A Deadly Cambodian Crime Spree

by Shamini Flint

  “There’s a woman in a Cambodian jail,” said Singh, his voice barely above a whisper. “She fled Cambodia when she was fifteen. Before that she watched her whole family die of starvation – except for her father. Him, she witnessed beaten to death by a Khmer Rouge cadre. I don’t think I need to describe to you the conditions in a Phnom Penh prison or this woman’s emotional fragility.”

  “Why’s she there?” whispered Gaudin.

  “She’s been arrested for the murder of Huon.”

  Gaudin took a deep breath and placed his two hands flat on the surface of the table.

  “You can help her by doing the right thing,” urged Singh.

  Gaudin nodded once and answered Singh’s original question. “I may have said, ‘Kill the witness.’ I think I mentioned Ta Ieng’s name as well.”

  Chhean closed her eyes for a moment. Singh’s reading of Gaudin’s character had been unnervingly accurate. He was too decent a man to allow someone to remain in jail for a crime he might have committed.

  “Anything else?” asked Singh.

  “I suggested that he was a child killer – I can’t remember the exact words I used. You have to remember I don’t speak Khmer and his English, not to mention his French, wasn’t very good. There were moments when I wasn’t sure he understood that I wanted a man dead, let alone that it was Ta Ieng.” He looked rueful. “I’d been drinking as well.”

  Singh was blunt. “So your guy killed the wrong man?”

  “It’s possible,” admitted Gaudin finally.

  Chhean doubted he would be prepared to go any further than that. But the circumstantial evidence was building up.

  “I’m not convinced,” complained Menhay. “Could an assassin really be so hopeless?”

  “Not an assassin,” pointed out Singh. “A cut-price thug with whom François didn’t share a common language.”

  Menhay sighed.

  “Otherwise, we have to accept that there was more than one killer running around. Our so-called hit man and someone else who killed Huon,” said Singh.

  “In Cambodia, such things are possible,” remarked the colonel.

  “It must be the solution,” insisted Singh. “A simple case of mistaken identity.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” admitted Menhay at last.

  “Time to order the release of Jeremy and Sovann Armstrong,” murmured the fat man.

  “I know I was wrong,” François said pleadingly, “but you can understand why I did it, can’t you?”

  Chhean looked around the table. Menhay was impassive but Singh nodded his great head, wagging the turban to indicate comprehension of Gaudin’s motives. As she had suspected, the fat man had a well-disguised compassionate streak.

  “I understand why you tried to kill Ta Ieng too,” she added obstinately.

  “I didn’t know it was the role of interpreters to condone murder,” grumbled Menhay.

  Gaudin on the other hand, gave her a small smile. He reached into his wallet and took out a small black-and-white photograph which he placed on the table. He said simply, “This is my family – they’ve been missing for thirty years. It’s why I did it.”

  Singh reached for the photo and stared at it, his heavy-lidded eyes almost overlapping in concentration. “Chhean, where’s that picture of yours? The one of your family that you always carry around?”

  Chhean felt a wave of nausea sweep over her. She had to close her eyes and let it pass. She reached slowly into her pocket and removed the photograph that she had shown Singh earlier. She handed it to the inspector, who gently placed both photos side by side on the table. Two photos of a mother and her children. Both pictures were much handled, much loved and faded with age. The mother in each was smiling at the camera – or the cameraman – and cradling a baby in her arms.

  François covered his face with long nicotine-stained fingers. Chhean felt hot tears trickle down her cheeks and slowly drip off her chin.

  Sixteen

  It was Singh who found the courage to speak first. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I was so sure that they were the same.”

  Chhean nodded an acknowledgement. François was lost in his own world.

  The fat policeman bit his bottom lip so hard he could taste blood. His famous investigative instincts – that had put two and two together and found a lost family for the lost souls at the table – had been completely and utterly wrong.

  The photos were similar, but weren’t so many happy family pictures? Two women and their children. The only thing they had in common was that their smiles indicated that no premonition of the future had darkened the moment.

