The Tunnel Rats (35 page)

'What about her furniture? Did a removal van call?'

'Didn't see one, but I think they rented the flat furnished.' 'And you've no idea where she might have gone?' Jenkins stroked the Yorkshire terrier behind the ears. 'Maybe she went home to China,' he said absentmindedly. 'China?' said Hunter. 'What makes you say that?' 'She was Chinese. Didn't you know? Spoke perfect English,. but she was Chinese.'

'Are you sure she was from China?' asked Hunter. 'Well, she was Oriental, no mistaking that, but she wasn't Japanese, I'm damn sure.' The old man shuddered. 'I spent two years in a Japanese POW camp so I know what bloody Japs are like.' The old man shrugged. He looked suddenly older and there was a faraway look in his eyes as if his mind was elsewhere.

Hunter stood up. He thanked Jenkins for his help and shook his hand. His grip was surprisingly strong for a man of his years, and the memory of it and the smell of sickness stayed with Hunter for the rest of the day.

Kruse settled back in the taxi and closed his eyes. His meeting with Nick Wright had taken a completely unexpected turn and he had a lot of thinking to do. He'd gone to Wright's hotel room intent on killing the British detective, but the phone call had put paid to that. Kruse couldn't risk being associated with Wright's death, whether or not it looked like an accident. Tommy Reid might have an alcohol problem, but he wasn't stupid. The idea of taking Wright with him to Vietnam had come out of the blue, but Kruse was used to thinking on his feet and he knew it made perfect sense. Down in the tunnels anything could happen, and there'd be no witnesses. Getting a visa for Wright at short notice wouldn't be difficult: anything could be obtained in Bangkok for a price, and Jody Meacher had made it clear that money was no object. Kruse went over the conversation he'd had with Wright, looking for any slips he might have made. He hadn't liked having to lie about getting information from the Pentagon, because that could be checked, but it was the only way he could think of explaining THE TUNNEL RATS 249 how he knew about the service records of the members of The Jazz Club. And he needed an explanation for the map that he'd taken from O'Leary's house. Suggesting that one of the surviving members of The Jazz Club might be the killer had been a flash of brilliance. It would keep Wright off balance, trusting no one. The question of who the killer was still troubled Kruse. His thirty-minute conversation with O'Leary had provided no clues. Kruse knew exactly what had happened down the tunnels a quarter of a century ago, and he understood why the men needed to go back, but he didn't believe in ghosts and he didn't believe that dead men waited twenty-five years before coming back for revenge. The killer was real, flesh and blood, and Kruse knew that when the men went down the tunnels, the killer would be going too. Kruse smiled to himself. The witnesses would be there, the killer would be there, and the detective investigating the case would be there. And once Kruse had finished his work, all would be dead and buried deep below the earth. It was perfect, so perfect that the anticipation was almost painful.

The loud knocking on Wright's door woke him from a dreamless sleep, the taste of vomit still at the back of his mouth. 'Yeah, who is it?' he called. There was no reply and the banging continued. Wright wrapped a towel around his waist and opened the door.

Two policemen in dark brown uniforms stood there. The taller of the two was wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses. He spoke to Wright in Thai.

Wright frowned. 'You'll have to speak English,' he said.

A third figure moved into view behind the two policemen. Somchai. He looked worried. 'They want you to go with them, Mr Nick,' he said. 'Why?' queried Wright.

'They won't say.'

'Tell them to wait while I get dressed,' he said. He moved to close the door but the smaller policeman stuck out his arm and held it open.

As he dressed, Wright looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock in the morning. He'd only slept for two hours after Bamber had left and he was exhausted. He ran a hand over his jaw and wondered if he should shave, but the policeman in sunglasses made an impatient clicking sound and motioned with his hand for Wright to hurry up, so Wright threw on his jacket and followed them down the corridor.

A white police car and a uniformed driver were waiting outside the hotel. Wright got into the back with the smaller of the men; the one with sunglasses climbed into the front. A garland of purple and white flowers and a small gold Buddha in a transparent plastic case hung from the driver's mirror. Wright knew it was pointless to ask any questions so he stared silently out of the window as they drove through the crowded streets.

