Hungry Ghosts (30 page)

I am
dismayed when I see her. Her eyes have a faraway look and she seems to stare through me. She wears a scarf over her head, which I imagine is concealing a dressing. Her lips are bruised and slightly swollen. Her movements are tentative as if she is finding it hard to maintain her balance. My impression is of one consumed by bewilderment: she is clearly still in shock.

I throw my arms around her and start telling her how sorry I am, over and over again. She allows me to hug her but does not hug me back. Instead she feels limp in my
embrace like a rag doll, and after a few moments she gently pulls away from me.

“I am all right, Mr
. David,” she says trying to meet my eyes.

I try to hold her again, but she backs away.

“David,” interrupts Jingjai, “I think Wayan is tired. It has been a long journey. She needs to rest now.”

“Of course, of course,” I stammer, mortified that Wayan seems to recoil from my touch. She attempts a wan smile, and I feel my heart
thudding in my chest. I shouldn’t have brought her all the way to Bangkok in this condition. What was I thinking?

I barely register Charlie talking to me, then conversing with Nathon, but I gather he
wants to drive straight back to Samui. He refuses Nathon’s offer of food and drink.

“Davey, don’t worry,” he says putting an arm around my shoulder as Jingjai and her mother take Wayan into the house, “
she just needs time and kindness. She’s been through a lot.”

I am numb.

“This is not your fault,” he insists.

“If
that man
had not been looking for me, Charlie, Wayan would not be in this state and Geordie Sinclair would still be alive.”

“Da told me the story,” Charlie goes on, “
or what she knows about it anyway.” He scrutinizes my face as if he wants to pursue the details further. Then he shakes his head. “Fill me in on it later. You look as if you could do with a whisky. Want me to carry the bags in?”

“No, I’ll do it.”

Nang has joined the three women and together they make their way up the stairs to where a room has been reserved for Wayan next to mine. Jingjai links arms with her. They talk in hushed tones and I see my Balinese Princess nod occasionally. I follow at a discreet distance like some lower-order valet.

When they reach the room Nang turns to me and holds out her hand for Wayan’s
bag. “This is as far as you go for now, David,” she says.

“I want to talk to her. I want to explain.”

“Later,” Nang replies. “This is a time for women now. Go downstairs.”

“But –”

She regards me sternly. Then she takes the bag and closes the door behind her. I stand in the corridor for a few seconds at a loss. The closed door stares back at me accusingly.

I have let her down
.

“David,” says Nathon from behind me
, “come and join me in the study.”

I troop miserably behind him into the study and take up a position looking out of the window. If I had a tail it would definitely be between my legs.

“Sit down, David.”

“I’d rather stand.”

He pours me a brandy. I down it in one and hold out the glass for a refill.

“I’m sorry about your maid.”

“She’s not my maid. She’s my housekeeper.”

He looks at me intently while he splashes brandy in my glass.

“Everything is set for tonight.”

“Good. I want that bastard rotting in a filthy prison. Then I want him rotting in hell along with his damn
ed brother.”

Nathon makes a ‘calm down’ movement with his hands. I inhale and exhale and try to remove the frown from my face, but it seems to be stuck there.

“How did your phone conversation go with Chaldrakun? Do you think he suspects anything?”

“I don’t think so,” he states
with care. “Bumibol has no choice but to trust me. He has no-one else.”

“Do you mind if I smoke in here?” I ask.

“Would it make any difference if I did?”

“No
pe.”

I slump in a deep leather armchair and light up a Marlboro. Nathon produces an ashtray from somewhere and puts it in front of me.

“I’m not happy about these latest conditions from your Police Chief Charoenkul,” he announces.

“You can’t seriously expect him not to bring someone with him. Not after what he’s seen what your boy
Chaldrakun is capable of doing. And as for their being armed, well, I’d want some self-protection if I were in his shoes.”

Nathon looks doubtful.

“Charoenkul is no fool,” I say. “He wants to be thought of as a hero, but he doesn’t intend to put his neck on the line for real. Don’t give yourself stomach pains. It’ll be fine. The Chief is not interested in the Lamphongchat family, and he’s not brave enough to want to take on you guys. He just wants a cushy high-status job in Bangkok where he can make some money and improve his golf handicap.”

“But he
is
a police officer after all.”

“Papa Doc is as much a police officer as you are an honest businessman.”

