Colin Cotterill - Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

"Brother Siri," Phat said as he walked into the office.

"Phat, did you lose your way? I've never seen you near the morgue before."

"Just pacing out those final steps."

"And they lead you here? Are you expecting a violent death, brother?"

"A knife in the back. It's a feeling I've held since I first arrived at Justice."

Phat walked past Siri and sat on a chair, ignoring the fact that the doctor was clearly on his way home.

"I only have cold tea to offer," Siri said, returning to his desk.

"I come as a harbinger of doom," said Phat.

"That's a pity. I was planning on having a good-news-only day. Are you sure it can't wait till I come back from Cambodia?"

"That's the point, brother Siri. I am here to strongly recommend that you don't go there."

"I think the trip's all booked and paid for."

"Then, come down with something that makes it impossible for you to travel. And tell your friend Civilai to do the same."

"What on earth for?"

"Dr Siri, what exactly do you know about what's happening in the swamp they call Kampuchea?"

"Not much. The orientation only took half an hour. Most of it was read from some sort of travel brochure. Then they gave us an itinerary and a summary of the Red Khmer manifesto. It looked a lot like ours."

He didn't bother to mention the warning he and Civilai had been given that they might get some subtle pressure from the Vietnamese not to go. Hanoi had mentored the fledgling Khmer Rouge and encouraged its overthrow of the corrupt Khmer royalists. But its plan to have Laos and Cambodia sit at its feet like tame naga dragons had been thwarted by the new revolutionary leaders in Phnom Penh. It was no secret that the Khmer and the Vietnamese had long since separated on ideological grounds, but, since the beginning of the year, the war drums had been beating on both sides of the border. Once an ally, Cambodia, now Kampuchea, had become a threat. Phnom Penh was drifting closer to China, just as Vietnam drifted further away from the big Red mother ship.

"We are hearing terrible things from Khmer refugees at our borders," Phat said. "I am seriously concerned for your safety, Comrade."

"Refugees have a habit of saying what they think their saviours want to hear. I wouldn't worry about it."

Phat rose. He seemed to be offended by Siri's attitude.

"I came here on my own time and against the wishes of my embassy. I came out of friendship with a sincere warning."

Siri wondered whether Civilai was encountering his own delegation of Vietnamese friendship ambassadors.

"I appreciate it," Siri said. "But, I think it's too late to get out of it, Comrade." He stood and held out his hand to Phat. "But thank you for the warning. It was good to see you again."

Phat didn't return the handshake.

"It's far more than a warning, Siri. Putting a man with your character in Phnom Penh at this time is like dropping petroleum on a bush fire. If you go to Kampuchea you will burn, Siri Paiboun. Trust me."

He turned and walked out.

Siri had never seen him like this. It had been an impressive and — he had to admit — an unnerving visit. The Vietnamese certainly knew how to squeeze. The colonel's words were still on his mind as he put the welcome mat inside and locked the front door. And the old woman's voice telling him not to go. He liked his omens in threes. One more and he'd call in sick and let Civilai go by himself. All by himself to sample the fine wines and tasty Khmer food. The beautiful Khmer women. The charm of Phnom Penh. The memory of walking along Boulevard Noradom with Boua. The smiles of the locals. The music. What was a little prophecy of doom against all that?

A voice from across the flooded hospital grounds reached him through the drizzle.

"Feel like a drink?"

Cast in silhouette against the gaudy strip lights of oncology, Phosy stood astride his Vespa in a foot of water. Siri took off his sandals, rolled up his trouser legs, and waded to the inspector.

"I thought you'd given it up," Siri told him.

"Just saving myself for Lao new year and very special occasions," Phosy smiled. Siri hadn't seen him in such a good mood for a very long time.

"Well, new year came and went without anyone noticing," Siri said. "So what's the occasion?"

"Another solved case."

"You haven't…?"

"We have. Not only do we have our fencer, we have irrefutable connections to each of the victims and to the three crime scenes. It's all over." He shook the doctor's hand. "Congratulations."

There were fewer and fewer places to drink of a night in a city whose sense of muan — of innocent pleasure — had been slowly wrung from it by two and a half years of socialism. The logical hot spots were roofless snack and drink stalls along the riverbank and, as long as that one unstoppable April shower persisted, they would remain closed. There was the Russian club, a bustling, beery night-eatery populated by Eastern European experts. But that was beyond the budget of a Lao policeman and a Lao doctor. So Siri and Phosy took their drinks under an umbrella at Two Thumb's humble establishment behind the evening market. They drank rice whisky and worked through a plate of steamed peanuts in soft shells. Siri knew he should have been packing, spending the night with Madame Daeng, but she'd always understood the power of celebration, particularly when victory was the prize.

"If we'd only checked sooner," Phosy said. "Or if one of us had remembered the names on the lists. But, why would we? We were only interested in the team leader on the rewiring project. I doubt we gave the other names on the Electricite du Laos work roster more than a cursory glance. But I'd arrived at the name Somdy Borachit on the subscriptions list and I read it out loud. And Sihot had just worked out his schedule to interview all the electricians on his list and he asked me how it was spelt. And, sure enough, it was the same name. We had him: Somdy Borachit, who everyone knew by the nickname of Neung. We drove over to Electricite du Laos and he was there, calm as you like. Confident. And I asked him if he had an acquaintanceship with the three victims and he admitted he did. No pretence at all. He came straight out with it."

"That he'd killed them?"

"That he knew them all. I asked why he hadn't come forward when he heard about the killings and he said, "It's complicated." Complicated? You bet it's complicated. We took him to HQ and questioned him. And it was as if every answer he gave tied him tighter and tighter to the murders. It was as if he didn't understand the implication of what he was saying. Everything in this case points directly to him. Every damn thing."

"He didn't have an alibi?"

"Claims he was babysitting his son all weekend. His wife was off at a seminar. It's just one more story that doesn't work."

"Start at the beginning, Phosy."

"All right. You'll never guess who Neung's father is."

"Then, tell me."

"Miht, the groundsman at K6. And when the Americans were still there he used to go to help his father with the gardening work."

"So, he would have met young Jim there. Attractive girl. Got chatting…"

"He admits it. Said he knew her before he went off to study. And where do you suppose he takes his scholarship course in electrical engineering?"

"East Germany."

"Precisely where Jim was headed. And he studied not two blocks from her school. Amazing coincidence? I don't think so."

"So, he could have been the mystery man who hounded her there. Followed her to Berlin then stalked her."

"Forcing her to come home early," Phosy went on. "He returned at about the same time. Which brings us to victim number two, Kiang. It's easier to do this in reverse order. In the beginning he told us he'd met Kiang at the government bookshop and they'd chatted about being overseas and he said he'd never seen her outside the reading room. Never socialised with her. And it was so obvious he was lying even Sihot could read it. I was so certain we had our killer I decided I could push as hard as I liked at that stage. But Neung didn't take much pushing. As soon as the word 'murder' came up in the interview, he admitted that he and Kiang were…'dating', I think is what he called it. I asked him why he'd lied and he said he hadn't wanted word to get back to his wife. His wife? Can you believe it? He's got a wife and a child and he's dating. And it doesn't seem like killing the girl was nearly as important as his wife not finding out."