Hungry Ghosts (22 page)

“Yes, there was something.”

“Do you remember the name? Was it ‘Tathip’?”

“I don’t remember. I recall they mentioned he had a wife and family though. Why? Does it have anything to do with all this?”

“Possibly.”

I can hear Da’s cogs turning.

“Jingjai said some big man had turned up at the office looking for you, and that was why you had wanted the Agency closed. And it was a big man who attacked Wayan and Mr. Sinclair. Are they the same man?”

“It could well be.”

There is an angry snort at the other end of the line.

“Just
what
is going on, Khun David? Tell me.”

I select my words carefully.

“There is a man with a grudge against me. I can’t say more about this now, Da. But it’s likely he killed Sinclair thinking it was me.”

Da is quiet for a moment. Then she says quietly, “Are we in danger?”

I skirt this question.

“Just tell Jingjai to leave the office locked up, and you stay away too for now. We don’t know whether this man is still on Samui. Sooner or later he’s going to find out I’m still alive – when he reads a newspaper probably – and we can’t know how he’ll react.
”

I pause to collect my thoughts. Chaldrakun could be on Samui, or he could be
here
. Whatever the case may be, I must flush out the son of a bitch. Like his brother, he is probably another mad dog in need of putting down. If he is here, this is going to end quickly. Any Augean Stables that need cleaning out will be spotless within hours if not minutes. I’ll make damn sure of that.

I say, “I want Jingjai to fly with Wayan to Bangkok. I can look after Wayan here. She’ll be safe.”

“Khun David,” says Da earnestly, “Wayan has just come out of a coma. I don’t think she can go on an aeroplane.”

“I want her here with me, Da. Of course she has to be well enough to travel, but I want her here – and away from Samui – as fast as possible. I’ll phone Chalie Rorabaugh at
Bophut Jazz, and he can travel with the ladies too. He won’t mind and he owes me a favour.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Listen, until this is over I need to have Wayan somewhere I can protect her. None of this should have happened to her and it’s my fault. I’m not taking the risk of anything happening to her again.”

“I’ll talk to Jingjai and check with the doctors. But Wayan can’t leave immediately anyway,” Da replies. “The police are coming back to talk to her shortly: they know she’s awake.”

“I want you to –”

“Don’t’ worry. I’ll be here with her. Anyway, I want to see Officer Buajan again,” she adds ominously.

“Tell Jingjai to come to her uncle’s house. I’ll be here waiting for them. Now let me speak to Wayan.”

“You still haven’t told me why your phone has been off for so long.”

“Later.”

A beat.

“I promise I’ll tell you later. It’s complicated,” I say.

Another beat.

“Hold on a minute,” she says with obvious reluctance.

I wait while Da takes the walk back to Wayan’s room. I hear some low talking
and then Wayan’s voice.

“Mr
. David?”

Even with just those two words, I can hear the frailty and trauma
possessing her. It is all I can do not to break down immediately. My whole being fills up with shame, guilt and regret.

“Wayan, I’m so sorry. I’m so very, very sorry.”

“I’m all right.”

“You are not all right. This is all my fault.”

“Mr. David –”

“I swear no-one is ever going to hurt you again. Never again. From now on I’m going to take proper care of you.”

She barely seems to hear me. She mumbles something indistinct and the next thing I know Da has taken back the phone.

“I think Wayan needs to rest a while,
Khun David. Call back later. Meanwhile I’ll talk to Jingjai and start things moving at this end.”

“Thank you, Da,” is all I can say.

The line goes dead.

I notice the Marlboro I’d lit has burned down to the filter and gone out so I light another. When I catch sight of myself in a wall mirror I see a gaunt-looking, unshaven mess. My cheeks and neck are streaked with previously-unnoticed trails of tears.
This will never do
.

I take a few deep breaths and phone Charlie Rorabaugh outlining his instructions and
passing on Da’s cell number. He doesn’t ask many questions as I give him a brief and deliberately vague account of events – much as I did with Da. I think his natural discretion coupled with the fact that my distress is only too obvious keeps his natural curiosity in check.