“Do you trust him? I mean,
really?
”

“I trust his self-interest. This whole
project is predicated on that.”

Nathon removes some imaginary lint from his trousers.

“I don’t know how I feel about Nang being involved in the other operation,” I add.

“It hardly matters how you feel about it,” he observes
in a flat tone. “Nang knows her own mind. By all accounts she was quite a spirited girl when she was younger. I would guess that’s what first attracted Edward to her. Her nickname used to be ‘Pakpao’. That’s a type of fighting kite, in case you didn’t know. It seems my aunt retains a taste for excitement even after all those years of respectability in England.”

“It seems she does
.” I stub out my cigarette.

Nathon rises. “Well, I’ll leave you now.”

As he reaches the door I say, “By the way, I never did thank you for allowing Wayan to stay here.”

He muses for a moment before responding.

“This must be bizarre to you, David, learning about your father this way and your connection to our family.”

“Bizarre is the new black,” I reply.

An hour or so later Jingjai seeks me out. I am alone, chain-smoking in one of the
salas
. Her eyes are red and puffy.

She takes a chair beside me and puts a hand on my knee.

“Uncle Nathon told me the whole story about the police officer on Samui; about how he killed those men because of me.”

“It wasn’t because of you. He was a sick individual
. You are not to blame in any way for what happened.” I pat her hand. “You are
not
responsible for what he did.”

She neither agrees nor disagrees but
goes on, “My uncle said you arranged the officer’s death because you didn’t believe the police would act and that was the only way to stop him.”

“I did it for my own protection. There are no heroics to speak about here.”

“He also said you didn’t tell me because you wanted to protect me.”

“I didn’t see any point in your knowing. You would just brood on it – as you are doing now.”

“You have done a lot for me, David, and I never even knew. You even gave me a job when I needed one.”

I shrug. “I needed a receptionist. Anyway, your phone call to your uncle probably saved my life. I’d say we were even, wouldn’t you?”

She smiles suddenly. “And we’re related apparently.”

“Apparently we are.”

“That’s – quite something, isn’t it?”

“Just as well I didn’t try to sleep with you, eh?”

“I guess so.”

“I am puzzled about one thing though. You had met my father before. Didn’t you notice any family resemblance? I do look a bit like him.”

“Do you? I’m afraid most of you farangs tend to look alike to me.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Perhaps I’m teasing you a little.”

She sighs and her body shakes slightly. “I
’m angry at my uncle for employing a minder without my knowledge. None of those dreadful murders would have happened if he hadn’t done that.”

“Nathon knows what he did, Jingjai,” I say gently and squeeze her hand. “But his motives were good. He was just looking out for you, the way your father would have done if he were still alive.”

Jingjai looks me in the eye. “I suppose you want to talk to Wayan, don’t you?” she asks suddenly.

“Yes. Yes I do.”

“She’s resting now. Give her until tomorrow. I’m going to stay in her room with her tonight to make sure she’s all right.”

“To guard her in case I try to sneak in during the night, you mean. Are you ladies of the house working some kind of roster?”

Jingjai shakes her head. “Now who’s being silly?”

“Sorry, cousin,” I respond.

She giggles. “I’m not
really
your cousin. If we had made love it wouldn’t have been incest or anything.”

“Well now, that’s a mighty comforting thought.”

32

Plan B

Bumibol Chaldrakun had had a bad night.

His brother’s angry spirit had returned and this time he brought with him demons and devils, scenes of hideous torture, violent acts of mutilation and perversity. Hell had taken up residence in Bumibol’s mind.

He
awoke sweating several times and each time he closed his eyes the vision was back. He heard screaming and whimpering and such was his mental confusion that he could no longer differentiate whether the noises were in his dreams or whether they emanated from him.

At the first
hint of dawn he arose, took a cold shower and walked to the beach. Few people were about in the town. The streetlights were still on and the moon was yet visible through a break in the silver-grey clouds.

As he made his way like a s
omnambulist along the quiet streets he smoked one cigarette after another. He couldn’t taste the smoke. He couldn’t feel anything except a sensation of disembodiment and a profound loneliness. Nothing touched him anymore. Bumibol had moved beyond any semblance of ordinary human restraint. Some extreme boundary had been crossed and there was no returning.

He was a man
without rules, without restrictions. He was free.

