Colin Cotterill - Killed at the Whim of a Hat

“Yes.”

On TV it was always a lot easier. They’d answer a question with a question and the suspect would tie himself up in knots. Soon he’d be singing like a caged dove. Arny had a pale green tint to his cheeks. I didn’t know how long I had before he threw up behind the manager’s desk. So I got to the point.

“Exactly how many couples did you kill, Koon Boondej?”

“Just the one.”

I admired, but was taken aback by, his honesty.

“Look, I’ve done my time,” he said. “I’m setting out on a new life here. I’m not a threat to society. Can’t you just…” He looked at Arny. “Is he all right?”

“The thought of extreme violence moves him,” I said.

I pushed the wastepaper bin in front of my brother and he took himself and the bin off to the executive bathroom.

“All right,” I said. I was suddenly feeling vulnerable but I spoke calmly to make the man think I was just as dangerous as Fang. “Just you and me now. I want to hear the whole story.”

“You’re press, aren’t you?” he said.

Busted again.

“Yes.”

“Oh, shit.”

“But you aren’t my story. If you can point me in the right direction, your name doesn’t have to be mentioned at all.”

So he told me about the couple he’d killed. After Blissy Travel collapsed, he’d run a boat trip out to the islands. One of the most popular cruises was to the caves of the nok nang an , the birds that built nests from their own spit. The trips were boozy and most of the tourists were sloshed by the time they arrived back at the dock. Boondej often missed the pier entirely. One day they went out to the cave, anchored a few hundred feet from the island in shallow water. The guests waded in to the caves, took pictures, waded back out and continued with the serious task of getting plastered. Boondej was a little more pickled than usual that day and he miscounted. One couple had gone deep into the cave and he left them there. The tide rose and they drowned. Culpable negligence. The husband was the son of a Scandinavian diplomat so Boondej served the whole eight-point-two-three meters.

Actually I’d been hoping for something more fiendish. The Home Art Mega Store manager didn’t sound like the serial killing type. So I brought up the topic of VW vans.

“I had two,” he said with pride. “I went down to Malaysia and got them secondhand. Hardly used. They were the only ones of their kind around then. I did a lot of business with them. They were all the go with backpackers in Europe. So when the hippies came over to Thailand they’d take the bus from Bangkok on their way to Ko Samui and pass right in front of my shop.”

Arny, a few shades lighter, re-entered the room. He replaced the waste bin and lowered himself slowly into the seat.

“Go on,” I said.

“They, I mean the VWs, were on the road most of the time. They’d come back and, poof, the next day there’d be a new customer. I charged rental by the day. The customers paid for petrol. They’d invariably trip up one coast, then back down the other. Stop off in Chumphon and Ranong and Phuket, down to Krabi. I included a recommended itinerary in the cost of the rental with the names of guesthouses and resorts. But there were mattresses in the back of both vans so they could save money on accommodation if they liked. I tell you, if I’d been able to hang on to those vans I’d be a rich man today.”

“What happened to them?”

“Vanished.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Disappeared, both of them. Within the space of a week.”

“You reported them missing?”

“Of course I did. They were my cash cows. I’d always hang on to the passports and ID cards of the customers and take a security deposit. Once the vans vanished I showed the IDs to the police. You know what they told me? Fakes. Fakes, all of them. Thais, I tell you. Can’t trust ‘em. I should have stuck with foreign backpackers.”

“The vans were rented by Thais?”

“The police told me there was a car theft gang sweeping through the south, renting cars and motorcycles on false IDs and reselling them. I’m not sure if they ever caught up with the gang but I know I didn’t get my vans back. That’s what killed off the rental business for me.”

“So, do you have any idea why one of your vans might have been found buried under two meters of dirt in a field in Chumphon?”

Boondej attempted to replace the lock of hair that had been annoying me all this time. He had a look of genuine surprise on his face.

“Shit. Is that what this is all about?”

“Yes.”

“You came here just to ask me why one of my vans was buried in a field?”

“Yes. Well, there was also the fact that there were two bodies buried with it.”

That upset him.

“Damn. Do the police know about me?”

“Not yet.”

“They’d put two and two…”

“Afraid they would.”

“Just like you.”

“Yes.”

“I couldn’t take any more of that. I’m not a criminal, but once you’ve got a record they pull you in for anything.”

“Then we should try to solve this before they get to you. I don’t suppose you remember the people who rented your vans?”

“I’ll never forget them. Two couples they were, both ripped from the same cloth. I’d seen their type before, young Thai kids pretending to be Western hippies. Long hair. Fluffy excuses for beards. Dressing like bums so people would think they were artists or musicians. Stench of musk. They walked in off the street looking so straggly I thought they were about to ask me for the cost of a cup of sweet tea. Then they handed over a wad of money to rent the van. Those musicians, you never could tell. So you had to be nice to all the bums just in case they were rich. I should have been suspicious that the two couples were so alike.”

“And why weren’t you?”

“I assumed the first pair had told their friends. Either that or there was some hippy music festival on somewhere. It was just a few days between the two rentings. Of course, it’s easy to be logical after the damage is done. No. I was just greedy. I’d rent the vans out to anyone with the money to pay for them.”

“And the IDs they left you?”

“Like I say, they were fake. The photos were a lot more respectable than the kids but there was a likeness.”

“Did you keep them?”

“No. I had to hand them over to the police.”

“Did the kids have any distinguishing marks?”

“Not really. Beards. Hairy armpits on the girls. Nothing soap and a razor couldn’t fix.”

“All right. I might have more questions but, if I do, I’ll phone you.”

“And you aren’t going to…”

“ Koon Boondej, in my line of work you meet liars with varying degrees of skill. You have to recognize the signs. You strike me as a man forced into dishonesty by the system. So, no, I’m not going to tell anyone about you.”

“I appreciate it. There’s nothing else?”

“Well, yes. There is one more thing. I need five minutes with your computer without you in the room.”

“I — ”

“I’m not going through your files. I just need to open some photos. But they’re personal.”

The manager turned on the computer for me and left quite placidly. I clicked out the memory card from the camera and worked it to the rim of the plastic bag so I wouldn’t have to touch it directly with my fingers. I slotted it into the Home Art computer and waited for the machine to find it. I looked over at Arny. He was sulking but the color had returned to his cheeks.

The computer found the external link and asked me what I wanted to do. I didn’t want to save the photos on the computer so I opened them in ACDSee just to have a look. I clicked.