Behind the Night Bazaar (13 page)

Jayne smiled gratefully, paid Somphet and farewelled Nalissa with a wai.

Moira O’Halloran stared in horror at the tight-lipped man in the chocolate-brown uniform. She was checking out when he’d turned up and insisted on asking her a few questions. Anxious not to miss her flight, she’d kept her answers brief. Yes, she knew Didier de Montpasse. No, she didn’t know a Sanga Siamprakorn. Yes, she was working with Didier. Yes, their research was about AIDS and the sex industry in Chiang Mai. Yes, she had a paper he’d written on the topic. Yes, well, she supposed the policeman could have a copy, though it was highly inconvenient as she’d have to re-open her suitcase. Unpacking would be no small effort, given the amount of stuff—hill tribe silverware and baskets—she’d hidden in layers of clothing to avoid a delay at Customs.

‘Are you aware,’ Ratratarn said, ‘that Mr Didier was shot dead four days ago when attempting to resist arrest for murder?’

‘Dead?’ she gasped. ‘Didier, dead?’

‘You haven’t heard about it? It’s been all over the news.’

‘I-I’ve been in Chiang Rai,’ she stammered. ‘I haven’t seen…Oh my God! What happened?’

‘His death was accidental. But he was wanted at the time for murder.’

‘I don’t believe this.’ She put her head in her hands and slumped against the reception desk. ‘This is dreadful,’ she whimpered, ‘just dreadful.’

‘I sympathise, Ma’am,’ Ratratarn said. ‘It must be highly unpleasant to discover something like this about a good friend.’

‘Good friend?’ She raised her head abruptly. ‘Believe me, Officer, Mr de Montpasse is no friend of mine. I’ve had my doubts about his involvement in this project all along.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Quite frankly, I can’t imagine why I agreed to the collaboration in the first place,’ she said, thinking it wise to put as much distance between her and Didier as possible. ‘We’ve never really seen eye to eye on the issues.’

She unlocked her suitcase as she spoke. ‘Take this paper you asked about. I’ve had to do a significant amount of editing. I’m still not convinced I should use it at all…’

Her voice trailed off as the policeman scanned the document. He narrowed his eyes, but that was all.

‘I see,’ he said. ‘You did quite a lot of editing.’

‘Exactly!’ She breathed a sigh of relief.

‘You understand, Ma’am,’ he said, rolling the paper into a tight tube, ‘I’ll need to retain this as evidence.’

‘Oh?’ She glanced at the document in the man’s fist. ‘Yes, well, of course.’

‘I also need to know if anyone other than yourself has read this.’

‘Only Didier’s assistant. What was her name?’ She rummaged through her tote bag. ‘Keeney, that’s it!’ She pulled out Jayne’s business card. ‘Jayne Keeney. I gave her a copy after we’d—’

‘After you what, Ma’am?’

‘Jayne did some interpreting for me last night as part of my field research,’ Moira said quickly. ‘But she didn’t say anything about Didier being dead.’

If Didier’s death had been all over the news, why hadn’t Jayne mentioned it? What if she was trying to elbow her way in on the research? After all, with Didier out of the way, there would be no one to accuse her of plagiarism. The idea of such shameless opportunism took Moira’s breath away.

‘Officer, I think you’d better contact this woman,’ she said, handing over the card. ‘She may be operating under a whole set of assumptions—’ She saw the man frown and changed tack. ‘You may need to break the news to her gently. I got the impression she was close to the deceased.’

Ratratarn looked at the card. ‘Any idea where she’s staying?’

‘She said her hotel was near the footbridge.’

‘Anything else that might help us find her—a physical description?’

‘She’d be around thirty,’ Moira said. ‘Smaller than me. Long, curly hair—dark. And she’s Australian.’

She gave the policeman her sweetest smile, the one she’d rehearsed for working in Asia. ‘I do hope, Officer, this affair won’t negatively impact on my ability to work here in Chiang Mai?’

‘We don’t want to delay your departure any longer,’ the policeman said, ignoring the question.

Moira nodded. That suited her just fine. She had a plane to catch and a conference paper to write. The sooner she started the better, if she was to outwit Jayne Keeney’s attempt to steal her data.

It was disgraceful what some people would do to make a name for themselves as academics.

T
he Night Bazaar was open for business, but the same goods that seemed exotic after dark looked cheap and tawdry in the daylight. Several large cockroaches scuttled out of Jayne’s way as she stepped into the alley leading to the bars. She became aware of smells she hadn’t noticed before: stale cigarette smoke, beer, rotting fruit, rising damp.

