Colin Cotterill - Curse of the Pogo Stick

“Then you’d know a thing or two about the graves?”

“Yes, sir. More than a thing or two no doubt. What one was you interested in?”

“The two Fa Ngums.”

“Oh, yes, sir. Tragic! Just tragic. Father and son massacred on the same day.”

“Does the boy’s mother, the wife of the officer, does she come to pay her respects?”

“Yes.” He nodded at Dtui, who’d joined them. “Good health, ma’am.”

“When was the last time you saw her?” she asked.

“Ooh, let me see. Must have been a few weeks ago. Yes, that’d be right. She travels a lot, I believe. Lovely woman.”

“So she’s here often?”

“Yes, ma’am. Could turn up at any time.”

Dtui felt the whisper of premonition shudder through her bones.

“Would you happen to know whether there’s a record of who pays for the stones and contributes to the upkeep?” Phosy asked.

“Ooh, that would have been with the French curate, sir. Long gone, I’m afraid. No idea where that’d be now.”

“So there’s no way we could contact Fa Ngum’s wife?” Dtui said.

“Tell the truth, ma’am, the ledger wouldn’t have helped anyway in such a case.”

“It didn’t have names and addresses?”

“Oh, indeed it did, but she wasn’t the one what paid. It was the older lady. The soldier’s mother who took it upon herself. She’s getting on a bit now.”

“You know her?”

“Yes, sir. Had to go by her place once or twice to pick up wreaths.”

“Then you know where she lives?”

“Oh, yes. It’s that big old mansion down by Wat Tai on the river. She lives there by herself now.”

“Excellent.” Phosy smiled. “We’re very much obliged to you, comrade.”

“You’re welcome, sir, ma’am.”

The worker bowed politely and returned to his raking.

“What do you say?” Phosy asked Dtui. “One more stop for the day? It’s on the way home.”

“Look, I don’t feel comfortable wandering around with”-she lowered her voice-”that maniac on the loose.”

“Nothing’s happened to us.”

“No! But we’ve had armed guards all week.”

“She’d have no idea where we are. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Sometimes you just don’t think like a policeman.”

“And sometimes you think too much like one.”

“You can be very annoying, Phosy. This is positively the last stop, but only if little Malee here and her big ma can get a glass of iced tea on the way. My throat’s as dry as the crypt. No offense,” she said, looking along the ordered rows of passй Frenchmen. Apart from the worker, they were alone now in this eerie place. Above ground, anyway.

The large metal gate was ajar and so clogged with weeds and vines it had apparently been open for a very long time. Phosy drove through the gap into the broad dirt yard. When he cut the motor no sounds emanated from inside the old two-story French mansion. It was the color of a neglected tooth. Several rows of red clay pots stood guard around it. At some stage they’d contained pretty bougainvillea and mimosa and magnolia but now their dark skeletons poked from the cracked earth in crippled poses. The wooden shutters at the front of the house were closed. At one time blue, they’d been lashed the color of a shipwreck by the monsoons.

It was a mansion barely in the mood for visitors. If the front door hadn’t been open and the front step littered with shoes paired off like parentheses, Phosy and Dtui might have given up on the place. Instead, they walked up the two large steps and peered inside.

“Good health,” Phosy called. “Anyone home?”

They heard the distant voice of a woman.

“We’re out back,” she shouted. “Come on through.”

In a Lao house, before the days of suspicion and paranoia, this had been a normal thing. No chain locks or spy holes. A visitor received a friendly welcome no matter how dirty his feet or empty his belly.

“Just two new friends,” Dtui called as they walked through the large open-plan front room that smelled to Phosy like muddy football boots left to dry in the sun. There was dust in the air.

“Out here! Just follow my voice,” the woman called.

Dtui and Phosy arrived at a large well-lighted kitchen. Three unshuttered windows opened onto a jungle of a backyard. An old lady was bent over a stone sink with her back to the guests. She wore a ridiculously long phasin and a head scarf of the type favored by the queen of England on hunting trips.

“We’re sorry to disturb you,” Dtui said.

“Oh, my dears. No problem at all,” replied the woman.

As she turned she seemed to uncurl and become a lot taller than she’d first appeared. In her right hand she held an M-1911 pistol. With her left she undid the scarf and let her long gray hair fall past her shoulders. Phosy reached for Dtui’s hand.

The Lizard walked confidently toward them. “I think I’m supposed to say something like, ‘Aha so we meet again, Inspector Phosy.’ At least that’s the type of thing Moriarty would have said.”

She unfastened the phasin and it dropped to the floor. Underneath she was wearing chic European trousers.

“But, of course, what would a Red know of literature and culture? I could say in English, ‘Welcome to my parlor’ and even if I bothered to translate it, you still wouldn’t have a clue what I’m talking about. I’m afraid this trap for common flies might appear a little over-elaborate but what terrible fun. You see, we’ve had little to do but twiddle our thumbs since you spoiled our nice coup d’йtat.”

“How could you know we’d be here?” Phosy asked, his arm around Dtui.

“Well, that’s the splendor of the chase, my silly policeman. Every move you made today has been orchestrated. We challenged ourselves, you see. We wondered whether we’d be clever enough to persuade the fish to leave the sanctity of their pool and come in search of the hook. But there I go mixing my metaphors horribly-flies and fish-shame on me. Never mind.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Dtui asked.

“Cue the curtain call.” The woman beamed. “The gentleman behind you-No, you may look, it isn’t a trick-”

The couple turned their heads to see Ajan Ming framed in the doorway like an old master with a Beretta. He nodded politely.

“-we shall call person D.”

The door to the maid’s room off the kitchen opened and through it walked Mrs. Bounlan and the worker from the cemetery. They bowed and seemed disappointed not to receive a round of applause.

“Our final two cast members,” the Lizard said. “And I think we’ll use their stage names, Mr. C and Miss B. And of course there’s me, A-scriptwriter and extra. You know, it is terribly hard to remain humble when you’re as good as we are.”

She strutted around her grounded fish, close enough for them to see the madness in her beady eyes.

“You’ll notice how we were able to lure you just a little bit farther and farther from your allies, checking at each stage that you’d fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. Making certain that you hadn’t contacted anyone to pass on the information you’d learned.”

B and C came to sit at the kitchen table while D held his position at the rear.

“You were interesting adversaries for a little while-very well done with the bomb thing, by the way-but enough’s enough. All that’s left is to decide how unpleasantly you’re going to meet your respective ends. Of course, it will have to be something so terrible your super Dr. Siri turns somersaults when he sees your remains. An angry foe doesn’t think straight and we need him at his most vulnerable. We have something very special planned for him. It’s rather a pity that you won’t be around to see it.”