Hungry Ghosts (9 page)

“Sometimes I am, Mr
. Fletcher.”

“Yes,
there was a lady” he says quietly. “But that was only a part of it. And as for the lady concerned, I let her go.” He looks back at me. “A decision I’ve regretted ever since. And when Rosie is back and all this is over, it’s a decision I will reverse. I’m going to find the lady again and make things right.”

I don’t know
how to respond to this. Sincerity makes me uncomfortable, especially where women are concerned. It’s time to get back to business with the ex-vicar.

“Mr
. Fletcher, I think it's only fair to advise you, that although I know Bangkok reasonably well, you would probably be better off with a Bangkok-based Private Investigator. He’s going to be much more familiar than me with the lie of the land. Plus of course there
is
the Royal Thai Police, whom I assume you’ve already been in touch with.”

He tells me about his dealings with the Bangkok police, and their inability to inspire confidence in him. He has also been to the British Embassy, employed a Bangkok PI
and
done some asking around with him personally. But he wants a backup, and based on Peter Ashley’s strong recommendation I’m it.

I don’t mind being a backup, if he doesn’t mind paying.

He gives me Rosie Fletcher’s details: 35 years old, 5’ 5” tall, graphic designer, frequent traveler, never married, not skinny, not fat. In her photograph she is fresh-faced, not unattractive and with long frizzy brown hair. She’s wearing a baggy, yoga-hag-type top so I can’t see how big her boobs are.

I also get her
cell phone number, email address, passport number and a whole host of other stuff that I may or may not need. I take his details as well.

“When can you leave for Bangkok?” he asks.

I look at the poor bugger. In spite of his evident self-control, it is obvious he is scared out of his wits for his sister.

“Tomorrow. I’ll reschedule all my appointments. I’ll call you every couple of days.”

“I have to go back to England,” he says wistfully. “Otherwise I would come with you. It doesn’t feel right –”

I cut him off.

“You’ve alerted the police and the Embassy, employed two PIs and spent time looking for Rosie yourself,” I interject. “There is no need for any guilt on your part. Let the rest of us take it from here.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he knows he has no choice.

“Now the good part, Mr. Fletcher. You get to pay my assistant my retainer.”

He smiles weakly.

“I think you can call me Simon.”

“That’s fine.
Just so long as you don’t expect me to call you Reverend.”

After Fletcher has left Jingjai comes into my office.

She looks troubled.

“David?”

“Yes?”

“How common a name is Laughlan Andrews in Scotland, do you think?”

“Andrews is a common name, but as for
Laughlan
Andrews I have no idea. Why?”

“I overheard some of your discussion with Mr
. Fletcher,” she says hesitantly.

“And?”

“I know in the past one of the Bangkok families has sometimes used a man with that name. I don’t know about recently.”

Jingjai has previously made passing reference to her family, but has always stopped short of labeling them as gangsters. I already
know
, however, that they’re gangsters. And they presumably are acquainted with other families who are gangsters.

“They use
d him for what, exactly?”

The girl with the diamond tooth chooses her words carefully. “For recruiting Westerners
for smuggling. And possibly for other things too.”

“Smuggling drugs?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Listen
, Jingjai. A woman is missing.”

“I know.
”

I wait.

“The family might be involved in drugs, yes.”

“Then maybe I should
speak to them. What’s the name?”

“These are not nice people, David. You can’t just walk in and talk to them.”

“I’m not
that
stupid, Jingjai. But I have to start somewhere.”

She just
stares at me. Then she sighs and sits down on a chair opposite me. Her breasts do look
very
pert today. I can’t help noticing.

Concentrate, Braddock
.

“The name?”
I demand.

“Sangukhon,” she says with reluctance. “The father is called Chompol Sangukhon, but he’s old now. I think most of the day-to-day business is run by his son, Mongkut.”

I make some notes while she watches me apprehensively.

“And what
kind of business does Mongkut Sangukhon run?” I inquire.

“They have a number of front businesses
, mainly around the Patpong area. Clubs and that sort of thing, I think. I don’t know the details. I always tried to avoid knowing the details.”

“I see.”

I stop writing and light a cigarette.

Jingjai puts a hand on my arm.

“You need to be very careful, David. Mongkut Sangukhon is an unpleasant man. He won’t like you asking questions.”

I pat her hand and think
avuncular
again.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be discreet.
Now let’s see about rescheduling some appointments. But first, book me a flight for tomorrow to Bangkok, will you? And a convenient hotel. One in Patpong would be good.”

