“Missing people?” Shielmann enquired.
“Exactly. You’re getting it.”
“I’ve lost two things that are very dear to me Bob. Can you find them?”
“If Lowe can, no one can. No hang on, that’s not right either. If Lowe can’t, no one can. That’s it!”
“My dear, dear friend, Mohammed Razzaq. We had an argument. It was my fault. I’ve not seen him since.”
“I see. I see. Well you’ve come to the right man. I know how to locate people in this fair city, police contacts you see…” Bob tapped his index finger on his nose.
Avi waved Bob’s comments away with a dismissive waft of his hand.
“No. I last saw Mo in Tokyo.” Avi paused. “In 1983.”
Bob spluttered his beer across the table. “Tokyo! 1983! Good Lord, man, that is a challenge.”
Avi was starting to hear the lunacy of what he was saying and with a glint in his eye added, “He’s from Pakistan.”
“Of course he is! Where else?!” hollered Lowe, beginning to wonder if this was some sort of joke. This strange chap in Nana looking for a Pakistani friend he had last seen in Japan over thirty years ago.
“Are you also from Pakistan?” Bob knew this man clearly wasn’t Asian but he didn’t want to make any assumptions. He’d landed himself in all sorts of hot water with a young British woman for suggesting she was Malaysian when she was in fact British. Frightful business ending with her shouting out that Bob was a typical old-school racist.
“Of course I’m not! Do I look Pakistani?!” Avi was somewhat bemused by this odd question.
“Well, these days you know. Can never be too careful. When is a Pakistani not a Pakistani?”
“Well, when he is not from Pakistan and has never even been to Pakistan! I’m Swedish.”
“Aha, that’s more like it. Lots of you Swedes here in Thailand. Marvellous people the Swedes. We have an Ikea here now you know.”
Bob was trying to regain a type of composure, in a very Lowesque way.
“… but I was born an Israeli.” Avi was having fun now.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, man! Are you trying to confuse The Lowe?” Bob retrieved his notebook from the big baggy pockets on the side of his khaki shorts and explained to Avi that he had to take extensive notes on their conversation. Anything Avi said could be a vital clue, Bob explained. Bob began to scribble furiously. Muttering to himself as he did,
“Quite remarkable. Of course I will need full details if you expect me to solve this case. Now who is the second person you said you had lost.”
“No, one person. The other thing, well that’s a bit more complicated.” Avi could see the look of utter confusion on the Brit’s face and wondered if this might stop Bob taking the case at all.
“More complicated?! Heavens forfend, man! How much more complicated can you possibly get?”
“Disco, Bob, disco.”
“Disco?” Bob didn’t know how he was meant to respond.
“Where is my love of disco, Bob? The glamour. The spandex. The 1970s. Ahh disco…”
“Now look here! I don’t know what’s going on. A person I can find. But your love of disco. Well, what? What on earth do you expect me to do?” Bob took a large swig of his beer and waved to Mint “We’ll be needing more of these, young Mint.” As he stretched his arm across the table to attract Mint’s attention he casually knocked over Avi’s bottle.”
“Oh good Lord! Mint!”
Avi was enjoying the whole experience of drinking with this rather peculiar British chap and considered that maybe this was exactly the sort of eccentric lunatic he needed to meet.
“Yes it is quite the conundrum, Bob, but don’t you think the bars of Nana are the perfect place for a disco revival?”
Bob let the words swirl around his head and began to picture himself in spandex dancing to a Bee Gees’ classic. Dancing had never been a strength of Bob’s due to his astonishing lack of coordination but after eight pints or so he’d always been game to give it a go.
Bob and Avi continued to chat and found they got on well. Avi suggested they should meet again to go into all the details about the complex history of his dancing days with Mo Razzaq. After another thirty minutes or so, Avi decided to get a taxi home and leave Bob with his own thoughts.
“One more?” enquired Mint. She already knew the answer, she’d been playing out this routine with Bob for years.
“Go on then, Mint, you rascal you!”
