Death in the Rainy Season

by Anna Jaquiery

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Nizet said.

  ‘You’re not staying?’

  ‘No. I’d be grateful if you could keep me informed. But I’ll leave things with you and Sarit.’

  Morel waited with Sarit in front of the morgue while Sok Pran looked for the keys. He searched through his satchel and his pockets, muttering all the while to himself.

  ‘You arrived this morning?’ Sarit asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You had to interrupt your holiday. It’s unfortunate for you,’ Sarit said.

  ‘These things happen. It’s a nasty situation. I understand the victim’s wife is pregnant?’

  ‘Yes.’ Then Sarit hesitated. ‘I know it is early to say but I think you’ll find the person who did this was close to Monsieur Quercy. Someone in the foreign community.’

  ‘Why not someone local?’

  ‘Monsieur Quercy was French.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ Morel said testily.

  ‘It seems like a very personal crime. Someone close to him. A relative, a close friend.’

  ‘Are you saying Hugo Quercy could not have had Khmer friends?’

  Sarit shrugged.

  ‘In any case,’ Morel said, ‘we can’t possibly make that call without investigating the murder.’

  Sarit didn’t say anything. Feeling more than a little irritable, Morel turned to Pran.

  ‘Thank you for taking the time to run us through what you know.’

  ‘It’s going to take less than three minutes to tell you everything I know,’ Pran said, glancing at Sarit. He unlocked the corrugated iron door. It led into a small inner courtyard, where Morel waited with Sarit beside a shrine someone had laid out on the ground – a gilded Buddha and a few burnt-out incense sticks – while Pran unlocked a second set of doors, leading into the morgue.

  The minute he entered, Pran swore.

  The stench took Morel by surprise. He hadn’t expected to smell anything. Not with the fridge closed. Unconsciously, he put his hand over his nose and mouth. He was no stranger to morgues and he had got used over the years to the smell of disinfectant and death. But this was something different.

  He turned to Pran. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘There must have been power cuts during the night. Significant enough to affect the body. It has started decomposing.’

  The fridge took up most of the room so that Morel and Sarit had to stand outside while Pran pulled the door open. In the adjoining room, three steel trays leant against the wall, freshly scrubbed.

  Two of the mortuary trays in the fridge were empty. The third held Hugo Quercy’s battered body. Morel looked at Quercy’s naked feet. They were long and white, with callused heels. The air was thick with the cloying stench of the dead man.

  ‘I understand he wished to be cremated,’ Morel said, repeating what Antoine Nizet had told him. His tongue felt bloated, too large to fit comfortably in his mouth. It was Sarit who answered.

  ‘That’s right. He had the option of being incinerated or we could have preserved him in formaldehyde. Given the state of Monsieur Quercy’s face, I am personally relieved that he will be cremated.’

  ‘His wife is flying back to France with his ashes. For the funeral,’ Morel said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  Morel thought about his earlier conversation with Nizet. About keeping the case low profile until things became clearer. The mother and her brother, the minister, wanted to use their influence to get the French judicial police involved in the investigation, but they wouldn’t want the story splashed across the papers – not if it turned out that Quercy had been involved in something that might best be kept private. He found it interesting that there should be any doubt. Why were they worried? What did they know that he didn’t, about Hugo Quercy? Or was it just a conditioned reflex, because of the minister’s public profile?

  Pran pulled out the tray that contained Hugo Quercy and the other two men took a further step back.

  ‘Help me out.’ Together, the three men shifted the tray into the adjoining room and laid it on a table.

  With an effort, Morel stepped closer to Quercy’s body and looked down. He tried to focus on what he saw rather than the smell of decomposing flesh. The man’s face had been beaten to a pulp. Around the eyes the skin was tinged green.

  ‘That greenish discoloration you’re looking at, that’s due to the decomposition. The body has started to rot because of the rise in temperature,’ Pran said, following the direction of Morel’s gaze.

  ‘What was the cause of death?’ Morel asked.

