Everyone Burns (4 page)

“Into what? Are you telling me Ting has a leopard or something?”

I pass a weary hand across my forehead.

“Your Miss Ting has previous form,” I articulate patiently. “I have already had her under surveillance for two previous clients, and the results were not good. As I recall, one of the clients referred to her afterwards as ‘Ching-Ching
Ting’, as in the sound of a cash register.”

“Are you sure it’s the same girl?”

“I know the name and your photographs confirm it.” I tap one of the photos. “My, but that
is
a fine cleavage.”

Harold looks crestfallen, and his face mutates from pizza to collapsed sponge cake.

“Harold –” I say, “– may I call you Harold?” He nods. “Look Harold, people do change sometimes. Perhaps Miss Ting has changed since I investigated her last about three months ago. Perhaps she would be perfectly content and would make an ideal companion living with you in your house in Slough –”

“I live with my parents at the moment.”

“Right. All I’m saying is that there is a good chance this relationship will not work out well for you. I am, on the other hand, happy to take your money and report to you accordingly. But my services are not cheap. Man to man, I’m just trying to save you some heartache and currency here.”

I slide a laminated sheet of my charges – Fee Scale A – across the desk, and he pauses for thought.
His heart struggles with his head.

“You are sure –”

“Yes, Harold, I am sure it is the same girl. Wait.” I rummage in my filing cabinet and find some earlier photographs of Miss Ting in a folder. Harold looks at them miserably. I watch his dream fade.

“Why not have this consultation on me as a freebie.”

Two minutes later Harold has gone, and Da storms into my office.

“A
freebie
indeed!” she emotes, none too pleasantly. “What am I supposed to feed my baby on when he is born?”

“Show the guy some heart, Da,” I say. “He’s just had a big disappointment.” I wag a finger at her. “Remember not everyone is as lucky in love as you. You have a perfect husband in Tong and you will no doubt have a sickeningly perfect baby. You get on with your in-laws, and you have a boss who always pays your salary on the nail, however little there is in the business bank account.”

At the mention of her beloved Tong, Da’s face lights up. “I love my Tong,” she says.

“Now we have no more appointments today so bugger off home and dilate or something,” I growl. “And go steady on that bike.”

She kisses me on the forehead. “You are such a sweetie. I’ll finish up a few things and then I’ll be off.”

I take the bottle of Bells from a desk drawer, pour myself a whisky and splash in a little water.

At some point I will have to address the problem of Da’s replacement. This will not be easy. She is ludicrously over-qualified for her job, speaks perfect English – with colloquialisms thrown in for good measure – and knows how to handle people by applying that judicious degree of Asian submissiveness which many clients find so appealing: not that
I
ever see much of it. In her pre-pregnancy days, I would occasionally take her out with me on assignments, and she was showing the makings of a good detective. Motherhood and other priorities may, however, take her from that particular career path. She has had at least two proposals of marriage from visitors to the office that I know of, but her love for her childhood sweetheart Tong – now her husband – burns as a bright and unquenchable flame. She must have said
no
to a lot of men in the last few years.
And thus shines a good deed in a dark world.

I drain the glass and feel a pleasurable burn. Then, for want of anything more pressing to do, I flip open Vogel’s black folder on Jingjai. Neatly spaced and printed out on two pages are details of her date of birth, place of birth (Bangkok), height, weight, vital statistics, eye colour, hair colour, skin tone, distinguishing features (diamond in one of her teeth), siblings (none), apartment address, cell phone number, email, workplace, working hours, date she first came to Samui, where she spends her evening off each week, along with a heap of other stuff about how she dresses, etc, etc. At the bottom of the second sheet is Vogel’s email address. Call me a prude, but this level of detail is all very creepy, like a stalker’s crib-sheet on a victim. I do have clients who can be obsessive about their girlfriends, but this is on a whole new level. I try to envisage a romantic setting with Vogel eliciting this information from the girl while typing it into his laptop.
Yes, darling, your eyes look very beautiful this evening. What colour would you say they were? Hazel or darker? (Tap, tap, tap, tap ...) And how would you describe your skin tone? Please start without me, your soup is getting cold. (Tap, tap, tap, tap ...)

The validity of
some of this information is also questionable if it came from the girl herself. And why give me her email address? Does Vogel expect me to hack into her account?

For my purposes, the job details and her address are of most use. Her apartment, I note, is in a good block: perhaps expensive for a girl who only works behind a bar – but I suspend judgment, for now. Also helpful to know where she spends her evening off (if true).

I look at the photographs: Vogel is not in any of them. It is just the girl striking somewhat artificial poses with a backdrop which I imagine is the interior of the Ocean Pearl. In one image a diamond winks at the camera from her wide smile. She looks genuinely happy. Maybe she likes creeps.

*       *       *       *       *

Given the heat of the day and a desire for my armpits not to emulate those of Harold Jayne, I decide to drive home for a quick shower and change of clothing before the evening’s surveillance. It also affords me the opportunity to drop off my laptop rather than risk having it lifted out of the jeep: I’ve already lost one laptop that way.

I find Wayan on the sofa watching one of the Thai TV soap operas, or
likay
, to which, I suspect sadly, she is becoming addicted. When we first came to Samui I thought these shows were awful, but now that I am fluent in Thai I realise that they are way beyond awful. As Wayan’s Thai improves, I am hoping she will reach the same conclusion. But maybe not.

“Mr
. David, Da said you would not be home for dinner.”

“It’s OK, Wayan, I’m not staying. I have to go out again.”

“But I am glad you are home. I have something you can help me with.”

“Oh?”