It wasn't until the car turned into the small side street that Wright realised they were heading for O'Leary's house. Three other police cars and a Jeep were parked haphazardly outside the building, red lights flashing on their roofs, and two brown-uniformed police motorcyclists in knee-high boots and white helmets were talking to a small group of onlookers, obviously telling them to keep back.

The car stopped behind the Jeep and the cop next to Wright pointed at the front door. Wright got out of the car, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He'd liked Dennis O'Leary, and this amount of police activity could only be bad news.

Colonel Vasan was in the main room, standing by O'Leary's desk and watching, two uniformed officers rummage through the drawers. They weren't wearing gloves, Wright noticed. Vasan looked across at Wright, then turned his head away, deliberately ignoring him. Wright waited by the door, not wanting to walk across the room without being asked.

After several minutes Vasan walked over, his gleaming black boots squeaking on the wooden floor. He stared at Wright through the lenses of his steel-framed spectacles, but said nothing. He was, Wright realised, trying to intimidate him with silence.

Wright smiled. 'Is there a problem, Colonel Vasan?' he said.

The colonel said nothing. He nodded at a uniformed officer who was standing by the kitchen door. The officer opened the door and THE TUNNEL RATS 251 ushered out the maid who'd admitted Wright the previous night. She'd been crying.

The colonel spoke to her in Thai. She looked at Wright and nodded tearfully. He said something else to her and she hurried back into the kitchen and closed the door.

The colonel scratched his pitted cheek and studied Wright with hard eyes. 'Why were you here last night?' he said.

'I wanted to talk to Mr O'Leary.'

'About what?' Any pretence that Vasan wasn't able to speak English had disappeared.

'About the murder of Eric Horvitz. They played together in a band. Horvitz was a singer, O'Leary--'

'Played guitar. Yes. I know the connection between the two men.'

'Was there an ace of spades?' asked Wright.

Deep furrows appeared on Vasan's forehead.

'On the body. Was there an ace of spades?'

'How did you know he had been killed?' asked Vasan. 'I didn't say he had been killed.'

Wright sighed patiently. 'The maid's in tears, your men are all over the place and there's no sign of a robbery.'

Vasan glowered at Wright. 'You are quite wrong,' he said. 'There has been no murder.'

A sudden thought struck Wright and he caught his breath. 'He didn't kill himself, did he?'

Vasan shook his head. He turned his back on Wright and walked towards the door to O'Leary's bedroom. Wright followed him. \r Vasan pushed upon the door. A uniformed officer was going through O'Leary's wardrobes, patting down the pockets of his clothes. Another policeman stood guard at the open door-to the bathroom. Vasan motioned for Wright to take a look.

O'Leary was sprawled on the floor next to the toilet, his head up against the wall, his neck at an awkward angle. The belt to his trousers was undone and his flies open. The wheelchair was on its side, next to the bath. The man had soiled himself in death and Wright put his hand over his mouth, trying to block out the smell of urine and faeces.

'Mr O'Leary had been drinking?' said Vasan.

'Yes. Almost a full bottle of whisky.'

'He was trying to use the toilet. He must have overbalanced.'

'It certainly looks that way,' said Wright.

'Bathrooms can be dangerous places, even for those who aren't in wheelchairs.'

Wright tried to remember where he'd left O'Leary's wheelchair when he put the man to bed. Had it been within reach? Had O'Leary woken up, levered himself into the chair and rolled himself into the bathroom? It was possible, he decided. An ugly, unnecessary accident. Guilt washed over Wright. He'd allowed O'Leary to get drunk in the hope that he'd talk. Encouraged him, even. He was partly to blame for the man's drunken state, and that meant he was partly responsible for his death.

'Is there something on your mind?' asked Vasan, looking at Wright over the top of his spectacles.

'It seems such a waste,' said Wright, backing out of the bathroom.

The colonel stroked his chin. 'Did you obtain anything useful from him? During your talk?' -�

'No,' said Wright. He went through the bedroom. The policeman who had been going through the wardrobes was slipping something into his own pocket. Wright flashed a look at the colonel, but Vasan appeared not to have noticed what the man was doing.

'According to the maid, you were with him for almost an hour.'

'Thirty minutes, at most.'

They went through to the main room. More uniformed policemen arrived, all with holstered guns and radios on their belts. They were walking around and examining O'Leary's possessions as if they were at a jumble sale.

