Hungry Ghosts (12 page)

10

Orders

Khemkaeng rehearsed his words quickly in his head before making the call. Whenever he rang Mongkut Sangukhon he knew it was best to get straight to the point. His boss had no time for small talk. He hit the speed dial button, and there were only two rings before a terse voice answered.

“Yes?”

“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Sangukhon, but we may have a problem. I thought I’d better get in touch with you straight away.”

“What is it
now?”

“I just had a call from Dino. You remember, the barman we recently put in at
Siam Welcomes You to make sure Mama-san was –”

“I know all about that,” was the curt response. “Get to the point.”

Khaemkhaeng swallowed.

“Dino says there’s a guy – he thinks he’s probably English – asking questions. He specifically mentioned the Sangukhon name.”

“Questions about what exactly?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who is he?”

“Dino doesn’t know. It’s the first time he’s seen him, though he heard Mama-san refer to him as ‘David’.”

A beat
.

“Is this man still at the bar now?”

“Yes. Dino called me immediately. He wanted to –”

“Send two of the boys straight over to pick him up. I have something to do and then I’ll be back.
Hurt him a bit before I get there, but not too much. It’ll save time.”

“OK, I’ll tell –”

The line was already dead.

*       *       *       *       *

This one’s going to be easy to hurt
, thought Vlad.
He looks like he’s shitting himself already
.

The
Muay Thai arena had a good, noisy crowd in this evening. A couple of Vlad’s girlfriends waved to the big Russian and blew kisses at him as he paced the ring, anxious to get started demolishing his opponent. He ignored them, focusing instead on psyching himself up for the violence that was to follow. The diminutive Korean looked apprehensive and was avoiding eye contact. Vlad had seen him fight before. He was quick and mobile, but the larger man knew his technique would be no match for his own superior weight and strength.

As the fight began it became obvious in the first minute that it wasn’t going to last long. While the Korean landed some kicks and punches they were not delivered with sufficient force to provide any respite. The Russian’s aggressive attacks had him bouncing off the ropes, and within a few minutes the fight had been stopped.

Later, standing in the shower with the hot water running over his muscular tattooed body, Vlad couldn’t help feeling smug. The
Impaler
was at the top of his game. Tonight he would celebrate with a few drinks and a couple of girls. He liked to patronize a bar close to the arena where there was a good chance of being recognized. Signing a few autographs was always good for the ego.

Life was sweet.

Braddock was on board for the forthcoming negotiations and his boss was going to be pleased with him. Thus far he had discharged his orders to the letter.

He smiled and his gold teeth flashed dangerously in the light.

Hell, maybe he’d even snort a little coke tonight to celebrate.

“These girls are
so
lucky to have me,” he laughed out loud, “even if they won’t be able to walk by morning.”

*       *       *       *       *

Mongkut was in a foul mood as he climbed out of the car.

His planned
‘other family’ evening with Anchalee and their daughter Ayang had been interrupted by Khemkhaeng’s second phone call telling him that his men had failed to pick up the Englishman, who had left the bar before their arrival.

He slammed the door and his driver winced but kept his eyes fixed on the near-deserted street ahead of him. A dog scuttled off into a side alley at the sound. The guard at the door bowed his head like a supplicant.

The old building into which Mongkut strode was mainly in darkness but the small office at the back was dimly lit and he could see Khemkhaeng’s figure bent over a keyboard as he approached. Various images scrolled up the screen. The room smelled of greasy food and male sweat.

“This had better be good,” Sangukhon snarled. “What happened?”

The other man half-rose, but then dropped back down in his chair.

“The Englishman had left
by the time our men arrived,” he stammered.

“You’ve told me that already. What you haven’t told me is why it is necessary to drag me over here and ruin my evening.”

“I thought there was something you should see.” Khemkhaeng pointed at the computer screen.

“Well, get on with it then.”

“Our guys questioned Mama-san about this Englishman. They had to lean on her a bit.”

Mongkut gestured vaguely as though it w
ere a matter of no concern.

“Apparently he’s been to
Siam Welcomes You several times before. His name is David Braddock, and he’s a private investigator of some sort based out of Samui. Our men went through the place’s video footage and brought a selection of it back with them.” He clicked on the mouse and the screen filled with an image of a white man lying on a bed with a Thai woman performing fellatio on him.