“But you’ve only just got home, Mr. David,” sighs Wayan when I tell her I have to unpack and repack my bag. “Do you really have to go back to Bangkok again tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“You work too hard.”

She
turns those brown Balinese eyes towards me, and suddenly I regret my magnanimous gesture to Simon Fletcher.

“I
have
to go without delay, Wayan. My client’s sister is missing. Time is important in these cases.”

She looks disappointed, but her sweet nature reasserts itself immediately.

“Of course, Mr. David. You have to save her, I understand.”

“Well, that’s … probably putting it a bit strong.”

Isn’t it great having your ego stroked, though?
David Braddock, Superhero
. I need more of this. I’m not sure I want her to get too chummy with Geordie Sinclair.

What am I going to do if she leaves me?

That’s an outrageously selfish thought.

H
onestly though, what red-blooded male wouldn’t want a Balinese Princess as his housekeeper?

OK, so she’s not a
real
princess. But she is to me.

After dinner, I make the phone call to Miranda Tesman that I’ve been dreading.

“Mrs
. Tesman?” The line is a bit crackly, but unfortunately she can still hear me. “It’s David Braddock.”

“Ah, Mr
. Braddock. I was expecting you to call me yesterday.”

The voice sounds icy.

“Is it convenient for you to talk?”

“Yes, it is.”

Shame
.

“So how did it go with Chester?”

I swallow hard.

“That depends on your point of view.”

Silence.

“Our operative made contact with Mr
. Tesman as planned, and he met her in the hotel bar for a drink later in the evening.”

More silence.

“Unfortunately, things went a little further than anticipated, and they ended up spending the night together.”

“Just the one night?”

The voice is controlled.

“Not … exactly. In fact, they are still together now. Our … um … operative appears to have developed some ridiculous romantic notion about the assignment and –”

“You mean he’s been fucking her for two or three days?”

The voice sounds firmer now.

“Well, not all the time, obviously, but –”

“Are you telling me, Mr
. Braddock, that
your employee
has been having sex with my husband since the first evening of the conference, and that the Thai whore is still keeping his bed warm even now?”

I sigh and wait for the hurricane to hit.

“Yes, Mrs. Tesman. I’m afraid that’s what I’m telling you. I’m sorry.”

I close my eyes and count to three.

There is a huge and unladylike belly laugh from the other end of the phone.

“But Mr
. Braddock, that’s absolutely priceless!”

“
Priceless?
” I manage to stammer.

“And
so
Chester.”

“Ah.”

“But tell me,” she goes on urgently, “you did get appropriate photographs and recordings, yes?”

“We got all the appropriate photographs you will need, and more inappropriate recordings than you will ever need.”

“Excellent. Well done.”

I’m not sure what to say next, so I
mutter, “Thank you.”

“You’re not terribly good at this, Mr
. Braddock, are you? Your partner, Miss Da, is much better at handling these emotional issues.”

My
partner
? What the hell has Da been telling her? That cheeky cow.

“Ask Miss Da to call me tomorrow, would you? I’ll sort out things with her
directly. But I
am
very pleased with the result. I’m sure there will be a bonus coming to your company. Thank you for the call.”

She hangs up.

I call Da and give her the news.

“I told you everything would be fine,” she says haughtily. “You worry too much
Khun David.”

I feel a sudden and intense need for sane female company
. I’m going to go downstairs and watch some dreadful Thai TV soap opera with Wayan.

If my housekeeper goes off with Sinclair I’ll be as mad as Da within a week.

It’s not a reassuring thought.

8

What the Heart Wants

Khemkhaeng adjusted his tie nervously.

The door to the office was open and Mongut Sangukhon stood with his back to him gazing out of the window. Something about the set of the shoulders told him that his boss was not in a good mood. He was going to be in an even worse mood shortly. Khemkhaeng tapped meekly on the door and stepped inside, closing it behind him.

“What is it?” barked Sangukhon, turning to face him.

“We may have a problem, boss,” answered the lieutenant feeling the dryness in his mouth.

He had worked for the family for more than a decade but he still feared the other man’s anger. Sangukhon might
rely on him more than he relied on most people, but that was not saying much.

Mongut’s hard eyes narrowed.

“What sort of a problem?”

“It’s our Cambodia operation. Someone is poking around
up there, asking questions.”

“Who?”

“Some English journalist, by the name of Janus. He used to work for the BBC.”

Mongut snorted and sat down heavily
on his desk chair. He indicated for his employee to sit.

“Go on.”

Khemkaeng lowered himself gingerly onto one of the visitor’s chairs. He had been hoping for a short discussion. That did not now seem likely.