  ‘Remember, you’re asking a doctor to give you an opinion based on an external examination of the corpse,’ Pran said. ‘I am not a forensic pathologist and we don’t have the means to perform autopsies here. Having said all that, what I can tell you is that this person died of a depressed skull fracture, caused by a significant blow to the back of the head. Due to the position of the body when we found it, Sarit and I believe he must have been flung against the wall. That’s when the impact took place. Take a look at the back of the skull, you’ll see what I mean.’

  He pulled a pair of surgical gloves on and lifted Hugo Quercy’s head.

  ‘See the indentation here,’ he said, pointing a finger to the base of the skull. ‘Then just above it is a boggy mass, caused by bleeding. This is consistent with a depressed skull fracture.’

  ‘And this is what killed him.’

  ‘Yes. I am fairly certain.’

  ‘What about time of death? And how long did it take him to die?’ Seeing Pran’s face, Morel added quickly, ‘I know we can’t put an exact time on it.’

  ‘I can’t tell you when he died,’ Pran said. ‘As for how long it took, my guess is he died within half an hour of the impact. He might have lost consciousness straight away.’

  ‘Can we get an X-ray done? Just to confirm what you’ve said about the skull fracture?’

  ‘I might have trouble organizing that,’ Pran said. ‘I don’t think the radiologist will be very enthusiastic about performing an X-ray on a dead body.’

  ‘It’s not ideal,’ Morel granted. ‘But it would be good if we could get one done.’

  Morel looked closely at Quercy’s face. It was hard to see past the heavy bruising and cuts. He would need a photograph to see what Quercy actually looked like. The widow should be able to provide a recent one.

  ‘So he was beaten up first, then either thrown against a wall or a hard surface, or hit on the back of the head?’

  ‘Yes. Repeatedly hit in the face. Then probably thrown against the wall,’ Pran said. ‘As I mentioned, I’m not a pathologist but I think it’s a safe assumption, going by the position of the body when we saw it.’

  ‘Are there photos of the murder scene?’

  Pran looked at Sarit.

  ‘No photos,’ Sarit said.

  Morel examined the dead man’s hands and fingernails. They were clean, with no bruises or scratches.

  ‘He didn’t fight back,’ he said. ‘At least it looks that way.’

  ‘There are no visible signs that he did.’

  Morel tried to picture the scene. Hugo Quercy had taken repeated knocks yet done nothing to defend himself. ‘If someone attacked you, wouldn’t you automatically fight back?’

  ‘We need to leave now,’ Pran said.

  ‘Of course,’ Morel responded. He’d forgotten the smell for a moment. But it came back with full force now. It was definitely time to go.

  He and Sarit walked out, while Pran locked up behind them. He joined them on the gravel path and they stood in silence for a minute. Despite his earlier insistence that he had to go, Pran made no move to leave.

  ‘So you don’t have a forensics department. What happens when someone is killed and the cause of death is unclear?’ Morel asked, realizing, as he saw the faces of the two other men, that his question must come across as naive.

  ‘Nothing,’ Pran said. ‘The cause of death remains unclear. And to be h
onest,’ he continued, ‘I think this suits everyone. Our government would be pretty nervous about that capacity if we were to develop it. Once we start investigating one suspicious death, imagine how many other bugs might come crawling out from under the carpet?’

  There was a disapproving noise from Sarit.

  ‘I don’t think our French colleague is here to listen to a lecture. So? What do you think, Commandant? About the victim, I mean,’ he asked Morel, lighting a cigarette. Pran took one from Sarit’s packet without asking.

  ‘A brutal, prolonged attack,’ Morel said. ‘A messy way to go.’ That was all he could say at the moment.

  While Sarit and Pran spoke together in Khmer, Morel thought about the sad, neglected remains of Hugo Quercy, slowly decomposing in the morgue. He reflected on the battered face. What had the man done to provoke such an attack? Had Quercy’s killer meant to kill him, or had he lost control? Maybe he hadn’t intended to kill him, but one thing had led to another and his anger had built up, wiping out reason. Another thought occurred to Morel. Maybe the killer had acted with purpose from the start: disfiguring the man, so that when the time came to end his life the act would become impersonal. He would not have to look at a familiar face.