“Mama-san has concealed cameras in her upstairs rooms and they switch on automatically when a room is occupied.
This was recorded about six weeks ago during Braddock’s last visit.”

Khemkhaeng clicked the mouse a few times and the moving image froze then focused in on the man’s face. Mongkut studied it for a moment then shrugged.

“And? You got me over here for
this
?”

Khemkhaeng shook his head.

“No, there’s something else. Today we got some photographs sent through from our operation in Cambodia of the journalist Philip Janus, and I’ve been studying them.”

After a few clicks, a
picture of two men and a woman sitting at a restaurant table appeared on the screen.

“This was taken a few days ago while Janus was in Siem Reap. That’s Janus on the left.” The image enlarged showing the face of the man sitting opposite Janus. Khemkhaeng ju
xtaposed the bedroom picture beside it.

Mongkut peered at the screen intently.

“It looks like the same man.”

“You think this Englishman – Braddock – is working with Janus?”

“It would be a strange coincidence if not.”

“What do we know about the red-haired woman at the table with them?”

“Nothing. She hasn’t reappeared.”

“What questions was he asking in the bar?”

“The discussion didn’t get very far. Mama-san clammed up almost as soon as he mentioned your family, but she said Braddock had told her he was looking for some missing white woman. She didn’t remember the name.”

“Could it be the same woman in this photograph? Have our Cambodian colleagues grabbed her?”

“No they haven’t.”

Mongkut rubbed his chin thoughtfully and perched on
the corner of the desk.

“I don’t like this,” he muttered to himself.

Khemkaeng waited silently while his boss pondered.

“Do
you know where Braddock is staying?”

“Not yet, but we’re checking round the hotels.
The chances are he’s in Patpong.”

“
Of course he may not be the only one working with Janus. When you find Braddock, just follow him for the moment. See who he talks to then talk to them afterwards. Let’s find out what he’s up to and whether he has any other help before we act.”

“If he turns up
again at Siam Welcomes You, I’ve told Mama-san to keep her mouth shut about our visit and our having the video.”

“She’d better keep her mouth shut.”

11

Fire in the Blood

The battered green bus pulled up at the traffic lights strung across the Samui Ring Road at Mae Nam. A large Thai man squeezed his way off the back dragging his bag across several sets of legs as he did so.

He crossed the
main road quickly, careless of the bikes weaving around in the darkness and falling rain. The side-street that was across from Mae Nam 4 was quiet apart from an ancient Chinese lady with a large red umbrella who was ambling down the street whispering to herself. Most of the wooden shop-fronts were locked and shuttered. The gloomily-lit French restaurant was still open but devoid of customers. The old Belgian proprietor sat smoking, watching TV through bored eyes and occasionally dipping his hand into a bowl of nuts. He barely registered the figure moving past in the wet night.

Bumibol Chaldrakun
made his way up the concrete outside staircase to his brother’s upper-floor apartment. A couple of the bulbs on the landing had been replaced since his last visit, but the largely-unoccupied building still emitted a powerful aroma of neglect and damp. He fiddled in his pocket for the key then entered, switching on the light and closing the front door behind him. The sight of the dingy living room depressed him.

I need a drink
, he thought.

He dropped his bag and went rummaging in the kitchen cabinets until he found a quarter-full bottle of cheap whisky.
He sat down heavily on Preechap’s faded sofa, screwed the top off the bottle and took a deep pull. The whisky burned his throat, and set him coughing.

Exhaustion had seized him, but his mind was
on fire. The uncontrolled anger he had felt earlier while with Tathip had temporarily abated, but his head buzzed both with the enormity of what he had done and the challenge of what remained to be done. He unzipped his jacket and looked down at the bloodstains covering his shirt.

I’m fucked
, he said to himself.
My fingerprints and DNA will be all over Tathip’s place. Why did I lose control so badly?

He
punched his leg and had another pull on the whisky.

He took a deep breath.

How long did he have?

Nobody was going to be looking for him tonight, but
it would soon be a different story. Tathip’s family was away, and he knew they wouldn’t be back for a few days. However, when Tathip didn’t turn up for work, someone would go to his house. And they would find him.