However, when I tell him to make sure he is not followed to Bangkok I can sense his eyebrows going up.

“You are in some serious shit, Davey boy, aren’t you?”

“You could say that.”

“Leave it with me. I’ll work out the best way to get Wayan and Jingjai safely to Bangkok. And I’ll ensure we get there without any additional travelling companions.”

“Thanks, Charlie
, I owe you.”

“Yes, you do.”

Charoenkul’s next. I hit the buttons.

“Braddock?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve had my officers calling you every half hour. Where are you?”

That explains all the calls from unknown numbers.

“Never mind where I am. What do you want?”

“You need to come into the station.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You had a burned corpse on your lawn,” he remarks acidly. “We want a statement from you.”

“I know from Mrs. Da Pintaraporn about Sinclair’s body being found outside my house. I also know about your officer’s rather aggressive line of questioning to her. Presumably you are aware that Ms. Lastri, my housekeeper, has regained consciousness, so she will be able to tell your people that I was nowhere around when the attack took place.”

The Chief clears his throat.

“Regardless of all that, I require you to come in and make a statement.”

“All in good time,” I say, sounding not unlike my father, “
but for now I have a couple of questions for you.”

I can hear Papa Doc climbing onto his high horse. “I hardly think it’s for you to question
me
about anything.”

“Tathip’s dead, isn’t he?”

He makes an unpleasant noise in the back of his throat. “That’s hardly a national secret: it’s been in the newspapers.”

“The same man that killed Tathip probably also killed Sinclair. Do you have any leads?”

The Chief goes quiet for a second before asking, “What makes you think that?”

“It’s a long story.”
Dammit, I sound like my father again. I never realized I came across so arrogant
.

“Well, I think we’ve got time.”
Now he sounds like me
.

This dancing around is not going to get us anywhere, so I decide to heave myself off the verbal fence.

“I think you’ll find the man you’re looking for is Bumibol Chaldrakun, the brother of your officer who died a few weeks ago.”

There is a slight hesitation before he replies, just enough to let me know
he knows already
.

“And what makes you think that?”

“Call me psychic.”

“I’m sure there are many things I could call you, Braddock, but psychic would not be one of them. It sounds as though you have some information that might be useful to us. Please come in and share it. Where did you say you were?” he asks.

“I didn’t.”

He sighs and I get a feeling he is weighing up whether to tell me something. He decides, and this time the cards fall in my favour.

“As it happens my forensics officer, Ho, has identified Chaldrakun as a possible suspect in Officer Tathip’s murder. I’ve just finished going through his findings with the team. Ho has yet to report to me on the crime scene at your house or on Sinclair’s abandoned vehicle.”

“Where was the vehicle found? At the airport?”

“No, at Na Thon, near the ferry.”

“You think Sinclair’s killer caught the ferry to the mainland?”

“It looks likely,” he replies. “Although he could have parked it there to make it
appear
he has left the island. We’d need to know something of his motives and motivations to be able to take a view on that.”

He waits for me to say something. I don’t.

“Why would the killer of Tathip want to kill Sinclair?”

“He wouldn’t,” I respond. “He’d want to kill
me
.”

“Ah. Perhaps I begin to understand your reluctance to come back to Samui.”

“I never said I wasn’t on Samui. But you should put the word out on Chaldrakun.”

“Thank you for the advice on how to do my job, Braddock,” he says with steel in his voice, “
but as it happens it’s already done.”

“Listen, Chief, I will come and see you and explain everything, but in the meantime I need a few days.”

“Are you trying to bargain with me?”

“No, but I will stay in touch.”

He grunts.

“I could put the word out on you also.”

“I think we both know that’s unnecessary, right? I need protection from Chaldrakun, not threats.”

A beat.

“Call me tomorrow, Braddock. Without fail.”

“I will. Just one thing
before I go: how was Tathip killed?”

“Rather nastily,” he says
.

The shower and change of clothing can wait. I do, however, put on my loafers.

