Colin Cotterill - Killed at the Whim of a Hat

“There was a label found among the surviving shreds of clothing,” said Yai, hopefully. “It said, ‘Made in India’.”

I remembered a suicide case in Chiang Rai a couple of years earlier when a foreigner was identified as Italian because he had his name in his shirt: Signore Armani.

“Labels can be misleading,” I said.

“Of course, you’re right,” said the lieutenant. “Has any of this been any help to you at all?”

“No.”

“Would you like to come and see the van now it’s uncovered?” he asked. “I could drive you.”

I had follow-ups to do for three newspapers and I had nothing to tell them. I held little hope that the fully excavated VW would offer up anywhere near enough insights to fill a column. Newspapers recognized fluff when they saw it and, as a country reporter, my offerings would be scrutinized very closely by the evil editors. I’d barely make it off the inside back page. I was dead again.

Lieutenant Chompu stopped off in the little officer’s room to freshen up and I was just about to walk out into the car park when I heard the booming voice of Major Mana. I ducked back behind a pillar.

“I wasn’t expecting you back today, sir,” said Sergeant Phoom in his usual jolly tone.

“Here is the last place I want to be, given what’s just happened,” said the major.

“Something serious, sir?”

From my nook between the pillars with a cardboard SAFE DRIVING accident cut-out blocking most of me, I was able to see the major walk to the desk, lean close to the sergeant, and whisper something. I couldn’t hear what he said but I noticed the sergeant reel backward as if he’d been slapped. This was a secret I wanted to know. I waited for the major to race up the stairs three at a time and I strolled over to the desk.

“Have you heard?” I asked.

“Heard what?” asked Sergeant Phoom, still pale from receiving the news.

“Oh, sorry. I thought the major would have told you by now.”

“Well…that depends.”

“Look, it doesn’t matter. I don’t think I’m allowed to share it with you if Major Mana hasn’t said anything.”

I turned and headed for the car park but I could hear his mind ticking over behind me.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with” — and he lowered his voice — “the abbot?”

“See? You do know.” I smiled. “You’re just playing with me.” I walked back to his desk.

“Terrible thing, isn’t it?” he said.

“I was shocked. Shocked, I tell you.”

“We go three years with barely a punch on the nose and then, bang, two cases in the one day.”

My heart turned a little but I had to be careful now. I didn’t want to alienate one of my new friends at my local station but I had some fishing to do.

“What do you think happened?” I asked, leaning across his desk.

“Now, wait,” he said. “How do you know about it?”

“Sergeant Phoom,” I said, with my most sincere face attached, “I’m a reporter for national newspapers.”

“But there’s supposed to be a news blackout.”

“Never underestimate the power of the press. Come on, what’s your theory?”

I could hear Chompu speaking upstairs. My time was running out.

“Well, I don’t have many facts,” he confessed.

“But?”

I seemed to hover there for an inordinately long time before:

“But the stabbing to death of an abbot suggests a personal conflict to me.”

An abbot got stabbed? Holy mackerel. I was suddenly in the crime capital of the Eastern Seaboard. I was so excited I wanted to pee. Look out Pulitzer prize. I made a mental wai to the abbot for my disrespect. One last cast of the net.

“But wait, it’s out of your jurisdiction, isn’t it?” I tried.

“Not at all. Wat Feuang Fa is just on our side of road four-three-six. That’s the border. Anything on the other side is handled by Lang Suan.”

Chompu came tripping down the stairs and I pulled in my net. I had everything I needed. The lieutenant was shaking his hands in front of him. I took him for the type who didn’t trust communal hand towels.

“Ready?” he asked.

The VW visit had lost a certain amount of piquancy for me in the past few minutes but it would have been suspicious for me to cry off.

“And willing,” I said.

Old Mel was sitting on the back fence of his plantation wondering where all the peace and quiet had gone. He was admiring the water spraying from the heads of a dozen sprinklers. The blue PVC pipe upon which they perched snaked between the palms until it reached a sturdy Chinese pump. This in turn drew water from a newly dug pond at the center of which stood a rusty but surprisingly intact VW Kombi van.

“Good morning, Mel,” said Lieutenant Chompu.

“Morning,” said Mel.

The old man remembered me from the previous day’s dig. He briefly slapped his hands together in response to my wai . I imagine he’d read my news report that morning, which largely ignored the thirty-minute interview he’d given me on Saturday.

“Your well is surely the envy of the province.” Chompu smiled. “Such an attractive centerpiece.”

“Right,” laughed Mel. “Until the rust kills all my palms.”

“Nonsense,” said the policeman. “All that iron. They’ll flourish. You watch.”

The old man had been in a hurry to get his sprinklers working. I looked around at the plantation. Deep ditches ran between the rows of palms all the way from the road to about twenty meters from the back fence. Each contained a shallow trough of water. It was a confusing layout. One that didn’t make sense.

“ Koon Mel,” I said (selecting the polite ‘Mr.’ over the less-than-polite ‘Old’), “can you tell me why the ditches don’t extend all the way to the rear fence?”

“Ah,” said Mel. “We dug the ditches fifteen years ago. I was a lot fitter then. Me and my brothers dug them by hand. None of that mechanized backhoe stuff. Everyone was still planting coconut palms back then. Only a few of us had the foresight to see the future of palm oil. Now everyone’s cutting down their coconut trees and planting palms. We were the pathfinders.”

“So, why…?” I pushed.

“Oh, right. Well, back then the ditches did go all the way to the back fence. But about seven years ago the owner of the land out there came by and asked if I’d like to buy another three hectares to extend our plantation. He said they had properties to develop and needed to sell off some of his scrubland in a hurry to grab some good building real estate in Phuket. He needed cash in hand so he was selling cheap. We had money in the bank so I said yes.”

I walked to the pit and looked at the rusty VW.

“So, this vehicle was actually buried on your neighbor’s land,” I said.

“Yeah.”

From the truck, Lieutenant Chompu had removed a large Government Savings Bank umbrella which he now held over us to keep off the sun. He remained silent as I continued my questioning.

“And what do you know about your neighbor?” I asked.

“Chinese.”

I’d heard the word ‘Chinese’ on numerous occasions down here, not used as a description of ethnicity but more to explain a multitude of ills. In a lot of South-East Asian countries there were us — the natives — and them — the Chinese business community. Old Mel had decided that ‘Chinese’ gave me all the information I needed about his neighbor. The land beyond the fence was twenty-odd hectares of overgrown grass and shrub land. People parked their cattle there year-round to graze for free.

“Did your neighbor offer to sell you the whole lot?” I asked.

“No.” Mel shook his head. “I asked, but he wasn’t interested.”