  Or maybe that was just him being fanciful, Morel thought. He turned to the two Cambodians, suddenly defeated. Here he was, a tourist, a passing observer, being asked to help solve a murder in a country that remained a mystery to him. There was too much he didn’t know. How could he work as though he were back home? How would he get any answers?

  He shook hands with Sok Pran, who said he would be walking back to Calmette. He and Sarit watched him go. Sarit finished his cigarette and flicked the stub onto the ground. He looked expectantly at Morel.

  ‘I think you’re probably right,’ Morel said. ‘The killer was someone who knew Quercy. This attack looks intensely personal. By someone who knew him well.’

  Sarit nodded, looking satisfied. He took another cigarette from his pack and lit up.

  ‘Of course, that someone could have been a foreigner, or he could have been Khmer,’ Morel couldn’t resist saying. Sarit looked like he might say something but thought better of it.

  Morel turned towards the road, gradually becoming aware of the bustle and noise of traffic. It was oddly comforting.

  ‘This was rage,’ he mused, and Sarit turned to look at him again as though waiting for an explanation. ‘The person who attacked Hugo Quercy just kept going. Until there was nothing left of his victim’s face. Then he ended Quercy’s life.’

  ELEVEN

  At 3 p.m. Adam packed his bag and left the office. He’d excused himself from a team meeting, saying he felt rotten. Kate had looked as though she had something to say to him, and he’d worried she might excuse herself too. Thank Christ she hadn’t. He didn’t want anyone near.

  He really did feel like crap. The day had been exhausting. As if it wasn’t enough that all he could think about was Hugo being dead, there had also been a couple of major setbacks. A boy whom Kids at Risk had pulled out of one of the city’s notorious drug dens fifteen months earlier had vanished from the NGO’s shelter. Adam had talked to the staff and it sounded like the boy had left of his own volition. Just scampered off, taking his measly belongings with him. Two months short of qualifying as a mechanic. When the Cambodian staffer told him, Adam had felt like punching him in the face, even though he knew it wasn’t the poor bastard’s fault. You couldn’t force the kids to stay. But Adam remembered this boy; he’d taken part in the rescue operation. They’d pulled the scrawny kid from the room where he’d been holed up, twitchy from all the chemicals in his blood, saliva dribbling down the corner of his mouth. Adam and the Cambodian colleague who’d gone with him had brought him to the nearest Kids at Risk centre and had him checked out by one of the doctors they worked with; they’d watched and waited while he became properly conscious again. It wasn’t like him to get sentimental but Adam had really felt like he’d helped save that kid’s life.

  Then there was the news that their colleague Chhun had been killed. Hit by a car this morning, while crossing the road. Kate, ever the drama queen, had questioned whether his death was accidental.

  ‘First Hugo, now this. You know the two of them were inseparable.’ She was right about that.

  Chhun had grown up in the United States and joined a gang that went by the name of Oriental Boy Soldiers. It earned him the right to carry a gun, a privilege that landed him in an American jail for thirty days. After being deported from the US, he’d been forced to return to Cambodia, a place he barely knew. Hugo had turned up with him at the office one day, saying they’d run into each other in the street and got talking. Chhun was short but every inch of his squat body was muscle. He had a shaved skull and tattoos around his neck and arms, as well as a teardrop tattooed on his face; Hugo had asked about the teardrop, and Chhun had told him it indicated that he’d performed an act of violence in order to be initiated into his gang. Only Hugo could have ended up chatting easily to an ex-gang member about his tattoos and the violence in his life five minutes after bumping into him on the street.

  ‘If we don’t give him a job, he’s fucked,’ Hugo had said matter of factly. Julia had rolled her eyes but she’d given in eventually.

