Everyone Burns (24 page)

I don’t want to ask, but I know I have to.

“What happened today?”

“I received this.”

He takes out a white envelope and lays it carefully on the table.

“Posted on the island and addressed to me, as you can see,” he explains. “An anonymous letter. Please open it.”

Not only do I not want to open it, I don’t want to touch it. I recognise the handwriting; the same hand that has already sent letters to me and to Kat. I am in deep, deep trouble.

“Don’t worry,” he prompts, “I’ve already checked for fingerprints. Nothing useful.”

It’s not the fingerprints that worry me, although once I’ve handled the envelope and inevitable-A4-sized-note inside,
my
fingerprints will be on the damn thing. But I have no choice.

I open the envelope and remove the letter. It says
simply

YOUR WIFE IS UNFAITHFUL

I have the urge to laugh hysterically, but instead I sit back and take a sip of tea, being careful not to choke this time. I endeavour to look wise, virtuous, and above all, celibate.

“This is hardly conclusive,” I say. “More like someone making mischief. Perhaps you should just ignore it. You have no evidence and, by the looks of it, neither does the writer of this poisonous little note.”

Charoenkul shakes his head. “No,” he says, “I can’t sit by and do nothing. I need to act.”

“Are you going to confront your wife? Talk through your suspicions?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Braddock. Confront her with what? This?” He snorts and points at the paper scornfully. Then he picks up the letter and envelope and puts them away in his pocket.

“Then what did you have in mind?”

“I want you to follow her.”

Fortunately I have not just taken a sip of tea – otherwise the choking and coughing would have been even more pronounced.

“I can’t do that,” I say aghast.

“Why not?”

I can’t think of a reason I can give him, even a lame one, but happily the Chief assumes I’m thinking about money.

“Don’t worry,” he says with bite, “I don’t expect you to do
this
for free. You will be paid your usual rate. After all,” he adds condescendingly, “trailing possibly-unfaithful partners is what you do. Is that not correct?”

I try to get this straight in my head.
Charoenkul is going to pay me, his wife’s lover, to tail his wife and find out if she is having sex with anyone. All well and good until he receives the next anonymous letter naming me as her lover. Then Pandemonium ...

I become aware that Papa Doc is still talking and is putting
another sheet of paper on the table with information about Kat’s movements. “Tomorrow she flies to Bangkok, and is supposedly meeting up with an old girl friend for two days of shopping. These are her flight details and the hotel where she is staying. I want you to go to Bangkok, follow her and report back. If she is up to no good, this trip will not be the innocent one it appears. Then I will know for certain.”

I realise I am sitting with my mouth open like an idiot, so I close it. Then I open it again to complain that I have appointments and commitments and I can’t just drop everything; but Charoenkul is having none of it.

“Two days of your time,” he asserts, “that’s all.”

To my disbelief I find myself agreeing to his request. I can only attribute this to being so relieved I don’t have a bullet from Papa Doc’s gun in my head that I would say yes to anything.

I hardly notice the Chief leave, I am so in shock. I’m still slumped in my chair staring into space when Wayan arrives a few minutes later to clear the cups.

I am vaguely aware of her recounting another dream involving me and a large flying demon (“This time he was flying away from you and down into a dark pit”), and I am thankful that I am not fantasising about her sexually
at this moment. Although after the day I’ve had so far I don’t see how that would be possible.

I ask her to get me a large whisky. As she leaves the room I check out her bottom and swaying hips. Attractive, as always; but I am comforted that there is no stirring in my loins.

I light a Marlboro and wonder how much more surreal my life can possibly become. Then I send a SMS to Kat;
Call me as soon as you are free to talk. VERY URGENT

I down the whisky in one.

I wait for Kat’s call.

*       *       *       *       *

Evening finds me at Charlie Rorabaugh’s Bophut Jazz in Fisherman’s Village, Bo Phut.

I’ve booked my flight to Bangkok, told a suspicious Da to reschedule my appointments, and informed Sinclair I’d be away in the capital for the next two nights so my observation of his employee is postponed. The Northerner was unfazed, and even seemed cheerful at the prospect: I’m beginning to wonder what I need to do to piss him off. I’ve checked that Wayan will be OK on her own while I’m away. Claire, of course, is not around to talk to, and I don’t anticipate her being around for some time yet. I’ve set up Prem, my erstwhile street urchin
employee to meet me at Bo Phut later; and I’ve asked him to bring me some weed and rolling papers. I need to mellow awhile.

The only person I’ve not spoken to is the one I really want to: Kat has not yet called me back. I’m not going to get panicky about it. Not yet anyway.

I’m anticipating an evening chilling out at Charlie’s place will restore some badly-needed equilibrium in me. According to Vogel’s notes, this is where Jingjai will be spending her evening off; so I can kill two birds with one stone – observe the girl in non-working mode and, at the same time, catch a good Australian beef steak. Maybe I’ll even hear some good live music, although I’m decidedly sceptical about
that
.

I also have some notion of putting a third bird to death. Charlie Rorabaugh has been on the island a long time and is tuned in to all the Samui news and gossip: maybe he can dish me some dirt on Sinclair. Yes, I know. I’m becoming obsessed with the Neanderthal, even as the rest of my life is slowly disintegrating around me. But each time I interact with him I get more and more wary of what’s going on inside that grizzled, stubbly skull.

Charlie is on good form tonight. He is never happier than when playing the role of short, fat, friendly host. He’s wearing a bright red American sports shirt, stretched over his ample belly, and his thick curly hair looks freshly dyed (black). A Jewish native of the Bronx, Charlie has only two passions: good quality jazz and good quality beef. His decade on Samui has left him with a golden tan; appropriate since his loud exterior conceals a heart of gold.