She was relieved to find Deng at Man Date, with a couple of other young guys. But the smile on her face froze when she saw that Deng was emptying the shelves, stacking CDs, photos and ornaments into a box. Another boy was emptying the water feature into a drain, the ceramic Chinese fisherman sitting forlorn on the bar. A third young man was taking the posters and beer coasters down from the walls, despite having one arm in a sling.

‘Khun Deng,’ Jayne said. ‘What’s happening?’

When he looked up, she saw the right side of his face was bruised purple from cheek to jaw. There was a cut above his eye, and the index finger on his left hand was bandaged as if it’d been broken.

Deng groaned. ‘Go away, Khun Jayne! It’s not safe for you here.’

‘What do you mean? Who did this to you?’

‘It doesn’t matter. You have to go.’

She recognised the boy with his arm in a sling—the one who’d practised his English on her. He’d been beaten up, too, one eye reduced to a slit by the swelling around it.

‘Deng, please!’ she said. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’

‘It’s not safe,’ he repeated. ‘You’re putting us all in danger.’

Jayne felt her hair stand on end. ‘You mean someone did this to you because of me?’

‘Look,’ he spoke quickly, ‘this guy came round asking about you. I told him we’d never met before the other night. Mana, too. But he didn’t believe us. He wanted to know everything about you—your name, your nationality, your appearance, where you were staying. In the end I said I thought you went to the Plaza because Khun Di had a friend working there.’ He resumed his packing. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No,’ Jayne said. ‘I’m the one who’s sorry. Who was it?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Deng said. ‘There’s nothing you can do about it.’

‘Pornsak,’ Mana said, ripping a poster from the wall. ‘Police Sergeant Pornsak.’

Jayne looked from him to Deng and back again. Mana screwed the damaged poster into a ball and threw it to the ground.

‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ Deng said, ‘and you should, too. If the guy comes back and sees you, we’re dead.’

‘OK, OK.’ She backed away. ‘Just tell me, Deng, do you know a guy who runs a bar in Chiang Mai called Doug Kelly?’

Deng frowned. ‘I know Mister Doug—’ he pronounced it ‘duck’. ‘He runs a place in Loh Kroh, the Kitten Club. Why do you want to know about Mister Duck?’

‘No reason,’ Jayne murmured. She turned to leave. ‘By the way, I’m not staying at the Chiang Mai Plaza. It’s OK, Deng. You didn’t tell that cop anything.’

Jayne fought the impulse to run; the Thais slowed to a shuffle in the afternoon heat, and she’d only attract attention. She walked briskly back to her hotel, stopping short when she saw a police car parked nearby. She took a deep breath and told herself not to be paranoid. No one other than Max knew where she was staying. She hadn’t even given the details to Moira O’Halloran.

But Moira
was
staying at the Chiang Mai Plaza. What if that cop, Pornsak, got on to her? What could she tell him? Enough for him to track her down?

Jayne couldn’t risk it. She had to change hotels, fast. The receptionist handed her a message with her key, but she didn’t stop to read it. Once in her room, she threw her belongings into her backpack and made her way out.

A light showed the lift paused on the fourteenth floor. Too impatient to wait, Jayne took the fire escape downstairs, her injured arm straining under the weight of her pack. She opened the exit door then closed it again. Reflected in a mirror on the wall of the lobby, she’d seen two policemen at the reception desk. One of them was the man on the television, the lieutenant colonel who shot Didier—she was sure of it.

Jayne was confident she hadn’t been seen. She eased the door ajar and strained to hear what they were saying.

‘
Ka
,
ka
,’ the receptionist nodded. ‘Yes, an Australian, early thirties, with long dark curly hair. She’s just come in, Sergeant Pornsak. Third floor, room 312.’

Jayne backed away as the cops headed for the lift, but left the door open a crack. She wanted to get a look at this Pornsak, the bastard who’d beaten Deng and Mana because of her. He wasn’t what she’d expected. He was young and didn’t look like a brute. If anything, he looked like a Chinese movie star.

She shut the door and ran along the corridor in search of a way out. She’d settle her account some other time, grateful the hotel hadn’t kept her passport as security.