  Hugo had taken a chance with Chhun, and it turned out to be the best thing anyone had done for Kids at Risk since taking on Hugo himself. Chhun fit right in and proved to be a real asset. Great with the kids and ready to help everyone on the team with the most mundane of tasks. When Hugo didn’t need him, Chhun picked up lunch orders and made deliveries to Kids at Risk’s various operations across the city. He was their tough guy when they were taking risks, pulling street kids out of dodgy situations, when the local police weren’t there to back them up. Later, when they knew each other better, Chhun had explained some of the tattoos to Adam. The ones around his neck were there to protect him against bullets.

  The tattoos might have worked against bullets but they were clearly powerless against speeding cars, Adam thought.

  Adam had left his motorbike at home. He walked down the street, looking for his ride. As always, the tuk-tuk driver was waiting there. He collapsed into the back seat and closed his eyes. There was no need for directions. He couldn’t wait to get home, have a shower and get into bed. All he wanted was the chance to lie down for an hour and sleep.

  He opened his eyes again. They would have to advertise Hugo’s job now. And why shouldn’t he go for it? It was revolting the way Kate implied that he had envied Hugo and cosied up to him in order to take advantage. He had liked Hugo too much to think of him in such simple terms. To bask in Hugo’s aura, to be close to him, had been plenty enough.

  He decided he wouldn’t let the stupid cow upset him.

  At home, he didn’t bother to take his shoes off. He stood at the door, surveying the room. What a shithole he lived in. But how many people out there could claim to have a job as interesting and fulfilling as his? OK, so he earned a pittance and hadn’t really improved his lifestyle since his student days. In fact, his student digs had probably been one step up from this crummy room. But God, he loved his job. This was where Kate was clueless. She thought she had him figured out but she had it all wrong. The thing that drove him, that made him work tirelessly and push everything else in his life to the back of his mind – his family, his sorry finances, his crappy digs – this thing had nothing to do with greed or ambition.

  He stripped to his underwear and lay down. For a while, he tried to watch TV, thinking it might distract him. But the noise only made him more anxious.

  He poured himself a glass of vodka, quickly followed by another. When it got dark he didn’t bother turning the light on. He took his drink to bed and lay on top of the sheets. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d changed them.

  There was so much he needed to figure out. If only there was someone he could talk to.

  Lying in the dark, he tried to compose his thoughts. He fled each problem away in
a box in his head and addressed them separately. After a while, this seemed to work. The drink also helped.

  It came to him just as he was dozing off. A simple solution to his number one problem.

  He fell asleep with the glass in his hand, and didn’t notice when it fell to the ground, the clear liquid spilling onto the floor.

  TWELVE

  From the morgue, Morel and Sarit drove to the Paradise Hotel. It didn’t live up to its name, Morel thought as he found the entrance, wedged between a shop selling pirated DVDs and a cafe serving late breakfasts to a pair of washed-out-looking tourists. Sarit said nothing but he looked distinctly unimpressed.

  The hotel manager, Eric Glaister, fit right in. He was wearing jeans and a faded T-shirt and he looked like he hadn’t shaved in a week. His hair and the stubble on his rugged, sunburnt skin was mostly white, though judging by his face he couldn’t have been older than forty. Morel wondered whether this was how Glaister greeted his hotel guests. Like a man with a hangover, who has just dragged himself out of bed. But maybe this wasn’t his usual style. The circumstances were extraordinary, after all.

  Now Glaister stood near the wall where Hugo Quercy had died, his pale blue eyes assessing the room.

  ‘You should have seen this place yesterday morning,’ he said. ‘There really isn’t much for you to look at now. Your Cambodian colleague here can tell you what it was like, though.’ He squinted like a man who had withstood the sun’s glare for too long.

  Morel felt like saying he wished he had been at the scene twenty-four hours earlier. He would have done a better job of collecting evidence.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was important not to let the frustration get to him. But the lack of procedure made him livid. The fact that no photographs had been taken at the crime scene; no samples. Sarit should have thought of that at least.

  ‘Would you mind leaving me alone for a few moments?’ he said.

  Neither Glaister nor Sarit seemed to mind. If anything, they seemed relieved. Sarit had gone at least six minutes without a cigarette and was probably getting withdrawal symptoms.