  Menhay cleared his throat. “François Gaudin – I am arresting you for the murder of Cheah Huon.”

  The Frenchman looked up at this and smiled wanly. When he spoke, it was to Chhean. “Look, I know how much it would have meant to both of us to find some family. But I’m not the father for you – not now when it seems that I have killed a man by mistake.” He sighed. “Perhaps not even before…”

  It was a brave thing to say – and an unselfish gesture. Singh was suddenly glad that the death penalty had been abolished in Cambodia. He wouldn’t have wanted to see this tired old man hanged for his errors. It was a timely reminder as well that, in Cambodia, there were no happy endings. Even if François Gaudin had turned out to be Chhean’s father, their initial delight would have been subsumed in the knowledge that his destiny was to live out his remaining years behind bars.

  Trying to comfort the man she had believed was her father for a few short precious moments, Chhean said quickly, “We have information that Huon was ex-Khmer Rouge. You didn’t kill an innocent man.”

  Menhay raised an admonishing finger at her but she had said what she wanted.

  “Thank you,” whispered Gaudin.

  Far better, it appeared, to be the killer of Khmer Rouge than an innocent person. It seemed, thought Singh, that this elderly Frenchman had something in common with the vigilante who was executing Khmer Rouge cadres.

  Menhay cleared his throat and got to his feet. “It’s time to go.”

  Gaudin looked as if he wanted to say more to Chhean but words failed him. He followed Menhay out of the room, not stopping to look back.

  Chhean sat across from Singh, staring out of the window.

  She was dry-eyed but the blankness of her gaze hinted at her inner turmoil.

  At last, she said, “For a moment, just a moment, I thought I’d found my father.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Singh again, wondering whether there was enough time left in the world for him to apologise sufficiently for what he’d done. An error made in all good faith, but devastating to his young and vulnerable sidekick.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  He had no adequate response to this piece of kindness.

  “I just feel – I don’t know if you can understand – that if I had some family, if I could find some trace of them, I wouldn’t feel so alone…”

  Singh thought of the network of relatives that surrounded him. His wife’s nagging soundtrack to his life, his sister in Kuala Lumpur echoing the criticisms, his mother, growing old in Penang but still fiercely independent, and innumerable cousins and nephews and nieces and distant uncles and aunts. He spent his whole life avoiding them, doing his best to alienate them, but – probably due to the efforts of Mrs Singh – they remained in his life, talking politics and house prices and nagging him to give up smoking. What would he do without them all? Usually, he assumed that he’d head for the nearest coffee shop to have a cold beer in celebration. Today, he had a small glimpse of the void they would leave behind.

  However, the realisation that he needed his family, warts and all, would not be helpful to his young companion.

  “I just want to belong somewhere,” she continued.

  This he could deal with. “You belong here,” he insisted. “In Cambodia.”

  It drew a small smile.

  “I’m quite serious, young lady. People like yo
u – honest, hard working, decent – are the future of this country. You’re not alone at all, you’re surrounded by people who need you.”

  “To do the ‘odd jobs’?”

  He cracked a smile. Chhean was back. “Exactly. To do the odd jobs – you know, track down a murderer, save a tribunal, find justice for your people…”

  ♦

  Singh was in a taxi on his own heading back to the tribunal compound. The inspector had been anxious to get away from the scene of the painful disappointment of Chhean and Gaudin, orchestrated by his own well-meaning, but disastrous intervention. Chhean had insisted she was fine but that she wanted to be alone with her thoughts for a while. He’d called Menhay, who assured Singh that he would release Sovann and Jeremy Armstrong. There was hesitation in the colonel’s voice but also relief. He would never admit it but Gaudin was a much more convenient solution than the Armstrong couple, each trying to shoulder the blame for Huon’s death and leaving the police none the wiser. Singh hoped he wasn’t taking the path of least resistance as well. He shook his head. He knew Sovann was innocent. And it made sense that Armstrong had just confessed to protect his wife. According to Menhay, François Gaudin was willing to admit that he had given the hit man incorrect, or at least inadequate, instructions. His attitude was that of a man with nothing to lose. Just as well, really, that he hadn’t found a daughter. He might have fought harder for his freedom if he had.