Bumibol
needed to get off the island as quickly as possible, but he had something to do first. Something lethal …

He felt the anger surge inside him again. He shouted in frustration and threw the bottle against the wall
. The sound of the shattering glass calmed him for a moment.

He knew everything now. His mind raced back to the events of a few hours ago.

After he’d bullied the little weasel to taking him to his house, it had all been so simple. Tathip had squealed like the pig he was and told him how the private detective Braddock and Ashley, the brother of one of Preechap’s victims, had involved him in their scheme. Tathip had been responsible for phoning Preechap to distract him and provide an alibi for the other two while they killed him and made it look like an accident. Those farang
bastards!

Ashley was for the moment out of reach. But Braddock was not.

Tathip did not know where Braddock lived, but he had given him the address of Braddock’s detective agency in Chaweng. Tomorrow he would call at Braddock’s office, and after that there would be a settling of the account.

With luck he could be off the island by tomorrow night, before the manhunt started
. What he would do after that, he presently had no idea. His brain was too befuddled to think that far ahead. But one thought registered: there was something he needed to find immediately. A killing weapon.

Bumibol
struggled to his feet and went back into the kitchen. He searched through the drawers until he found a long, sharp knife. He tested its weight and balance in his hand. Perfect.

He left the knife on the work-surface and took his bag through into the bedroom. He hadn’t eaten for hours, but he needed a few hours’ sleep more
than food. Through the grimy window he could see the rain lashing the street outside. It was as if the storm were mimicking his own inner turbulence. He yanked the curtain across.

Bumibol Chaldrakun removed his clothes and threw himself down on his dead brother’s bed hoping that no nightmares would come. He needed to be alert
in the morning. Killing required energy.

12

David Braddock’s Journal

Of all the philosophers of the
Ancient Greek World, I find myself increasingly drawn to Diogenes of Sinope. He was a rather skeptical old bugger, being one of the leading lights of the Cynic School. These days ‘cynic’ is applied as a derogatory term, but back then it described an individual with a particular way of thinking about life.

Unfortunately n
one of Diogenes’ writings have survived so he only comes to us down the centuries in the anecdotes of others. It is reported he got up to all sorts of self-publicity stunts, like sleeping in a big ceramic jar in the marketplace. He took to carrying a lamp with him in the daytime while he searched in vain for an honest man. The central tenet of his philosophy – if I may paraphrase and simplify grossly – was that virtue was shown in actions, not in thoughts or words.

It’s rather difficult to disagree with that, methinks.

Furthermore, this may go some way to explain why a soupçon of guilt is swirling around the Braddock brain this sunny morning in Bangkok.

I feel bad about leaving
Siam Welcomes You last night without seeing Pichaya again. But maybe I would be feeling worse if I had stayed.

Like Mama-san said, I can’t rescue her, much as the thought depresses me. It’s the life, after all. What am I going to do anyway?
Marry the girl?
I don’t think so. I’m not that self-sacrificing. However this doesn’t prevent a sticky film of bad conscience attaching itself to what remains of my English sense of decency. Maybe if I were further along the path of Enlightenment I’d consider doing something about it. But I’m not, so I don’t.

OK, so Pichaya has a nice butterfly tattoo on her breast, a delicious mouth and a lovely tight arse. She also has a young kid, two greedy aged parents and in all likelihood irreparable psychological damage after more than a decade on the game.

Come to think about it, after her session with Dick and Jabba yesterday maybe her arse is no longer so tight either.

Actually I don’t want to think
about it.

Virtue in actions? Well, bollocks to it.

The miniature pragmatist inside my head climbs out through my ear and gives me a wake-up whack on the side of my face.

That’s better
.

I’ve just put out a Marlboro, but I
contemplate lighting up another one: it helps me to concentrate. Wait. No, it doesn’t really. That’s merely an excuse. I should give it up sometime. Not today though.

The little pragmatist nods sagely and, his work done, clambers back inside my skull.

It’s just after ten-thirty and the sun’s heat is ripping through the stagnant city air. My body is already running with sweat and the dust generated by the traffic catches in my throat. It feels like the oxygen is being sucked out of the atmosphere by some gigantic machine.

