The Dying Beach (22 page)

The young man didn't seem to notice Rajiv and ignored Jayne. ‘Uncle, I'm sorry to be late again but—'

‘
Loong wah plian pen wan lang dee gua
,' Bapit said through clenched teeth. ‘Better we talk later. Get to work.'

The young man persisted. ‘My motorbike broke down and while I was getting help, someone stole it and—'

‘Othong, I said we'll deal with this later.' The anger in the older man's voice gave them all a jolt. It was rare for a Thai person not to sugar-coat his displeasure, especially in front of strangers.

Jayne didn't move, though her mind was racing. Othong had attacked Sigrid. She was sure of it. Chances were he'd killed the other three women, too. He was Bapit's nephew. Surely he was acting on the older man's orders. She and Rajiv were in deep shit if Bapit saw through their ruse.

She kept her eyes downcast as the young man backed out of the room. She thought they were in the clear until Othong doubled back and stopped in front of her.

36

He didn't notice the man standing by the door until he was on his way out. Black skin, like a sea gypsy. Othong looked from the dark man to the farang girl on the couch and back again.

‘Uncle, do you know who these people are?'

‘Othong, if I have to tell you one more time—'

‘Uncle, these are the foreigners who have Pla's notebook.'

‘When will you get it into your thick skull that I am not interested in Khun Pla's notebook.'

‘But I thought—' Othong began.

‘You don't think,' his uncle said. ‘That's the fucking problem.'

Othong couldn't believe his ears. How could his uncle insult him like this? In the presence of strangers, no less.

‘Uncle thinks he knows everything,' Othong said, still using the polite form of address despite his distress. ‘Why won't Uncle listen? Othong killed people to get that notebook for Uncle and now, when it's sitting right in front of him—'

Othong looked at the farang girl. She had her hand inside her bag and was trying to use her phone without anyone noticing.

‘Hey, what do you think you're doing?' He snatched the bag, knocking the phone out of her hands. It hit the tiled floor, dislodging the battery. Othong upended the bag and shook out the contents. ‘Where is it?' Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dark-skinned man by the door move towards him. He shuffled faster through notepads, books, pens, a wallet. ‘Where's the notebook?'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.' The farang woman stood up. ‘Khun Bapit, this is unacceptable.'

Othong threw the bag aside and grabbed her by the throat. ‘Where's the fucking notebook?'

She gasped for breath and tried to kick him. But Othong had learned his lesson and held her at arm's length. The dark-skinned man rushed forward. Othong turned, expecting to find a gun in his face, and to use the farang girl as a shield. But the man was unarmed. Best he could manage was to jump on Othong's back and attempt to grab him around the neck with about as much force as a child clambering for a piggyback ride.

Othong shrugged him off. The man fell, hitting his head on one of Uncle's Chinese chairs. He didn't get back up.

A choked cry came from the woman. Othong loosened his grip to allow her to speak.

‘Dog fucker—'

He put both hands around her neck but she slipped from his grasp.

Othong reeled off-balance and slumped to the floor. Pain flooded his skull, blurring his vision. It took a moment to register his uncle standing over him, holding a bottle of whisky in his hand by the neck. The label was smeared with blood. Othong's blood.

Othong tried to sit, managed to prop himself against a leg of the Chinese couch. He raised his hand to the back of his head. It felt like sponge. His hand came away wet with blood.

Through the ringing in his ears, he caught snatches of conversation.

‘…he's moving…'

‘…nothing broken?'

‘
Roo suek sia jai
…I didn't realise…'

He became aware of the farang woman and his uncle moving the other man out of reach. Othong's head might be smashed in, but they were still frightened of him. The thought made him laugh.

‘…in shock.'

‘…head injury…'

‘How long…'

The voices again. His uncle and the farang woman. Talking about him.

‘Why did Uncle do that?' he muttered.

‘What's that, boy?' Despite having clubbed him with a glass bottle, Uncle's tone was almost gentle. He crouched beside Othong and leaned in close.

‘Why did Uncle do that to his own nephew?' Othong tried again.

‘The killing has to stop. Too many women have died.' He patted Othong's shoulder. ‘I made a mistake when I helped you cover up that girl's death. I wanted to believe you when you said it was an accident. But you killed again.'