“Apparently he’s been in Cambodia for a few weeks, mainly in Phnom Penh, although he has been over to Siem Reap. We’ve heard he’s writing some sort of book about the movement of
merchandise
over the border. He’s been talking to a lot of people.”

“Huh.”

Mongkut sat back in his chair and fixed the other man with a steely look.

“And when did this come to light exactly? If this man has been around for a few weeks why am I only hearing about it now?”

Khemkhaeng swallowed hard. This was a difficult feat to accomplish since he had no saliva in his mouth.

“He’s been very careful. Mainly talking to people who have a grievance against our operation, but staying very low. Yesterday he spoke to the wrong person, however, and the word has got back to us from our partner.”

“What do we know about this man? Other than that he is a journalist, that is. Is he working independently?”

“We don’t know,” his subordinate answered meekly.

“Well find out,” Mongkut raised his voice and it took on a shrill, grating aspect. “And do it quickly.”

“We will.”

“Have the man watched, but don’t do anything to him. Not yet. We need to know who he is working for or working with. What did you say his name was? Janus?”

“Yes, Phillip Janus.”

“You know where he’s staying in Phnom Penh?”

“Yes, he’s staying at – “

“I’m not interested. That’s
your
job. Make sure you do it,” he added curtly. “Come back and give me a report in a couple of days.”

“Of course, boss.”

“Fly up there yourself if you need to, but
sort it out
. Understand?”

“Yes.”

Mongkut indicated for him to leave, which he did gratefully, closing the door behind him.

As soon as he was alone, Mongkut let out a deep sigh which was part anger, part frustration. He put his elbows on the desk and leaned forward, rubbing his face with his hands vigorously.

As if he didn’t have enough to deal with.

Idiots
. All his people were idiots.

And his father was the biggest idiot of all.

He sat back in his chair and gazed up at the ceiling trying to control the bubbling anger inside. Although he didn’t see it that way, self-control was a problem for Mongkut Sangukhon. He was a volatile man given to rash outbursts and regular acts of violence, both physical and psychological. For this he made no apology. Indeed he was a man who never apologized for anything. In his way of thinking, no slight should go unacknowledged, no offense unpunished. He believed this was what was needed to control and extend the Sangukhon Empire.

He smiled bitterly.

Fear
. The great leveller. He knew about fear. It was Mongkut’s companion of choice.

He
mistrusted loyalty as a system, and even more so as an emotion. Personal relationships were unpredictable; people were inconsistent. They changed their minds; their allegiances faltered.

But fear was something you could depend on.

His father didn’t understand that.

His father was a fool.

Mongkut was not one for making allowances, even for members of his family. If he had been, he might have reflected that the death of his own mother in the tsunami that hit Phuket less than five months before would still be affecting his father – even if it had only briefly touched him. But as far as he was concerned, the senior family member’s decline had set in long before. Chumbol Sangukhon had grown soft with age, and sentimental. He was losing his grip. Why couldn’t the old man just step aside and let him take over?

His brow creased in frustration when he thought about his father’s handling of the recent spats with the Lamphongchat
family.

Both families had for months been encroaching on each other’s traditional zones in the capital, vying for advantage in the drug distribution business. As the police and
the army remorselessly extended their own influence in this area, the Sangukhons and Lamphongchats had found themselves squeezed and the geographical boundaries of their respective turfs had become fuzzy.

Using information from an inside source within the Lamphongchat ranks, Mongkut had seized one of the other family’s drug mules as a ‘warning’. The
Lamphongchats had responded in kind, and now both families were holding two of their rival’s couriers.

Mongkut had seen no purpose in continuing to keep the prisoners and had ordered them to be killed, but his father had intervened and countermanded the order – much to Mongkut’s disgust and personal humiliation.

The old man had justified this on the grounds that ‘something would be worked out’ between the two factions and that further escalation was unnecessary. He had cited historical cooperation between the families; both of which had originally come from the same group. In his younger days, Chompol and Surapong Lamphongchat had been personal friends. But to Mongkut, this was all sentimental rubbish. ‘Sura’ Lamphongchat had been dead these last five years, and his son Nathon was now in charge.
Just as I should be in charge here
, Mongkut had reflected sullenly.

He stood up and paced restlessly around the room.

A gang war was coming whatever his father thought. It was inevitable. The Sangukhons should strike first and decisively. It was the only sensible course of action.

In the meantime the family was playing unpaid and unwanted host to two
farang
drug couriers, and the Lamphongchats were doing the same; while both sides waited for the other one to make a move.