I make my way downstairs and into the large gaudy sitting room where my father, my stepmother Nang and a middle-aged, smartly-dressed Thai man are taking tea. My father looks suitably aghast at my appearance. I give Nang a quick peck on the cheek and forestall my father’s complaints.

“Mr. Lamphongchat?” I say to the Thai extending my hand. He rises.

“Nathon Lamphongchat,” he replies with a slight bow. “I feel I should apologise –”

I stop him.

“There will be time for all the pleasantries later
. Right now we have something urgent to discuss. You have an employee called Bumibol Chaldrakun, I believe?”

He looks at me carefully.

“Yes, I do.”

“Is he here?”

“I don’t know where he is, actually. He has taken a few days off to sort out some family arrangements. His brother died a few weeks ago and there are doubtless things that need to be taken care of.”

“There are. Like killing me, for instance,” I announce.

“I think you had better explain yourself, David,” says my father haughtily.

“All in good time, father. But
, Mr. Lamphongchat, you should know that in the last few days Chaldrakun has killed a policeman on Samui, murdered one of my acquaintances and assaulted my housekeeper who is now lying in a hospital bed.”

My father and Nang look at me horrified. The Thai’s reaction is somewhat more measured.

“And you know this how, Mr. Braddock?”

“I’ve just got off the phone to the Koh Samui Police Chief.”

Lamphongchat nods.

“I see. And why would Bumibol Chaldrakun want to
murder you?”

“Because I killed his brother.”

“Jesus Christ, David!” exclaims Edward Braddock.

While
my family is sitting in shock, Lamphongchat’s phone rings. He examines the display then looks at me.

“It’s Bumibol calling,” he says.

25

Bad News

Bumibol Chaldrakun stood
on the pier at Hua Hin and watched the boat dock, disgorging its bag-laden passengers.

The sun was high in the sky and the scene around him bright with primary colours and chattering voices.

The big Thai had slept for twelve hours. A black, dreamless sleep had enveloped him as soon as his body slumped onto the threadbare mattress.

No tormented ghost had arrived in the night, or if Preechap had visited him the doors to his dream-world had been shut fast against any interloper.

When Bumibol had finally surfaced it was still dark and he had spent some hours gazing at his room’s television screen allowing the grainy, pixelated images to flutter around before his eyes.

His survival instincts were
at last kicking in as the obsessional bonds of his haunting began to loosen their hold on him.

The first ray of sanity had cut through the dark clouds of his psyche when
Braddock’s maid was at his mercy. Despite his arousal, he had forgone her defilement in favour of a recklessly fast drive to Na Thon, arriving just in time to catch the last ferry of the night. Before he drove off, however, he had taken bottles of gasoline from the unlocked garage and cremated the corpse. It seemed a fitting codicil to his brother’s killing spree and it permitted Bumibol one final gesture of contempt towards the man responsible for Preechap’s death.

Had
the injured woman been Braddock’s
wife
, he reflected that it would have been a different matter; but, desire aside, the Thai was ultimately unwilling to put himself in needless peril over some Indonesian maid who probably meant nothing to the Englishman.

Besides, adding the rape of an unconscious woman to his check-sheet of two murders would lessen his chances of persuading the Lamphongchats to offer him shelter. The chances might be slight
, he told himself, but if he could present the deaths as honour killings perhaps …

Thus he
had reasoned in those fateful seconds.

Earlier
in the day, Bumibol had made the decision to call Nathon Lamphongchat around noon. There was no particular reason to pick that time other than it gave him a few hours to rehearse his speech.

Thus refreshed from rest and with the rudiments of a plan in his head he had put on his shades and sun
hat and left the hotel in search of breakfast away from the other guests whom he had no desire to encounter.

His positive frame of mind did not take long to evaporate.

Sitting down in a side street restaurant near the pier he opened a newspaper.

An article on an inside page told of the death of Kenneth Sinclair, an English ex pat living on Koh Samui, and how his
blackened body had been discovered along with an injured Indonesian maid on the property of one David Braddock, whose current whereabouts were unknown. The piece sat under the heading of
More Burning Murders?

Bumibol had brought down his fist hard on the table in frustration, attracting the attention of the other patrons.

