‘Would it have made any difference if I had?’ You take a step towards him. ‘And don’t fucking shrug about this.’
Howe puts a pacifying hand up.
‘Sorry. But we didn’t kill her. The Khmer Rouge did.’
‘You say.’
‘It’s true.’
‘In the same ambush you were all killed in and you died trying to save her. Yes, I heard.’
‘We got lucky.’
‘Did Paradise believe your story or was he just stringing me along when he told it me?’
Howe walks to the window and looks out. ‘You survived, didn’t you? You’re still around.’
‘It’s not about me. And surviving isn’t the same as living.’
Howe turned. ‘For Christ’s sake, Jimmy. Save me the fucking violins. If you couldn’t get over that you’re not the kind of man I took you for.’
You think back. How had you dealt with it? By hardening your heart? Throwing yourself into your work? Both those things.
You take another sip of your drink. You know you can’t blame Howe and the others for what you’ve done with your life.
As if reading your thoughts, Howe says: ‘Rogers says freedom is what you make of the hand you’ve been dealt.’
You snort. ‘Thanks for the bumper sticker.’
‘Sartre actually.’ Howe grins. ‘Or maybe Camus. One of those existential fuckers anyway.’
‘What actually happened to Michelle?’
‘What did Sal Paradise tell you happened?’
‘A pack of lies, presumably.’
‘A mix of lies and truth, actually. The truth is she did die pretty much as he said. She’d tried to get away from us but we caught up with her and she was with us when we were ambushed. The lie was that not all of the rest of us died with her and her father in that ambush.’
You look at the glass in your hand. ‘Somebody has to pay. She was innocent.’
‘Jesus, Jimmy – nobody is innocent. Her father was helping us do the looting. She was helping him.’
You think for a moment. ‘That’s why they were back in Cambodia in the first place? She wasn’t in any condition to help anyone.’
‘Before. That’s how they were caught. Trying to take stuff out by sea. They were working for Paradise too.’
You mull over this for a moment. ‘I can’t believe that of her.’
‘Hey, listen, I’m sure her father and Paradise played her – told her this stuff was going to be destroyed otherwise, blah, blah, blah. But it came down to the same thing. It isn’t too difficult to persuade someone to do something if you apply the right pressure.’
‘Michelle wasn’t like that. She wasn’t corrupt and she couldn’t be coerced.’
You are surprised how heated you sound.
Howe made a noise that was half grunt, half laugh.
‘Everyone can be coerced, Jimmy boy.’
‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’ you finally say.
Howe shakes his head. ‘You don’t have a fucking clue what’s going on now and you didn’t have a fucking clue then. You are so naïve.’
You’re a bit old to do a drop kick but you’re picturing the heel of your foot connecting with the underside of your former friend’s chin just the same. It’s satisfying. Very.
‘Do tell me what I’m missing,’ you say, controlling yourself and taking another sip of your drink.
‘Look, we were all working for Sal. The mission wasn’t to get three sailors or three spies; it was to get out the valuable stuff from Cambodia. And Westbrook told Paradise there was some juicy stuff in the National Museum that nobody knew about.’
‘Which you and the others went to get, leaving Rogers and me behind.’
You frown. That doesn’t sound right now. Howe sees your look.
‘We needed to take the truck to start loading. Rogers knew where we were headed. We were waiting there.’
You take another sip of your vodka. ‘I’m working for Sal too.’
That throws Howe, you can see, but he tries for nonchalance and a mirthless grin.
‘I know,’ he says. ‘That’s why you’re not dead already.’
‘You think you could take me?’
‘Don’t be a spaz.’ He pats his belly. ‘I haven’t done my own dirty work for years. There’s a man with a rifle in the room opposite just waiting for my signal.’
It’s your turn to smile. ‘Long lens on the rifle?’
‘Of course,’ he says, frowning at your smile.
‘Well, that’s not going to work, is it?’
Howe looks suddenly uneasy but tries not to show it. ‘Because?’
‘Because he can’t be aiming at me if he’s looking at you for your signal.’