'And you learned nothing of interest?'

Wright was determined not to tell Vasan anything. Nothing he'd seen so far had suggested that the colonel was anything other than incompetent. Even if O'Leary's death was an accident, there was no excuse for allowing so many men to be trampling around the house. 'He confirmed that Horvitz had no enemies, and he couldn't think of any reason why anyone would want THE TUNNEL RATS 253 to torture and kill him. The rest of the time we talked about music'

'Music?'

Wright nodded at the two guitars. 'He played guitar. He was good, he played with Eric Clapton once.'

'Eric Clapton? Who is Eric Clapton?'

'A famous guitarist. It doesn't matter.'

Vasan nodded. His hand rested on the butt of his gun as if reassuring himself that it was still in its holster. 'So you talked about music, then you went back to your hotel?'

Wright shrugged. 'That's about it.'

Vasan stared at Wright, who held the colonel's gaze. 'I would prefer that you inform me in advance of any future interviews you wish to conduct,' Vasan said eventually. 'I would like one of my investigating officers to be present.'

'I have no problem with that.'

A uniformed policeman picked up one of O'Leary's guitars and strummed it. Vasan looked across at the man, but there was no trace of annoyance on his face.

'In my opinion you would do best to visit our temples,' said the colonel. 'Maybe go and see the pretty girls we have in Pat Pong, then go home.'

Wright ignored the suggestion. 'Is it okay if I leave now?' he asked.

'My men will drive you back to your hotel,' said Vasan. He turned his back on Wright and went through to O'Leary's bedroom, his shiny black boots squeaking like hungry rats.

Tim Marshall was updating the medical records of the patient he'd just seen when the intercom on his desk buzzed. 'Yes, Ma-lee?' he said, storing the file.

'There are two men to see you, Dr Marshall. They don't have an appointment but they say they are friends. Mr Hammack and Mr Ramirez. I have asked them to wait in reception.' Ma-lee had only been with the surgery for three weeks and was already 254 STEPHEN LEATHER proving herself an asset. She was university educated and spoke good English, and wasn't in the least intimidated by farangs.

'Thank you, Ma-lee, you can show them in.'

A few seconds later the door to his consulting room opened and Bernie Hammack and Sergio Ramirez came in, both men visibly shaken. 'It's Dennis,' said Hammack as he closed the door. 'He's dead.'

'What!' said Doc. 'What happened?'

'An accident, according to the cops,' said Ramirez. 'We went around to pick up the map and the police were all over the house.'

'Seems he was drunk and he fell out of his chair trying to use the toilet. Broke his neck.'

Doc sat back in his chair and ran his hands through his thinning hair. 'Shit. Poor Dennis.' He narrowed his eyes. 'There's no doubt about this? About it being an accident?'

'They seem sure,' said Hammack.

'Just a lousy coincidence?'

Ramirez sat down on a low sofa by the window. 'I don't think it is a coincidence, Doc. Max, Eric, now Dennis. What are the odds, huh?'

'Pretty extreme, I'd say,' said Doc. 'But if it's the same killer, why make it look like an accident? He tortured Max and Eric, ripped their bodies apart and left a calling card. Why go to all the trouble of making Dennis's death look like an accident?'

'None of this makes any sense,' said Hammack. 'Question is, what do we do now?'

'Did you get the map?'

'They wouldn't let us into the house. Besides, I wouldn't know where to look.'

There was a small red birthmark on the back of Doc's neck and he scratched it, deep in thought. Ramirez and Hammack sat in silence, waiting.

'We don't need the map,'- Doc said eventually. 'We can find our way back.'

'We're still going?' asked Ramirez.

'We took a vote,' said Doc.

'I think we should make a stand here, in Bangkok,' said Ramirez^

'On our turf. If it is him, if he has come back, I'd rather face him out in the open.'

'We took a vote,' Doc repeated, a harder edge to his voice. 'We go back.'

Ramirez's jaw tightened and for a moment it looked as if he was going to argue, but then he relaxed and nodded. Doc looked at Hammack. The black man nodded, too.

'I'm pretty sure I can remember the layout. What about you, Bernie?'

'Ain't never gonna forget,' said Hammack. He grinned and his gold tooth glinted at the side of his mouth.

'Sergio?'