And now
to complicate matters there was this English journalist Janus poking around the Cambodian operation.

Mongkut was beginning to feel hemmed in.

Families
…

He leaned heavily against the window frame and
stared out sightlessly across the Bangkok rooftops while he took stock of his family situation and their state of readiness to cope with the coming struggle.

His younger brother Nathawut, who
took care of the gambling side of the business, was something of a playboy and rather lazy, although he shared his sibling’s viewpoint on the Lamphongchats and would support him when the time came.

Sinchai, Mongkut’s
twenty-year-old only son, was an impractical dreamer who had been mollycoddled by his mother; but his fear of his father’s anger kept him in line. There was little love between father and son in the Sangukhon household.

Mongkut’s relations with his wife Janjira were
also at an all-time low point since she had found out about his much-younger mistress Anchalee and their illegitimate daughter. This was especially poignant from Janjira’s perspective since after Sinchai, she had been incapable of bearing any more children.

If Mongkut permitted feelings for anyone, it was the five-year-old Ayang.
When she smiled at him, he felt his carefully-constructed defenses begin to crumble. She was potentially – he was only too aware – his Achilles heel. But he had no time for this sort of sentiment now, he told himself. Perhaps after the war with the Lamphongchats was over …

Mongkut Sangukhon
shook his head, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Clear, unemotional thinking was required. He had to put things in order or the business would fall apart. It fell to him to do this. Nobody else was capable.

But first he needed to work out how to get his father out of the picture.

*       *       *       *       *

Papa Doc
Charoenkul was having trouble getting his trousers off.

“Would you like some help, Deng?” asked his mistress politely.

“I can manage, thank you,” he growled back at her.

He had thought some afternoon sex would ease his frustration after a call with his superior in which his long-overdue promotion had
not
been discussed; in spite of his best efforts to weave the topic into the conversation. A post-lunch romp with his mistress, and perhaps a further session with his wife in the evening had seemed an excellent way to restore his undermined sense of manhood.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

His
mia noi
was sitting up in bed with her usual doleful expression, her hands folded patiently across her lap. Her submissive patience irritated him sometimes and her bland, albeit unjudging stare was currently making him feel self-conscious. On occasion he wondered why he bothered. It was not as if she was exactly a raving beauty, he thought uncharitably. She was going flabby around the hips and gravity was taking its toll on her saggy breasts. But he had convinced himself long ago that a man in a senior position should have a ‘minor wife’: it was a statement of status, after all. Perhaps he would trade up to something better – and younger – when his promotion to Bangkok came through. If it
ever
came through.

No
. He shouldn’t entertain that thought. Not even in a moment of weakness. His worth to the Royal Thai Police
would
be recognized. It
had
to be recognised.

With a final effort, his right leg came free of his uniform trousers
and he straightened up. The woman in the bed appraised the pot-bellied apparition before her, clad as it was in black socks and large khaki boxer shorts.

“My, Deng,” she said approvingly, “But you are a fine figure of a man.”

Papa Doc caught sight of himself in the bedroom mirror and nodded in agreement, touching his facial hair lovingly.

It’s true
, he thought.
If nothing else I still have my looks
.

With a theatrical flourish he removed his boxers.

“I’m going to leave my socks on,” he announced. “I’ve only got an hour.”

*       *       *       *       *

Kat Charoenkul sighed and put down the charity event papers which had been exercising her attention. She took out a small hand mirror from her bag and examined her face critically.

Still there
, she thought.

She touched up her lipstick, then sat back in
her chair in the
sala
and looked at her garden and the back of the old Cambodian man who was tending it. He seemed to sense her gaze for he turned and nodded to her respectfully before returning to the task of pruning the greenery.

Kat was feeling restless.
The tea brought by her maid sat unwanted and cooling on the table beside her.

She thought briefly about her husband whom she imagined was sweating over some routine administrative task and getting himself worked up over nothing in particular. Lately his sole topic of conversation was promotion, and
she had noticed an edge of desperation creeping in. Kat was bored with the same old refrain and was finding it increasingly hard to be sympathetic. Part of her longed to scream out that she was dying and that all his concerns were unimportant and selfish. But something held her back.

Perhaps it was the beard. She permitted herself a wry smile.

Deng’s weekly huffing and puffing on top of her was becoming beyond tedious and she now routinely faked an orgasm just to get him to stop. Recently she had tried to imagine it was Braddock penetrating her, but even that was to no effect.

David Braddock
.

She found herself thinking about him more and more.

She took out her phone and flirted with the idea of ringing him, but her resolve failed her.