Hungry Ghosts (18 page)

21

No Answers

Anna Holland put her head around the bedroom door.

By the soft glow of the night lamp she could see her daughter deep in the arms of Morpheus and spread-eagled across the bed like a starfish. She smiled, tucked Jenny’s arms under the covers and perched carefully on the edge of the bed to gaze at her sleeping child.

“What are we going to do, Jenny? Mmn?” she whispered brushing a willful lock of red hair from the youngster’s forehead.

Anna looked around the room. Contrary to the more fashionable notions of child-rearing and
Anna’s own views on independent womanhood the predominant colour was pink: walls, bedcovers and cushions. That was what Jenny had wanted and her indulgent mother had surrendered gracefully to the inevitable. Gender equality discussions could wait for another day.

Every surface was piled with soft toys. A large Victorian doll’s house rested on the floor by the foot of the bed, miniature chaise-longues, sofas and figures scattered about it
: Jenny was
not
renowned for her tidiness. Saint-Exupéry’s
The Little Prince
sat on the night stand, a TESCO receipt playing the role of bookmark.

Anna bent forward, kissed her daughter
gently on the brow and turned out the light.

She made her way downstairs to where the wall-clock in the kitchen
showed a quarter to four. Anna pulled the belt of her white robe tighter and debated with herself whether to have a coffee. If she did there would be no going back to bed, but there was probably no point in that anyway. Anna had hardly slept but although she felt physically tired her brain would not allow her to rest.

Outside the window all was black and a light drizzle was falling. Next door’s long-haired Persian cat, Molly, was sitting on the window-ledge gazing in: Anna unlocked the back door for her and set down a bowl of water, as was her custom. Molly didn’t like milk. The animal meandered into the kitchen and gave Anna a somewhat supercilious look before deigning to lap at the water.

Anna made a coffee and sat down at the pitted wooden table. She ran her hands through her hair distractedly.

“What is wrong with me?” she muttered to the cat.

The cat seemed not to know or indeed to care, although she did permit Anna to stroke her as she lay at her feet.

“You are one snooty feline aren’t you, Princess Molly?” she remarked fondly.

The dinner date with Henry had been very civilized, pleasant even. Henry was a decent soul and had showered her with attention and solicitude. Anna knew that Henry had been keen on her for some time but being a considerate individual he had not pushed things on too quickly. He was mindful of the fact of her widowhood and seemed unsure of how long a period of mourning was appropriate before declaring an interest.

Anna had never discussed either her marria
ge or her husband’s death with anyone at the office so it was hardly surprising that her colleagues trod lightly around these topics.

“Do you think Jenny needs a father?” she asked the recumbent ball of fur. “If so, what do think about Henry for the job?”

Molly yawned and turned her face away.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then.” Anna took a sip from her mug. The coffee was bitter and hot: it scalded her lips.

She wished she liked Henry more and felt an ache of guilt that she might be leading the poor man on. Henry had indeed been the perfect gentleman companion over dinner, only kissing her lightly on the cheek at the end of the evening. Perhaps he was too much of a gentleman? Maybe she liked her men a little more roguish?

For the umpteenth time of the night, Anna’s restless mind rolled over to David and what he might be doing. And with whom.

“Stupid, stupid woman,” she said out loud.

She took another sip of bitterness.

“Fuck you, David Braddock,” she added.

*       *       *       *       *

“So,” said Kat, endeavouring to sound casual, “this business at Braddock’s house. What do you think actually happened?”

Deng Charoenkul looked up from his breakfast and groaned.

In reality Kat didn’t require her husband to reiterate but she needed to talk about it, preferably without attracting his suspicion. Since he had told her of the grisly find the previous evening, she had been playing it over and over in her head. She knew it was preying on his mind too. Neither of them had slept much, although Kat had pretended to sleep, lying on her side motionless but wide awake while Deng tossed around in the bed sighing and muttering quietly to himself.

“I wish I knew,” he replied. “The world is going mad. First one of my officers gets murdered and the next day there’s all this
farang carnage. I feel like I’m being set up by someone,” he added, allowing his habitual paranoia to break through.

Kat scrutinized him carefully. The Chief’s eyes were unfocused, scanning some probabilistic horizon. He knotted his brow which added to his
unusually-dishevelled appearance: he was normally so neatly turned out. And then there was that damnable beard …

I mustn’t sound like I’m too interested
, she thought.
But it’s only natural that I’d want to explore some sensational island gossip.

“Do you think Braddock is all right?”

Charoenkul shrugged.

“I have no idea. He’s not on or around the premises either alive or dead. My men have done a thorough search.”

“Where do you think he is?”

“Well, his car has been found at the airport.”

“This doesn’t make any sense.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Kat toyed with her breakfast while she debated how to broach the next topic.

“This maid of Braddock’s, she is Indonesian?”

“Balinese, I believe. And Braddock calls her his
housekeeper
. He’s always most insistent on that.”

“Housekeeper, maid, whatever,” Kat replied. “Is she attractive?”

“I would say so,” responded Charoenkul, forking food into his mouth and remembering Wayan’s womanly form.

“And is she young?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean is she
young?
Simple enough question, Deng,” she added tersely.

“Hmmn. She looks about your age, although she might be older.  She’s one of these very attractive women who ages slowly and gracefully.”

