Colin Cotterill - Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

"And even more curious, that the only victim wearing sports clothes, heading off to exercise on a Saturday night, was the librarian," Siri pointed out.

"Is there anything to tie them together socially?" Daeng asked. "Any possibility they met up somewhere? Some orientation before they headed off to Eastern Europe?"

Sihot reshuffled his pages.

"Unlikely," he said. "They all left at different times."

Daeng persevered, "Some Eastern European reunion club when they got back? Communist college alumni association? Debriefing seminar?"

"Daeng, my old friend," Civilai chuckled. "Do you honestly believe we're that organised? We can barely keep track of who's off where. It's every ministry for himself. When their people come back they want them out in the field as quickly as possible, frustrated and frustrating because there are no words to describe all the bewildering concepts they've learned in all those exotic languages that they really didn't quite understand themselves. It's chaos. Life back here is far too complicated to sit down and draw up a programme for an 'I survived the Soviet Bloc Club'. And don't forget you need signatures and stamps from seven thousand middle-ranking bureaucrats just to get permission for a meeting with your own relatives to discuss who gets to use the bathroom first in the morning."

Daeng laughed.

"So, we'll forget the possibility they met up socially?" she asked.

"We should technically have a permit to be sitting here," he replied. "Did I mention I needed a drink?"

Siri slipped his arm around his friend's shoulder.

"You can all see why he was such a hit up at the parliament building, can't you?" he said. "A born diplomat. I'm surprised they found such a sweet man expendable."

"All right," said Phosy. "We have more important things to discuss, if you don't mind." He ran his finger over the victim map and allowed it to spiral to a central point. He picked up the crayon and wrote a 'Z' at the centroid of the triangle. "What if the perpetrator is a sword coach? He takes students, advanced and beginner. He offers classes, seduces his students and then impales them through the heart. Victim one is at intermediate level. Victim two is a beginner. Perhaps she was stimulated by watching competitions in Bulgaria but was too embarrassed to take classes there. But victim three is a champion and he gets into the type of fight he hadn't expected. She matches him. He thinks he's killed her but he doesn't know about her weird heart and she's still kicking. The shock gets to him, or maybe he's injured, so he stops his killing spree."

There was a moment of quiet as they all digested this possibility. At last, Siri spoke up.

"Brilliant," he said.

"It makes sense to me," Civilai agreed.

Phosy allowed himself a modest smile.

"And how would anyone go about finding themselves a fencing coach in Laos?" Dtui asked. "We don't actually have notice boards or newspaper advertisements. This isn't Thailand, you know."

"Word of mouth," he said, staring blackly back at her.

"Well, so far we haven't found any connection between the three women," Dtui continued. "Whose mouth did this magic word come from?"

"You begin with a theory and you work back from there," Phosy said, calmly.

"Oh, thanks for the lesson in police procedure," Dtui mocked.

The generals had been watching the exchange like the front row at the French Open. The couple felt the silence and looked down at the table with embarrassment.

"I could use a drink," Civilai said.

Daeng raised the teapot.

"I was thinking more of sugar-cane juice, Madame Daeng. The fermented kind." Civilai had successfully distracted everyone's attention by playing the rather rude guest. Civilai was, luckily for them, Civilai. Daeng laughed and went to the rear of the kitchen where she produced a bottle of Thai rum from a cupboard. Both Siri and Civilai watched with amazement as she walked back to the table.

"Have you found a cure for rheumatism?" Civilai asked. "You're trotting around like a young calf."

"It comes and goes," she said, returning to the table with the bottle.

"As do hangovers," said Sihot.

Siri said nothing. He knew that rheumatoid arthritis didn't come and go at all, especially not at his wife's advanced stage. Just that afternoon she'd been limping painfully, never complaining but certainly in discomfort. Now, here she was being brave so as not to embarrass her guests. She was some woman. The rum helped gather together the loose ends of the atmosphere and for reasons he couldn't work out, the kick of the alcohol reminded Sri about old Mrs Bountien's blood analysis findings.

"There are those of us at Mahosot," he began, "who believe she merely matches the colour, like on a paint chart; dark red, light red. But it was her considered opinion that the blood on the sauna towel belonged to Dew. She said there was only the one blood type."

"So, your modesty theory still holds," Civilai said. "She was covered with a towel out of propriety."

"It's the only possibility that makes sense," Siri continued. "Which would suggest the killer had some fondness for his victim. At least he showed some respect to the body. They appreciate that."

"Who do?" Sihot asked.

"The bodies," said Dtui. Sihot was about to inquire further but Siri had the floor.

"Then, next on my list is fingerprints…"

He was interrupted by hoots of derision. Thus far, he had failed to convince anyone of his qualifications to extract or compare fingerprints. Despite the fact that the western world had been using the system for hundreds of years, communist Laos was not yet ready for such an innovation. Siri remained firm that he would have the last laugh in this matter. He ignored the laughter and forged ahead.

"I have compared the prints I found on the first and third epees," he said, "with those of the victims. Although it's extremely difficult to tell (another hoot)…to tell without projecting the prints on some sort of screen — "

"…or buying a decent pair of glasses," Civilai laughed.

"…or comparing them under a microscope," Siri continued. "Sadly, Mrs Bountien did not allow me to use hers and the only other one I know of is at Dong Dok college, locked up. But, from the evidence of my naked eye I am convinced that the print on blade one does not belong to the victim, whereas the two prints I found on sword three, did."

Everybody applauded.

"And this tells us…?" Phosy asked.

"I'm not sure (he rode out the final jeers), apart from the fact that the print on sword one is likely that of the perpetrator."

"Who we don't have with us to compare it with," Dtui nodded.

"But we will. Trust me. Then you'll all thank me for having concrete evidence. And while I have the floor, the epees themselves are interesting. They aren't all the same."

Sihot found an empty page in his notepad and prepared to take notes.

"The first two," Siri said, "were very similar. About ninety centimetres long with a traditional triangular shaft. But somebody had gone to the trouble to hone the angles of the triangle into three very dangerous, almost razor-sharp rims. The third was quite unusual in that the blade was almost round. The angles had been filed smooth. It was more like the shaft of an arrow. You could hardly inflict damage with it. But the tip had been sharpened to a point like a needle. Just touching it would be sufficient to draw blood."

"So, do you suppose they're different types of blades for different competitions?" Phosy asked.

"It's possible, I suppose. I don't know enough about the sport. It's likely the killer collected whatever type of weapon he could find wherever he happened to be, and brought them back to Laos. But there was something about all three of them that looked…I don't know, as if they'd been re-engineered. As if they were designed for a specific purpose."