Don't Eat Me Page 7

  Phosy could see that the most direct route would have been to pass the arch, but Haeng insisted he did not. Instead he pointed out a winding trail west along the river, somehow skirting the old palace before driving into town past the telephone exchange and doing a circuit around the football stadium. Somehow, illogically, he arrived at the car park from the north.

  Phosy told the judge he’d be seeing him again very soon and returned to his department jeep. He drove to the Soviet residence and followed the route the judge claimed to have taken. It was possible to arrive at the Zil parking lot from the north but the road leading there was no more than a dirt track with pot holes deep enough to emerge in Peru. The area was unlit at night and required a certain amount of skill to negotiate. Even in daylight in a jeep it was a challenge. Phosy pulled up at the parking lot and switched off his engine. Haeng’s convoluted story seemed to have only one purpose: to place the drunken judge as far as possible from the arch. Why would he bother to do that if his only crime was driving under the influence? But what connection could there have been between the judge and the skeleton? Haeng was devious but he wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t have risked being seen dragging a corpse to the base of the arch not even whilst three sheets to the wind.

  As he sat there looking across at the black limousines, two certainties took a bow on the stage of Phosy’s mind. The first was that Judge Haeng had not been as drunk on the morning of the 23rd as he pretended to have been. And the second was that Judge Haeng had lied about not passing the arch. Whether he’d merely seen the skeleton displayed under the lamplight or had been involved in its placement were matters the detective would work on at a later date.

  As chief inspector, Phosy was not expected or encouraged to be conducting investigations himself. The politburo would have him sitting at his desk ten hours a day signing documents. But he wasn’t that sort of chief inspector. He drove back to police headquarters, where he’d scribble his name on fifty report sheets, cancel a few mindless appointments and head off again to find the Zil driver Judge Haeng had replaced on the morning the skeleton was found. Phosy knew that without results his tenure would be a short one, so he had to be sure any investigation, particularly that of a judge, was accurate and the outcome indisputable. And there was no doubt in Phosy’s mind that he was the best man for that sort of job.

  Chapter Seven

  Civet Shit

  It was Nurse Dtui’s day off and she and Malee went to the zoo. It was likely that her daughter, upon reaching the age of sixteen, would look back on her family outings and realize they all coincided with criminal cases her parents were working on. As her mother’s daughter, she’d probably be more proud to have been used than be offended. And on this sunny but breezy day all she knew was that she was going to the zoo, where she would see animals.

  In her backpack, Dtui had soft drinks in screw-top bottles, lots of peanuts, and two human bones. She’d done her homework before embarking on this adventure. The zoo they were visiting had been established in the ’60s in Dong Paina by a Frenchman called Yves Proman. He’d charged very little for entry because, as he said, this was an educational opportunity, a chance for Lao, young and old, to learn about the wildlife of the region. He let it be known that he did not want to take advantage of the poor people in his adopted country. To all appearances, he lived frugally with his wife and took delight in the smiles on the faces of the visitors.

  He also took delight in the vast wealth he amassed over the years. If any visitors returned regularly to the Frenchman’s zoo, and if they were observant, they would have noticed some oddities. Firstly, how their favorite pangolin changed its markings with every visit. The snakes lengthened and shortened as the mood took them. The orangutan became five months pregnant in the space of a week. Then, the aware visitor might also hear animal cries emanating from an area beyond the public boundary of the zoo. And these howls were not those of well-fed, contented beasts but of hunger and illness and fear.

  For over ten years, Proman was the leading trafficker of Southeast Asian wildlife to Europe, Japan and the Americas. He’d used the zoo as a front for his nefarious business and a conduit for the trade, which, in Laos, had very few legal controls. The French and the American colonists had more profitable interests to police than the shipping of a few monkeys. Legal restrictions would only be imposed when and if the livestock arrived at their destinations.

  “But now, as you see, it’s just a zoo,” said their guide.

