Love Songs From a Shallow Grave (10 page)

“You aren’t afraid of things being stolen?” Phosy asked.

The head teacher laughed. “What’s to steal? We’ve just the one set of books for the teachers, none for the children. We buy our own chalk and keep it with us.” He fished out two sticks from his top pocket as evidence. “And the desks and chairs are so old they have French chewing gum stuck to the bottom of them.”

Siri smiled and shook the teacher’s hand as he walked into the classroom. The lack of books evidently extended to a lack of paper and paint. The few pictures on the walls were drawn in pencil on flaps torn from cardboard boxes. The desks and chairs had been pushed against the walls leaving an empty space in the centre of the room. Once varnished, the wooden floor had now been buffed grey by generations of feet and scratched to high heaven by the shifting of furniture. This was a classroom with a history.

“Comrade, could you tell the doctor what you told us?” Sihot asked of the teacher.

“All right,” he said. “I came in on Sunday morning at about seven. My wife and I live in a shared house down the street so I can walk here. The local youth movement conducts a political pathfinders session on Sunday mornings for the older children. We use this room ‘cause it’s the biggest. Sometimes they like to do activities where the kids have to move around. When I got in, I was surprised to see all this furniture moved back. But I assumed the youth cadres had come early to set things up. I started to open the shutters. That’s when I noticed the young lady.”

Siri walked to the blackboard. It was made of
sao
wood, a type of oak, hard enough to make boats out of. The point of the sword had entered the board at a height almost level with his own heart. The thrust must have been terribly powerful. Powerful enough to keep the victim on her feet. The blood had formed a figure-of-eight stain where she’d been standing.

“Our last class was on Saturday morning,” the teacher was saying in the background. “After that, I went from room to room making sure nobody had left anything behind. Forgetful bunch, these children. I shut all the doors. I had a regional educational administrators’ meeting in the afternoon and went straight home after that.”

“So nobody was here in the afternoon or evening,” Siri asked.

“Sometimes the children like to come and sit and play. I don’t begrudge them that. This isn’t much on atmosphere but it’s better than the crowded conditions some of them have to put up with at home. But the weather’s been shocking lately. You saw the football field, or rather, you didn’t. It looks like a paddy field. Not many people want to leave their homes in weather like this.”

“We had a couple of our men talk to the kids, Doctor,” Sihot said. “None of them were here Saturday afternoon or evening. Nobody saw anything.”

Siri stopped suddenly and stared at the wall beside the door, then up at the ceiling.

“Head teacher, you don’t have electricity.”

“No, Comrade,” replied the teacher. “Education keeps telling us they’ll have us connected up by the end of the year. They’ve been saying that for two years.”

Siri was confused. Even if he was two hours out with his estimation of the time of death, which he doubted, it would still have been dark in this classroom. Too dark to spear somebody accurately in the heart. Either the perpetrator was carrying a torch, or…

Siri walked around the room with Sihot close behind, his notepad at the ready. The doctor found what he was looking for on a desk at the front near the wall. It was just a small heap of wax moulded around an empty circle of space.

“Do you use candles often, Comrade?” he asked the teacher.

“No, Comrade. Beyond our budget, I’m afraid,” he replied.

“Then it would appear our killer brought them with him and took them home when he was through.”

They found similar deposits of wax on six of the desks. There might have been more, removed along with the candles.

“Not exactly floodlighting,” Siri said, “but enough to light up their duelling arena.”

“You think they were swordfighting in here?” Phosy asked.

“They cleared a space, lit up the room. Our victim was dressed for sport. It’s as good a guess as any, I’d say.”

“And you,” Phosy looked at Sihot. “What’s wrong with you, man? Do you have pebbles there for eyes? I send you here to investigate and you can’t even see great lumps of wax?”

Sihot bunched up the corners of his mouth. Not a sulk exactly, more an attempt not to burst into tears. It saddened Siri to see a strong man embarrassed and he was surprised. He’d never known Phosy to rebuke his men in public. In fact, the inspector wasn’t given to outbursts. He would normally shake his head and privately bemoan the lack of grey matter in the police force. This was particularly out of character. Something was wrong.

“Any chance she died by accident?” Phosy asked Siri, still staring at Sihot.