‘What's Uncle saying?'

‘I know about the farang girl,' Bapit said.

‘No—'

‘I found her camera. I found it under the floorboards in the spare room. It was with Khun Suthita's wallet.' Bapit pointed the base of the whisky bottle at him. ‘What kind of idiot keeps souvenirs of his murder victims?'

Another insult. Othong's anger surfaced from his swamp of pain. ‘It doesn't matter what I do. It's never good enough. After we lost Vidura—'

‘Don't you dare mention my son's name,' Bapit spat. ‘You are not worthy to be his dog.'

Othong's fist found his uncle's face and the old man crashed to the floor. He landed badly, clutching his arm, the bottle slipping from his grasp. Othong sprang onto his haunches, snatched the bottle and smashed it against the coffee table. The end broke off in a satisfying shower of glass.

He brought the broken bottle down on his uncle's face, watched it puncture and bleed. He hit him again and again, his rage fuelled by years of humiliation.

‘
Kor rong!'
the farang cried. ‘Please stop.'

Othong had forgotten she was in the room. He paused with the broken bottle midair. Blood dripped from the jagged edge onto what was no longer recognisable as his uncle's face. Othong let the broken bottle clatter to the floor and averted his eyes.

‘Don't make it any worse for yourself, little brother.' The farang's voice was shaky, gentle. ‘The police will be here soon, and you don't want to add—'

‘You're lying,' he said. ‘You didn't have the chance to call the police.'

‘But your uncle's secretary will have heard the struggle and—'

Othong's laugh sounded like the bark of a feral dog. ‘Khun Siri doesn't do anything without my uncle telling her to. And Uncle's not in any position to be issuing any orders right now.'

He bent down to take a closer look at the old man. Bapit neither moved nor made a sound, but Othong felt the floodwaters of pain rise again. He rocked back on his heels, head throbbing, black spots before his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut, took several deep breaths. When he opened his eyes, the farang was edging towards the door.

‘If you leave this room, I will kill your friend,' he said.

The farang stopped with her hand on the doorhandle and looked at him. Mustering all his remaining strength, Othong hoisted himself up, using the Chinese couch for leverage. No sooner did he make it to his feet than he had to sit back down again. He'd never actually sat on the good Chinese furniture before.

He touched his fingertips to the back of his head again. ‘Shit.'

‘Old man stronger than he looks?' the farang said, moving towards him.

Othong grimaced.

‘He seems like a hard man,' she continued. ‘Difficult to please.'

A different kind of pain stung Othong's eyes. He'd tried to be a son to Bapit, but the old man had only ever treated him with contempt. He'd not only insulted him, but betrayed him, too. It wasn't right. Family was supposed to be everything.

The farang moved closer, her eyes darting from Othong to the man on the floor and back again. Only the coffee table stood between them.

Othong forced himself up again, swept his hand around the room. ‘This is all your fault,' he snarled.

He lunged at her. She dropped to the ground and sprang back up with something in her hand. Othong couldn't see what it was. His head was spinning and his vision blurred. He felt propelled forward as though running down a steep hill.

By the time he registered the knife, he couldn't have stopped even if he wanted to. He embraced her like a lover and fell exhausted into her arms.

37

Bapit's office looked like a horror movie set, the floor littered with bodies and blood, one body piled on another in a pool of blood. The body on top—Bapit's nephew, if Sergeant Yongyuth was not mistaken—was not moving. The one underneath flapped its arms and legs like a beetle pinned beneath a rock.

Sergeant Yongyuth snapped on a pair of latex gloves and rolled Othong over onto his back. A farang women sprang out from under him, covered in blood, though evidently not her own.

‘Rajiv!'

She ran over to a man Yongyuth didn't recognise—South Asian at a guess—who was throwing up into a dustbin. The man looked like he'd taken a beating, though not as badly as Othong and Bapit.

Yongyuth felt Othong for a pulse, surprised to find one. He signalled for Officer Da to take over and hastened to Bapit's side. The old man was alive but only just. Bloodied saliva bubbled from his mouth. Yongyuth hoped this was due to the facial injuries and not internal bleeding. He moved Bapit into the recovery position but was loath to do more without knowing what he was dealing with.