Outside the sunlight was almost blinding but she didn’t stop to put on her sunglasses. She waved down a tuk-tuk and directed the driver to the Mai Pai Guesthouse, a quiet place across the river where she’d stayed years earlier as a tourist—before she cashed in the last leg of her return flight and decided to remain in Thailand. The Nawarat Bridge was decorated in honour of Coronation Day; a portrait of the Thais’ beloved king, swathed in gold silk, hung from the central pylon, and pots of vivid yellow and orange marigolds lined the railings. But Jayne was too distracted to appreciate it.

She didn’t know how intensive the cops’ search to find her would be, but she couldn’t risk checking in under her own name. In the back of the tuk-tuk, she went through the fake identification cards she kept in her wallet. Forged by experts in Khao San Road, there was something for every occasion: a press card announcing her as a journalist with Agence France Presse; student ID that took five years off her age and listed her as a New Zealander; and a staff card for the British Council her friend Simone gave her when she left Thailand. Inspired by what she read of Sherlock Holmes’ disguises, Jayne had replaced Simone’s photo with one of herself in a blond wig and had even forged business cards to go with it. So far it had been an intellectual exercise: she hadn’t used it yet, but given what the Chiang Mai police knew about her it now seemed appropriate.

Covering her hair with a scarf as the tuk-tuk pulled up to the guesthouse, she checked in under Simone’s name and paid five days in advance on a room she didn’t stop to inspect. She needed to find a hairdresser and buy some more clothes and a carton of cigarettes. There was something else nagging at her—something she was supposed to do—but she didn’t pause to dwell on it.

It wasn’t until she’d returned to the guesthouse and was shaking the stray hairs from her short, newly bleached locks, that she remembered the message left for her at the Silver Star. Searching through her backpack, she found the slip of paper.

Miss Jayne
Mr David call to you. Phone 270099. Pornping
Tower, Rm. #1527.

K
omet knew something was wrong when he saw Pornsak leave the lieutenant colonel’s office. The man’s cheeks burned red as if he’d been slapped and he shoved past Komet with enough force to push him into the wall. And there were none of his usual jibes.

An hour earlier, Komet had been summoned to attend a meeting with the Canadian Embassy delegation. What Pornsak was doing at the station outside of his shift, Komet didn’t know, though he’d clearly angered their commander. When Komet finally entered the office, Ratratarn was pacing behind his desk, muttering something about Sergeant Pornsak’s mother fornicating with dogs.

Komet cleared his throat.

‘What?’ Ratratarn barked.

‘Officer Komet reporting for duty as ordered, Sir.’

Ratratarn scowled.

‘The interview with the Canadian officials, Sir,’ Komet said.

‘Son of a bitch, the farangs.’ The lieutenant colonel glanced at his watch. ‘Come on.’

He put on his cap and picked up a pile of documents, issuing orders as he steered Komet along the corridor towards the meeting room. Ratratarn was to do all the talking, but if ‘any of these smart-arse embassy types’ insisted on asking Komet any questions, he was to answer yes, no or, ‘It’s all there in the report’. Under no circumstances was he to volunteer any information.

‘Right,’ Ratratarn concluded, ‘let’s get this shit over with.’

He turned the sign on the door to Interview in Progress and entered the windowless room. Its two occupants, a farang man and a Thai woman, rose to their feet. Empty teacups on the table indicated they’d been waiting for some time.

‘Urgent police business,’ Ratratarn said in lieu of an apology. ‘Lieutenant Colonel Ratratarn in charge of the investigation. This is Officer Komet.’

‘
Sawadee ka
,’ the woman said with a wai. Her chic, short hair was dyed burgundy and she wore a raw silk suit to match. ‘This is Mr David Freeman, Second Secretary of the Canadian Embassy. He is in charge of the inquiry.’

The farang had the pallid skin of someone who spent too long in an office. His jowls hung over his white shirt collar and his hand when Komet shook it felt like sponge. Ratratarn and the farang exchanged business cards.

‘My name is Khun Israporn,’ the woman continued, enunciating each tone like a schoolteacher addressing slow learners. ‘Personal assistant to Khun David. I will be the interpreter.’

Komet shot a glance at Ratratarn, wondering whether the lieutenant colonel would let on that he could speak English. Ratratarn nodded for them to proceed.

Komet waited until everyone else was seated, before sitting behind Ratratarn. Not knowing what else to do, he opened a notebook and placed it on his lap. The farang spoke in a low voice to his interpreter, folded his hands on the desk in front of him, and faced the lieutenant colonel with a polite smile.

‘Khun David thanks you for your time this afternoon,’ Israporn said.