  The taxi trundled towards the tribunal compound, running the usual gauntlet of aggressive driving by an assortment of unroadworthy vehicles. Tomorrow, the tribunal would recommence hearings. They would do it convinced that the murder of Cheah Huon had been the mistake of a deeply unhappy old man looking for some retribution. It was the best possible solution – one that did not cast a shadow over proceedings or provide ammunition to the doubters.

  But there was still the problem of the judge. Singh was on his way to confront Sopheap but he was not looking forward to it. Ta Ieng had said a judge stepped in to prevent Huon saying too much. Singh remembered the moment. He had been at the tribunal when the angry Huon had leaned forward and insisted he had more to say – but been cut off before he could finish. It was that same justice who had asked Menhay whether the colonel had any leads and been relieved that the answer had been in the negative.

  Thankfully for the tribunal, this judge was not a killer. That unhappy role had been assigned to Gaudin. But the inspector knew he could not leave this stone unturned although he dreaded what lurked underneath. He could not let the institution of the war crimes tribunal be tainted because one of its judges was crooked. He desperately wanted to get to the bottom of this for the sake of Cambodians like Chhean and Menhay. The other sort, the Samrins and Ta Iengs, could not be allowed to win the day. But he feared that any outing of the judge would throw the tribunal, still reeling from Huon’s murder, into disrepute. It was a classic no-win situation. Like trying to argue a point of principle with Mrs Singh.

  The inspector remembered Som, another chap who’d been dealt a rotten hand. An innocent – perhaps the only person with clean hands in this entire mess – who had paid for knowing too much with his life. But what had he known? How was his death related to this migraine-inducing Cambodian conundrum? Singh’s bottom lip was in full pout – an indication that he was, like Hercule Poirot, bringing all his little grey cells to the contemplation of a problem.

  He ran over the events leading up to Som’s death in his head, wishing that he had Chhean with him to jog his memory and provide a sounding board. What had Som the amputee said and then been engulfed in laughter? That Singh and Chhean could be the judge of the quality of the evidence he was offering? Chhean had emphasised the word ‘judge’ when she translated Som’s words. The amputee had been amusing himself at their expense – he must have belatedly recognised the man in the Mercedes as Judge Sopheap. It made sense. It would explain Huon’s hinting at secrets at the tribunal, hoping to milk the man presiding for more cash. And no wonder he’d become afraid when Sopheap cut short proceedings so abruptly.

  The inspector wondered how Som had identified Sopheap. Perhaps the amputee had seen a picture of the judge in a newspaper, no doubt in an article about Cambodia’s finest sons. But before he could finger Sopheap as the man who had bought all the books and paid Huon enough for that gold chain around his neck, Som had been gunned down. The first question was whether Sopheap had been working for someone else or protecting himself. The second was how, in the absence of any hard evidence, he was going to persuade the judge to talk.

  Singh leaned forward, his stomach compressing into folds like an accordion, and tapped the driver on the shoulder. He needed to make a detour.

  ♦

  They reached the compound and Singh submitted his large form to the x-ray machines and a body search that took longer than the average. He assumed it was his bulk rather than any misplaced suspicions that rendered the search such an event. He collected his wallet and passport from the plastic container and headed for the judges’ chambers. The tribunal compound was a hive of activity. Chairs were being rearranged, wiring checked, passages swept. There was a palpable sense of excitement and relief that the hearing of Samrin was to continue.

  Singh gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to be the proverbial fly in the ointment. He skirted a large Mercedes – the Mercedes? – showed his ID to a guard and was allowed up the stairs. He knocked on the door, firmly but not aggressively. There was time enough for that when he had Sopheap where he wanted him.