“Hey, Davy,” he calls out in his throaty New York
brogue above the hubbub of Bophut Jazz, “Where the hell have you been hiding out? I was beginning to think you must have died.”

“I had myself declared dead for tax reasons,” I reply. “How are you doing, Charles?” We embrace and he gives me an enthusiastically hard hug: his fingers are like pork sausages – kosher ones, of course.

“Good man, real good. Where’s your saxophone? It’s, like, centuries since you played here. Come and have a drink at the bar.”

The place is full, in anticipation of the live band later. Charlie Parker is playing over the music system, counterpointing nicely with the chatter and the sizzling of steaks on the big fire-grill. We elbow our way to the bar, down a couple of beers and exchange some island gossip.

“So what are you up to these days?” he asks.

“I’m doing some consulting work for the police.”

“You’re kidding me. Those bastards?” He looks like he’d spit if he had a bucket handy. Or there was room. “It’s not on this farang murder by any chance, is it?”

“Could be,” I say, “
but keep it under your hat.”

“Hey, Davy, you should be careful, man. Those guys are as bent as a Rio Carnival. Did I ever tell you the story of the
infamous ‘Chaweng Suicide’ a few years back?”

“No. Amaze me.”

“Some British ex pat was found floating face down in Chaweng Lake with lots of holes in his chest. The word was he’d had a big row with his
katoey
boyfriend and the ladyboy had done him in by stabbing him with a big kitchen knife, then dumped him in the lake. The police said the guy had drowned himself and called it suicide.”

He pauses to bark some instruction at a waiter.

“Where was I? Oh, yes,” he continues. “Some of the island ex pats kicked up such a stink that a special team was called in from Surat Thani to investigate. Guess what? Same conclusion: suicide. They’re all as bad as each other, not interested in farang deaths. No money in it, you see.”

“There’s a team from Surat Thani over here now looking into things,” I tell him. “Chief Charoenkul says they’re doing a proper investigation.”

Charlie snorts. “I doubt that, bro’. Watch your back.”

“Anyway, Charlie, leaving aside dead
farangs, I wanted to pick your brains on somebody; you being the fount of all knowledge on Samui ex pats.”

“Buy me another beer and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. I’m a cheap date. Almost a tart, really.”

I catch the barman’s eye and set up some beers.

“Kenneth Sinclair,” I say. “What do you know about him?”

“Geordie Sinclair, you mean? Looks like he should be working in a shipyard as a welder, yeah?”

“The same. He’s asked me to do a job for him, but I think there’s something fishy about it. I’m looking for some background on him. Discreetly, mind.”

Charlie considers. “Let me see. Sinclair, Sinclair. He came to Samui around the same time I did. He’s from Newcastle, UK, originally, but I guess you know that. He has a couple of businesses here: car hire and a realty firm, I think. I don’t see much of him these days, he’s become a bit of a recluse – but when he first came here, over ten years ago he was much more talkative, and very bitter too as I remember.”

“Bitter about what?”

“About the break-up of his marriage. Real chip on his shoulder about it. His wife ran off with some younger English guy, and took the kids. She made it impossible for Sinclair to see them, so he came to Thailand to start over. Some women are bitches like that. His wife was called Joy: pretty ironic, huh? I can’t remember the name of the guy, though I should, he talked about him enough. Called him ‘Andy Arse-Wipe’ or ‘Andy Arse-Lay’, something like that. Sinclair seemed to think his wife’s lover was a bit, you know, on the feminine side. Quite a blow to his Northern manhood losing his woman to someone like that. Yes, he was certainly angry all right.”

Charlie takes a pull on his beer, reminiscing.

“Geordie likes Northern folk music, or at least he did then. Especially that guy from the band Dire Straits. Mark Something. He used to bang on about a song of his, ‘Sailing to Philadelphia’. I guess he thought that would make a connection with me. Though Philadelphia is kinda fucking awful. And no way am I going to have
folk music
in here. I’d rather die.” He wrinkles his face in disgust.

“I see.”

Charlie slaps me on the shoulder.

“Hey, that’s not the most interesting part of the story.
Less than a year into his time on the island he meets a local woman, Nok, and falls head over. Like really head over. Changes his life. And she’s really keen on him too. No shit. A real love match.

“Anyway, they get married and have a kid. Geordie’s settled down, put the past behind him, everything’s sweet, then – bang! Nok gets killed by a hit-and-run driver and his world falls to pieces.

“He went completely nuts. Harassed the police – who were useless of course – trying to track down the driver responsible. He took out advertisements in all the papers offering a reward for information. Of course he got lots of leads and promises from con artists who saw a chance for some easy money, but nothing ever came of it.

“Eventually he pulled himself together. I guess he had to for the little boy’s sake. Life is tough enough here for a
luk kreung
– a ‘half child’ – without his having a dead Thai mother
and
a crazy English father.”

“So Sinclair’s OK these days?” I ask.

“Well,” Charlie hesitates. “I did hear that recently someone had contacted him and said he could identify the driver that had killed Nok ‘for a price’. Sinclair got very excited about it.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t been in here for a while. I expect it’s just some ghoul trying to make some money from the guy’s grief. Let’s face it: the trail of the hit-and-run driver must be stone cold by now.”

“Interesting
stuff, anyhow. By the way, you wouldn’t happen to know if he’s ever been involved in any property development on the island here, would you?” I ask, still suspicious of anything Sinclair has told me.

“Not as far as I know.”
Charlie grins. “You don’t like him, Davey, do you? Sinclair. I can tell.”

“Maybe not. But he
is
a client.”