“Bob not want to drink with new girl?” Mint had noticed it had been quite a while since Bob had looked for company.
“No, no. Not for me, Mint, just another beer is quite enough!”
Bob sat back, slightly confused. Was he actually a reformed character? Was he actually becoming a fully-fledged private investigator?
FOURTEEN
The Central Embassy Mall had eventually become one of Marjorie’s favourite places to mill about town; she’d tend to go there at least once a week either to meet friends for lunch or coffee, or sometimes just to window shop. Initially she had been adamant that she was going to boycott the mall as she felt the British government should not be cashing in on land that had been given to them. It wasn’t even clear that her understanding of the history was correct, as most sources pointed to the British buying the land in the 1920s from Nai Lert, considered one of Thailand’s first property developers. However, Marjorie had read an article that stated the land had been donated to the British, and such was her bitterness at how she had been usurped and forgotten by the British Diplomatic Service after the death of Humphrey, that she decided this was a story she would believe. She would start to rant to all and sundry how the embassy had lost its way since Humphrey left, and how British government cuts were now impacting on the diplomatic service and it was an outrage.
Her marriage to Humphrey had been a difficult one. Marjorie openly admitted in older age that she had married Humphrey purely for social climbing and the glamour of his role. An ambassador’s wife, as she was eventually to become, meant something. She felt it had all been worth it. People respected her. Doors opened for her, both literally and metaphorically. She had no physical relationship with Humphrey prior to marriage, which she put down to Humphrey being a bit of a prude and not embracing the attitudes of the 1960s. The wedding night was a disaster. She had assumed that would be the time when their physical relationship would begin and their marriage would be consummated. It was the first time she saw her husband naked. They were staying in a delightful rural hotel in Cheshire, not far from his family estate. Humphrey had stumbled into their bedroom drunk and naked muttering, “I suppose we’d better do this then, tradition and all that.” He had been totally unable to perform and had been utterly clueless about what he should be doing. Marjorie spent twenty-five minutes trying to get him going, but to no avail. “Too much bloody champagne no doubt,” were the last words he said before falling asleep. They tried again a few weeks later, with a greater degree of success, although from Marjorie’s perspective it was pretty unsatisfactory. So their marriage became thus; physical intimacy happened about two or three times a year as Marjorie desperately wanted to have a baby. Eventually she accepted this was unlikely to happen and she threw herself into the role of a diplomat’s wife with great gusto when Humphrey got his first overseas placement in Kenya in the 1970s. Being British High Commissioner in the relatively newly independent country was quite a challenge but with Marjorie by his side the couple made it a resounding success.
She began to assume Humphrey must be a closet homosexual; What a dreadfully dull cliché she would write in her diary as she noticed an array of attractive young Kenyan men always around her husband both at work and at home. The truth was more complex. Eventually she confronted Humphrey in a blazing row and she told him that it was rather pathetic in these times that he couldn’t admit who he was. She knew it was unfair, but it just came out in the heat of the moment. Whilst it was true by that era there were a few gay men in some aspects of pu
blic life and the 1960s had all been about free love and sexual experimentation, there were still very few out gay men and certainly not in the diplomatic service.
Humphrey was honest with her. He told her that he too had wondered if he was that way inclined, as he did indeed see the beauty in some of the young men who worked for him, but the idea of anything more than appreciating their beauty appalled him. He broke down in tears “What’s wrong with me?”
Marjorie was shocked. This sort of emotion was something that she had never seen from her husband. She felt pity for him at that moment and over the following twelve months from that conversation they established a way to make their marriage work. Humphrey promised to do his best to give Marjorie a child and publicly she enabled them to play the wonderful diplomatic couple to perfection.
Marjorie sat down in the lounge restaurant at the Park Hyatt that was attached to the Central Embassy and ordered herself a latte. She had become overrun with feelings of bitterness and anger. After Humphrey’s death, from an enormous heart attack on the golf course, she had quickly become an irrelevance. Being the widow of the former ambassador had little distinction and very quickly a new ambassador had arrived; young with a beautiful wife and three children, they were everything that Marjorie had dreamed of from her union with Humphrey. She hated them for it, and the likes of Linda Taylor never missed a chance to speak in Marjorie’s earshot about how dynamic the new ambassador was. Yes, Marjorie Dubshott hated the world and, it seemed, everything in it.
