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

All she knew about me was that I was a cook in a beaten-up resort at Earth's end. But she was desperate for a friend. She fell against me and took me in her arms and sobbed into my shoulder. In my current condition, even that was a little exciting. But the longer we stood there, the more her anguish seeped into me like a computer virus. It was overwhelming. What could possibly have happened to this poor little bird?

"I like to see girls bonding" came a voice.

I looked up and there was skinny Bigman Beung leaning against a coconut tree with his arms folded. His uniform was drenched. It was some type of archaic police suit. Noy stepped back and wiped her tears with her hands.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"Reminds me of a video I once saw," he said. "Except there was less clothes and more baby oil."

"I asked you what you're doing here."

"You need to ask when I'm clearly dressed in my sanitation department uniform?" he said.

I smiled at Noy.

"We can talk later," I told her. "Tell your mother you really have no reason to leave here."

She returned my smile, collected her umbrella, and headed off into the rain. Bigman Beung observed her bottom.

"Leaving, is she? Such a waste. Still, I can probably return to the image of you two smooching at a later time. Perhaps when I've had a few drinks. Meanwhile, I have an ecological disaster to avert."

"Our latrine?"

"How did you guess?"

"Ooh, I don't know. Tons of human excrement escaping into the Gulf from our three-seater toilet block? Would that be it?"

"I have a camera. There are grants available. Combination of natural disaster and hazardous waste. Worth a million baht if I take the snaps from just the right angle. You want to come down and pose in front of it?"

"It's underwater."

"You're right. It would be a swimsuit photo shoot."

"No."

"Too bad. Please yourself."

He headed off down to the beach. I called after him.

"Beung."

"Changed your mind?"

"That day I reported the head, who did you phone?"

"The M code?"

"Yes."

"New fellow at the Pak Nam station. He's responsible for all Burmese matters. Lieutenant Egg. He called us village heads to a meeting and told us about the hotline. Any body or body parts washed up on our beaches that we suspect might be Burmese we were to contact him directly."

"What does the M stand for?"

"Maung."

Maung was the generic term the rude Thais used for Burmese. It was like calling all Australians Bruce. It was just another show of disrespect. I sat down with my task force, and the three of us went over everything we thought we knew about the Burmese fishermen. It didn't take long. We needed professional input to understand exactly what was happening out there in the deep Gulf. Ten minutes later, that information arrived. There was a knock on the door. I opened it to the gappy grin of Captain Kow. I noticed Grandad's haunches rise like a mad dog, so it would help to point out at this juncture that Grandad and the squid-boat captain weren't on speaking terms. I have no idea why. Of course, Grandad Jah could count his close friends on one finger, whereas the number of people he irritated would fill the national football stadium. So, whatever had come between them was probably his fault. Captain Kow was a very laid-back type, and most other people seemed to like him. In fact, Grandad was the only one who didn't. Having them together in a small room was going to be a challenge to my refereeing skills.

Over the next half hour, the captain proved that he was every bit as knowledgeable about maritime matters as Grandad Jah was about road transport. That didn't stop Grandad arguing and making nasty comments. But Captain Kow gave no indication of being rattled at all. He rode the interruptions like a man in a rubber dinghy and calmed us all with his soft sing-song voice. I noticed that he directed most of his attention to me, as if we were the only two in the room. He was given perhaps to unnecessary detail, but the gist of his talk was this.

The Gulf of Thailand is 350,000 square kilometers and is 80 meters at its deepest. Until the sixties it was rich in all different types of fish. The local markets were full of cheap anchovies and mackerel. Thence developed the deep-sea trawler industry…instant huge profits leading to overfishing. An average catch of 300 kilograms an hour in 1961 dropped to 50 kilograms in the eighties, 20 today. All that was left was called "trashfish," supplied to the anything-will-do factories. Most affected were crabs, sharks, rays, lobsters, and all the large fish. With the decline of these predators, the trashfish and squids and shrimps-the bottom plankton feeders-increased. Commercial squid-fishing vessels primarily used purse seines-which the captain told us were a type of fine net used to encircle the shoal-or scoop nets. Powerful lights were used to attract the squid to the surface, where they were more easily captured.

From the seventies there were various regulations introduced as to when the boats were allowed to go out, what nets they could use, and where the spawning grounds were. Anything over seven meters had to register for a license and pay an annual fee. Currently the big boats weren't allowed out for the first three months of the year, and anything over fourteen meters had to stay beyond the 3,000-meter mark for the rest of the year. But the policing of those waters was poor, and most of the bigger boats ignored the regulations.

"So, in other words, what you're saying is the bigger boats can do whatever they want," said Grandad Jah, if only because he hadn't said anything for ten minutes or so. "So, none of what you told us is helpful."

"It always helps to know what the rules are, so you can tell how far they're being bent," said Captain Kow.

There was a short Q and A on communications, crew numbers, and registration necessities, which Kow handled well. Since the squid-boat captain wasn't a member of our task force, I thanked him for his input and showed him out. On the veranda he touched my arm, smiled as much with his eyes as with his mouth, and set off into the downpour as if he hadn't noticed it was raining. I could visualize him on the deck of his boat, rocking and rolling and hauling in the nets. It was a romantic but thankfully not erotic image.

Back in the room the two old men were engaged in a hushed conversation. They looked up at me like chipmunks caught in a headlight beam. It was a bad sign. I had to rein them in.

"Whatever you're planning, stop," I said.

"It was nothing," said Grandad. "We were just agreeing that those SRM boys would have a lot to tell us if we just put a bit of pressure on them."

"You are not going to torture the rat brothers," I told him.

"It'd save us a lot of time in the end."

"No."

"So what are we supposed to do?" he asked.

"Look," I said. "We know Egg's set up this elaborate system for clearing bodies off the beaches. When he met up with the village headmen, he specified Burmese. Now, why would he do that? He's not selling spare parts. He has the body snatchers take them off to the SRM and stick them in a broom cupboard. There are no investigations. The victims remain nameless. What reason could he have other than protecting the slavers who throw their unwanted Burmese overboard? If it was an accident on a legal boat, the captains would report missing crewmen. They'd have to account for the Burmese they hire legitimately. I think you two should go talk to the Thai boat owners. I don't mean interview them. Just find out where they eat or drink or play pool and get into casual conversations with them. See if you can pick up any rumors about deep-sea vessels. Make a few-"