‘You’re working for Sal,’ Howe says.
‘I said I’d deal with someone for him.’
Howe tries to keep the bonhomie going but his eyes are fearful. ‘Not me. He needs me.’
‘Does he? Do you think he has ever actually forgiven you – any of you – for what you did?’
‘We made restitution. Gave him the stuff.’
‘All of it?’
‘All he wanted.’
‘And he was happy with that?’
‘’Course he was. We’ve been working for him ever since, haven’t we?’ Howe finished his drink in one gulp. ‘You’re winding me up.’
You keep your smile. ‘A bit. His name is Harry Nesbo. The man I’m looking for.’
‘Don’t recognize it.’
‘That won’t be his only name.’
‘Then how am I supposed to know him?’
‘He’s … distinctive. Weird.’
Howe laughs. You join in, watching him.
‘He’s weird,’ he finally says. ‘You shitting me? This is Cambodia. Weird westerners is the fucking norm.’
You’re still laughing as you reach to put your phone and your glass on the bedside table beside the lamp.
‘Anyway,’ he says, chortling then suddenly suspicious. ‘Why would you do anything for Sal Paradise?’
You tug the light flex out of the wall socket and in the plunging darkness whisper: ‘So he’ll let me kill you.’
Gilchrist was nervous about dinner with Merivale. She couldn’t decide what to wear and ended up with her summer uniform of T-shirt, jeans and plimsolls. It was her winter uniform too, actually. She wished Kate had still been living with her to advise on applying make-up for the no-make-up look. There was a dab of perfume and, OK, a bit of lippy.
They met in the Coachhouse. Merivale too was in jeans and a T-shirt and some chunky American boots. She couldn’t help noticing that he was, as they say, ripped.
‘I remember this as an antiques shop,’ she said when they were settled at a table by the open windows looking into the narrow courtyard.
‘Seems to me Brighton is one big antiques emporium,’ Merivale said. ‘You a local girl?’
‘Born and bred.’
‘From one of those estates I saw on the way in?’
Gilchrist gave a little grimace. ‘Let’s talk about my past another time.’ She smiled. ‘Or at least when I’ve had a few more drinks.’
He smiled. ‘The time could be now.’
She shook her head. ‘Now there are crimes to combat.’ She gestured at his hands, clasped on the table. They were rough and scarred. ‘Those aren’t office worker’s hands.’
‘I like to get out of the office whenever I can.’
‘And that tan isn’t from a sunbed.’
‘To be honest it’s more windburn than sunburn. I spend a lot of time out in the elements.’ He looked down, clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘I’ve never been a workout down the gym man,’ he said. ‘I like doing more natural physical stuff.’
Gilchrist was alert to a double entendre but Merivale didn’t leer or tip it in any way. One up to him.
They ordered two steak salads and a bottle of red wine. She was aware he was watching her but she was doing the same. She guessed it was
two coppers who were so used to trying to figure out people that neither could turn it off. Usually, of course, she was looking for something that was a bit off. There didn’t seem to be anything off about Merivale. Far from it.
‘Had you heard of the temple complex at Koh Ker before I mentioned it?’ he said when they’d taken their first drink of wine.
‘I thought I was good knowing about Angkor Wat.’
Merivale smiled. ‘It was the tenth-century capital of Cambodia. It’s remote so not as well known as Angkor Wat. Wonderful statues were chiselled there. Wonderful.’
‘You’ve been there?’
Merivale nodded. ‘Several times. It’s magnificent and tragic. Its remoteness makes it one of the most heavily looted sites in Cambodia. A combination of poor roads and unexploded landmines has kept it isolated. Which means looters can really go to town without fear of interruption.’
‘You think some of the stuff we’ve found …?’
‘Too early to say. The National Museum managed to remove quite a number of the most important pieces but, for the rest, well, museums around the world are exhibiting them and many are in private collections. All looted.’
If Gilchrist was honest she couldn’t get excited about this artefact stuff. She didn’t really value art, probably because she was not interested in it.