“I see,” said Kat icily. “It must be nice for a man living on his own to have an attractive maid about the place.”

“
Housekeeper
,” Papa Doc corrected. “And yes, you’re probably right. I imagine he sleeps with her.”

Kat pursed her lips.

“I never said he
slept
with her. Braddock has never struck me as the type of man who would sleep with his maid. Or his domestic servant, if the term
maid
is not appropriate.”

Despite his fatigue, the Chief smiled.

“I don’t know why you cling on to these outdated notions of English chivalry, my dear. In my experience, most farangs will put their dick into anything that has a hole. Braddock is no different. He would likely have a go at
you
given half a chance.”

Kat rose from the table to clear some breakfast things and to give herself time to regain composure.

“Anyway,” said her husband, turning to his newspaper, “frankly I’m more concerned about Tathip’s killing than this business at Braddock’s. A murdered policeman is a serious matter. Dead expats and Indonesian housekeepers are the least of my problems at present.”

“I thought you said the woman was still alive?”

“She is. For now, anyway. Buajan’s going to the hospital this morning to see if she’s regained consciousness. Hopefully she’ll live. It’ll make the investigation simpler if she does.”

Kat felt a sudden surge of sympathy for the woman and a stab of guilt at her possessive reaction.

“What if she doesn’t?”

Charoenkul looked up from his paper and considered her question.

“I guess it will be bad for Braddock if she doesn’t.”

“Why is that?”

“Buajan has a theory that this may be a jealousy killing. He may be right.”

Kat looked at him incredulously.

“That’s stupid. You’re saying Braddock murdered this other Englishman and raped his own maid?”

Her husband shrugged
again.

“Well, maybe we’ll know more later. The fact is, however, that Braddock has disappeared and there’s a corpse on his lawn. There may be another one in the hospital morgue by now too. He’s currently our only suspect.”

“I thought he was a friend of yours. Surely you don’t believe that?”

“We need somebody to be guilty,” Charoenkul replied. “I want that promotion.”

Kat waited impatiently for her husband’s car to drive away. Feigning a mask of control and academic interest had drained her of energy. She’d thought Deng would
never
leave for work. Immediately the car was out of the drive she phoned Braddock’s cell number.

No answer.

She redialled.

Nothing.

“Where on earth are you, David?” she said out loud.

Slamming down her phone, Kat was seized by a sudden crush of claustrophobia and hurriedly took herself into the garden. Her thoughts rac
ed. She felt her heart battering at her chest she began to tremble. The emotion she had kept pent-up since her husband had told her of events burst forth abruptly. She was so exhausted through lack of sleep she couldn’t dam the flood. Weakness consumed her. Kat slumped down on a chair in the
sala
as her body convulsed with breathless sobs. Uncontrolled tears flowed down her face.

Oh God
, she thought.
Am I crying for David or for myself?

Perhaps
death was sending her a message.

*       *       *       *       *

“Please wake up,” whispered Da, stroking her friend’s hand. “This is not right.”

Wayan lay on the hospital bed
wearing a neck brace, her head swathed in bandages and her arm pierced with a saline drip. An oxygen tube was taped to her bruised and swollen mouth. Machines around her bleeped and lights blinked, most of their purposes lost on the visitor. The patient’s breathing was steady but shallow.

In the hours that Da had been with
Wayan she had not moved: her eyelids had not so much as twitched in spite of her friend’s insistent willing of them to open.

Da felt her own throat tighten and she blinked back the tears that threatened to form.
It was a nightmare
. Da couldn’t process it all. She tried to be calm and take in everything she’d learned.

Wayan had been beaten and raped. The ambulance crew had discovered her semi-naked, her dress and lower body covered in
her blood. She was unconscious from a blow or collision at the back of her head. But that was not the worst thing:
David Braddock was dead
.

Braddock’s neighbour,
Manjit, had called Da in an agitated state the previous evening. He told her he had found Braddock’s burned body lying face down on the front lawn and that Wayan was in a critical state in an ambulance on her way to Samui International Hospital.

Da had dumped Pratcha on Tong and rushed to the hospital where, after an agonizingly long wait, her frantic mind had struggled to absorb the import of the young doctor’s words. She replayed them now in her head, searching for some meaning or nuance she might have missed.

“Your friend has been violently assaulted but she is stable at present.”

“She is going to be all right though, isn’t she?”

“She has a serious head trauma,” he had replied carefully.

“You mean she might have brain damage?”

“It is too early to say.”

Da had bit her lip.

“When will she wake up? When will we know?”

The doctor had
rocked on his feet and looked at the floor as he grappled for the right words.

“You mean she might not wake up? She might not wake up
ever?
”

“
Khun Wayan is in a coma. Do you know what that means?”

“No. Explain it to me.”

The doctor had sighed and adjusted his glasses.

“A person’s conscious state is brought about by a combination of awareness and arousal. Broadly speaking
a coma is caused by disruption to the person’s cerebral cortex and to the structures in the brain known as the reticular activating system.”

“I don’t understand any of that.”

“Some of the neural pathways in Khun Wayan’s brain are suffering from interference as a result of her head injury. They are not ‘connecting’ and that is why she can’t wake up. It’s not rare, unfortunately. Comas happen more frequently than people think. We have a number of such cases here every year, mainly from car and motorcycle accidents.”