The Merry Misogynist dsp-6

by Colin Cotterill

  "Have a successful night, boys?" she called.

  "Fantastic, auntie," said one.

  "Half of them just fell out of the trees from the shock of hearing gunshots," said another. They all laughed.

  "Bravo," she clapped.

  "Which one of you is Sounthon?" Phosy asked.

  A short, plump man wearing a lei of big-eyed lorises stepped forward. "I am."

  "Well, I'm Inspector Phosy from National Police Headquarters, and I need the locations of the three census takers."

  "Comrade," the man laughed, "I've just come back from — "

  "Look! I don't care whether you're just back from the northern front full of bullet holes. I want the locations and I want them ten minutes ago."

  Sounthon had arranged accommodation for the visitors in three villages that were central to the collection zones. They were thirty kilometres apart and formed a perfect triangle on the map. But the deputy had no information as to which collector was staying at which location. They'd have to go and see for themselves. Phosy and the two young officers were nine kilometres from the first site, a village called Ban Noo. It was only the absence of vegetation and a thin layer of sand that distinguished the road from the surrounding landscape. The journey had been more rock than roll.

  "What do we do if he's there?" asked one of the fearful officers.

  "We talk to him," Phosy said, concentrating on keeping the jeep on the track. "We ask a few pertinent questions. We check out his attitude. We say we're just making a few inquiries and we'd like his cooperation. We start with things like work, his routines, marital status, family — the usual. Then we hit him with something direct like, "Have you ever met a woman called Ngam in Ban Xon?" We look into his eyes and see if there's a reaction. And we take it from there."

  "Then we shoot him," came a voice. Madame Daeng's smiling face loomed in the rear-view mirror as she rose from behind the back seat. Phosy slammed on the brakes and ran into a tall clump of swollen-finger grass. All three men turned to see her, large as life, clutching the roof.

  "Madame Daeng? What the…?" Phosy yelled.

  "I told you I could scrunch up to almost nothing," she smiled.

  "But where were you?"

  "Under the tarpaulin behind the back seat."

  "There's barely ten centimetres down there."

  "I'm pliable."

  Phosy was furious. "Get out!" he said.

  She laughed. "What, here?"

  "I told you to stay at Natan."

  "You want me to walk all the way back there on my arthritic legs?"

  Phosy hammered his fists against the steering wheel.

  "Madame Daeng, if you were a man I'd punch you on the nose, I swear I would."

  "If you did, even if I weren't a man, I'd punch you back."

  The young officers laughed.

  "You two can wipe those smiles off, right now."

  "Listen, son," she said, "believe me, I can help. If I thought I'd hamper your investigation I wouldn't have come. Really I wouldn't."

  "I know your history. But that was…"

  "Then you know I can only be an asset. Siri's up here somewhere and, brave as he is, I want to be around to…to support him. That's what couples do. And, Phosy, a steering wheel can only take so much abuse."

  Phosy gave one last punch then put his hands on his head. He knew when he was beaten.

  "Let this be a lesson to you boys," he said to the policemen. He left it there, and they didn't ever learn what the lesson was. Phosy reversed out of the grass and drove in silence to Ban Noo.

  Comrade Ying Dali, the one-time North Vietnam region 6 boxing champion, now gone to seed, sat beneath a camouflaged tarpaulin receiving piles of paper from two colourful characters: one with a cheroot hanging from her lip, the other with a crossbow strapped to his back. Phosy killed the overheated engine and watched.

  "According to Siri's description, he's one of the two junior officials," Daeng said. Phosy kept quiet.

  They waited until the boxer was alone before strolling across to him. They were in a village so basic the main house was a thatch of twigs. They were well-plaited twigs but really nothing to stop a good wolf puff. It was a picturesque place with a stream, like an illustration for a month on a calendar: heaven, unless you had to live in such an isolated place with no power or sanitation or medicines. The boxer stood when the strangers reached his lean-to.

  "Comrades?" he said.