  Malee was in her element. She toddled free-range from cage to cage waving at the gibbons and the crab-eater monkeys, throwing peanuts for the sunbird. Dtui let her set the pace while she held back to talk with Comrade Sisouk, the current director of the zoo. He was a barrel-chested man whose uniform badly needed letting out. He had a little mustache which reminded Dtui of the villains in the old Chinese operas whose facial hair was painted on. Sisouk carried a cane more as a prop than a walking aid.

  “We were shocked when we heard of Proman’s doings,” said the director. “Of course, he’d fled by the time we took over, but we were hurt that he should have single-handedly shipped such an incredible volume of animals overseas. Those of us who were brought up in the countryside loving the wildlife had learned to respect nature. Certainly, there was hunting. That was nature’s way. Take no more than you need, you know? There was always plenty to go around. And, of course, we humans were on the jungle menu too. It was a balance of respect. Juxtaposition of hunters and hunted.

  “But Proman’s people came to our villages and paid the locals to catch game. He had middle men all over the region. He was shipping our finest animals to die in zoos in Europe. For every puma that arrived in one piece in France, thirty had succumbed to disease and starvation in transit. But he didn’t care. He relied on volume you see? If one golden panther makes it to the zoo they’d pay enough to fund the capture of another fifty.”

  There was a knot in Comrade Sisouk’s throat even though Dtui was sure he’d given the same talk many times. His eyes watered and she was afraid he might burst into tears.

  “Proud, beautiful animals,” he went on, “abused and demeaned. I wish I’d met him, the Frenchman, I really do. I’d have shown him how I felt.”

  Such a high-level, emotional tour of the zoo was not available to every visitor. But Dtui had arrived with a letter from the head of the police department saying that she was a very close aid to the chief inspector as well as an expert in forensic anthropology—a term she and Phosy had looked up the night before. The director himself insisted on showing her around, and he arranged for his longest serving keeper to help with her rather odd request.

  Dtui didn’t see herself as qualified to doubt the director’s sincerity, but even though these animal prisoners in their concrete and wire mesh cages were “the lucky ones,” she couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. Their eyes seemed to see another life—a life that was losing clarity and focus. And those beasts that had been there the longest could see only wire mesh and concrete. All memories of the past had drained from them. They sat on their logs and their rocks, their heads slowly scrolling left and right like dementia patients, mesmerized by the passing visitors but not at all interested in them.

  “Ah, there he is,” said Sisouk.

  Ahead was an old dark-brown man in khaki shorts and no shirt. There wasn’t a trace of fat on him. He had a fine head of silver hair and not a single tooth in his mouth.

  “This is Chong,” said the director. “Our longest-serving keeper. He’s the only one left from the Frenchman’s days.”

  The old man put his hands together in an overly respectful nop.

  “No need for that,” said Dtui. “I’m not the queen of Thailand.”

  Chong laughed and his lips caved inward.

  “He’s a bit stuck on some of the old ways,” said Sisouk.

  “It’s very kind of you to arrange this for me,” said Dtui.

  “We�
��re constantly trying to erase the horrors of the zoo’s past,” said Sisouk. “Anything to show we are with and for the community is as much for our benefit as yours. And of course, we’re most pleased to help the police.”

  Chong was still standing with his nose on his fingertips.

  “If you have more important things to do I can talk to Comrade Chong alone,” said Dtui.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Sisouk. “This will be an education for me. Never too old to learn, I say. Chong, you tell this lady everything she wants to know.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Chong.

  “Hello, Chong,” said Dtui.

  “Hello, Your Ladyship.”

  “There’s something I’d like you to take a look at,” said Dtui.

  Before removing the bones from her bag, she looked back to see whether her daughter was missing her at all. Malee was sitting cross-legged in front of a caged slow loris, and she seemed to be teaching the animal numbers. They were at two. Dtui knew she’d be there for a while. The nurse took the two bones from her pack and held them out to Chong.

  “That’s a person,” said Chong, taking a step back.

  “That’s correct,” said Dtui, impressed that the old man could recognize human bones so quickly. “I’d like you to look at them.”

