Everyone Burns (6 page)

I spent a few weeks tailing the Police Chief’s black Mercedes, until I tracked down his mistress’ address: a sizeable property in Lamai. His routine usually consisted of an arrival just after dark followed by 2-3 hours of presumably illicit behaviour, after which he drove home. I noted that the Chief left his car parked on the driveway, the entrance to which had gates that were invariably left unlocked. The blinds at the front of the house were closed after dark
, and the main bedroom where any action took place was at the rear of the house. A bit of silent nosing around on the driveway also taught me that Charoenkul had a tendency to leave police files in the car in plain sight – so much for professionalism.

Accordingly,
I came up with a scheme which ran thus: break into his car, steal some files, then go to the house, present the files and say I had caught some kid running out of the drive, challenged him, and he had dropped the files and fled. Of course I would feign surprise and shock when Charoenkul opened the door dressed only in a robe, but give him my assurance of discretion: neither the careless loss of the files, nor his unexplainable presence in some lady’s house at 11pm would ever be mentioned. Amazingly, and in spite of Charoenkul’s initial suspicion, the scam worked. By way of a return of favours, my papers were ‘fixed’. At least they were fixed after a fashion. I still rely on the Chief’s grudging benevolence for my continuing presence here. I am aware, however, that my hold over him has loosened with time, and in the cat-and-mouse game that goes on between us, he is the feline one. But this is only one of the reasons I am wary of Charoenkul.

The other reason is that I have slept with his wife.

The affair was brief, and conducted over several weekends in Bangkok. It began shortly after the scam, when Kat and I found ourselves seated next to each other at a charity dinner – Charoenkul having been called away on urgent police business. There was some outrageous flirting, and one thing eventually led to the other. When you have as little self-control as I do around attractive women, and the forbidden fruit is tasty enough, lust triumphs over reason – just as a Smith and Wesson beats four aces.

I certainly
succumbed with Kat. Looking back, I must have been harbouring a death wish, or at the very least suffering from temporary insanity. Anyway, the congress may have been brief but it was memorable. This in large part was due to Kat’s considerable skills in the bedroom. If I hadn’t known that she was from a good family and that her interest in me was motivated by bored wife syndrome, I would have assumed her talents had been acquired in the soapy massage parlours of Patpong.

That is not to say that Kat is in any way slutty as to her demeanour. If anything, she comes across as at first meeting as stylish, but languid and a little remote. I deduce that this somewhat frosty surface is a manifestation of psychological armour after her years with Charoenkul. It cannot be an easy life with the Chief, and it is one in the public arena: certain behaviour is expected. Closer acquaintance,
however, reveals a personality with an exuberant side and, given the right circumstances, one which can let fall the cold aloof exterior. At such moments, a mischievous spark at once illuminates those dark eyes, and a sensual metamorphosis takes place. All the more puzzling, therefore, that Charoenkul should need a mia nói.
To my mind, his primary wife’s appetites should be more than enough for any man. Assuming that those appetites are not solely reserved for fortysomething farangs (unlikely). Maybe she is just too much woman for him. Either that, or he does not know how to light the spark (more likely).

Once
Kat and I had sufficiently scratched our sexual itches – although a few more scratches would have been nice – we parted on good terms. We remain friendly when we bump into each other, as we do occasionally.

Even b
efore the events of today, it had flickered across my synapses that the anonymous letters I have received may relate to Kat. This possibility etched itself more concretely into my head around noon, when Da put her head around the door of the West Office and announced there were two policemen here to see me.

I just had time to bundle my S
udoku book into a drawer and take out an old dog-eared client file before the visitors were shown in. I felt my intestines shrivel as I looked up to see PC and DTs framed in the doorway, but I managed a blasé smile which I knew would annoy PC.

“Officers, please sit down,” I said in Thai, “
just give me a moment to finish this.”

I scribbled a few meaningless squiggles in a margin then closed the file. They had not moved. PC looked like he would like to unzip his flies and urinate over my desk, and DTs was watching me narrowly.

“So what can I do for you today?”

“The Chief wants to see you,” growled my least-favourite gorilla.

“Well, let me just check my diary –”

“Now,” he said nastily.

I ignored this and called to Da. She squeezed past them and eyed me anxiously.

“
Khun
David?”

“Da, those two appointments this afternoon; we may have to reschedule them.”

She and I both knew very well there was nothing in the appointment book and that an afternoon of Sudoku had been beckoning, but she went along with it.

“When shall I reschedule them to?” she asked.

“I don’t know. How long do you think we will be, officers?”

PC was not having any of this. “When Chief Charoenkul has finished with you.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Whenever that is.”

“What’s it about, Officer Tathip?” I asked DTs, catching him off-guard and further ruffling his partner.

PC took a pace forward and I could see his hands were itching to get around my throat. “Never mind what it’s about, Braddock,” he said hoarsely, “
move yourself now.”

I turned casually to Da. “Best to reschedule the appointments for tomorrow. Oh, and tell the ambassador I’ll call him this evening,” I added for PC’s benefit.

She nodded and slipped out. I grabbed my notebook and cell phone and stood up.

“Well, officers,” I said with a carefree air, “
it seems you have my full attention. Shall we go?”

