Colin Cotterill - Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

"What's that you're eating, brother?"

"Burnt wood," I tell him. "It appears the kids set fire to the blackboard before they graduated. I took the liberty of breaking off the corner of the frame. I hope these fellows don't withhold my security deposit. They look like a tough bunch."

I can feel myself weakening. I can feel the energy and will sapping from my old body. But it isn't hunger that drives me to eat the blackboard. It is a hope that the charcoal at the core of the charred wood might act to remove the toxins from my body and stop these runs. It's unlikely, but worth the try.

"I admire your spirit," says the heavy monk. "I used to have a sense of humour. They took that from me as well." He looks at me with a dramatic sincerity. "Old doctor, I feel my days are numbered. Do you mind if I unburden myself before they take me?"

I decide to play him along.

"You mean like a confessional?"

"Is it exclusively for Catholics?"

"They do have a better accounting system. I wouldn't know how many self-flagellations or press-ups to impose on you."

"It doesn't matter. The very act of talking to someone who doesn't judge should be enough. I…I did all the things they're accusing me of. I was a spy for the Vietnamese. I've been sending messages to — "

"Oh, do shut up," I tell him.

"What?"

I've taken as much as I can. The thought of one more gruel donation has kept me silent, biting my tongue until now. But I'm damned if I'll allow myself to be subjected to any more of this.

"Well," I say, "I suppose I could listen to you as you list your sins and you tell me how good it feels to get it out of your system. And then you'll say something like, "Is there anything you'd like to confess, brother?" And I take this heaven-sent opportunity to spew forth the locations of all the top-secret Vietnamese missile silos and the names of all my spy schoolteachers and their hat sizes. Spare me."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you? That's a shame."

"What are you trying to say, old man?"

"That you're a poor excuse for a human being. That's what. You're no more a monk than I'm a malt grinder. The old, 'get into his heart and drain him of information' routine. It's been done to death. My word, if this is the best your founding fathers can come up with, I'd give your ugly regime six weeks before it vanishes up its own backside."

"You can't t-"

"Has this ruse ever worked? I don't believe anyone conscious would ever fall for it. Go on, get out. Call your cronies and tell them you've failed."

The kind eyes of the heavy, and now defrocked, monk cloud over. The smile curls into a smirk. He glares at me. He glares needles into my eyes. Then he shouts for the guards and, as they unlock his chains, the man has the audacity to ask, "What was it that gave me away?"

I'm flabbergasted. Astounded. Does he really believe I'll point out his errors so he'll be able to get it right on the next poor soul? Instead, I give him a gesture I've seen work effectively in some Hollywood films. I've found very little opportunity to use it myself. It involves the unfurling of the digitus medius. The monk has obviously seen the same movies. He stretches, walks back to me and slaps me with the back of his hand across the cheek. He turns and walks out of the room. I know that whatever cruelty awaits me beyond that door has just increased ten-fold, but I don't care.

And what is this, my hard-to-please poltergeists? You haven't been lifted by this display? Inspired? You sit with no noticeable emotion on your faces. Ah, but there she smiles, my mother, a very broad smile that drools with bloody red betel. A mother's pride for her clever son. So clever he's doomed himself.?

Word had come back from teacher Oum at the Lycee Vientiane that the tests on victims one and two had proven negative for sedatives. Siri was now more certain than ever that both women knew and trusted their killer. He hadn't found it necessary to render them unconscious before impaling them with ninety centimetres of steel. But the contents of the vitamin bottle he'd found at the auditorium had been more difficult to analyse. The results showed a strong possibility, although not conclusive, that it had contained morphine elixir. If it was indeed connected to the case it added to the questions rather than answered them. What was it for? It had to be assumed that either the killer or the victim had consumed the elixir to deaden pain. As there was no evidence of previous injuries on Jim's body, and no indication of illness or disease, the likelihood was that the killer had been suffering in some way. Perhaps from an injury sustained in one of his attacks. Teacher Oum had only just got round to looking at the samples from the third victim and was in the process of testing them for morphine. There was a good deal to discuss.

Phosy's Intelligence Section at Police HQ had, in its heyday, enjoyed a staff of five. Then, some genius at the Ministry of Interior had decided Vientiane was under control and three of Phosy's men had been dispatched to the provinces. Despite their own comparative inexperience, they had been sent to train ex-foot soldiers in the art of policing; a thankless and hopeless operation. So Phosy and Sihot were it as far as detecting was concerned. As they had three victims, and as Siri had done all he could in the morgue, Phosy recruited him unofficially to help out. He was given the task of looking into the life of Kiang, the second victim. For a closet detective like Siri, this was not unlike winning a Nobel prize. He took Nurse Dtui with him as back-up and left Geung to guard the morgue.

Apart from Ministry of Education copies of Kiang's academic records obtained from Bulgaria, the only source of information they had for Kiang was her mother. So, that's where they began. The house was in That Luang district on a hill which was unlikely to experience the floods. Two ancient flamboyant trees stood guard outside the front fence which itself had taken root and sprouted leaves. A straw and bamboo gazebo sagged in front of the house. It stood beside an enormous grey water jar that spilled over with run-off from the roof. Dtui and the doctor climbed down from the Triumph wearing their huge blue plastic ponchos. They looked like giant morning glory. Siri was from the old 'wear little, get soaked, dry off' school of surviving the monsoons but Dtui had insisted he try one of the new Soviet ponchos. It kept off the rain sure enough, but in Laos whose humidity reached a factor of eighty-two, it merely acted like a portable steam room and rendered them both soaked beneath the plastic.

"Who's there?" came a woman's voice from inside the house.

"Dr Siri and Nurse Dtui from Mahosot hospital," Dtui called.

A woman appeared in the open doorway wiping her hands on a cloth. She was tall with greasy cheeks and hair pulled back in a bun so severe her ears were almost behind her.

"Mahosot?" she said, alarmed. "What's happened now?"

"We're from the morgue," Siri told her. "We're very sorry about your loss."

"The…? Oh, of course." Her sadness overwhelmed the visitors.

"We're helping the police put together a file on the victims," Siri continued. "If it isn't too painful, I was hoping we…"

The woman seemed to awaken with a start.

"Oh, my. I'm sorry. Where are my manners? Come in, please."

They drank tea and ate excellent homemade kanom krok sweet patties at the kitchen table. The inside of the house spoke of more affluent times. Happier days. Now it seemed to be draped in the same shroud as its owner. Kiang's mother told them of her husband's death to malaria in 1968. How he had been the dean of education in the liberated zone. How his eldest girl had trained with him and become a teacher, a brilliant, well-liked teacher. How she had been in love with a soldier who was killed in a battle in Xiang Khouang. How the mother's second child had contracted dengue and been taken from them two years earlier, now Kiang. How their youngest son, Ming, wanted to mourn for them but didn't know how because the schools didn't teach you how to pray any more.