“I doubt that,” Siri said. “If it’s just a sparring match they’d have some cork thingamabobs on the ends of their weapons. At the very least they’d be fighting with blunt swords. The épée we pulled out of the victim was sharpened to a fine edge. The killer knew exactly what he was doing.”

∗

The jeep went by Police Headquarters with the intention of dropping off Sihot. There was a lot of paperwork that hadn’t been started. The plan from there was for Phosy to drive Siri to the morgue, return the Willy’s jeep to the garage, and go through the data they’d collected on the two victims, looking for connections. But, as Civilai often said, “Intentions can be as flimsy as toilet paper in a cheap bar.”

As they pulled into the compound, a police boy dressed in a shirt so big it made him look as if he’d shrunk overnight leapt from the guard booth and waved his arms.

“Should I drive over him?” Sihot asked.

“Better stop, I suppose,” Phosy told him.

The boy ran around to the inspector in the passenger seat.

“Sir, you have to go to K6,” he said. “There’s been a murder.”

Given the pace of communication in the republic, it wasn’t unthinkable for this to have been the message from two days hence just reached the guard post. But Phosy had a bad feeling that wasn’t the case.

“Who told you?” he asked.

“Vietnamese security guy on a motorcycle, about an hour ago,” said the boy.

THE CASE OF THE THREE EPEES

I
n the ever-flowing words of ex-politburo member Civilai, before the épée murders time in the People’s Democratic Republic of Laos had been speeding by like a thirty-year-old Peugeot on blocks. The country had been stone-cold frozen to the edge of its seats waiting for news of the two major initiatives of 1978. After three years of planning, the cooperative movement was finally launched as outlined in the order N°97: Regulation of Cooperative Farming. Under this accelerated programme the government was certain it would be self-sufficient in food grains by 1981. The economy would be revived and the purest tenet of communism would be realised at the rice roots level.

But the leaders very quickly realised that, like communism, collectivism worked much better on paper than on dirt. The five cooperative principles as per order N°98d had been sound enough: 1. Volunteerism. 2. Mutual benefit. 3. Democratic management. 4. Planned production. 5. Distribution of produce and profit according to labour performed with the right attitude. Thirty to forty families would be gathered together in one collective and all their resources pooled. Each man and woman would receive work points based on an eight-hour day. Technically, the families would be able to join and leave at will.

But villages in Laos had traditionally been self-sufficient.

They hadn’t given anything to the government and the government hadn’t given them anything back. So questions were asked such as, “Why should we start sharing now?”

Siri explained the problem to Dtui like this: “Farmer A. has two buffalos and a hectare of land. Farmer B. has one buffalo and half a hectare. A smiling cadre arrives at the village one day and congratulates them on their acceptance into the greater cooperative network. He informs them that, as from today, they have one-and-a-half buffalos each and three-quarters of a hectare of rice field to tend. Farmer B. runs off to tell his wife of their good fortune while farmer A sits on a rock wondering where he went wrong.”

In fact, if the system had operated truly on a voluntary basis, everyone would have volunteered themselves out. As a result, they were strongly urged – often by the toothless smile of an AK47 – to give it a go for three years. Of the five principles of cooperative farming it was soon clear that only those who had nothing to begin with would progress with any joy past the first. Yet the leaders not only believed the system would be successful, they also held that the agronomic revolution would miraculously transform Laos from an agricultural economy to a technologically advanced socialist state. Naturally, in order to get there, they had to do a little work on the raw material: the Lao themselves.

The second initiative, a big public relations push for 1978, planned to coincide with the billboard invasion, was the creation of Socialist Man. A sort of poor relative of Super-, Bat-, and Spiderman, Socialist Man was the ideological Frankenstein of the Party. He was the embodiment of everything perfect in a good socialist. He was steadfast, had a spirit of solidarity, was a good father and respected the laws. One evening, Siri, Daeng and Civilai had even gone so far as to design him a costume; a green leotard to represent the young rice shoots, rubber boots to keep his feet dry, naturally, a red cape adorned with a hammer and sickle, and a scabbard for his hoe. Daeng had been insistent there should be a New Socialist Woman to keep him company. If any of them had had even the remotest skills as artists they would have produced an entire comic book, perhaps even submitted it to a publisher in New York and – ignoring the irony completely – become wealthy capitalists.

