“That Sovann is a smart woman,” he said over his shoulder, still striding forward. “If she confesses – we’re through.”
“She is brave and loyal,” insisted Chhean.
“And beautiful,” answered Singh provocatively. He sensed rather than saw his wilful sidekick grimace. He supposed he wouldn’t appreciate it if someone kept bringing up Shah Rukh Khan’s good looks. He thought about Menhay. The colonel was pug-ugly too with his square head, drooping jowls and surly expression.
“Is that why you think she’s innocent – because she’s beautiful?”
“Why does everyone think I’m so shallow?” demanded Singh. “You sound like my wife.”
There was no answer from Chhean but her silence spoke volumes. They had reached their destination and Singh peered in through a small window with rusty grilles. “This is it!” he said. He looked at his watch, the strap embedded in a plump wrist. “We don’t have much time – get security to let us in.”
“Who’s in there?”
“Jeremy Armstrong, of course! Who else?”
Chhean hesitated, as if she was about to withdraw from her role as interpreter on the grounds that the job had grown too dangerous, shrugged her broad shoulders once and hollered for the guard.
“What about Ta Ieng?” She asked the question as they waited for someone to let them in.
“He can wait.”
Unless that efficient killer of ex-Khmer Rouge got to him first. Singh ran a finger along the rim of his turban. His scalp was itching in that hot damp place that seemed designed to break the spirit of the prisoners incarcerated within. He would soon be a snivelling wreck, he suspected, if he had to spend much time here. The policeman reached for his pack of cigarettes instinctively.
Chhean wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“It’s my emotional crutch,” he explained. “It’s either this or religion.”
When they were finally let in – after some hesitation on the part of the guard, a lot of translated yelling on the part of Singh and the exchange of a fistful of riels – Jeremy Armstrong was in good shape. He seemed unaffected by his unsalubrious surroundings. The inspector, perusing him as carefully as a scientist with a new form of swine flu virus under a microscope, thought that he had the inner peace of a martyr. Probably Daniel in the lion’s den had adopted a similar air of smug self-righteousness.
It was time to burst the bubble. “I don’t think your wife killed Huon.”
“I know that,” he responded calmly. “I killed Huon.”
“I don’t believe you understand,” said Singh in his most patronising tone. “I didn’t think your wife killed Huon before you confessed.”
Was that a crack showing in his impassivity? A flicker of interest in the light-blue eyes?
“Who do you think did it then?”
“We had a number of leads…”
“What do you mean ‘had’?”
Singh looked mournful. He turned lugubrious brown eyes on the self-confessed murderer. “Well, after your confession the police halted the investigation. I’ve been taken off the case. If you recant,” he added hopefully, “they’ll let me continue my investigations, follow up those strong leads that might get your wife out of jail – without your help.”
On the edge of his line of vision, he saw Chhean shake her head at him. She disapproved of the direction the conversation was going. The inspector guessed that she was appalled that he should take such liberties with the truth. The young woman was as straight as a die. In the policeman’s view, that was an enormous impediment to being a successful investigator.
Armstrong sat on the edge of his cot. His shoulders were rounded and his long arms hung limply by his side. He looked oddly vulnerable – physically and emotionally. “I don’t believe you,” he said at last. “The evidence against Sovann is way too strong.” His voice firmed. “It’s like I told the colonel. I killed that bastard, Huon. Please just get my wife out of here.”
The inspector changed the subject. Suddenly, he was a fellow traveller, not a man on the other side of a police barrier.
“So your wife really doesn’t know about your Air Force days?”
“No, I’ve always been too afraid to tell her.”
“I can see why,” remarked Singh in a friendly tone. “I read somewhere that the Americans dropped more bombs on Cambodia than on Japan during World War Two.”
“They told us we were bombing Viet Cong enclaves in Cambodia,” Armstrong said. The words were defensive but the tone was tired, as if he had rehearsed these arguments in his head over the years and found them wanting.
“At least you’ve tried to make up for what you did.”
“Make up for what I did? Killing civilians – men, women and children? My Lai after My Lai from the air? Driving the country into the arms of the Khmer Rouge?”
“Well – you had some help,” said Singh dryly. “It’s not all your fault.”
Armstrong ignored the sop to his conscience. “I have to protect my wife. She’s been through enough. This is my redemption.”
Singh nodded. He understood what motivated this American with the empty eyes. It was as good a reason as any to confess to a murder one had not committed. Not just protection of a loved one but a personal salvation for past sins. It was the act of a man who did not believe in God or in forgiveness. Perhaps Sovann Armstrong had taught him that. Singh looked at the big bear of a man and felt a profound sympathy.
He sat down on a chair and sucked in a lungful of tobacco.
“You won’t tell her, will you?”
Singh pondered the question. He had admired Menhay earlier for using the leverage he had to extract information. He had exaggerated – Chhean would say lied – to this man about the alternative avenues of investigation in the Huon murder in the hope that he would rescind his statement. If he threatened him with disclosure, it might just work. Armstrong was as concerned for his wife’s mental wellbeing as her physical condition. The American was sure that the knowledge he had been a B-52 pilot would damage Sovann irretrievably.