He had killed the wrong man
.

He stared at the words on the page.
No remorse for Sinclair registered with him. There was instead that familiar sense of injustice that once again the world and happenstance were conspiring to thwart his actions.

Bumibol took the steps down from the pier and walked along the beach until he found a quiet, tree-shaded spot where he sat down on a stretch of broken wall. He checked his watch: time to call his boss.

To a degree he had managed to push down on the feeling of universal betrayal triggered by the newspaper article, but beneath the thin crust of control his long-held resentments continued to fester. They
discovered a new focus in the person of David Braddock.

The task of avenging his brother was only half complete so long as Braddock was alive. The other murdering Englishman, Peter Ashley, was out of his reach and likely forever to remain so; but Braddock was here in Bumibol’s native
country. It should be easy to kill him. Moreover he fully intended to – it was simply a question of where and when.

In the meantime Bumibol was a man on the run.

He contemplated the imminent reappearance of Preechap’s spectre and in spite of the heat of the day a shiver passed through him.

The call could not be delayed further. He pressed the buttons on his phone.

“Yes?”

“
Khun Nathon, this is Bumibol.”

“Yes.”

He told the rehearsed story to Nathon Lamphongchat, or rather a sanitized, corrupted version of actual events, slanted in a way to appeal to the other man. In Bumibol’s telling, Preechap had killed the farangs because they presented a danger to Lamphongchat’s niece over whom he was charged with watching. His brother may have overstepped his brief, but from a distance he had become fond of Miss Lamphongchat and wanted to ensure she was safe. This was no doubt in line with her uncle’s wishes?

“Braddock found out,” he continued, “
and decided to carry out his own vigilante justice rather than go to the authorities. He, Tathip and a third man then conspired to kill my brother and make it look like an accident.”

“So you went to Samui to kill Braddock and Tathip? As revenge for your brother?”

“Yes.”

“But you killed this other Englishman – Sinclair – by mistake?”

“That’s right,” he hurried on. “There was no point in my going to the police: I had no evidence that could be presented to a court. Besides, with my record why would they believe me?”

Nathon Lamphonchat was
quiet for what seemed like a long time.

“Where are you now?” he asked finally.

“I’d rather not say, Mr. Lamphongchat. You never know who could be listening and it might be better for you if you don’t know.”

“What is it you want from me?”

“Help me to get a new identity, to disappear. I could work in your operation in Cambodia or Vietnam. I can still be useful to you, Mr. Lamphongchat.”

A short silence followed.

“I need to think about this. Call me tomorrow around the same time.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Bumibol was only too aware his spin on events had several holes in it, but there was no-one who could
prove
what had actually happened with his brother. The only witness who could have offered first-hand testimony was dead, the label
TRAITOR
carved on his flesh.

Bumibol bought a pay-as-you-go SIM card and swapped out his regular one as a precautionary measure, cursing he had not done it sooner. He wanted to make it as difficult as possible for anyone to track him.

He had a day of waiting ahead of him during which to cogitate on his alternative courses of action.

While he had time to kill he would start his research on Braddock. His first assassination attempt had failed because of lack of planning: the second would succeed.

The big Thai made his way through the streets of the town, a
large, gloomy figure flanked by happy-faced holiday makers enjoying the sunshine and the respite from work’s routines.

Bumibol found an internet café, sat down at a free desk and logged on.

*       *       *       *       *

“
Say that again.”

Khemkhaeng winced. He saw the anger flare in Mongkut Sanghkhon’s eyes. He had seen this many times before and it was usually a prelude to violence.

“Philip Janus has flown out of Phnom Penh. Our colleagues there were taken by surprise. He left so quickly and –”

Khemkhaeng didn’t get any further. Mongkut’s fist slammed into the side of his jaw and he fell to the floor. He stayed down, not daring to meet his boss’ eyes. He could hear Mongkut
’s heavy breathing. Then he said in a cold voice, “Get up, Khemkhaeng. I didn’t hit you that hard.”

