‘Sometimes things need to fall apart completely in order for a person to sort themselves out properly,’ his mother had said only yesterday. He couldn’t quite see it that way, but hey. At least it was hard to picture how things could get much worse.
‘It’s this way,’ the orderly said, interrupting his thoughts. Just as well, they weren’t particularly uplifting. He followed the man down the hallway. The orderly stopped outside a door.
‘He has his own room?’ Charles asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Will you be staying?’
The orderly examined him. ‘If you want me to. But I am sure it will be fine.’
‘OK.’
He entered the room and heard the door close softly behind him. The boy sat at a desk with his back to him. He looked like he was drawing something. He turned briefly to look at Charles, then returned to what he was doing.
It was a pleasant room, with white walls and a wide window overlooking the grounds. There were posters of rock bands on the walls, typical teenage stuff, and Charles wondered whether the boy had put them up himself.
‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ he asked. His voice sounded shaky and unnatural. When there was no answer he sat on the edge of the bed. ‘It’s a nice room you have. The staff seem nice too.’
He realized how inane he sounded. Better to shut up than come out with such platitudes, he thought.
‘Do you mind if I just sit here for a while?’
César didn’t respond but Charles thought he saw him relax his posture a little.
Light streamed in from the window. Outside, the trees were beginning to look quite bare. Someone was raking up the leaves, making a pile of them in the middle of the lawn.
Charles thought of Armand and wondered what he could see from where he was sitting.
He could easily have wept, but he reminded himself that he wasn’t alone.
See where I am, Armand. Making amends.
The minutes ticked past. The boy never turned around but somehow that was OK. With a shaky sigh, Charles unfolded the newspaper he’d brought along and began to read.
Everything was still. Charles felt the warmth of the sun against his face. He sat further back on the bed and leaned against the wall. He stretched his legs. After a while, he dozed off.
He didn’t see the boy turn to look at him. His eyes as wide and distant as two moons.
EPILOGUE
They were looking at a mass of dark clouds. The wind had risen and it was so cold Morel’s ears had gone completely numb. As for Philippe, he looked like he’d turned to stone some time ago.
‘Maybe we should call it a day.’
‘What? Already?’
Morel didn’t bother pointing out to his father that they had been fishing on the jetty for two hours now. During that time they hadn’t caught a single fish, though they had pulled up plenty of seaweed from the choppy waters below. Morel’s fingers were raw from the cold and the effort of untangling his hook from each slimy catch.
‘Fine, let’s go,’ his father said. Very slowly, he reeled his line in. Even dressed up in a grey coat and a woollen hat pulled over his ears it was obvious he was cold. He was taking great pains not to show it.
‘Let’s get a drink,’ Morel said. ‘And then we can decide where to go for dinner tonight.’
‘If we’re going out we’d better tell Augustine,’ his father said.
Morel didn’t say anything. Instead he looked at the windswept outline of Saint-Malo ahead of them, a subdued version of the town he’d come through with Lila four months earlier. It was hard to believe this was the same place. The beach was deserted aside from a couple walking their dog and a group of teenage boys desultorily tossing a ball around.
He had finally finished his owl, according to the plans. It was better than he’d hoped. So lifelike that sometimes when he worked at his desk or lay in bed reading, Morel had the feeling he was being watched. He half expected the owl to swoop down from its perch on the bookshelf with a papery rustle of wings.
In the New Year his sister Maly would be getting married. At her request Morel had agreed to be Karl’s best man. Maly had seemed happy. He was pleased that she had decided to do this. Whatever the future held, at least she was moving forward.
Morel felt the tiredness settle in his limbs. It was a different kind of tiredness, brought on by the great gusts of wind and salty air. He would sleep well tonight, aided by a few glasses of wine. Tomorrow morning he would decide how they might spend the day. There was no point asking his father.
‘Come on,’ he said.
He passed the bucket to his father and picked up the fishing rods. Together, they made their way into the town centre under a shifting and unpredictable sky.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I drew inspiration for The Lying-Down Room from many sources, including a 1998 Human Rights Watch report on the state of Russia’s orphanages entitled ‘Abandoned to the State – Cruelty and Neglect in Russian Orphanages’. I have taken liberties with certain event dates, such as the Paris strikes, where it suited the narrative. Any factual errors in this book, intentional or otherwise, are entirely my own.
I am deeply indebted to many people who made this book possible. Thank you to my agent, Peter Robinson, and to Alex Goodwin, for believing in this book. Thank you to my wonderful publisher, Maria Rejt at Mantle, and to my warm and talented editor Sophie Orme. A big thank you to Ali Blackburn, Stacey Hamilton, Praveen Naidoo and all the other lovely people at Pan Macmillan UK and Australia.
I also want to thank:
My parents Renji and Christine Sathiah, who taught me the value of storytelling, and took me around the world; Amanda Holmes Duffy, Louise O’Leary and Carol Pollaro Ross, for their enduring friendship, loyalty and support; the author Michael Pye, for his unfailing kindness and encouragement; Hervé Jourdain, for his invaluable insight into the world of the brigade criminelle; Malcolm Dodd, for sharing his experiences as a forensic pathologist; and Robert J. Lang, for unveiling the art of origami.
