Cambodia? That will be the only safe thing to do after he finds out that we told Sovann about her husband’s confession.”

  She was behind him so she could not see the fat man’s small smile. He would not have admitted it to anyone but he enjoyed his sidekick’s rude commentary to his actions. It kept him alert, knowing that she would be quick to point out mistakes and inconsistencies. In a way, he preferred it to the quiet restraint of Sovann Armstong. It was impossible to know at any one time what that woman was thinking. But Chhean wore her opinions on her sleeve.

  She was right that it had been a move calculated to annoy Menhay, going in to see his chief suspect and letting a few cats out of the bag to boot. But he didn’t have much time to save Sovann from a lifetime in prison. The colonel was not going to give him much more rope. Adnan Muhammad was growing impatient with progress. The trial was due to restart soon. He needed to set a few cats amongst the pigeons and see what would happen. Singh wondered for a moment why all his mental metaphors involved cats. He didn’t even like the self-interested creatures – and he was allergic to the fur.