*       *       *       *       *

It was only a few minutes’ drive in the police car from my office to the station, but my mind was racing. Uppermost in my thoughts were the anonymous notes, especially the second one:

WIVES CAN BE A PROBLEM

When
I had received the first letter, the inference as to a guilty conscience could have referred to anything: after all, I am not exactly an angel. Unless fallen ones count. The second letter
could
refer to Kat. Had she told Charoenkul about the affair? I doubted it. Had he found out somehow? That also seemed unlikely. On the other hand, if the letter-writer was referring to Kat, then he or she had managed to discover the affair somehow. Perhaps Kat had confided unwisely to a friend, and that friend had decided on some mischief-making or blackmail. But there was no inference of a demand for money in the letters: they were more enigmatic. A mischief-making motive would be unfathomable at this point. I presumed that Kat herself had not received any letters: surely she would have been in touch. Maybe it was someone with a grudge just flying a kite. A few dozen disgruntled bar girls would fit this category: although their grasp of the subtleties of English prose would hardly fit the writer’s style. Or maybe the “problem wife” referred to was Claire, and this line of thought about Kat was a red herring. Or maybe, or perhaps ...

Perhaps I didn’t have a clue, more likely. But I needed to gather my wits if I was going in to f
ront up to Charoenkul.

I saw PC looking at me in the driver’s mirror, and I smiled sweetly at him, as if I had not a concern in the world. Neither he nor DTs had spoken a word since we got into the car. Meantime, my insides hardened into a clutch of Gordian knots. The image of John Hurt’s stomach bursting open in the film
Alien
, suddenly popped into my head – except that in this version we were in Charoenkul’s office, not onboard the
Nostromo
, the stomach in question was mine, and the creature that emerged was smoking a Marlboro and saying, “That’s right, this white man has violated your wife, Chief. Let the dirty animal have it.”

I became aware we had almost arrived, and I quickly needed to prepare a face for the face I was about to meet.

Bophut Police Station – oddly named in my view since it is in a different town – is the nerve centre of law enforcement on the island. Located conveniently for Girly Bar Heaven on a right turning at the end of Chaweng’s one-way system, it comprises three sinister pale grey edifices – each four stories of flat-roofed KGB architecture – surrounded by a high perimeter wall.

As we approached, I could see
the Thai national flag fluttering forlornly on a high pole in an internal compound. It appeared to be the only thing moving.

The Old Monk once asked me, “Is it the flag that is moving or is it the wind that is moving?” When I said, “They are both moving”, he said, “No, it is your mind that is moving.” Before adding with a Zen chuckle,
“
Although, of course, really there is nothing to move
.”

Unfortunately, the place was not deserted.
A uniformed Thai appeared to slide back the metal gate, which closed behind us with the clang of a prison door. DTs let me out of the car, being careful not to make eye contact. He was trembling slightly. I hoped I wasn’t.

I followed the gruesome twosome through some nondescript double doors
that led into a reception area where a number of locals were sitting round on plastic chairs looking sorry for themselves. I spotted the Geoffrey Rush look-alike hunched in a corner with a satisfyingly bruised nose for which I was responsible, and a black eye for which I was not. He showed no sign of recognition. The area smelled of apprehension and neglect, and the walls needed a new coat of paint. An overfilled notice board dominated one side, displaying wanted photographs, dire warnings to would-be criminals and, bizarrely, some rooms to rent. Overhead a strip-light flickered in a manner ideal for inducing an epileptic seizure.

Working the reception desk was a foxy-looking female police officer who waved us through, giving me a wink as she did so. It probably meant nothing
: I doubted she had any idea why we were there.

We passed through another door, beyond which was a functioning lift. The three of us stood in silence, gazing ahead, as the lift ascended creakily to the top floor. A right turn took us to Charoenkul’s ante-room where his skinny secretary was sitting picking her teeth.

“Is this Braddock?” she asked PC who nodded grimly, and we were promptly ushered into Charoenkul’s office.

There he sat behind his desk, making notes in the margins of some dog-eared folder, presumably having slipped his S
udoku book into a drawer before we entered. There were the inevitable royal portraits hanging on the wall to the left, above a teak wood book cabinet holding a few books like its heart wasn’t in it, and several framed photographs of Charoenkul himself in golf attire. To the right was a pristine whiteboard, presumably acquired to impress some visiting superior officer or dignitary. An air conditioner hummed on the wall behind him.

Charoenkul let us stand like suspects at a line-up for a good half a minute, apparently engrossed in his activity, before announcing without looking up, “You two can go.” PC and DTs happily shuffled out, closing the door behind them.

At length, he put down his pen, leaned back in his chair and studied me with his predator’s eyes. His uniform and general grooming were immaculate, as always. With his dyed-black hair and thin moustache, overpowering cologne and pot belly, Charoenkul was every bit the Asian peacock. Like many short men, he suffers from a Napoleon complex, in his case augmented by a paranoia that others are talking about him behind his back. He thinks his career has not gone far enough or fast enough; and this he attributes to professional jealousy which keeps him from his just deserts. His nickname – ‘Papa Doc’ – does not derive from any cuddly association with Bugs Bunny cartoons, but from character similarities with an infamous former dictator. His complexion may not be so black, but they share the same heartbeat of ruthlessness and corruption: brothers beneath the skin.

He patted a
book on his desk and addressed me in the Anglo-Saxon tongue. “I have been reading that the word
Braddock
has its origin in old English. It means ‘a broad-spreading oak’. Did you know that?”

I indicated a vague
affirmative.

“Interesting
that the branches of your family oak have now spread out as far as Thailand. Please sit.”

I checked the chair was not attached to the mains,
and then sat.

“It was good of you to come at such short notice.”

“I wasn’t aware I had a choice.”

He smiled, showing his expensive dental work. “We always have choices in life, Braddock. It is simply a question of deciding whether we can live with the consequences of our choices.”

I said nothing. With an experienced interrogator like Charoenkul, I have learned this is the best policy.