So, given the lack of other stimulating news, it was evident why the deaths of three apparently unrelated women – all skewered with a weapon 99.9 (recurring) per cent of the population had never heard of – was the talk of the markets and the Lao Patriotic Women’s Association tea rooms.

When Siri and the two detectives had arrived back at K6 on that painfully long and wet Monday, Security Chief Phoumi was at the gate to meet them and he was looking far more ruffled than he had been during the investigation of the first murder. He sat in the back of the jeep and directed Sihot to the auditorium. Siri knew it well. It was the same hall in which he had watched ten minutes of
The Train From the Xiang Wu Irrigation Plant
not two days earlier. During the American days it had been an open-air gymnasium, basically a roof on posts with a stage for dramas. Not given to openness or drama, the Pathet Lao had bricked it up, attached air-conditioners, and had been using it as a meeting hall.

The jeep splashed to a halt at the foot of the steps and they hurried up to the auditorium doors and pushed through a gaggle of onlookers and into the hall. The chairs had been stacked neatly to one side and there was a pile of tumbling mats and gym equipment at the rear of the room, presumably left over from the high-school days. Whereas the previous two murder scenes had been comparatively neat, almost serene, the auditorium was a bloody mess. A crimson trail of drag marks and splashes began at the mats and snaked across the concrete floor in the direction of the stage where the victim lay in a crumpled heap. She was face down on the handle of the sword with the blade sticking out of her side like a toothpick in a cocktail sausage. Siri and Phosy exchanged glances.

“This one put up a fight,” said Siri.

With Major Dung and half-a-dozen Vietnamese soldiers standing in the doorway watching, Siri and Sihot eased the victim onto her side. She was about thirty, short and muscular like victim one. The sword pierced her left breast, entering her chest between the fifth and sixth ribs. Not a frontal hit on the heart like the others but a hit nevertheless. Her face might once have been attractive but it now wore a death mask of horror. She had been in torment when the life left her, of that there was no doubt. She wore a thick denim jacket and, incongruously, culottes and running shoes. It appeared a mark had been cut rudely into her thigh but it was impossible to read as the area was awash with blood. It would need to be cleaned to see whether it was the same Zorro brand as appeared on the two previous victims.

“That’s one a day,” Phosy said, looking back at the trail of blood. “How many damned more are there going to be?”

“He got sloppy,” Siri said. “If we’re going to find evidence, this is where it’ll be. This is where he made his mistake. If you can get those sightseers out of here and give me half an hour, I’ll see what I can come up with.”

Phosy yelled “Out!” and, to Siri’s surprise, the Vietnamese entourage left without a fight. The policeman followed them outside. The double doors slammed and the silence of the auditorium made Siri feel uneasy. Again he had the sense he was close to a spirit but it was holding back. He wondered if it knew it was on the other side. Some ghosts took a lot of convincing they were dead. He called out, “I know you’re here,” and his words seemed to cause some consternation in the afterlife. He caught the briefest of glimpses, no more than a flash, like two people on trains going in opposite directions. And the glimpse he’d been afforded was frightening enough. The spirit was incensed, its face contorted, its middle finger raised. He was mystified.

It took him a few moments to catch his breath but no interpretation of the vision came to him. He walked unsteadily to the point where the blood trail began. The tumbling mats were leaning against the rear wall, six deep. At the level of his heart there was a puncture mark in the front mat. A narrow trail of blood trickled down from it to join a veritable atlas of spots and splotches about twenty centimetres from the ground. Thence a cascade to the concrete where a deep pool of blood congealed.

Siri shuffled through the mats but the sword had only penetrated the one at the front. There were splatters on the mats and the wall. Beside the stack was a scratched wooden beam with two bolts at waist height. For some reason an inordinate amount of blood had spurted in its direction. Siri assumed it was at the level of the exit wound. It might have been an irrelevance but he was prone to remember even the smallest detail. There were bloody footprints leading to and from the mats. At first glance they appeared to have been made by the same shoes but Sihot would have to confirm that assumption. The footsteps leading towards the stage told a miserable story. They were meandering and interspersed with puddles of blood becoming more desperate as they reached the body of the victim. A body drained white as cigarette paper.