  A curt ‘come in’ and Singh pushed against the door and walked in. The judge was behind a desk on which documents were stacked neatly and at right angles. An orderly man in a disorderly country. Sopheap looked quizzically at the inspector, and said, “Inspector Singh – what I can I do for you?”

  The fat man was relieved that he spoke in English. It had crossed his mind on the threshold that he had only ever heard the judge speak Khmer and French. Without an interpreter, without Chhean, this could have been a short visit.

  Singh leaned against a wall and crossed his arms so that they rested over his fat belly. “Who are you protecting?”

  “What are you talking about?” There was wariness in Sopheap’s eyes as he answered question with question.

  Singh cut to the chase. “I’ve received credible information that you prevented Huon from continuing his testimony – and I was in court on that day. I saw you do it.”

  “I was feeling ill and decided to stop proceedings,” insisted Sopheap. Singh felt in his gut that the excuse was rehearsed. Sopheap had feared this moment. But he was a clever man and he had also prepared for it. Singh had seen it often enough – the smart ones didn’t rely on blank denial, they provided an alternative explanation that fitted the facts.

  “You look well enough.”

  The judge was more than a match for this. “I’m much better now, thank you.”

  As if he’d been asking after the bastard’s health, thought Singh irritably. “I’ve read your CV,” he remarked, keeping his annoyance under wraps. “You’ve worked hard to get here – on the bench of the most important tribunal in your country’s history. You have a reputation for honest dealing. Why did you throw it all away?”

  “What exactly are you accusing me of doing, Inspector Singh?”

  It was a good question. Not murder because Colonel Menhay was, probably at that very moment, charging François Gaudin with the killing of Huon. Perhaps the judge was still in the dark about the arrest.

  “You were determined to keep Huon quiet. You stopped the hearing. What was the next step? Murder?”

  “Of course not! Besides, the police have made an arrest – an unbalanced Frenchman, I hear.”

  The fat man scowled. Sopheap was in the loop. Not a huge surprise, he supposed reluctantly. After all, the tribunal was set to recommence hearings the following day. Singh continued to stare at the man across the table, causing him to fidget with the papers on his desk. This fellow was an academic, a judge. He could ima
gine him fixing a case, perhaps paying a bribe, but not much more than that.

  “You didn’t kill him. But you paid him enough so that he could buy that rope of gold around his neck. Even my wife would have envied him that piece of jewellery and she’s hard to please.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “One of the other amputees who was with Huon that day recognised you – the rich man in the Mercedes who bought a lot of books.”

  Singh debated whether to tell Sopheap that Som was dead. He had a suspicion that the man didn’t know. He took a folded piece of newspaper from his pocket and smoothed it out on the desk. It was an article from a Khmer-language newspaper about the war crimes tribunal. A picture of Sopheap had been circled in red ink.

  “He recognised you from this…”

  Singh’s detour on the way to the tribunal had been worthwhile. He’d remembered Som’s fellow amputee, sitting next to him under the shade of a tree, corroborating his tale about the rich man in the Mercedes and putting a comforting hand on his arm when Som had begged Singh to find Huon’s killer. The inspector had backed a sudden hunch that Som would have told his friend what he knew before going to keep his appointment with death. He’d been right.

  The judge was picking at a loose thread on the shiny gown hanging over the arm of his chair, refusing after the initial glance to look at the newspaper cutting.

  If he was a gambling man, he’d have wagered money that Sopheap didn’t know about Som’s murder, decided Singh.

  “Why did you pay Huon yourself?”

  “I just bought some books, that’s all. That’s all any witness would have seen. You can’t prove anything else.”

  “You’re a judge – used to weighing the evidence. Do you really think anyone is going to believe you? This is Cambodia. Once I tell the police – and the newspapers – about your visit to Huon, the way you stepped in to stop his testimony and show them that,” he nodded at the newspaper, “do you really think anyone is going to believe you were stocking up on reading material?” He looked at the judge thoughtfully – it was time to test his theory that as far as Sopheap knew, Som was alive and well. “And the police and press – they’ll talk to Som, of course,” he continued.