Linda strutted her way down the steps towards the café and Marjorie noted that she was attempting to ‘power dress’ in a sort of business suit that was totally inappropriate for a casual coffee and shopping. She really had no clue.
“Linda!” Marjorie tried not to shout too loud but Linda hadn’t noticed her and was walking to the wrong end of the café. Eventually she turned and walked towards the table.
“Ah, Marje, lovely to see you.”
“What a delightful jacket, Linda, is it new?” Marjorie sounded almost genuine.
“Just a little thing I had made for me. Do you know Vichai Singh? He’s the top tailor in town you know,” Linda proudly stated.
“Of course. Humphrey was a regular there.” A classic passive aggressive put-down, this time too subtle for Linda to pick up on. Marjorie thought it comical that any woman would go to Vichai Singh. He was indeed a fantastic tailor, but his specialism was men’s suits and shirts.
The two women made idle small talk about the quality of Central Embassy, the coffee at the Park Hyatt and the general state of Bangkok; weather, politics, traffic. Linda eventually changed the subject.
“So, I must confess, Marjorie, I was surprised to get a coffee invite from you. We haven’t always really seen eye to eye.” Linda tried her best to sound casual and relaxed.
“I know, I know and that’s my fault, Linda. I feel I owe you an apology.”
“For what, Marjorie?”
“I’ve never been very welcoming to you and I don’t know why…” Marjorie dabbed her eyes with a tissue and looked crestfallen. “Oh, my life really is a mess.” The tears began to flow.
“Oh, Marjorie! Whatever’s the matter?”
Linda got up and awkwardly tried to give Marjorie a tender and caring rub on the shoulder.
“There, there, my dear. What’s wrong?”
After a moment Marjorie composed herself. “I suppose I’ve always felt a bit jealous of you.”
“Me?!” Linda was genuinely stunned but felt a warmth and pride at the unlikely turn of events.
“Yes. You and Simon have such a perfect marriage, lovely children, and you… young and so attractive. Sorry. I really am feeling sorry for myself.”
This was truly extraordinary and Linda pondered to herself how life never stopped throwing up these surprises. She should really be careful before she started judging people. She had long assumed Marjorie was just a snobbish evil witch. Yet the truth was, it seemed, that she was a woman in pain. Her life was a mess. They spent a good hour chatting, Marjorie coming clean on her difficult marriage to Humphrey and how she’d felt cast aside as the widow of the ex-ambassador. Linda felt a real empathy and then some guilt. Here was a fellow woman, battling away in a man’s world. She felt an unlikely new friendship was forming. They said goodbye with a warm hug and agreed to meet up for dinner sometime soon.
FIFTEEN
Bob wasn’t quite sure how to deal with his latest discovery; the old woman and the possible drug boss situation. Should he inform the police? He was suddenly acutely aware that he had entered into the world of investigations and private detection without so much as a clear plan for these sorts of scenarios. “Pull yourself together, Lowe,” he barked out loud to himself. He did know one policeman, Khun Pun, who was something of a regular in one of Bob’s favourite Nana bars. Bob even had Pun’s number stored in his phone, something he was immensely proud of. You had to really be a proper local Bangkoker to have the number of one of the boys in brown available in your phone. He had only used it once.
One drunken night, Bob Lowe had famously challenged Pun to a game of pool, and promptly lost eight games in a row. They had become quite friendly after that, and Pun had been more than happy to intervene that time Bob called him. Bob had been stopped by the police and asked to complete a urine test, with a joint in his hand. Bob who was a sometime heavy smoker, had absent-mindedly pulled a joint out of his cigarette packet, having tucked it there for safekeeping, and brazenly wandered the streets smoking it. A quick phone call to Pun and he had settled the issue. Pun immediately smoothed things over with the police and he even gave Bob some friendly advice to avoid that particular junction for the next few weeks as the police would be there in force looking to drug test and fine for drunken behaviour.