  Phosy introduced himself and his men, ignoring Daeng completely. He announced that they were investigating a murder in the district. It was a small untruth only in that the offence had not yet taken place. He hoped he wasn't tempting fate.

  "Can you tell us exactly how your system here works?" he asked Ying.

  "Well, it's quite simple," Ying began. "We draw up an area into grids. We come in and identify literate people. We pay them a few kip, and they take our questionnaires off to the surrounding minority villages. We come back two weeks later, and they bring us the results. We check that everything's in order, pay them the rest of their fees, and give the documents to the section head to collate."

  "Comrade Buaphan?" Phosy asked, consulting an imaginary list in his notebook.

  "That's right."

  "How do you get them to him?"

  "Depends. If he's busy he sends the driver. But he prefers to drive himself. He's a bit touchy about his truck."

  "And is that the only communication you have — the truck? I mean you don't have walkie-talkies or such?"

  "No, they don't work over these distances, and the mountains block shortwave signals as well. So we rely on the truck to ferry messages back and forth."

  "So for long periods you wouldn't know what the other two men are up to, whether they're at their bases or not?"

  "Well, that's true. But I mean, we can tell. If the work's not done we know who's been slacking off. Comrade Buaphan's always efficient."

  "Do you know anything about Comrade Buaphan's personal life?" Phosy asked.

  "No. He's a bit of a loner. When we aren't on the road — I mean, outside office hours — we never see him."

  "Does he have family?" Daeng asked from her rearguard position out in the sun. Phosy turned and glared at her.

  "He had a wife once, I believe," the boxer replied. "Somewhere up in the north. She passed away."

  Phosy took a step to his left to eclipse Madame Daeng. "Have you seen him with any women? Girlfriends? Doing any socializing on these trips?"

  "No, but like I say, apart from the journey out and back we don't see each other that much. Why? What's he done?"

  Phosy ignored the question. "How do you get along with him?"

  "He's all right. He can be really charming at times. He knows some funny stories when he's in the mood. But I don't get the feeling he's in this type of work for the social contact. I think it's the isolation he likes, being up here in the hills. It can be addictive, I have to admit."

  Madame Daeng had sidled around to get shade from a cow's-earring tree. She was biding her time until Phosy ran out of questions. Her chance came sooner than she'd expected.

  "Well, thank you…" Phosy began. Daeng put up her hand. "What?"

  "One last question," she said and smiled too sweetly for him to refuse.

  Phosy waved her on.

  "There are women at your office?"

  "Yes, about half a dozen."

  "How does Buaphan act around them?"

  "Act?"

  "Yes, is he friendly? Does he flirt?"

  Ying laughed. "One thing I could never imagine is Comrade Buaphan flirting with the women at the office. If you wanted a playboy you couldn't go past my office mate, Nouphet. He's the charmer. But Buaphan, no ma'am. He's really not that type."

  "What type is he?" Phosy asked.

  "Well, he's…don't get me wrong. I get along with him OK. But Buaphan can be a bit…self-important. It's as if he thinks he's better than other people. It doesn't worry me, but I know the clerks and the cleaner and the dri
vers complain about him treating them like servants. They gossip about him a lot."

  From Ying, the boxer, they learned at which of the three locations Buaphan was based. In order to get there they had to return along the track they'd just taken and go all the way back to the intersection with the main road. There they were to head north, away from Natan, until they arrived at the small village of Nahoi, where Comrade Nouphet, the playboy, was billeted. The village was at a second turn-off that led up into the mountains to the remote outpost where Buaphan had chosen to spend his time.

  Phosy had yielded the driving to one of his men, who had his nose up against the windscreen studying the rocks ahead. Phosy sat in silence, riding the bumps.

  "I could drive if you get tired," Daeng said.

  "No!" snapped Phosy, still deep in his huff.

  "You know?" Daeng said. "It doesn't make sense. Something worries me about all this."