I’m in the area
between Thanon Somdet Phra Pin Klao and Rama VIII, one of the parts of the city where backpacker hostels and cheap hotels cluster like ants around a dead rat. In the bright sunshine, the colours of the hoardings and buildings look faded and old. Some of the steel shop-fronts bear semi-tasteful Bangkok graffiti. Nothing is moving very fast, least of all the gridlocked vehicles whose blackened exhausts pulse out their filthy grey smoke. I’m only a stone’s throw from the river, but you’d never know it.

I’ve been flashing Rosie Fletcher’s picture around for the last hour and a half and so far all I’ve seen are shaking heads. Nobody knows her, or at least nobody’s admitting to it. I wish I had Diogenes’ lamp with me.

I sit down at what passes in Bangkok for a pavement café and order water and a strong coffee. The water is to combat my dehydration and to wash down the headache tablets I have with me, while the coffee (which I’m pretty sure will taste horrible) is ordered purely out of habit.

“Hey, buddy.”

Seated at the next plastic table is a bearded, long-haired white man who has seen better days. The man’s skin is as wrinkled as his clothing and his fingernails are bitten down and dirty. Two of the fingers of his right hand are stained with nicotine, and he is in the process of rolling a cigarette while he addresses me. His eyes look sunken and bloodshot. The sight I’m presented with is such a wreck of a human being it’s impossible to guess his age: he could be anywhere between thirty and fifty, though the odd streak of greasy grey hair suggests he’s older.

I’ve seen lots of these types in Bangkok, both Europeans and North Americans. They arrive in the City of Angels, fire up on the freely-available drugs and permissive lifestyle and can’t bring themselves to leave until it’s too late.

“Would you buy me a coffee?” The accent sounds Californian.

I nod
and he rises unsteadily to his feet and sits at my table. He appears frail, like someone who’s been bedridden for weeks and whose wasted musculature barely functions. He looks – and smells – like he’s sleeping rough. He wouldn’t look out of place in a stage production of
Waiting for Godot
. If someone gave him a bowler hat, that is.

“Thanks, man
. I’ll keep you company. I’m Jezz.”

He extends a skinny arm and I notice needle-marks and bruising where his sleeve hangs loose.

“David.”

“You English?”

“Yes.”

“
Ah, thought so. I love England. Dickens, Scrooge, those big chains and all that ghost shit. Love it.”

My coffee and water arrive and I order the same for my new friend. I light up a Marlboro while he sucks hard on his roll-up like his life depended on it. His hand trembles slightly and I notice the occasional facial tic.

“How long have you been in Bangkok, Jezz?”

He laughs suddenly and I get a flash of yellowed teeth.

“Is it that obvious?”

I shrug.

“Too long, man, way too long. One of these days I’m going to go home.”

Ye
s, of course you will.

“
Do you live around here?”

He
gives a nebulous gesture behind him. I guess he hangs around the tables during the day trying to get Westerners to take pity on him. The Thais won’t. To them he’s just another deadbeat drugged-up farang.

His coffee arrives and he tips two sachets of sugar into it. I give him mine and they go in too. Sugar
hits: may help with the shakes.

“Do you know many people around here?” I ask.

He takes a drink of coffee and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Hey, I know everybody. Some come and go, some stick around, but Jezz knows them all.” His watery eyes look at me. He can focus but it looks to be an effort.

“Perhaps you can help me.”

Jezz makes an expansive gesture.

“Isn’t that what we’re all on this beautiful planet for? To help each other?”

He stubs out his roll-up before it burns his fingers and looks anxiously at my pack of Marlboros.

“Would you like one?”

He doesn’t need asking twice. He takes another one ‘for later’.

If I didn’t know better I’d think he was a relative of the Old Monk.

“I’m here looking for a woman,” I say ill-advisedly.

He laughs again, but this time the laugh disintegrates into a paroxysm of coughing. When he’s recovered he says, “If you want a woman, you’re sure in the right city.”

“I’m looking for a particular woman.” I hand him the photograph.

He squints hard at the image.

“Hmm. She doesn’t
look
familiar, but I can’t be sure. Why, what’s she done?”

“She hasn’t done anything as far as I know.”

“She’s missing?”

“You could say that.”

