Colin Cotterill - The Merry Misogynist

"To interview?" Siri asked.

"To collect the data," said the boxer. "We gather a team of locals and train them. They go off into the remote areas with our forms and fill them out. Two weeks later we collect the paperwork and pay off the workers."

Siri noticed that the slim man was staring at him. It was a look of distrust. A fear of strangers perhaps? Siri felt a tingle the length of his spine.

"Two weeks exactly?" he asked.

"That's how long it usually takes," said the deep-eyed man.

"And it's just the two of you?"

"These two plus the head of the unit, Comrade Buaphan," said Kummai. The tingle became a shudder.

Deep Eyes seemed to notice the doctor's change of mood. He raised his brow. "Are you all right, Doctor?" he asked.

"Of course he's all right," Kummai cut in. "In fact he's remarkable for a man his age. I doubt I'll be able to stand up when I'm ninety."

"Well," said Siri, "I've seen everyone else on the project. I suppose I should meet Comrade Buaphan too."

"Quite right," said the director. "I want all my boys and girls to meet the great Dr Siri." The two men returned Siri's nod and he followed Kummai out of the room. There was a closed door on the far side of the entrance hall and Kummai entered without knocking. Sitting on an armchair reading a Thai magazine was a tall, elegant man with high cheekbones and thick ebony hair that curled at his collar. He was at the opposite end of the best-dressed spectrum from Kummai: light brown stay-press slacks, white shirt buttoned to the collar, and, despite the heat, navy blue socks. This was exactly the identikit picture of the strangler that Siri had drawn in his mind's eye. The man looked up slowly from his article.

"Ah, Buaphan, nothing to do?" asked the director with uncomfortable levity.

"No," the man replied. His voice was deep and authoritative.

"I thought you might be in a last-minute panic."

"I'm not."

Kummai laughed as if it were a joke.

"Right, then," he said. "This is Dr Siri, our old bush surgeon."

Buaphan didn't let go of his magazine or proffer his large hand. He gave a slight nod. "Doctor."

"Comrade Buaphan," said Siri, returning the nod. "I hear you're taking your team to the Thon River district today."

"That's right."

"I didn't see a truck in the yard."

"Probably because it's not there," Buaphan said drily then returned to his story. Siri and Kummai looked at one another.

"It's off getting all its bits checked," said the director. "And oil and water and all that. Make it fit for the road, you know?"

"Do you drive, Comrade?" Siri asked the top of the tall man's head.

"Yes," he replied. "If I had my way."

"Comrade Buaphan has a problem with our drivers," the director told Siri.

Buaphan slapped his magazine shut.

"Actually, Doctor, I don't have a problem with the drivers," he said. "I have a problem with inefficiency and waste. The three of us on the team are perfectly capable of driving the truck. Hiring a halfwit to take the wheel seems to me a perfect example of the departure from thrift that our Central Committee is so adamantly against."

"Comrade Buaphan is a little upset that the ministry insists there be a designated driver on the mission." Kummai smiled at Siri. The doctor was starting to wonder which of these two was the director of the Census Department and how they'd ever be able to communicate without someone else in the room. The section chief showed a remarkable lack of respect for Kummai, and the old soldier seemed to be in awe of his subordinate.

"I wouldn't mind so much if he could drive," Buaphan mumbled to himself.

"Comrade Buaphan is a jack-of-all-trades, Doctor," said the director. "He wants to drive and coordinate the project at the same — "

Kummai was interrupted by a crunch of gears outside the window. All three men looked out as a large green truck lurched into the yard and screeched to a halt. The driver was bald as a bubble and hunched over the wheel, almost clutching it to his chest. He took his foot off the clutch before taking it out of gear and the vehicle hopped half a metre forward and stalled.

"See what I mean, Doctor?" said Buaphan. "He always does that. He thinks it's how you're supposed to stop a truck. He has no respect for his engine."

"Dr Siri," said Kummai, "I'm sure you understand you can't just throw somebody out of a job. The driver's a political appointee just as I am. You could no sooner get rid of him than you could me."

Siri saw Buaphan look away with a 'would that I could' expression. He wondered what kind of appointee the bad-mannered section head might have been. He had the type of arrogance that the doctor had seen before in the children of influential men. Perhaps he was the relative of one of the rich business families bankrolling underground military projects. He certainly had breeding, albeit with an absence of manners. Was he one of the advantaged who could buy his way into a position of authority? And if so, why this job? What was there about regular trips into the countryside to appeal to a man like Buaphan?

"Have you been involved in this project long, Comrade Buaphan?" he asked.

"If I didn't know better, Doctor, I'd say you'd left medicine and gone to work for the secret police," answered the man. He stood and tossed his magazine onto the chair.

"Buaphan has been with the project since the beginning," said Kummai.

The section head took a pile of documents and his briefcase from the desk and walked past the two men without saying another word. His footsteps creaked on the parquet floorboards.

"Friendly chap," Siri said.

"He's a bit brusque but he's very good at his job," said Kummai.

"And you've worked with him for over a year?"

"Almost two."

"I would have thumped him long ago."

Kummai's laugh was genuine but his eyes seemed to agree. They watched through the open window as Buaphan climbed into the passenger seat beside the smiling driver. Deep Eyes and Broken Nose made themselves comfortable among the bags on the flatbed. They put on large straw hats and rolled down their sleeves. It would be a long journey for them.

"Nice truck," said Siri.

"It's sturdy enough," Kummai told him. "It belonged to the Chinese military. We converted it."

The driver started her up and crunched the gears before finding first. They saw Buaphan raise his eyes to the heavens and yell at the poor man behind the wheel, probably not for the first or last time. Siri stared at the section head. He was an objectionable man, but was he capable of murder? Was he a sadist? As the truck pulled out of the yard, the two men on the back gazed at Siri and exchanged a word or two.

There were other questions that needed to be asked of the men who had just begun the six-hour journey to the Thon. But Siri was a coroner, not a policeman. Phosy was the man to take over from here. He could use his clout to look at the transport records of the Census Department and compare them with the dates of the abductions of the brides. He was almost certain he had his man. His instincts had been on edge since he'd first arrived there. Everything fitted: the access to documentation, the two-week hiatus between distribution and collection, and the truck. There was only one point that didn't mesh with the facts. Champasak, the home of the missing girl they'd most recently learned of, was way down south. It was hardly a comfortable driving distance from Vientiane. Siri turned to Kummai.

"What's their radius?" he asked. "I mean, how far from Vientiane do they travel?"

"Usually no more than two hundred kilometres."

"I see."

"There was too much wear and tear on the trucks. Petrol costs were too high. That's why we started sending two of the teams off on scheduled aircraft flights."