Colin Cotterill - The Merry Misogynist

"And it was while sitting watching Buaphan read that I heard the truck start up. I could see the headlights veer off down the track. I'd adopted a 'keep the truck in sight' policy but I wasn't sure how I'd be able to follow it without the driver seeing my lights. I was tired and I knew by the time I'd uncovered the bike he'd be long gone. And I still had my mind set on the census collectors at that point. Nouphet had moved up to take the lead in my suspicions. I planned to go down the track the next day and see what he was up to.

"But as I sat there and meditated, I started to think about the driver. He spent a lot of his time ferrying between the three bases. He was their only form of communication. Who could possibly know where he was at any given time? He could tell base two that he'd spent the night at base one and none of them would be any the wiser. He had plenty of opportunity to disappear. The only thing that made him an unlikely suspect was his looks."

"Plain — bald?"

"It didn't fit. Then I thought back to the reports. Nobody ever said the man was good-looking. They talked about his healthy hair and his interesting face and his bearing. You tend to use the term 'interesting' to describe someone who's average-looking but oozing with sexual charisma. You, for instance — you're quite ugly but women find you irresistible. They see beyond your bald head and your grasshopper features."

"I take your point."

"Our perpetrator had to be a clever actor. He was able to lie to his victims credibly. The driver had every reason to hate Buaphan but he also had the opportunity to study him. He could steal his identity: walk like him, talk like him, adopt his mannerisms. All he needed was hair. And, these days, with so much vanity in the world, a convincing wig isn't that hard to find."

"And all this came to you as you sat in the bushes watching your original suspect fade from your reckoning?"

"Yes, until I fell asleep. It had been a long day. Much as I love Madame Daeng, I sleep much better beside a shrub. Being surrounded by greenery takes me back to my years in the jungle. I slept like a sloth. It was the sound of the truck returning that woke me up."

Civilai sat entranced with his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fists. "And what time was this?" he asked.

"From the position of the sun I assumed it was around ten. I should wear a watch. The driver came up to talk to Buaphan in the hut. I took the opportunity to slide back down the butte and sneak a look at the truck. It was parked in the shade to one side of the clearing. But there were children down there playing around. I didn't want them to see me, so I waited. On reflection I have to presume it was around this time that the driver killed Buaphan. Then he had to do away with the old census collector who had the misfortune to turn up asking for his fee. I knew nothing about it.

"After about an hour the children were called to the house for lunch and I had my chance. I can't say for sure what I was looking for in the truck. While I was scratching around in the cab the driver came down. I was sure he'd find me and I had no idea what I was going to tell him. But the banshees were on my side that day. He didn't get in the front. He climbed up on the flatbed and unlocked the metal chest. I heard him rummaging around back there and then the sound of the lid closing. He jumped off the truck and headed back up to the butte. He'd left the chest unlocked. I went to have a look. And that's when I knew I had the killer. There was a holdall in there. It contained some pretty fancy hors d'oeuvres in cans, and dry crackers and a bottle of champagne as well as two rolls of pink ribbon. It was incriminating in itself but there's nothing illegal about drinking champagne. It wasn't solid evidence that he'd killed anyone. What I should have done then was left on my bike and gone to contact Phosy. He could have arrested the driver and had witnesses identify him as the man they knew as Phan."

"But of course you didn't?"

"It was difficult, Civilai. If I'd left then I didn't know how long it would take me to find Phosy. I had no idea that he was already in the district. I was afraid that if I went to the local police, they wouldn't believe me. They certainly wouldn't arrest a man on my say-so. And in the meantime, I was giving the driver free rein to run off and kill again. So I made my decision. There was a rubber groundsheet in the chest. I wrapped it around myself and waited. I'd left myself breathing room in the chest, just a wedge of daylight under the lid. Through the gap I could see him approach the truck. The driver had completed his transformation already. It was astounding. He was Buaphan, complete with hair and clothes and confidence. It was as if he'd taken over the other man's skin.

"To my horror, he climbed onto the bed of the truck, threw something into the chest on top of me, slammed the lid shut, and locked it. As you know, I've had more than my fair share of claustrophobic dices with death since I became coroner, but this was a nightmare. It was midday, and the temperature in there was in the mid thirties, so hot, I needed to do something fast. It was a solid, Chinese-built metal coffin riveted to the bed of the truck. I calmed myself, slowed my breathing, and recalled that there was a toolbox in the chest. I fumbled my way to it and found a hammer and a screwdriver. A metal drill bit would have been handy but fate wasn't that kind.

"The truck started and I used the cover of the noisy engine to hammer myself an airhole. But these Chinese, I tell you. Why use twenty-millimetre metal plate when you can use fifty? I pounded myself into a good old sweat making the tiniest of holes. I was still going at it when I passed out for the first time. And, Civilai, that pinprick of a hole saved my life. When I came round I had no idea where I was. The truck was stopped and it was quiet out. I was afraid someone might hear me but I needed more air. I used the sharp end of a file to gouge out a larger hole. After an hour I had it to the size of a nostril. I could see through it. It was dark out. We were parked beside a road in some sort of village. There was nobody in sight. All I could think about was Phan being with a new victim somewhere and me stuck in the chest.

"I was deciding whether to yell for help and risk him catching me when I heard the music. It was a band of bamboo instruments and a small choir of drunk-sounding singers. The music was getting closer. I wrapped myself up in the groundsheet again in case anyone opened the chest. It wasn't a logical response, but I was suffering from oxygen deficiency by then, so don't expect common sense."

"I never do. You know? If only we had a campfire and a good bottle of whisky, this would be one of your most classic Siri tales of the improbable."

"We can still do that sometime. Trust me. This story will get better every time I tell it. Where was I?"

"Wrapped in a groundsheet."

"Right. I have the groundsheet over my head, and I am blocked from the airhole, so I pass out for a second time. On this occasion I absolutely believe I'm a goner. As I'm fighting off the black moths, I try to summon my resident spirits: my mother, my dead dog, even the pregnant lady with worms, anybody to get me through it. But I was alone. When you need a good spirit there's never one around. But next thing I know, the lid of the chest is open, and I can see actual stars. I can see Phan's face looking down at me. I'm drowsy from the lack of air, and he's a blur, but I'm sure he must be able to see me if I can see him. Yet he didn't. It was dark in the chest and he was in a hurry. He reached beside me for something — the holdall, it must have been — yanked it out, and he was gone.

"I was disoriented, nauseous. My breathing was awful, but the rush of night air cleared my head a little. Sounds and images were passing in and out of my consciousness: footsteps, the truck starting, driving through thick undergrowth, silence, a distant conversation. I tried to climb out of the chest, but I couldn't summon the energy."