Colin Cotterill - Grandad, Thereэ's head on the beach

"Not Chompu."

"I admit the queer boy does have skills. But we don't know they'll assign him to the case."

"They don't have cases, Grandad. What else has happened down here for the past couple of months? They weed the station flowerbeds, use up their petrol allowance by driving round smiling at girls, and set up random barricades to extort money from truck drivers who think seat belts are for sitting on. Oh, and they practice marching.

They have to assign it to Chompu. He's the only one who can spell."

"These police don't know how to deal with hard nuts like those two thugs. There's only one recourse," Grandad snarled.

He cracked his knuckles. It sounded like tiles shuffling on a mah-jong board.

"Oh, Grandad. No."

"There's only one thing those types understand."

"Please."

"Street justice."

I'd been afraid that might happen. Our own geriatric Judge Dredd had recently formed an alliance with an equally honest and subsequently vilified ex-policeman from the south called Waew. Together, they had wreaked revenge on an evil-doer and got away with it. Vengeance was a drug that made Viagra look like aspirin. I suppose I should have reasoned with him, told him how dangerous it was to be messing with villains like the rat brothers, but Grandad's well past his use-by date. When you're beyond seventy, nobody's really surprised when they find you facedown in your fried rice. Probably better to arrive in nirvana with a slit throat and stories.

"Whatever," I said.

I was about to take the truck into Pak Nam in search of the elusive Burmese community that Lieutenant Egg had failed to engage. I'd reversed out of the carport and was crunching my way into first. It's an old truck. But in my side mirror I saw an excitedly pretty face. I squeaked down the window and said hello to Noy.

"The coast is clear," I said.

Mother and daughter had been hiding out in the woods at the far end of the bay for an hour for no particular reason. None of the police asked whether we had any guests.

"Jimm, I just wanted…to tell you…"

She was out of breath. The wind did that to you. Filled you up with so much air you couldn't get it all out. I'd been expecting a story. They'd had enough time to come up with a good one. I'd thought something like…I don't know…vengeful husband or boyfriend perhaps. That would have worked. Ours was a matriarchal family, so that would probably have twanged at our heartstrings. But what they conjured up was a disappointment. Noy ran round the front of the truck and put herself in the passenger seat. She was trapped now. There were no handles on the inside.

"I hope you don't mind," she said.

"Not at all."

I switched off the motor, and the truck shimmered to a standstill.

"I imagine that you and your family are wondering what people like us are doing here," she said.

"You're not on vacation?"

She giggled.

"I'm sure you didn't believe that," she said.

"If our prime minister can make spring rolls on national television, nothing would surprise me."

"The fact is…" she began.

I've noticed how often people say "the fact is" before launching into fiction.

"The fact is my father is one of the leading activists against the yellow shirts. You do know about the situation in Bangkok?"

I guessed nobody had informed her that I'd been an almost prize-winning journalist at a national publication. An army was rising up to oppose the yellow shirts, with the backing of the satellite-dish tsar and his billionaire family.

"I think I saw something about it on TV," I said.

"Well, he…Dad was very vocal against the yellows. We tried to convince him to keep a lid on it, but he's a very principled man. He spoke up in public accusing the yellow shirts of dragging our democracy into the dirt. He…"

"Yes?"

"He received threats. Not against him but against us. His family. They said they'd kill us."

"The yellow shirts said that?"

"Right. As he loves us, and I'm sure you understand why I can't divulge his name, he sent us away from Bangkok. That's why we're here. That's why we removed the number plates. That's why we're avoiding the police. I'm so sorry we couldn't tell you this. But we still have to be very careful. The yellow shirts can be evil."

"Right."

I could imagine the scene. Auntie Malee, the exporter of traditional coconut cakes, calls together Bert, the brake lining supplier, and Lulu, the barista, and orders a hit on Noy whose father had dared voice what half the country had been complaining about publicly ever since the yellows sauntered into Government House. So the Noys flee. And they head in exactly the wrong direction, south, yellow-shirt central. Come off it, girl.

"You must be terrified," I said and put my hand on hers.

"We are," she said, looking at a string of beach cabbage that had blown over from the sand and wrapped itself around our wipers. "But when you told us the police were coming, we sensed that you could feel our anguish. We decided we could trust you and wanted you to know the truth."

"Well, I appreciate honesty. We all do."

"We just wanted you to understand that we've done nothing wrong. Nothing illegal. We are victims."

"I feel for you, my sister."

She took back her hand and placed her palms together. She folded herself low to my left kidney like a scullery maid addressing a royal in a very confined space. She smiled and tried to leave the truck, only to realize there were no handles. I ran round to let her out and watched her walk off toward her cabin. It had been a performance worthy of a raspberry. But one thing was certain. These two were no grifters. They couldn't act their way out of a prawn cracker packet. It was time to see what dirt Sissi had come up with. The Noys had done something bad. Very, very bad. I wanted to know what it was.

It's hard to describe our nearest town, just as it's hard to call it a town and keep a straight face. Think of any crossroads you know, then squeeze it to a point where two cars can barely pass one another without slapping wing mirrors. Remove traffic lights and stop signs from your thoughts. Add the chaos of handcarts and sidecars and people walking in the street because the pavement has cars parked on it. Then imagine you're standing in the middle of the cross. North you'd see a few cramped wooden shops selling nothing anyone would ever need. Likewise to the south. Dead end to the southeast where the road terminates at the river. Too bad if you're new to the district and travel in that direction at any speed. The Pak Nam Champs Elysees, route 4002, heads west. It's there you can find the 7-Eleven, the post office, the bank, the market, the district office, and the best darned lady finger banana seller in the country. You cannot, however, find decent cappuccino, pizza, wine, cheese, ice cream, black forest cake, or cherries-all those things that make a civilized society. This was truly a hardship posting for a girl who grew up in a multicultural metropolis.

I pulled up in front of the old ice factory at the docks. The sound of ice being crushed resounded like strikes at a bowling alley. I'd had to ask directions. The factory was in a cleverly concealed turn-off before the cul-de-sac. When you were driving into town, you could see the harbor from the road bridge. It made a good photograph. The sun glinting off the water as the triumphant fishing vessels returned with their catch. A few tourists stopped there. That and the concrete battleship were our only photogenic spots. But being down here was different altogether. The hastily put together hovels all around me spoke of poverty and disorder and neglect. Temporary accommodation for temporary people. Clunky wooden fishing boats gathered around the concrete piers, two or three abreast, like polite pigs at a feeding trough. On the jetties, people worked. I don't mean they went through the motions with one eye on the overtime clock. I mean they toiled. They sliced and gutted and bagged and hauled and lugged. There was a different pace to life. An urgency. It was a bit eerie really.