‘That’s terrible,’ she said, doubting how convincing she sounded. He didn’t seem to notice.
The food arrived.
‘We’ve been on this stuff for over ten years,’ Merivale said, between mouthfuls. ‘Trying to get back up the pipeline for stolen Thai antiquities. We’ve uncovered a couple of scams. The first was the one I told you about earlier, with objects being appraised at inflated values and then being donated to museums for fraudulent tax write-offs. What I find interesting is the close link between the experts and the exploiters, the crooks and the collectors.’
‘Meaning?’
‘A woman called Hilary Black helped us. She’s an expert on South East Asian ceramics. She’d lived in Thailand for years, just outside Bangkok. She’d tipped us to a suspect dealer. She said that in his warehouse she’d seen human arm bones strung with antique bronze bracelets.’
Arm bones? Was this some link to Rafferty? Gilchrist put her fork down.
‘What she didn’t say was that she was the one who’d sold those bracelets to him, plus Thai ceramics from burial sites on the Burmese border and a bunch of other antiquities – Neolithic stone tools and so on.’ Merivale tapped the table with the end of his fork. ‘They were all stolen objects that her signature had made legitimate. Turned out she was also making inflated appraisals for a couple of LA-based Asian art dealers. God, we were pissed. The next time she touched down in the US we arrested her.’
‘What happened when it came to trial?’
He shook his head. ‘Maybe later – wouldn’t want to spoil your dinner.’
They ate in silence for a moment.
‘Criminals don’t specialize any more,’ Merivale said abruptly. ‘They’re portfolio workers. They know all about diversifying. If you’re smuggling drugs you may as well smuggle people and antiquities whilst you’re about it. And antiquities serve other purposes.’
‘Such as?’
‘Money-laundering and tax evasion.’
‘But the stuff you mentioned wasn’t worth very much.’
‘Well, the standard stuff, worth a few thousand dollars, is just part of it. There’s also the rare stuff. And the irreplaceable, priceless stuff. The museums can’t touch such objects easily or they’ll be in serious doo-doo. So these pieces are going to the private buyers. It disappears from public view and appreciation for decades, sometimes forever.’
‘So what do you think happened here at the Pavilion?’
Merivale spent a few moments chewing his food. ‘Maybe Rafferty was using the American model. He got this stuff donated to the Pavilion as a tax write-off.’
‘And then never displayed it?’
Merivale shook his head. ‘That doesn’t make sense, I agree. I’ll understand more when I know what we have. Are you OK with us getting our own experts in to take a look?’
‘Of course,’ Gilchrist said.
When the plates were cleared away and they were deep into the second bottle of wine, Gilchrist said: ‘This woman? This Asian art expert.’
Merivale looked out into the courtyard. ‘It never came to trial. Over the weekend in prison Black complained of stomach problems. She had uncontrolled diarrhoea. She began vomiting what appeared to be excrement. She asked for urgent medical attention and was told she’d need to wait until the morning.’
He stopped.
‘And?’ Gilchrist said.
‘And she died in the night. In her own filth. Death certificate said she had peritonitis brought on by a perforated ulcer.’
‘No foul play then?’
Merivale just looked at her.
The conversation got brighter after that. Unusually for a man, he asked most of the questions. Perhaps unusually for a woman, she felt uneasy answering them so fobbed him off. But something was definitely happening.
The heat was palpable when they walked out on to Middle Street. They looked at each other. Neither could stop looking.
‘Shall we go back to your hotel?’ Gilchrist asked. Damned pheromones.
You rise at four, a little groggy. The hotel has bicycles. It seems apt that you use one of them to cycle out to Angkor Wat to see the dawn before you leave the country. The bike has no lights. That too seems apt.
Actually, hardly anything else on the road has lights either. It takes thirty minutes to reach the site, riding in the gutter as lorries and cars swish by you. Motorized tuk-tuks pass you with couples swathed in blankets huddled inside them. It is cold but you like it.