And finally, to the three men in my life, big and small – Selwyn, Alex and Max: who would have thought so much love and laughter was possible?
If you enjoyed The Lying-Down Room, you’ll love
Death in the Rainy Season
– the second Commandant Morel novel.
Far from home, secrets can be deadly . . .
When a French man is found brutally murdered in the Cambodian city of Phnom Penh, Commandant Serge Morel finds his holiday drawn to an abrupt halt. The victim – Hugo Quercy – was the dynamic head of a humanitarian organization which looked after the area’s troubled local teenagers. But what was Quercy doing in a hotel room under a false name? What is the significance of his recent investigations into land grabs in the area? And who broke into his house the night of the murder, leaving behind a trail of bloody footprints?
A deeply atmospheric crime novel that bristles with truth and deception, secrets and lies, Death in the Rainy Season is a compelling mystery that unravels an exquisitely wrought human tragedy.
Out now
An extract follows here . . .
ONE
The moment he turned down the alley, the dog started barking. He hurried towards the gate and crouched down, where the mutt could see him. Immediately, the barking stopped. The dog came up, wagging its tail, and sniffed his outstretched hand.
‘Good boy,’ the man said, scratching the dog’s head.
He wasn’t familiar with this part of Phnom Penh, though he’d been invited to the house often enough. Each time, he’d lost his way coming here, riding his motorcycle through a maze of narrow streets. This time was no different. It was pitch-dark and all these alleyways looked the same. There was no one about.
Most of the families living around here were local. He left his motorcycle at the end of the street and walked past the sleeping houses. Each had an outdoor Buddhist shrine, with its miniature wooden temple or house mounted on a pillar. So did the place he was looki
ng at now. Through the gate, he could see the spirit house mounted on its pedestal in an auspicious corner of the concrete yard. It would contain the remains of the morning’s offerings. Rice, lychees and dragon fruit. A couple of burnt-out incense sticks. Such meagre gifts to appease the spirits. He knew, better than anyone tonight, what little difference these rituals made. Life had a way of choosing for you, regardless of what you threw at it.
The gate was shoulder-high, white and metallic, one of those that slid open electronically. Everyone else he knew lived behind higher walls, with a security guard posted outside their front door seven nights a week. These two had never worried about their safety. It seemed to him now that this was arrogance. They had thought they were immune to the threats others faced. Well, it had turned out they were wrong.
Normally he’d ring the bell and someone would buzz the gate open from the inside. He wouldn’t be doing that now, of course. Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, he climbed carefully and within seconds was on the other side. No big deal. He was careful not to step on the dog. Through the darkness, he could make out the whites of its eyes.
He knew where the spare key was hidden and he let himself in, remembering to drop it back where he had found it. Inside, the house was dark but for some reason this didn’t frighten him. From the moment he’d stepped away from the scene in the hotel room on Sisowath Quay in the early part of the evening, he’d been guided by a fierce desire to salvage something, to compensate for his calamitous loss. My brother, my friend. These words went round and round in his mind. A refrain of mourning.
Several hours had gone by since then and he’d lost track of time. But he knew it was late. He crept across the living room with his hands reaching before him, like a blind man. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the darkness and the room became familiar. The rattan two-seater and armchair with the square off-white cushions, where he’d spilled a glass of wine the first time he’d been invited for dinner. A Balinese print of women picking rice, like a child’s work with its exuberant use of blues to convey the terraced paddies; a pair of lean Masai warriors, crafted in ebony. Along the hallway leading to the kitchen, an emerald-green silk Laotian print, hanging from a bamboo pole. There were many ornaments, collected by the couple over the years. A favourite of theirs, he knew, was the handcrafted bullock cart sitting on the bookshelf in the living room. Lovingly made by a Cambodian refugee staying in a camp across the border in Thailand. Over several glasses of wine they’d told him how they had befriended the man and kept in touch throughout the years he and his family lived in the camp, waiting for a new life to begin. Wood, bamboo, copper wire and string had gone into its making.
He’d heard all the stories, sitting here drinking their booze and enjoying their warmth and hospitality. He’d begun to feel more at home here than at his place, among the few knick-knacks he had accumulated during his own overseas missions.
His gaze wandered over to the bullock cart and picked out several other ornaments he had admired before. It did occur to him, just then, that only a lunatic would do this. Wander at night through the home of a dead man. He should take his pick now, and leave. But he didn’t. Instead, he moved quietly up the stairs, listening for signs of life. He was vaguely aware of the dirty footprints he was leaving behind. He should have thought about that. It would be upsetting for her to find them. That wasn’t his intention.
Still, it occurred to him now that maybe this was what he had really come for, this voyeurism. There was no one to witness the extent of his obsession.
Outside the master bedroom he paused, and then opened the door quietly, holding his breath. First he saw the empty side of the bed, and then the shape of the woman lying on the other side with her back turned to him. Gently, he closed the door and turned to the next room.