She might retreat into the silent cocoon of thirty years ago. He was also – Singh could see it in the man’s eyes – terrified of losing his wife. Singh scowled. Whichever way you looked at it, that just wasn’t his problem. He was a murder investigator not a marriage counsellor.
He would have to threaten this man with what he feared the most. He saw that Chhean was begging him with her eyes not to say anything. She would never make a murder cop, he thought dismissively, if she was afraid of hurt feelings. The truth was what counted – this man had not murdered Huon and the sooner he admitted that, the quicker the investigation would get back on track. Singh opened his mouth but no words came out.
He tapped his cigarette with a stubby forefinger so that the ash fell to the floor. He looked Armstrong in the eye. “All right, I won’t tell her,” he said.
Fifteen
Singh’s brows almost met across his broad nose and his eyes were sunken pools.
“What’s wrong with you?” demanded Chhean.
“I should have threatened Armstrong with disclosure.”
“That you would tell Sovann about his past?”
“Yes – I bet he would have recanted his confession if I’d done that.”
“It would have been cruel.”
“Worse than letting him rot in jail for a murder he didn’t commit?” Singh spat the words out but she knew the anger was directed internally. He was upset because he believed that he’d been weak. She thought it was compassion rather than weakness but it was useless to argue with a thwarted murder cop, especially if the cop in question was the tubby but determined policeman from Singapore.
“It’s his choice,” she pointed out.
“It’s my job.”
“Fine!” It was her turn to sound cross. “Do your job. Find this killer and prove that it’s not Sovann or her husband.”
The inspector spoke through gritted teeth. “I’m out of ideas.”
She almost patted him on the shoulder. It was odd to see the usually gung ho policeman admitting defeat. Instead she said comfortingly, “Ta Ieng might have something to tell us.”
Singh grunted his contempt at the likelihood that the child killer and mass murderer might have something useful to say about Huon’s murder.
He changed the subject. “Have you found out anything about the serial killer’s victims? I know you’re spending every night trawling through documents.”
“I have a lot of information on most of them.”
“Any links between them?”
“Except for being from the Khmer Rouge? Not so far. But they are all quite well known ex-cadres. Easy to identify.”
“The killer is skimming the cream off the top,” explained Singh.
Chhean ignored this last remark as being too opaque for her language skills and added, “There is something very strange that I found out as well. For the tenth victim, I cannot find much information. There is a man with the same name – Dith Anh – who was well known for his cruelty in the northeast province. He worked for Ta Mok, the ‘Butcher’. But I don’t think it’s the same man who was killed – just the same name.”
Singh grunted an acknowledgement. “Typical of all these bloody vigilante types,” he said. “Eventually, they make mistakes. I don’t see how it will help Menhay find his man though.”
They contemplated the fate of the man killed by mistake. Chhean was worn out by the unending loss of innocent life. And yet, all their efforts were being utilised to find Huon’s murderer – and he was probably a killer too if what Sovann said was true. She comforted herself with the idea that they were also trying to save the tribunal – a grander and more noble purpose.
Singh distracted her with his next question, perhaps intentionally. “Anything on your family?”
Chhean looked at the inspector and could see only a kindly interest on his face. She reached into her pocket and removed a tatty black-and-white photograph.
“What’s that?”
She hesitated for a moment and then passed it over, almost wincing as she saw it engulfed in the policeman’s hand. It was her treasure – her most precious possession – and she had entrusted it to the fat man on an impulse. He looked at it, frowning slightly as if trying to understand its importance.
“That was in the pocket of my shorts when they found me wandering around Phnom Penh after the Vietnamese invasion.”
“Do you think this might be your family?” His voice was gentle. It surprised her that he had the capacity to modify his usually gruff tones.
She nodded. “I think so – I hope so. Why else would I have had it?”
“Why are you showing me this?”
“Because I know now that you are a good man – and I would like you to know what I am searching for when I look at documents every evening.”
“Some trace of these people…”
She nodded. “I would like to have a family. Even if there is no one alive, it would be good to know that – once upon a time – I had a family.” She smiled at her own choice of words, fighting back tears. “I guess I’m looking for a fairy tale.”
♦
They found Ta Ieng sitting glumly in his room at the tribunal compound. Being a free man wasn’t worth very much when one had nowhere to go, thought Chhean, eyeing the child killer with a combination of pity and disgust. What was it that she had said to Singh earlier? That she was looking for a fairy tale. Well, she had certainly come to the wrong place.
“What do I know about this Cheah Huon?” Ta Ieng repeated Singh’s opening question. “Nothing! So you waste your time coming here to ask me about him.”
Chhean translated hurriedly for the inspector although she suspected he had got the gist of it from Ta Ieng’s body language and truculent tone.
“Who is this fat man with the silly krama that you bring here anyway?”
“What’s he saying?” demanded Singh of Chhean.
