Colin Cotterill - The Merry Misogynist

"How do you get hold of all this exotic fair?" Siri asked. He was actually enjoying his lunch. Civilai had hit on the formula. They were washing down the bread rolls with home-squeezed guava juice, courtesy of Mrs Noy. Civilai's wife was slowly coming to terms with the fact that her previously absentee husband had become attached to the house. The kitchen was a place she was allowed to visit but which was no longer hers. Although Civilai still had the general bone structure of a grasshopper, he now had a more substantial body for her to cuddle on a cold night, so she didn't complain.

"I still have friends in high places," he told his fellow diners. "You'd be surprised what our American colonists left behind. If you slip me a few bucks I can probably lay my hands on some Spam, canned soup, sardines in tomato sauce, franks and beans, you name it. There's a larder full of the stuff."

"All that old tin should be rusty by now," Phosy decided.

"Ah, Inspector" — Civilai wagged his finger — "they say you can never have too much iron in your diet. And if iron is so beneficial, tin can only be one step below it."

Siri laughed. "Just think, Phosy. Before he retired, only the politburo had access to his brilliance. Now we all get to share."

"Good, I could use some brilliance," Phosy admitted and became immediately glum.

"The strangler?" Civilai asked.

"We're not getting anywhere. We're just not cut out to do a nationwide investigation. I don't suppose you've heard anything from your embroidery circle, Doctor?"

"Don't mock the Lao Patriotic Women's Association, Inspector. They'll come up with something. You mark my words."

"Meanwhile, we've come to a dead end with Phan. Not even anything on the truck. It was a Chinese Jiefang. The road builders in the north are bringing them in and selling them secondhand, cheap. Most government projects have one. Nobody thought to write down the licence number. One Chinese truck is pretty much the same as the next."

"It looks like the Chinese are invading us one street at a time," Civilai bemoaned. "They're doing whatever they want up north in the border provinces. I warned the old fogies on the committee, but nobody listened. It's only because we don't have any money that they're not flooding us with cheap, shoddy goods."

"To replace the cheap, shoddy goods from Vietnam?" Siri asked.

"Exactly. Some of those Chinese engineers have special dispensation to hop around the country without the inconvenience of applying for a laissez-passer."

"Like you and me, Siri," said Phosy.

"Yes, but you two are Lao. It's your country…at least for a while."

"That's it." Phosy tried to click his fingers, but they were slick with mayonnaise. "Travel. We know Phan travelled across prefectural borders. Even if he was attached to a government project he'd need a laissez-passer. Private citizens can't just pop into the Interior Ministry and say, "I fancy a bit of a drive up to Luang Prabang; could you give me a travel pass?"

"Even if he had a valid and urgent need, the bureaucracy would delay him for a month or so," Civilai added.

"So how did Boonhee get down here so fast to claim his daughter's body?" Siri asked.

"Sihot got him a pass," Phosy said. "We claimed he was a witness. But for Phan to go to Vang Vieng and then return there two weeks later, he had to be attached to some official project."

"So you're assuming he was in the region for another purpose but changed his identity and project description in order to fool the people in Ban Xon?"

"What do you think?" Phosy asked.

"It's a stretch, but it's as good as anything else you've got," Siri agreed.

"So, let's make a list," said Civilai. He reached into his pack, pulled out three slices of his prize-winning pie, and hunted around for a pen and paper.

"I have a notepad," said Phosy. "I'll exchange it for a piece of pie."

"You'll finish your baguettes, give yourself a few minutes for the first course to digest, then I'll think about letting you have dessert."

"You're a tough nut." Phosy laughed. He found his pencil and held it poised to write.

"Number one, 'military'," said Civilai.

"I don't know." Phosy shook his head. "This fellow doesn't read like army to me. I get the feeling he's a few pegs above soldier. He seems too polished, too charming. Plus the witnesses said his hair was longish, just over his collar. I know we don't insist on five millimetres like the Thais, but if our Phan's an officer he'd lead by example."

"I see him as someone who has, or used to have, influence." Siri thought out loud. "He knows how to talk. Has some breeding. Now if you'd told me he was a Royalist officer I'd believe that. There were a lot of smooth tin soldiers in that outfit. But not the National People's Liberation Army. They're too country. Too simple."

"How about the police?" Civilai asked.

Phosy shook his head. "The only unit that does any travelling is the one I'm in charge of."

"All right, then let's start the list with politburo members and their aides, members of the Central Committee." Civilai smiled, happy to finger his old colleagues. "They get travel passes at the drop of a hat."

"I don't know about that either," said Siri, dusting the last of his breadcrumbs from his lap. "They're too high profile. If anyone with a name was in the region all the local cadres would know."

"But it's worth a shot," Phosy said and began the list. "I'll get Sihot to check whether there were any political meetings in the district at the time Phan was there."

"But don't forget he had to be there twice," Siri reminded him. "Once for the seduction and once for the wedding. There had to be some kind of flexibility in his schedule."

"Or he picked a location he knew he'd be going back to in a few weeks," Phosy said.

"All right," said Siri. "Let's include all the departments — I'm sorry, I mean ministries — that are likely to have projects up in the Vang Vieng?Ban Xon area. Let's start with forestry. We know it's not roads."

"Fishery, health, agriculture," Civilai reeled off.

"Rural development, culture," Siri added, "and I'm thinking specifically of the people who go out to hill-tribe villages and convince them they'd be better off as Lao citizens."

"Slow down," said Phosy.

"Come on, you know which they are," Civilai told him. "Virtually every department has a division that goes out into the countryside. You'd have to contact all of them and find out whether they had any projects up there on the dates we've got."

"And you might want to cross-reference with old projects conducted in Luang Nam Tha in the late sixties," Siri offered. "If there are any old-timers who haven't managed to swim across the river, they might recall what was going on up there. Wait, isn't there an office that coordinates all the projects?"

"The National Coordination Directorate: three men and one woman and so much paperwork you need snowshoes to walk from one side of the office to the other," Civilai told him. "Forget it. This is going to take legwork, Phosy. Good old-fashioned policing."

The letter Phan had been waiting for arrived on the Tuesday lunchtime. He took the truck to the Bureau de Poste and found two envelopes in his box. One was pink and scented and from Thaxi. He didn't even bother to read it. He ripped it in half and threw it into the large plastic waste basket that stood by the door. She'd failed, this smelly perfume girl. In her last letter, wracked with remorse, she'd admitted that she'd lied to him at their last meeting. She confessed to a small sexual encounter when she was fifteen. She hoped he'd appreciate her honesty as she didn't want there to be any secrets between them. She hoped it wouldn't interfere with the plans for their marriage.