  "And something's worrying me," said the policeman, with a finger pointed at her nose. "And do you know what that is? It's you. I swear, old lady, if I have to tie you up and duct tape your mouth to keep you quiet, I will have no hesitation."

  She wasn't offended. He was a nice boy who had commanded men in the jungle. He was just a little too fixated on authority. She knew he'd get over it. She smiled serenely and watched the birds that fluttered from the bushes as the noisy jeep approached.

  The main road was only marginally better than the track. At the first intersection they were only five kilometres from Natan and Phosy considered making that detour to drop off the heavy weight that had attached herself to their party. But the drive to and from the first base had taken four hours and he couldn't afford to waste any more time. He reassumed the role of driver on the way to Nahoi and decided it would be wise to stop off there to check as to whether Comrade Nouphet had seen Buaphan or the truck. While Daeng and the two officers went to the small roadside market to buy food and drink for the next leg of their journey, Phosy walked into the village to find the second census collator.

  It was an untidy place decked out all in brown, courtesy of the road dust. He was given directions by a six-year-old girl who had a two-year-old at her hip. She walked him up the dirt path to the headman's house, where the man from Vientiane was staying. The headman was sitting on a homemade rocker on his porch. He was dark and bony like leather stretched over spare washing-machine parts. He waved as Phosy approached.

  "Good health," the man said in very strongly accented Lao. "You looking for the boy?"

  "Good health," Phosy replied. "The census collector, yes."

  "He's up there someplace." He pointed over his shoulder in the direction of the range of hills behind the village.

  "Far?" Phosy asked.

  "Could be by now. He left at midday. Said there was some problem with forms or something. Somebody took the wrong ones, I believe. Same thing happened last time."

  "He walked up?"

  "Took the truck. There's a piddling little track goes up there."

  Phosy considered this for a moment.

  "He took the census truck?"

  "No, he took mine."

  Phosy looked at the poor surroundings. "You have a truck?"

  "Some Royalist coward abandoned it here when he was fleeing the PL. I don't get to use it much, what with petrol being the price it is. It was just sitting growing weeds. When the boy was here last time he fixed it up. He gave us a few kip for petrol and said he'd have it back by tomorrow. He's good with motors, that boy — wasted on paperwork. He could make a nice living as a mechanic, I reckon."

  The conversation on the way up to Buaphan's encampment was exclusively about Nouphet and his truck. Phosy had allowed Daeng into the discussion only to recap Siri's comments about the boy.

  "The doctor said he was keen eyed, seemed to notice things," she recalled. "He might have mentioned he was good-looking."

  "Might have?"

  "I was cooking lunch at the time. But you do know what this means?"

  "You'll probably enlighten me."

  "I see we have not one but two suspects. Young Nouphet is good at fixing motors, and I'd guess every decent-sized village has at least one old truck lying around in need of repairs. He seems just as likely a suspect as Buaphan. I think you need to — "

  "I know what my responsibilities are."

  "Of course you do, I'm sorry."

  "I'll question Buaphan. If he's our strangler, I'll know."

  "Policeman's intuition?" Daeng smiled.

  "It's a little like doctor's intuition. I remind you we're here following up on a guess by your husband."

  "It's certainly more than a guess, Inspector. And I remind you your policeman's intuition hasn't done you much good so far in this case. Siri has a sixth sense about these things."

  "Then let's hope his sixth sense hasn't put him in a grave somewhere."

  He sucked air through his teeth as if to vacuum the words back, but it was too late. A veil had dropped over his passenger's face. Phosy hadn't meant to say it. She'd goaded him. Her constant interference had forced him to it. Her smile had become pinched and her glazed eyes stared at the sky. In an attempt to right his mistake, Phosy tacked on, "Of course, we all know how indestructible Siri is."

  But the damage was done. For the rest of the journey up the winding mountain road, Daeng had nothing to say.