“He wants to know who you are.” There did not seem much point in a literal translation at this point.
“He is not a policeman. I don’t have to answer his questions.” The witness waved a dismissive hand in the direction of Singh, who took two angry retaliatory steps forward.
“Er – he is just wondering about your authority to question him.”
“Tell him that he needs to be really, really nice to me or the Cambodian police will put him away for the murder of Cheah Huon.”
She tried to keep the surprise off her face but did as Singh asked.
“What do you mean?” Ta Ieng’s tone was less aggressive. Chhean detected a note of fear.
“The police need a scapegoat. Otherwise the trial of Samrin will be affected. Do you think they are interested in who really did it? They will lock you up and throw the key away and not one single person in Cambodia will care what happens to a child killer like you.”
“I didn’t want to kill anyone. I was just following orders,” whined Ta Ieng. “I already explained at the tribunal.”
“Were you following orders when you killed Huon? Whose orders? Samrin?”
Chhean translated quickly, keeping her voice even. There was no need to replicate the threat in Singh’s voice or in his body language as he walked right up to Ta Ieng so that his grubby white sneakers were toe to toe with the taller man’s rubber slippers. Beads of sweat broke out along Ta Ieng’s upper lip. Chhean realised to her disgust that she could smell him – the musky stench of a frightened animal.
She glanced at the inspector. Was he really that menacing? She supposed that he was – radiating both anger and authority. It was perfectly credible that the Cambodian police would be looking for someone to blame regardless of actual guilt. Even so, Ta Ieng’s terror seemed extreme.
Looking at the witness, she realised suddenly that his fears were based on his own experience. He of all people knew what a man would do, could stoop to, under the guise of following orders – and he was as terrified now as he had been terrified then, of being a victim. Singh was playing on his fears like an expert. For a moment, she too was intimidated by the Sikh inspector.
“I didn’t do anything – I didn’t kill Huon.”
Singh laughed out loud, a sudden genuine guffaw that filled the small room. “I guess you’ll be singing a different tune once the police have worked you over. Maybe you too will confess to working for the CIA.” He paused for a moment, looking at the rake-thin man with revulsion. “Don’t worry – they will just be following orders.”
Ta Ieng was snivelling, trying to form words in his own defence but unable to do so. Chhean was not surprised. At his core, this man was a coward.
“The United Nations appointed me to try and make sure that the Cambodian police do not arrest the wrong man,” explained Singh.
Hope dawned. “So you must help me – please. I swear I did not kill Huon.” Ta Ieng clutched at Singh’s shirt, his hands like claws.
Singh shrugged him away. “First thing you need to remember, never touch me again. Second thing, I will help you if you help me.”
“What do you want?”
“Tell me about Cheah Huon.”
“He was afraid.”
“Afraid? Of what?”
It was an interesting three-way conversation, thought Chhean. Singh watched Ta Ieng carefully but was listening to her quickly translated efforts. She tried to be as unobtrusive as possible.
“He wouldn’t tell me exactly.” Ta Ieng was concentrating on his tale, speaking quietly but convincingly. His long thin body was as still as a corpse but his eyes were alert and dancing from one person to the other. “A few days before he was killed he came in very excited. He said he knew something – and people would pay for him to keep his mouth shut.”
Singh nodded. Chhean realised it fitted with their earlier suppositions about the man in the Mercedes.
“He was very happy – he needed money and he had a good way of getting it. The next thing I knew he was showing off that gold cha
in. He said that the money he had received was just the first instalment – there would be many more payments before the debt was paid.”
“What changed? When did he become afraid?”
Ta Ieng fell silent.
“Go on!” Singh leaned forward aggressively.
“It was that day – the day he died.”
“What about it?”
“He said that he was playing with the man who paid him – hinting that he might have something more to say during his testimony in court. He wasn’t really going to reveal anything – but he thought they might pay even more if he worried him a bit.”
“Who was this man?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
Chhean folded her arms tightly. Ta Ieng was suggesting that whoever Huon was blackmailing had the resources to have him watched as he testified. It made sense. This mysterious party also had the resources to keep an eye on Som and kill him when it seemed that he might know too much. There was organisation here – and money. She tried to dismiss a sudden shudder as a reaction to the draught that was blowing in the door.
“I still don’t understand why he became afraid?”
“The judge cut him off – wouldn’t let him finish. The hearing was postponed to the next day. He told me that evening that he feared they might have decided he was unreliable…”
Singh was quick to latch on to this. Chhean’s mind was still reeling from the suggestion that a judge might be involved.
“You saw him that evening?”
“Yes – he asked me what he should do.”
“What was your advice?” Singh sounded curious.
Chhean supposed she was too – did mass murderers give good advice?
“I asked him to tell me the secret – the more people who knew, the less point there would be in killing him.”
“Or he would have proved once and for all that he couldn’t be trusted.”
“That was what he said too. He wouldn’t tell me anything.”
A Deadly Cambodian Crime Spree Page 19