What was he looking for, exactly? A memento? A trophy? The American Indians liked to scalp their victims. A scalp was a trophy of war. Some Indians even sewed them onto their war shirts, or used them as decoration for their lodgings. He liked that. The warrior-like aspect of it. But this was different. What he wanted was something private, that only he would know about. And he wouldn’t leave without it.
The second bedroom had been converted into a study. Even she had not been allowed in here. It had been his sanctuary. Outside this room, he hesitated. Behind this door lay the core of the man he’d admired and envied all at once.
When he stepped into the room, it was as though that part of himself, which he had silenced until then, broke loose. He realized for the first time that he was sweating heavily. He was intensely aware of his own smell. For a moment, he panicked. He must remain in control and not give in to fear or any of the other emotions running wild inside him. He must not think of the hotel room he’d come from, and what it contained. Above all else, he was afraid of going mad. What if he were to lose his mind and forget where he was or what he was doing?
Just at that moment, from the next room he heard her stir and call out something. The dead man’s name, spoken in a half-dream. He froze. Then he heard her say it again, this time louder. To hear it spoken out loud like that, in that clear, hopeful tone, made the hairs on his arms stand up. He heard the rustle of sheets as she moved in the bed. Followed by silence. He waited for a while but there was nothing more. She must have gone back to sleep.
With an effort, he turned back to the desk and looked carefully at the things spread out there. He took an object and ran his fingers over it. It was a large stone, smooth and black, which he must have used as a paperweight. He had probably enjoyed the sleek, cool texture of it, and you could see why. Few things in life came like this, unmarred.
Something else on the desk caught his eye. A green folder. He opened it. As he skimmed its contents, a look of puzzlement crossed his face. He closed it again and took it.
And then he shut the door and walked quietly back down the hallway, towards the front door.
Outside, the night was warm, bristling with noise. The whirring of cicadas. A rustling in the leaves. The dog whimpered in its sleep. Overhead, a large bat detached itself from a branch and flapped past. It settled on a different tree, its winged form like an omen, blacker than the night sky.
He began walking towards the lights along Sisowath Quay, away from the darkness.
TWO
From where he stood near the bedroom door, Police Chief Chey Sarit could see that the dead man was Caucasian and young – in his early thirties possibly, though it was hard to be sure from what was left of his face. He had bare feet and was dressed in a short-sleeved T-shirt and long trousers. It was impossible to tell the colour of his shirt from this angle. It was soaked through with blood. His eyes were open and he lay slumped against the wall, his arms bent at the elbows and held against his body as though he had tried to shield himself from his attacker.
A futile attempt, Sarit thought. Whatever was left of the dead man didn’t add up to much.
It wasn’t as though Sarit hadn’t been exposed to violence before. He’d seen plenty. But the savagery of this attack seemed to be of a very personal nature and that made him uncomfortable.
Sarit turned to the older man who had entered the room with him. Having Sok Pran here was a lucky break. To conceive of a fully functional forensic pathology service in Phnom Penh was like trying to imagine a future where spaceships zipped across the skies. But in the meantime there was Pran: not a pathologist but a doctor, one with real credentials, which he’d obtained in France. He was perhaps a hard man to like, moody and unpredictable, but there were few in Phnom Penh as qualified as he was.
A dedicated, hard-working man. Those were esteemable qualities, but Sarit knew that the hospital staff who had to deal with Pran on a daily basis used different, less flattering words to describe him.
‘The manager says the room was booked by a man called Jean Dupont. Presumably this is him,’ Sarit told Pran, gesturing towards the body. ‘Take your time but make sure you get as much information as you can.’
‘This de
ad Frenchman is your problem?’
‘For now.’
There was a grunt from Pran, who was pulling a pair of rubber gloves onto his hands. He was looking at the murder scene through a set of black-framed glasses and shaking his head, like a professor assessing a particularly mediocre student assignment.
‘Let me know when you’re finished and also whether there is anything you need to do your job,’ Sarit said.
‘What I need, you cannot provide,’ Pran said. His tone was gruff but his manner gentle as he eased the dead man’s shirt collar open. ‘A modern mortuary, for a start. A qualified forensic pathologist would be helpful, too.’
It wasn’t the sort of statement that required a reply, and so Sarit didn’t respond. Instead, he directed his gaze to the view outside the window.
It had rained heavily during the night. Now there was a pause in the downpour, but it was just that – a brief respite. The sky was still heaving with rain; any moment now the clouds would burst open again to relieve the pressure building up inside them. The second-floor hotel room had a generous view of the Tonle Sap. On the other side of the river, the low-lying shrubs and reeds had taken a battering and stood drenched and exhausted. In the provinces, the floods had claimed dozens of lives over the past few weeks. Sarit looked at the river and wondered how much more it could take before it overflowed. So far in Phnom Penh they’d been spared, but the water was inches from the top of the embankment. He couldn’t remember a monsoon like this one.
Sarit turned to his colleague, crouching over the dead man.
‘I should go talk to the girl, the one who found the body.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘In the manager’s office. I’m sure she wants to leave as soon as she can so she can run to the temple and rid herself of any contamination from the murder scene.’
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