Bob considered his options and came to the conclusion that it was too soon to involve the police. He gave Pat a call and asked if she was free for dinner.
“Wow! Twice in such a short time, I am honoured, Bob!” Pat giggled.
“Yes, yes, Nong Pat, dinner on me of course, I need your advice on a case.”
“Ooh, serious, na. Maybe Pat can be your junior detective. Fifty thousand baht a month okay, Bob ka?” Pat had always enjoyed teasing Bob.
“Easy, tiger! It’s still early days, I’m not employing just yet, but who knows, in future…”
“Ha ha, Bob, just joking, na ka! See you later.”
Bob hung up the phone and pondered their exchange. He considered out loud, “Curious, is Pat smitten with The Lowe at last?”
With multiple cases, Bob had started to realise that his small, cheap notepads were not sufficient for the copious and complex notes he needed to be writing and made a trip to B2S, one of Bangkok’s best stationery supply shops, to purchase something more befitting of someone now in law enforcement. He saw an attractive display of colourful leather-bound journals that looked ideal. He picked one that was about A5 size, perfect for his needs. He turned to the back to check the price, just over one thousand baht.
“Remarkable!” exclaimed Bob, at a volume loud enough to attract the attention of anyone in the shop at the time.
“Utterly remarkable. Simply impossible.”
He summoned over a member of staff to fix what he was sure was an obvious error.
“This, phit na khrap?” He expected the lady to have a look and simply confirm that yes it was indeed a mistake.
“Mai phit ka.” She nervously replied that there was no mistake.
“You lot must think I was born yesterday! Yesterday! Re-mark-able!”
Bob searched the shop and found an array of cheaper school-style exercise books, some spiral bound in the one-hundred-baht price range. They didn’t have the leather or the sophisticated elasticated system to keep it neatly closed, but Bob was a step ahead there. He also bought himself a large bag of rubber bands which would serve that purpose perfectly. As he paid he was determined to get the final word.
“You’ll never scam The Lowe!”
He pointed at the exercise book and then the rubber bands and then gesticulated towards the fancy leather-bound journals and shouted “Same, same! Same, same!”
As he stomped out the store the shop assistant muttered “not same” and giggled.
Bob had arranged to meet Pat at the Emporium Mall so that they could choose from one of the many eating options either in Emporium or Emquartier. He couldn’t wait to tell Pat how he had saved a fortune on his notebooks.
As usual Pat looked the figure of relaxed and friendly beauty, that was how Bob had always considered her. She wasn’t a classic beauty but she had an incredible warmth.
“You’re looking as wonderful as ever, Nong Pat.”
“Oh, Bob, want marry me, na?” Pat laughed and immediately realised it was too much for poor Bob who went bright red in the face.
“The Lowe, married?! Good Lord! I mean, er… what?”
“Just joke, Bob. I know I much too old for you!” Pat laughed and immediately changed the topic.
“Let’s go for Japanese, I feel like sushi.”
“As the lady doth request.”
As they walked into Emquartier, Bob continued to wonder if Pat was actually attracted to him. Was it possible? These confounded jokes she kept making were very confusing. Were they jokes?
He cast his mind back to a dream he’d once had when they had worked together. Pat was in the store cupboard of the admin office at the language school and Bob had wandered in looking for her. “Pat, are you here? I need help with the photocopier.” Bob was forever finding the machine jammed on him and so this aspect of the dream was very believable.
“In here, Bob,” Pat called from the cupboard. As Bob walked in he saw Pat lying naked on a pile of books. “I love you, Bob. I want you. I need you.”
Bob woke up at that point and was furious as he wanted the dream to continue. The following week at school he walked into the admin office, looking for Pat. As in the dream she called him from the store cupboard. Bob panicked, sweat pouring down his face. He loosened his collar. He slowly walked towards the door and opened it with trepidation.
The Mysterious Case of the Missing Tuk-Tuk Page 7