Somehow nobody side-swipes you as they pass. You come off the road, the bike rattling on the rough path, and head into the jungle. Trees push at you, the bike tries to dump you in potholes. It’s humid now and you are drenched in sweat.
There are insect noises, the cucurrus of a creature that is loud way beyond its size. But then the ruins of some temple or palace loom before you and suddenly you are surrounded by hundreds of shadowy people, all here to see the sun rise behind the towers of the temple.
You sit at the edge of the lake with everybody else. There are purple lilies on the lake, closed now. Over the next hour, as the sun rises over the parapets, the lilies slowly wake. You witness the dawning, in all its shades, mediated by the zip of hundreds of camera flashes. It’s a kind of lightshow. Then the swollen yellow sun rises between the two towers, wreathed in morning mist. You watch its reflection in the dark water among the blossoming lily pads.
You met Michelle when you were fifteen. You were interested in archaeology and soldiering. You had romantic notions of being a scholar-soldier like Paddy Fermor or T.E. Lawrence. You met her in the Ashmolean in Oxford. You were standing either side of an Egyptian mummy. You clicked. Aside from being beautiful – part French, part English, half Cambodian – she was sharp as a tack and warm and friendly and took the piss out of you something terrible.
Her father was an archaeologist for the Louvre. He disapproved of you in your one brief meeting – so brief he didn’t recognize you the next time you met. You were an oik with a brain, with too many street fights showing on your knuckles, too much interest in soldiering. But then he would have disapproved of anybody. He wanted Michelle to pursue her interests to the utmost. But if she must get involved with somebody, the last person he wanted was you.
He told her all this and she told you. It made no difference. You continued.
But she was a wraith. You don’t mean skinny like these sad girls now. You mean more … elusive. Jesus, you wish you knew words. There was something about her that was insubstantial, dream-like – even non-existent.
You married in secret. She was pregnant. You were both young. She had an abortion. Woman’s right to choose and all that. Except it wasn’t her
choice. It was at her father’s insistence and she acquiesced.
You know it was hard for her. The culture she’d been brought up in …
‘You don’t understand,’ Michelle had shouted at you, pulling away from your embrace and stepping out from the shelter of the parapet into the rain. ‘It isn’t easy for me.’
She’d told you in the kitchen garden of Fulham Palace by the Thames on a blowsy day, thunderclouds broiling in the sky, the rain suddenly pelting down, trapping you in this shallow stone porch.
‘I thought your father brought you up to be free?’ you said, reaching out to draw her back in.
She pulled away from your arm. She was already drenched. Now the rain was like a curtain between you. You felt you were parting it as you stepped down to join her.
Michelle jabbed at her own face with a long finger. ‘My father is white but everyone sees an Oriental. A slanty-eye. They don’t know if I’m Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Vietnamese or Thai. Most people don’t even know Cambodia exists.’
‘So?’
‘So they make assumptions about how I’m supposed to behave. They think we Orientals are all tea ceremonies and geishas, or mail-order brides, submissive and pliant.’
‘Nobody who has known you for half a second would think that,’ you said, reaching out to her again. She stepped away from you, into a puddle. Your eyes were stinging, the rain flooding you. Her dress was clinging to her. You were trying to push down the thoughts the sight of her in the rain inevitably produced.
‘Your father gave you a liberal education,’ you said. ‘He encouraged you to be yourself. How do you get from that to obeying him about an abortion?’
‘My father is liberal, yes he is. But he is also half French and I am his daughter. That makes him the most illiberal liberal in existence.’ She bared her small, pointed teeth in a cold laugh. ‘The French demonstrated with the guillotine during their glorious revolution that there is nothing more fascist than a liberal fervent about freedom.’
‘Can we focus on the abortion?’ you said. You reached out your hand. ‘And can we get out of the ruddy rain?’
Michelle stepped past you back beneath the portico. You sloshed in after her.
‘I had an enlightened education, it is true, but I am also a Cambodian woman. Do you think my mother was equal to my father? I love him but he is a colonizer, like all men. Paternalistic. He claimed to know what was best for her, he claims to know what is best for me.’
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