G
ate gate pāragate
 
pārasamgate
.

But this was not
enlightenment.

This was
damnation.

When he reached the beach he sat down on the same section of wall he had occupied the previous day. He looked to the east, to where an orange sun was rising from the sea,
colouring everything around it. An elderly jogger passed along the sand; two underfed dogs sniffed at him then padded away. A small boat moved slowly across his line of sight, the chug-chug of its engine floating towards him on the slight breeze. He was in a bubble. Time was stationary.

Bumibol had to think.

Better to leave Hua Hin now
, he decided.
Whatever happens, my next destination is Bangkok
.

He smoked another cigarette while the sun lifted completely over the horizon then he walked back into town and withdrew all the cash he could from an ATM.
At the hotel he threw his things into his bag and settled the bill with the half-awake receptionist.

Back on the streets he stole a
high-powered motorbike he had spotted earlier in a nearby side road. Bumibol expected that by now the police would be watching out for him at the bus and train stations. He considered it unlikely they would be especially diligent about their task, but he was not in the mood to take any unwarranted risks. He would make the journey to Bangkok on the bike. He was aware a man of his size would look incongruous, but in the event an early alarm was raised a stolen bike would be less easy for the authorities to identify than a stolen car.

By the time he made his noon phone call to Lamphongchat he would already
have arrived in the City of Angels.

As the hands of his watch moved inexorably towards midday, Bumibol sat on the front steps of an old, semi-ruined building in Bangkok Noi, a kilometre or so from his apartment. He had abandoned the motorbike a few streets away.

The building was in a cul-de-sac, and most of the structures around it were
being formally demolished or informally vandalised. Graffiti covered many of the walls and greenery forced its way through crumbling concrete. For a fugitive wishing to be invisible it was a good choice of location: no passers-by and only scurrying vermin or the odd feral cat for company. The place stank of ordure and rot.

To pass the time he reached into his bag
and took out a sheet of folded paper. On it was a picture of David Braddock, printed out at the internet café in Hua Hin. He had found an online newspaper article in the Samui paper,
the Island Daily
, from a few weeks ago. The story was about how the David Braddock Agency had paid for a blind man to have a cataract operation. It included a photograph of Braddock.

Bumibol studied it to burn the image into his brain. Now he knew the face of his brother’s
murderer. Every day from now on until revenge was exacted he would look at that picture. And he would remember.

He checked his watch again, folded the paper and returned it to the bag.

At five minutes to twelve he sent an SMS to Nathon Lamphongchat to let him know his new cell phone number – otherwise his boss might not pick up – and on the stroke of noon he made the call.

“Hello, Bumibol.”

“Mr. Lamphongchat.”

There was a slight pause
before Nathon Lamphongchat said, “We will help you, Bumibol. You have been a loyal employee of the family. We will assist you but it will not be easy.”

Bumibol felt the tightness in his chest ease and he gave a deep sigh.
“Thank you, sir.”

“I want you to
go to the firework factory tonight at nine o’clock. The main door will be left unlocked and Virote and A-Wut will meet you inside. They will take you to one of our safe houses until we can arrange new papers for you. After that we will move you to our Hanoi operation for a while until we decide what to do longer term.”

“You won’t regret this, Mr
. Lamphongchat.”

“I hope not, Bumibol. Nine o’clock. Don’t be late.”

The big Thai put his head in his hands and felt relief flood through him.

Then almost immediately he felt something else.

Suspicion
.

It was too easy.

Bumibol Chaldrakun’s naturally skeptical nature had finally found a gap in his haunted confusion and it pushed forward into his thoughts. It spoke to him. It reached past his lonely despair and planted misgivings.

Why would the family help him? What was in it for them?

Lamphongchat might be playing fair with him or he might not.

Bumibol knew a lot about the family’s operations. Perhaps he was a liability to be eradicated.

Perhaps
, thought Bumibol Chaldrakun,
It is time for me to take out a little insurance, just in case this arrangement turns out to be a trap
.

Plan B
.

A short walk later and Bumibol found himself outside a seven-storey apartment building in a street off Charan Sanitwong Road. The building, like many of the neighbouring structures, was run down. Many of the low-rises here had corrugated iron roofs. Rents were low and so were the expectations of most of the area’s inhabitants.