He called ambulance dispatch. ‘We've got three casualties, two critical. One male, late fifties. Unconscious. Lacerations to the head and face. Possible skull fracture and internal bleeding. Second male, mid-twenties. Also unconscious. Knife wound to the stomach.'

‘Looks like a head injury, too,' Officer Da piped up.

Yongyuth relayed the information. ‘Third male, mid-twenties. Conscious. Suspected concussion.' The sergeant flipped his phone shut and squatted beside Officer Da. The knife, still embedded in Othong's gut, was the type used for cutting fruit. He looked up to see the farang woman approaching.

‘Sergeant Yongyuth?'

He rose to his feet. ‘
Krup
.'

‘We spoke earlier on the phone. I'm Jayne Keeney.' The farang gave him a
wai
, noticed the blood on her hands, and put them behind her back out of sight.

‘You're Police Major General Wichit's associate.'

‘
Ka
.' Jayne nodded.

Yongyuth unbuttoned the chest pocket of his uniform and extracted a notebook. ‘Can you tell me what happened here, Khun Jayne?'

‘I'll do my best, Sergeant. I came this morning with my business partner, Khun Rajiv.'

She gestured to the South Asian man, who'd managed to get up and was sitting on one of Bapit's throne chairs, gingerly touching the back of his head. ‘We were meeting with Khun Bapit when this young man burst into the room and began threatening us. His name is Othong, yes?'

Sergeant Yongyuth nodded.

‘Without provocation, Khun Othong grabbed me by the throat and when my partner tried to intervene, Othong threw him to the floor, knocking him unconscious. Khun Bapit saved my life. He hit Othong over the head with a whisky bottle.'

Yongyuth glanced at what remained of the bottle of 100 Pipers he had shared with Bapit the previous evening. ‘He broke the bottle over Othong's head?'

‘No, Othong broke it, just before he stabbed the old man in the face. Excuse me—' She leaned forward with her hands on her knees. Yongyuth thought she might vomit, but she took a deep breath and steadied herself. ‘I'm sorry. Where was I?'

‘Khun Othong allegedly stabbed his uncle in the face with a broken bottle.'

‘Nothing alleged about it,' she said. ‘You'll find Othong's and Bapit's fingerprints on the bottle and—' She looked from him, fear in her eyes. ‘Othong, he's not—'

‘He's still alive.' Yongyuth tilted his head towards the man on the floor. ‘But he's not in good shape. He's been stabbed in the stomach.'

Jayne averted her gaze. ‘It was self-defence.'

Yongyuth said nothing. In his years of experience as a police officer, he'd learned you got more information by practising silence than by asking questions.

‘I just wanted to stop him. I didn't think he'd go down like that. I mean—' She narrowed her eyes and Yongyuth got the sense she was onto him. ‘Before Khun Bapit was knocked out, he accused his nephew of murdering three women. Said he'd found evidence under the floorboards in the spare bedroom.'

‘
Jing reu
?' Yongyuth wasn't sure whether to believe her.

‘That's what Khun Bapit said.'

Yongyuth told Officer Da to keep an eye on things while he searched the room. It took him several minutes to find the stash: a wallet belonging to Suthita, the girl in Ban Khlong Haeng who allegedly committed suicide the previous weekend; and a camera Yongyuth suspected would turn out to belong to the dead farang girl, Annabel Craven. Such a haul would make him a local hero.

He placed the items in separate zip-lock bags and joined Jayne back in the office, notebook at the ready. ‘You say Othong murdered three women,' he said. ‘The evidence here only pertains to two deaths.'

‘The other was the Thai girl whose body was found on Princess Beach. Her death started it all.'

Yongyuth pocketed his notebook and sighed. ‘You're going to have to accompany me to the station for questioning. And I should warn you, Khun Jayne, that I may have to press charges.'

38

Jayne didn't try to talk Sergeant Yongyuth out of charging her. She got Police Major General Wichit on the phone and let him do the talking for her. Not even saving her life cancelled out the debt Wichit owed Jayne for her role in once helping him avert a disastrous loss of face; and while most Australians would have to be desperate to call in a favour, in Thailand it was considered good form to give the other person opportunities to
sam neuk boon khun
—to honour their debts—as often as possible.