Colin Cotterill - The Woman Who Wouldn't die

‘Blunt object. Half a dozen times. Maybe more.’

One problem with communication between Vientiane and Sanyaburi was the absence of a telephone line. Phosy had tried to link through military channels only to discover there were no army units stationed there. It would have been easier to call Thailand on the solitary Lao overseas telephone line and ask someone to run a message across the border. His last hope had been a channel directly to the helicopter which had transported the Minister of Agriculture to Pak Lai but the crew had closed down the equipment for the night. Few boats plied that section of the river after dark as there were still bandits about. So it wouldn’t be until the next morning that a message could be sent to Dr Siri and Madame Daeng telling them that their home and all their possessions were gone.

After the autopsy, Phosy had combed through the skeleton of the shop and found nothing of importance. He’d watched them spoon the remains of the victim into the large bag. At the back of his mind was Dr Siri’s story about the midget from Housing and the late-night raid. The man had probably lost his job as a result of Siri’s complaint. If the body were his it would look very bad for the doctor, especially as there was no way of estimating the time of death. One more thing the inspector had noticed before heading for home was a car parked some fifty metres away on the river bank. Obviously somebody of influence had got wind of the fire and come to observe. The sleek government ZiL limousine sat in the shadows like the devil’s own hearse. Nobody got out to discuss matters and Phosy wasn’t about to tap on the window and say hello. It was best left alone. It was late and nothing else could be done. Perhaps, by morning, some loved ones would have reported the disappearance of a completely different short, middle-aged man.

How far could they have gone? he wondered. Not for the first time. Herve Barnard sat in the driver’s seat of the black ZiL. Its windows were so darkly tinted he could barely see the statuette on the bonnet. But the point was that nobody could see in. It was a politburo car he’d stolen directly from the parking lot behind the parliament building. The ZiLs the Russians sent to their Third World comrades were a far cry from those that travelled in their own lanes in downtown Moscow. These shoddy rip-off versions leaked petrol and were incredibly easy to break into and hot-wire. The Lao, not realizing this, had felt it safe to leave a fleet of them unguarded behind a bamboo gate.

Barnard had been given little choice. He’d needed to be at the scene of the fire to identify the old whore from her recent photograph. He’d needed to be here to follow her and to kill her. But there were few Westerners in Vientiane and his presence amongst the gawking crowd would have stood out. Hence the car. He’d watched the flames. They were a spectacular sight. Fire had a hunger for old buildings. Most of the properties along the river were closed but a group of onlookers had appeared from nowhere and stood and watched. They’d oohed when a window popped and ahhed with every falling rafter. He’d expected a human chain with buckets. The river was just across from the fire. But, no. They stood. And they watched until the last flaming moth flew off to the heavens and there was only smoke. And not until then did the insignificant policemen arrive. And then the more important ones. And then the boss, resplendent in Bermuda shorts and sandshoes, came to conduct an unimpressive investigation in the dark with failing torches. But where, oh where, were the owners?

Barnard had arrived at eight for his appointment with the little man at the address he’d been given. There were no lights on in the shop or upstairs. No sound. No passers-by. There was a note pinned to the metal grate. He couldn’t read it but he assumed it to say the owner was out. Barnard didn’t know where she’d gone or for how long but he had only three more days before he was out of medication. He’d had to expedite matters. The fire would bring her back in a hurry. If not this evening, then the next day. She’d travel home to mourn for her little shop and he’d have her.

He couldn’t stay at the Lane Xang now, of course. He’d drawn attention to himself by handing out his room number at the market. He doubted this God-awful place would have an efficient police force but, even if it did, he’d done enough to cover his tracks. They’d find the body in the burned-out building. The comrade’s little wife or his little mother would report him missing and, assuming they could count, the police would put two and two together. The dead man had an ongoing feud with the couple. Barnard didn’t know why and didn’t care. The little comrade had burned down the shop in revenge and was trapped by his own fire. Or, with a bit of luck, they’d suspect the shop owners of murdering him. Even more reason for them to return to clear their names. In a civilized country they would perform a post-mortem investigation and make the gruesome discovery of his death. But a country ruled by a university dropout half-breed was hardly likely to know what a pathologist was. He felt the odds had finally swung in his favour.

The flight following the course of the Mekhong was a hairy one. The young pilot lacked the confidence you’d like to sense in someone controlling, what Civilai often called, a heavy metal coffin with an egg whisk on the top. The boy pilot had been set the challenge of navigating the river as low and as slowly as possible. Somebody had been attempting to talk to him on the radio but he’d ripped off his headphones as the tension dug in. No longer connected by microphone, the mechanic was yelling at the top of his voice, pointing this way and that. The Mi-2 helicopter was cleverly designed so as not to be able to look downward without balancing on its nose in mid-air. The mute brother clung to the back of the seat, his knuckles as white as the bones they contained. But Madame Peung rode the air currents like a girl at the funfair. She whooped and laughed and would, no doubt, describe her flight as exhilarating.

Siri was too preoccupied to be nervous. Not for the first time in the past three years, as Yeh Ming, the one-thousand-and-two-year-old shaman, slowly moved into Siri’s life, the doctor was pondering yet another dream mystery. They’d been there again, the naked Frenchmen. Not a pretty sight. They were huddled together for warmth, staring directly into the lens of the dream camera, yelling their tetes off, shouting directly at Siri. It was as if they knew he was there watching but they couldn’t understand why he wasn’t taking notice of them. Why he wasn’t acting on what they were telling him. But for Siri it was exactly like watching a television with the sound off. He could hear nothing. He saw the Frenchmen break out of their penguin huddle in order to use their hands, because what true Frenchman could make himself understood without hand gestures? This was even more confusing. Six mimes all backwardwalking and imaginary-wall-feeling and banana-unpeeling. Siri had no idea where to look. But the bitter cold proved too much for them. Their joints froze. They turned frosty white. They crumbled to the ground like crushed ice and were blown away. Siri felt somehow responsible. He found himself looking at a snow storm. Waiting. He was contemplating what he’d have to do to change the channel when he was suddenly aware of the shape of a figure walking through the blizzard in his direction. It was a man’s outline trudging slowly through the snow. As he walked closer, Siri could see a long white gown edged in gold. A white suit beneath. But who …?

The man stood directly in front of the lens, his face filling the screen. Siri recognized him, an acquaintance who had become significant in Siri’s personal Otherworld. During his cynical years, Siri had always mocked the fact that mediums throughout Asia had a hierarchy of spirits. Shamans might dress like a king or a royal consort and messages to the beyond would begin through the ear of the departed aristocracy. He’d always considered that to be somewhat classist. But, of late, he’d come to realize there was some logic in it. The kings and princes always surrounded themselves with the most powerful shamans. Thus they had a direct line to the beyond. It was only natural that the royal courts would have a thriving afterlife community. In death as in life, the royals would rule the roost.