The big Thai took the stairs to the second floor and knocked on one of the doors. After a few seconds
– during which time Bumibol imagined the occupant was looking through the spy-hole – there was the sound of a chain being removed and the door opened to reveal a plump middle-aged woman.

“Are you alone?” he asked.

She nodded.

He entered the cramped flat and closed and locked the door behind him.
The interior was dingy and smelled of mould. A small portable television chattered quietly on the kitchen work surface and immediately beside it there was a half-eaten plate of rice. He had interrupted her lunch.

He looked at the woman.

She had an apprehensive look in her eyes and Bumibol wondered whether she knew he was on the run. He had avoided reading a newspaper for the last twenty four hours and watching the news on TV because he dreaded seeing his picture or the details that would accompany it.

The occupier of the apartment was a prostitute whom Bumibol visited whenever he felt the need for sexual gratification. She was not especially attractive and neither was she
very skilled in her chosen occupation, but she was cheap and usually available. Bumibol doubted she had many clients; just enough to pay the rent and keep her fed. He had seen various pieces of clothing and sewing paraphernalia around the flat on occasion and assumed she also did some work as a seamstress to supplement the income she made on her back.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.

“No,” he replied dumping his bag on a chair. “I don’t have much time. I just want a quick fuck and then I need you to get me my security box.”

He followed her through to the tiny bedroom where he knew from experience the curtains were permanently drawn shut. The bed was unmade and an ashtray by the side of it was overflowing with cigarette butts.

Bumibol was not feeling especially aroused but he thought the act of emptying himself might help him relax and besides, he mused, given his current situation he did not know when he would next have the opportunity for sex.

They undressed without ceremony. As soon as they were on the bed he pushed her head down onto his penis and told her to take him deep in her throat. As soon as
he was sufficiently hard he flipped her over onto her stomach and took her brutally from behind. As usual she lay completely still while he put his full weight onto her and pulled roughly at her hair with his big hands. Sweat ran all over their bodies as he thrust repeatedly into her passive body before finally climaxing with a low grunt. He rolled off her, wiped his cock on the bed sheet and lit a cigarette.

“I’ll have a
drink now,” he said.

“I thought you were in a hurry,” she replied.

“I’ve got time. Get my security box while you’re at it.”

“It’s under the bed.”

She stepped into the bathroom to clean herself up and emerged wearing a faded robe. Bumibol lay naked on his back looking up at the stained ceiling and the smoke floating in the stale air. The woman went into the kitchen and he could hear her filling a kettle from the tap. She turned up the volume on the TV.

That was her first mistake.

Her second mistake was having a cell phone in her hand when Bumibol rushed into the kitchen on hearing his name mentioned on the news channel.

“No,” she said
panicking, “I wasn’t –”

She didn’t get any further before his fist smashed into her and blood erupted from her nose. He put a hand over her mouth, dragged her back into the bedroom and threw her on the bed.

“You fucking whore,” he whispered into her face as his hands tightened on her throat. She flailed desperately trying to get his bulk off her, but he was too strong. When her struggling had ceased he spat on her dead eyes.

He dressed quickly then knelt down and pulled a
grey metal box from under the bed. He set it beside the woman’s corpse and unlocked it with a key from his pocket.

Inside the box w
ere two thousand US Dollars in one hundred notes, a Glock 17 pistol and four magazines of ammunition. Plan B. No-one in the Jade Dragons knew that Bumibol owned a gun, yet alone that he could fire it effectively. So far as his colleagues were concerned he was strictly a knife-and-fists man.

This
was his contingency plan, his emergency exit. He had left the security box with the woman some time back in case his current situation – or something like it – came about. She, of course, had had no idea what was in the box. And now she never would know.

Bumibol transferred the contents of the box into his bag
, wishing he had bought a holster for the heavy Glock. He spent a while searching the dead woman’s apartment for anything of value he could take with him and found ten thousand Baht in a polythene bag at the back of her underwear drawer.

Slim pickings
, he thought with disgust.

As an afterthought he pulled off her wedding ring, which he could perhaps sell later. It took some tugging to remove it and he thought at first he might have to cut off the finger, but eventually it came loose.

Bumibol made himself a cup of tea, finished the half-eaten rice and slipped out of the apartment.

He was not unduly worried about leaving forensic evidence this time. The
Bangkok police would not expend much effort on a dead prostitute.