Colin Cotterill - Killed at the Whim of a Hat

“Any idea what that is?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He waited.

“Gonna tell me?”

“It’s the nun’s hut.”

“Well then.”

I’d suggested the possibility of the nun being implicated in the murder and done my best to make it sound unlikely. The concrete path meandered over the crest of the hill and approached the living quarters from the south. It was a very open track. But looking along the perimeter directly to the hut, I could see a case for someone concealing herself in the bushes and leaping out on an unsuspecting abbot. That’s when I decided to tell him about the photographs. Not that I’d downloaded them, but that Arny and I had seen them. We sat in the shade of a particularly tall bush and I hoped that my description of the crime might point the finger away from my sweet, love-struck nun.

“You still think she did it?” I asked.

“Well, if I was one of those modern, hi-so techno yuppie police superstars from Bangkok, I’d probably put all this information together and say, ‘Yes, she’s the common denominator’,” he said. “And I’d stop looking. But if I was an old, retired traffic policeman with not a single commendation or service ribbon to his name, I’d probably do this.”

And with that he headed off into the overgrown woodland straight ahead of us. He was fit for his age. It was all I could do to keep up with him. The branches he pushed past whipped back into my face and the ground was thick with roots and nasty nettles that bit my ankles. I doubted any other creature had entered this jungle since the dinosaurs. But some thirty meters from the perimeter fence, Granddad Jah and the vegetation stopped dead. I ran into his back. Before us was a red dirt track cut through the undergrowth. It was common enough down here where locals planted cash crops where they could and dug out trails through the jungle for access. The way was heavily rutted with what looked like truck tire and motorcycle tracks. Granddad Jah looked left and right but didn’t step out onto the dirt.

“All right,” he said. “It’s narrow. If, for whatever reason, I was to stop here in a car, I’d know some local farmer might need to get past to plant his palms or collect his berries, so I’d pull over as tight onto the verge as I could. About…there.”

He was pointing to a grassy area ten meters ahead. We picked our way along the edge of the wood, being careful not to step on the track, and stopped at the rough patch of weeds.

“What if he came on a motorcycle?” I asked.

He contemplated that possibility.

“Then we’re buggered,” he said. “But let’s go with the black Benz theory for now and see where that takes us. Ready?”

“OK. He parks here,” I said. “He cuts through the jungle, kills the abbot, for whatever reason, then comes back to…Wait! Look at this.”

I crouched down to get a better look. A cigarette butt in the grass. It was tipped and imported, not the type of thing Maprao locals would smoke. Granddad Jah knelt beside me and found another, then one more. We didn’t touch them.

“Three cigarette ends,” he said. “Now that’s either totally irrelevant or really significant. If the latter, it changes the theory completely.”

“It does?”

“Certainly. It either means our killer was so cool and collected that he felt he could get away with having a leisurely smoke or three, either before or after the murder…”

“…or he had an accomplice waiting in the car,” I added.

“Sometimes, Jimm,” he said, with one of his almost smiles, “I think you’re wasted as a girl.”

I held my tongue. In his mind it might have even been a compliment.

“You think that was good?” I said. “How about this? You’ve got a whacking great Mercedes Benz on a little dirt track and somehow you’ve got to get it out again. Sooner than reverse all the way back to the road, you keep going till you find somewhere to turn around so you’re facing the right direction for the getaway.”

He really smiled this time and squeezed my hand. I don’t remember him touching me since primary school.

“And that,” he said confidently, “is where we’ll find our perfect car tracks. Good girl.”

We hurried along the edge of the trail. There was one break in the tree line but the ditch there would have made it impossible to drive in. Then, around the next bend, we came upon forensic heaven 101. Sand, and one perfect M of tire marks, in and out. Forgetting myself briefly, I raised my hand for Granddad Jah to high-five me. He had no idea what I was doing and glared at me until my hand was back at my side.

That was the morning’s work, and now we sat waiting for Lieutenant Chompu at the empty Northeastern Seaside Restaurant. Opposite, local tourists paid thirty baht to set off firecrackers in honor of the Prince of Chumphon, father of the Thai navy, part-time magician. This would be followed by a climb up to the deck of a fifty-meter concrete battleship erected in his honor. Pak Nam’s most famous landmark, complete with concrete sailors and interlocking dolphins. What can I say?

Chompu arrived on foot. I was surprised. Pak Nam police station was only six hundred meters away, but policemen rarely walked. It made them look too common. I’d been nervous, I confess, about what Granddad Jah’s reaction might have been to this flowery policeman. He was hardly in a position to complain, of course. He’d indirectly sired one grandson who was the 1992 Miss Pattaya World, and one more who’d refused point-blank to have sexual relations unless it was a sincere love match, ergo, a thirty-two-year-old virgin. With a record like that, a man would have to have serious doubts about his own gene pool.

To my surprise, Granddad Jah stood and saluted when Chompu arrived. It didn’t feel sarcastic. The lieutenant generously returned the salute and removed his hat. We sat under the wooden canopy and Granddad and Chompu briefly exchanged professional backgrounds. I took the female role and ordered an assortment of Esarn Lao delicacies and cold beer and Coca-Cola for the lieutenant. Chompu was very respectful and I got the feeling my granddad had warmed to him early on. He told the policeman about the dirt track we’d found beside Wat Feuang Fa and I smiled at Granddad’s look of awe when the lieutenant immediately took out his cell phone and passed on the information to somebody at the station. He related the story exactly as it had been told to him. He even asked Granddad for his full name so he could be cited as a witness. With the detectives back in Bangkok with their suspect, the local stations were now responsible again for any ongoing developments in the case. When Chompu turned off his phone, both he and Granddad were grinning widely.

“Well, that’s one happy major,” said Chompu. “If this comes to something, you’ll have a friend for life.”

He raised his glass and we all clinked.

“Any news from your end?” I asked.

“Afraid there weren’t any prints on the cigarette lighter you gave us,” said Chompu. “But we’ve got word back on the camera. It wasn’t a make that can be bought.”

“You have to steal it?”

“Either that or you have to be a professional photographer. Canon has a policy of asking professionals to trial their prototypes. That brand number was a prototype. They make a hundred or so of each and ask the pros to test them.”

“So it should be possible to get a list of the people asked to trial the camera,” I said.

“Technically. But it involves contacting Canon offices overseas. That could take some time, given…”

“Given all the foolishness going on in Bangkok,” I said. “Any news about the Merc driver?”

“None of the mobile units spotted him on the highway heading in either direction,” he said. “And, as you both know, I’m not at liberty to divulge information on an ongoing investigation, et cetera, et cetera, blah, blah, but, between you and me, the daughter of the 69 Resort owner remembered the license number of the car.”