Colin Cotterill - Killed at the Whim of a Hat

“I don’t know. It’s jammed or something.”

“You should have given it to the police.”

I swore that if Arny said that one more time I’d push him out of the truck and drive myself.

“I will,” I said again. “Just as soon as I’ve seen what’s on it.”

“No, I mean, you should have given it to the police as soon as you found it.”

If ever my mother retired from mothering, I knew I’d always have brother Arny to take her place. How could three siblings come from such different planets? We were on Highway 41 heading into Surat. It was a monotonously straight stretch of road and it was only the surprise arrival of holes or lumps that kept you awake at all, which is probably why they were never repaired.

“Arny, listen,” I said. He was driving, so he had no choice. “Do the police know I found the camera? No. Has anyone actually reported it missing? No. If I handed it over tomorrow, would they have any way of knowing I hadn’t just that very minute discovered it? No. Is the fat pup going to fess up? I don’t think so. So, relax.”

“We know. Our consciences know.”

Honestly, if Lieutenant Chompu had been available, I would have asked him to drive me. It was his case, after all. But he’d gone to Prajuab to the army base where they’d taken our bodies. He wouldn’t be back until late. I needed back-up so Arny was my only choice and on long-distance drives he could be like one of those self-help tapes stuck in the player on a loop.

I had the camera in a transparent plastic bag and I’d tried everything I could to play back any photos it contained. But somewhere between the dropping and the dragging and the chewing, and probably a good helping of saliva, the temperamental piece of equipment had lost its ability to display. The only markings I could make out between the scars were the letters DSLR and the beginning of a code, D3555. It looked like a very expensive camera, sturdy but not too heavy. It wasn’t the type of thing a regular tourist would carry around. Our photographer at the Mail had a Canon that looked similar. I’d get Sissi to look it up. But, right now, I wanted to see pictures. I took my laptop out of its case and switched it on. I couldn’t get into the camera but I could take out its memory chip and display it on my computer.

“Arny,” I said.

“Mmm?”

“The laptop.” It was open on my lap and dead as a jellyfish.

“I don’t know anything,” he lied. Only my mother lies with less conviction than my brother.

“Yesterday, this was fully charged.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He folded like a deckchair.

“I just took it down to the beach for a few minutes.”

“I hope you had a very good reason.” My teeth were grinding together.

“I listened to music.”

“You have an iPod.”

“Yeah, but the laptop’s got that program with the psychedelic animations that move in time to the music. It’s very restful.”

I counted backward from a hundred in Portuguese.

“And the sink unit was cracked?”

“Right down the middle.”

“Well, you see? In such a situation, the customer would normally bring back the damaged unit for us to determine whether the crack was structural or whether excessive force was used on it.”

“What excessive force can you exert on a sink unit?” I asked.

He smiled at Arny with a slight rise in his right eyebrow. He was old school. His jacket was a little too large and his choice of tie made you think he didn’t have a wife at home, at least not a fully sighted one. He had ebony-dyed and moussed-back hair that curled up into a gutter at his collar and the look was rounded off with a pencil mustache, HB light.

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you and your wife what happens on the spur of the moment in bathrooms.” He winked. Arny looked blank.

“I think you do,” I said, dumbly.

We’d arrived in Koon Boondej’s office at the Home Art Building Accessories Mega Store with our sink complaint as an excuse to get past the Service desk. We’d hoped to have the ex-con, ex-manager of Blissy Travel to ourselves, but the Quality Manageress had accompanied us and she was hovering. The realization seemed to loom above the manager that nobody was going to play along with his sex on the sink unit fantasy.

“We actually have people standing on the sink to paint the ceiling” was his escape. Not terribly convincing.

“So, how can you tell we didn’t stand on the sink?”

“We have experts who can determine that.” He smiled and looked at the quality woman. I guessed he meant her. I thought it was time to shake her off.

“So you have investigators?” I asked.

“In a way, yes,” he said.

“Are they the same people who check the qualifications of prospective staff members? People applying for administrative positions, that type of thing?”

His smile melted at the edges and his dark skin blushed mauve.

“Are…are you applying for a job?” he asked.

“It’s tempting,” I said. “Convincing newlyweds to buy taps has always been a dream career for me.”

“Then I think I can handle this myself,” he told the woman.

“What about the sink?” she asked.

“We’ll wipe off the footprints and bring it in for you to look at,” I said.

She walked out with a sideways frown at her boss. She wanted his job. I’d used that same frown myself. Once the door was shut the manager seemed to develop a nervous tic that unmoussed his hair one strand at a time.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I was concerned about the background of the management here at Home Art.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

A column of hair fell over one eye, leaving behind a slash of bald.

“Well, let’s just say that somewhere along the line someone by the name of Boondet with a Y gets muddled up with someone else by the name of, ooh, say, Boondej with a ‘j’?”

I paused for effect. All the features on his face seemed to be attempting to change position. I was in.

“I mean, could we, with a clear conscience, buy a Jacuzzi jet bathtub from a convicted murderer?” I continued.

He stood and walked to the door, looked out, twitched, put his hands in his jacket pockets.

“How much do you want?”

“I beg your pardon?”

I noticed Arny looking pale.

“I know what this is,” said the manager.

“What is it?”

“Blackmail.”

I considered the concept.

“In a way, yes, you’re right,” I said.

“I…I know people,” he said.

I knew what he was getting at but gangland figures didn’t take salaried positions at Home Art.

“No, you don’t,” I said. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you. We just need information. You tell us what we need to know and your life and your career are secure. You lie to us and I’m not so sure I’ll be able to keep Fang here on his leash. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

Arny’s hands were shaking on his lap. I suppose it could have been interpreted as pent-up aggression.

“Who are you?” Boondej asked.

“Fair-weather friends,” I said.

I couldn’t remember the name of the movie I’d lifted that from but it worked just fine.

“What do you want to know?” asked the manager. He was still at the door. I wondered whether he planned to bolt for it.

“Blissy Travel,” I said.

He looked surprised.

“What about it?”

“You tell me.”

He obviously didn’t know what to say. Didn’t work. New track.

“You were the manager.”

“Yeah. So?”

“Couples would stop by to sign up for tours?”

“Couples, singles, groups. That’s normal, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. Is it?”