  17

  THERE GOES THE BRIDE

  Phan drove slowly along the main street, beeping his horn at people he recognized. They waved back or held up a thumb as he passed: the returning hero. He went directly to see the headman and his wife. The old woman came running out to meet him and opened the truck door so he could step down. She squeezed his hand and told him how handsome he looked. He asked if she and her husband were well. He told her he was excited but joked that he was marrying the second most beautiful girl in the village. The headman had married the prettiest. She giggled and punched his arm and led him inside.

  It was all so formulaic. People were boringly predictable. Once they'd worked themselves up into a lather of enthusiasm, they'd believe any shit you cared to toss their way. He handed a pile of papers to the headman, who didn't even bother to read them. He just asked where he should sign. He said he'd invited the district political cadre from Natan and his wife, but it was far, and the wedding was late. The headman doubted they'd come. They'd done up the school very nicely for the reception, he was told. There should be a good turnout. They hoped he had a strong constitution because there was plenty of liquor. All the women had been cooking since sun-up.

  The children had learned a dance, et cetera…la-di-da…blah-de-blah.

  "All right," Phan thought, "just get on with it. The sooner it starts, the sooner it'll all be over."

  But nothing was due to begin until six so Phan asked if he could take a nap. He'd driven directly from Vientiane, he told them, and needed to rest. He lay shirtless on the thin mat that covered the bamboo floor. His jacket was on a hook. Thirty-six degrees Celsius, hot as hell, but he always gave them a jacket show. They'd remember the jacket long after he'd taken it off and rolled up his sleeves. There might be a camera. Someone probably took the bus to the town and used the money they'd all saved up to buy film to record the happy event. It was no problem. He'd insist on taking a picture of the guests. While they were lining up he'd briefly flip open the back of the camera and let in the light just long enough to leave them with twenty-four exposures of snow. Not a shred of actual evidence that he ever existed.

  He waved the banana-leaf fan in front of his face. What a place. They lived beside a main road and didn't even have electricity. How could anybody exist like this? How awful it was that somebody as special as he was had to mix with such people. So much had gone wrong already that day. He needed some good fortune. Never mind. A few more hours and he'd be driving back along that road to the honeymoon supper. Before midnight, he'd have his sex and be whole again. Not so long now. Not so long.

  The sun's glare filled up the windscreen. T
he dust-jacketed jeep pulled into the clearing that marked the end of the track. There were a few unloved houses around its rim. It had the mood of a village that had seen bigger and brighter days. The clearing had two crude soccer posts at either end, but Phosy knew that the labour invested in preparing that land hadn't merely been to give the children somewhere to play. He'd seen its like before.

  "I wonder how many helicopter drops this place saw in its heyday," Madame Daeng said to nobody in particular.

  Phosy parked on the halfway line, and they all climbed from the jeep, slowly unknotting their joints. They carried a different type of tension with them also. They'd begun to feel it when the odometre announced they were two kilometres from their destination. They all knew what it was. There's a gland somewhere in the human body whose sole purpose is to allow pessimism an outlet. It is particularly active when you're on the doorstep of danger, when you know a homicidal maniac is somewhere ahead of you, one who is capable of unthinkable acts of cruelty. Real-life evil couldn't begin to match the horrors the pessimism gland secreted.

  Nobody was in a rush to come and greet the new arrivals.

  "Anybody else not see what I don't see?" asked Daeng.

  "We're missing a truck," said Phosy.

  "We didn't see it on our way up," Daeng agreed. "So, unless there's another way out of here, and I don't see that either, the truck had to leave over three hours ago."

  Phosy thought about it. "We've come from the two other collection points and nothing passed us going in the opposite direction. The only way it could have gone was north at the Ban Nahoi intersection, away from the census bases."

  "That is a very bad sign," Daeng decided.

  "And where the hell is everybody from this place?"

  "Twelve o'clock," said Daeng, pointing north. The policemen turned to see a bedraggled couple in their fifties coming toward them. Given the ghost-town feel of the surroundings, they could easily have been the curators of a haunted historical site. They had all the attributes.