My phone rings. It’s Da. I excuse myself and wander away from the table. Jezz looks a trifle anxious like I’m about to do a runner and leave him with the bill.

“
Khun
David?”

‘No, you must have the wrong number. This is Shinawatra Thaksin, and I can’t talk now, I have a Cabinet Meeting.”

“You’re very funny.”

She doesn’t sound like she thinks I’m funny. So no change there
then.

“What is it, Da?” I ask wearily.

“Ting is back on Samui.”

“
Really?
How surprising. Her honeymoon with Mr. Tesman is over already then?”

“There is no need for sarcasm.”

“I don’t like to say, ‘I told you so’ but … Actually in your case I do like to say, ‘I told you so.’”

She huffs for a while then says, “Do you want me to tell you the details or not?”

“Not,” I reply. “Just tell me the fragrant Miranda is sending us a money transfer for our efforts.”

“She is, plus bonus.”

“So how is Ting? Is she OK?”

“
Huh. As if you care.” I can visualize the pout at the other end of the phone. Judging from the background noise she is in a supermarket, I guess with a drooling baby in tow.

“At least let me pretend I care for a moment. That’s only polite.”

Da sighs.

“She’s fine. She got some nice
jewellery out of it anyway.”

“Oh, good.”

“Ting wants to know if we have any more work for her.”

I bite my tongue.

“We’ll talk about it when I’m back.”

“When will that be?”

“Round about the time Pratcha starts shaving, I expect. Now go and change a nappy or something.” To annoy her further I add, “I’ll keep Jingjai informed of my plans. She
is
my PA. You can check with her.”

She hangs up on me.

To Jezz’s obvious relief I return to the table. Meantime he’s been joined by a slutty-looking Thai chick who looks like she could also do with a good scrub. She’s dressed in tight ripped jeans and a red top whose seams look about to give way under the outward pressure of a pair of surgically-enhanced breasts. She’s been using skin whitener on a face that was once pretty but now appears as abused as the rest of her body.

“This is my girlfriend, Lise. Lise – David.”

She takes my hand and I think for a moment she’s going to suck one of my fingers, but she thinks better of it and gives me a sly grin instead.

“I was telling Lise you’re looking for a woman. She might be able to help.”

I bet she might
.

As if reading my mind, Jezz adds, “She’s quite a girl, my Lise. Knows what a man likes.” He winks at her and she climbs onto his knee, fondling the back of his neck while she continues to give me the eye. “I don’t mind lending her to a friend for an hour, David, if you catch my drift.”

They both look at me meaningfully.

“Maybe later,” I reply, trying to look interested. I hand the girl the photograph. I note she seems to have difficulty keeping her tongue in her mouth – though maybe that’s for my benefit.

She shakes her head and passes the photo back to me, ensuring our fingers touch in the process.

“Have either of you heard of a man called
Lauchlan Andrews?” I’ve decided not to mention the Sangukhons, on the basis that if they have they might crap themselves on the spot.

Lise’s tattooed eyebrows knit together.

“An Englishman?” she says.

“Scotsman. But close enough.”

“Hmm. I know a man called Lauchlan. He comes into my club. Tall, well-built?”

“Lise works in a bar,” Jezz adds unnecessarily.

“I don’t know what he looks like, but he might be able to help me.”

Lise leans forward towards me.

“Why don’t you come to my club tonight?” she suggests. “I could point him out to you if he’s in. If not, there are lots of farangs hang out there. One of them might know your missing girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Are you looking for a girlfriend?” Lise asks leaning further forward so I get a good look at her breasts. She runs her tongue over her lips.

Jezz
giggles.

“You should spend some time with
my Lise, David. She’d make you very happy, trust me. Particularly if you help her out a little, if you know what I mean.”

I have absolutely
no
intention of doing anything sexual with this young lady today or any other day, but if there’s any chance of her identifying Andrews I need to play along.

I smile and touch the girl’s cheek with my fingertips.
I look into her eyes while I speak.

“Oh, I know what you mean. And I’d be happy to help her out. Maybe if she could get away from the club early tonight …?”

They both grin and Jezz says, “See, Lise, I told you David was a nice guy. He’ll treat you right.”

“Suppose I meet you tonight at your club – say around nine – and we can take it from there? What’s the club called
, Lise?”