The lieutenant took the chair indicated by the other man. Mongut had sat behind his desk and was rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. He still looked angry but Khemkhaeng could see he was making an effort to control himself.

“So let me summarise,” Sangukhon remarked, his voice taut and clipped. “Our colleagues in Cambodia have failed to pick up this English journalist because they delayed too long?”

Khemkhaeng nodded.

“Do they think he was tipped off?”

“They don’t know. They’re making enquiries. If someone has
warned Janus, they’ll regret it.”

“That’s of no concern to me. It’s their problem.” Mongkut examined the fingernails of his right hand. “So where is Janus now?”

“In Vietnam. He took a flight to Hanoi.”

“Another almighty mess-up. At least this one isn’t your mess, unlike the Braddock fiasco.”

“Mr. Sangukhon, I’ve explained there was nothing we could do about that short of having an outright gunfight with the Lamphongchats on the streets of Patpong,” Khemkhaeng ventured. He was about to add that Sangukhon Senior wouldn’t have liked it, but stopped himself just in time.

Mongkut remained visibly unconvinced.

“But at least with Braddock, we no longer need to worry. I have no doubt the Lamphongchats will do our work for us.”

Mongkut looked at him sharply. “What makes you think that?” he asked.

Khemkhaeng was puzzled. “Well … they must have picked him up for the same reason we were going to. His asking questions … perhaps they know about his working with Janus ...”

His boss sat back in his chair and appraised his lieutenant coolly.

“You are naïve, Khemkhaeng,” he said after a brief pause.

“I don’t understand.”

“I have been making separate inquiries about this man, David Braddock. What would you say if I were to tell you that Wiwatanee Lamphongchat works for him?”

Khemkhaeng shook his head trying to process this new information.

Mongkut leaned forward. “I’m beginning to think the Philip Janus link might be more significant than we first thought. I’m also wondering whether the Lamphongchats are behind it all. First we find out Janus is investigating our operation; then Braddock is asking questions about one of our missing mules and we discover the two men have met recently. Next the Lamphongchats snatch Braddock; and Braddock ‘happens’ to employ a member of their family.”

“But the Janus investigation would implicate the Lamphongchats too.”

“Perhaps it would and perhaps it wouldn’t. Maybe they’ve given this journalist some leads about
us
in return for
their
operation being left out of it. They could be using Janus as a tool against our family.”

“So you think the Lamphongchats grabbed Braddock
to protect him?
”

“Yes, I do.”

Khemkhaeng rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. He was accustomed to bouts of paranoia from Sangukhon, but the prima facie evidence of Lamphongchat involvement was compelling.

“This puts a new perspective on things.”

Mongkut nodded.

“We
should think about how we are going to step up. We need to escalate matters.”

*       *       *       *       *

“It appears that our friend Ho has his uses after all,” Papa Doc remarked to Buajan. “Luckily for us he has been thorough since your pet theory about Braddock being the killer has turned out to be just so much nonsense,” he added with a straight face.

Buajan s
quirmed uncomfortably.

Charoenkul closed
the Iceman’s forensic report on the Sinclair crime scene and placed it carefully on top of the report on Tathip’s death.

“It seems pretty conclusive that this man Bumibol Chaldrakun is responsible for both killings. Bangkok has been very fast with the photographs. Amazing how quickly they can move when it suits them; though of course it helps that he has a record. Let’s hope the nationwide alert brings results.”

“Most of our officers have been briefed already,” replied Buajan. “If it turns out that he is still on the island, we will get him. The airport and ports all have our men there, and our road patrols have set up checkpoints. It’s causing a lot of traffic congestion around the ring road, but never mind.”

“Y-e-s,” replied the Chief. “Be that as it may, I think our bird has already flown.”

Charoenkul’s thoughts flitted back briefly to his meeting with Tathip’s widow. It had been an unpleasant interlude but less emotional than anticipated. Papa Doc had feared hysterics, but the scene had not played out that way. Clearly the woman had been shocked but through it all he had sensed an underlying current of relief. A more sentimental man would have been saddened.

I wonder how Kat would react to the news of my death
, he thought.
Or how I would react to the news of hers?