She produces the Lewis Carroll work and indicates a book-marked page. “
Why is a raven like a writing-desk?
” she asks, presumably thinking this is a suitable question for a detective. “I believe it is a riddle.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” I say.

“That is what the Hatter says. They are always drinking tea because time stands still at six o’clock. It is a
very
strange book. Are you sure it is not about drugs?”

I reassure her on this score, attempt to explain the English concept of
nonsense
, fail, and go upstairs for a shower. The bedroom has been cleaned and sparkles in the sunlight. All of Claire’s perfumery, lotions and potions, are arranged neatly on the dressing table. I put a squirt of her favourite Chanel on my wrist, close my eyes and inhale deeply, savouring the woman, not the couture. I open the sliding door to the big wardrobe where Claire’s dresses hang next to my own clothes, select an anonymous outfit for my evening’s observations, and lay it out on the bed. From the balcony I look down into the garden and see Wayan arranging incense sticks in the
san phra poom
, or spirit house. She is ensuring the spirits are not offended by making offerings. Given that she has already done this in the morning, and that there are more incense sticks than usual, I think perhaps her dreams are troubling her. I wonder whether Thailand’s invisible beings are listening or, failing that, whether the Balinese gods’ benevolent powers extend this far north. I certainly hope so.

Why IS a raven like a writing-desk?

*       *       *       *       *

Early evening finds me sitting at an outside table in a restaurant opposite the
Ocean Pearl while the Bangles’ ‘Eternal Flame’ plays in the background. Later I have more serious business at Girly Bar Heaven, but for now curiosity to see Jingjai – albeit at a distance – has brought me here. I needed to eat anyway, and this place is expensive, so better that it is on Vogel’s tab. My trusty telephoto lens has already captured a few images of the girl and so far she is doing nothing more than the job warrants. She does, however, give the barmen a run for their money when it comes to mixing cocktails: she can flip the bottles and glasses around and shake with the best of them: all the while displaying a smiling
panache
.

I have just put a piece of stir-fried steak in my mouth when an unmistakably Geordie voice close by exclaims, “It’s David Braddock, isn’t it? Aye, it is you, isn’t it?”

I have to swallow the mouthful of meat before I reply, “It is.”

Leaning over the floral trough that separates the restaurant from the pavement
is a stubbly, weather-beaten head that looks only vaguely familiar. No name comes into my mind. I see sun faded clothing and socks worn with sandals. Not a good look. The speaker senses my puzzlement and says in a gravelly voice, “Sinclair. Kenneth Sinclair. ‘Geordie’ to my mates. We met a couple of years back, if you remember.”

I nod an ‘ah’ politely, although I have no recollection of where or how we met.

“Well, that’s a coincidence. I don’t see you for two years, and then the same day I decide to come and see you, I bump into you like this. It’s champion, man.” He notices my long lens camera. “Oh, I see you’re working. Listen, I don’t want to interrupt –” he says sitting down at my table interrupting, “– but I’ve got a bit of a problem that you might be able to help me with.”

I want to say,
Listen, I’ve had a tiring day and I’ve a long evening ahead of me. The last thing I need right now is some blunt Northern-type spoiling my dinner. I’m very choosy about whom I accept as a client and at this moment my general impression of you is not favourable.
Instead, I say, “Uh-huh.”

“You see, I was talking to your maid and she said you’re the best man on the island for a job like this.”

“My
maid
? I don’t have a maid.”

“The Balinese lady. Wayan, isn’t it?”

“She’s not my maid.”

“Oh, isn’t she? What is she then?”

I let this go. “Why were you speaking to Wayan?”

“Ah, well, bit of a cock-up on my side. I was late collecting my nine-year-old from school, and she saw the lad was on his own, and she, well, sort of kept him company until I showed up. We just got chatting. Wayan reckons you’re quite a detective, sort of Samui’s answer to Sherlock Holmes. Although perhaps she exaggerates a bit, eh?”

“Well let’s see.” I lay down my fork, pause, and look at him. “Shall we try some deduction?”

“If you like,” he says.

I pause another moment or two for effect, and then I say, “Alice,”

“What?”

“Your boy is reading
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
at the moment.”

“Is he? That’s more than I know.”

“Yes, he is.”

“How do you know that?”

“Just very simple deduction,” I say smoothly. “I happen to know the manager of the local bookshop. About three weeks ago I was in there and he had just had a big delivery of
Alice in Wonderland
books. When I asked him about it, he said it was an order for Year 4 at the English School. If your son is nine, that puts him in Year 4, and given that Wayan never ventures any further than Chaweng, and always follows the same route into town, she probably met him outside the English School. In these circumstances, he is reading
Alice in Wonderland
. I could also add – although this is only a guess – that given the ethnic mix of children at the school, there is a high probability that your wife is Thai, and, given your son’s age, at least ten years your junior. Finally, having observed the stain on your shirt, I surmise that you may have had spaghetti for dinner.”

Sinclair is staring at me. “Bloody hell,” he says.

“Impressed?”

“Very.”

“Before you get too impressed perhaps you should ask your son if he really is reading that book.”

I resume my meal and try to look nonchalant.

“You like them mouse shit peppers?” he asks irrelevantly, indicating the
prik knee noo
on my plate. “Too hot for me.”

I nod, and Sinclair scratches his chin thinking of what to say next.

Since my uninvited companion shows no sign of moving, and is obviously too thick-skinned to take a subtle hint, I look over toward the Ocean Pearl and abruptly take on the aspect of a man who has just seen something important. I snatch up my camera, mumble an ‘excuse me’ and start snapping shots. He finally takes the hint. “Oh, well, I can see you’re busy. Erm ... sorry.”