  He took another step back. There were many fears about contact with the dead, beliefs that the spirit might pass from the body to the handler. But she’d never seen anyone quite as afraid of human bones.

  “Chong, what are you doing?” said the director.

  “It’s all right,” said Dtui. “You don’t have to touch them. Just look. There are bite and scratch marks on them. I was wondering if you might be able to tell me what type of animal made them.”

  Chong leaned forward. There was something of a lost past in his eyes too. He studied first one bone, then the other.

  “There’s one or two possibilities,” he said. “Teeth are pretty much the same on the smaller carnivores. But that . . .”

  He nodded toward the dark stain on one of the bones. He leaned closer and took a sniff and smiled.

  “. . . now that’s civet shit, without a doubt.”

  “Really?” said Dtui.

  “Having a keen sense of smell in a zoo can be a curse, Your Ladyship,” he said. “I can identify about forty different types of shit. I can sleep through an air raid but smells keep me awake. I can see you aren’t convinced.”

  “It’s just . . .” said Dtui.

  “That’s all right. Hard to believe. You need a bit more proof. How about this? You’ve been drinking orange cordial, not juice, the sweet muck from Thailand. And you’ve been eating peanuts. You wash with Lifebouy soap and you’re using some sort of mango shampoo on your hair. Probably homemade.”

  “I’m convinced,” said Dtui.

  “There’s just one thing,” said Chong.

  “What’s that?”

  “In all my years I’ve never seen a civet attack a human.”

  There were two men sitting in front of Chief Inspector Phosy’s office, and he was undecided as to which he should see first. If his country had coins he would have tossed one. Both interviews promised to be uncomfortable in their own ways. So he left it up to Comrade Manivon, his new secretary. She’d been the clerical assistant at the justice ministry for the past five years before getting kicked out by the same Judge Haeng that Phosy was investigating. She was delighted to be invited to work for the policeman and said it was refreshing to be treated like a human being again.

  “Bring me the one who seems least nervous,” said Phosy, and she arrived with Sergeant Wee. His pompadour stood even higher than at their last meeting, and his dress sense was even more inadvisable. Wee apparently had yet to grasp the concept of plain clothes.

  “You do know the point is to blend in,” said Phosy.

  Wee sat on the guest chair and crossed his legs. He tapped the cigarette pack in his top pocket. “Smoke?” he asked.

  “You’re a clown,” said Phosy.

  “Blending in just makes you obvious,” said Wee. “Plain- clothes police look like police in plain clothes. You can pick ’em out a mile away. How do you ever blend in at a village where everyone’s been together for generations? Your only option is to be an outsider that nobody suspects. You’d be surprised how insignificant people think I am.”

  “No, that wouldn’t surprise me,” said Phosy.

  “Mind if I do?” said Wee, tapping the pack again.

  “Nervous?”

  “No, just addicted.”

  “But you do have every reason to be nervous,” said Phosy.

  “How so?”

  “Your family business.”

  “Did I not take care of that?”

  “In your own sweet way,” said Phosy. “I have some questions about your methodology.”

  “It was a heart attack.”

  “So they tell me.”

  “Are you accusing me of killing him?”

  “No, I just have a problem with coincidences,” said Phosy. “You and your team had done a good job of shutting down his business. You stayed undercover as a corrupt cop so you could follow up on prospective successors. Nobody there knew you were working for us. All your team had to do was arrest your uncle and bring him to Vientiane. They broke into his house and there he was, dead on the bathroom floor. The local medic said it was a heart attack.”

  “So?”

  “No record of ill health. No symptoms leading up to his death.”

  “Just think what you like.”

  “There’s that attitude again,” said Phosy. “Listen, boy. You’re a team leader. I’m your boss. I might very well be the only honest person you’re ever going to work for. This is a debriefing. I’m a busy man. I’m giving you ten minutes. And in those ten minutes I have to establish whether you’re out of control. I’m good at what I do and I got where I am by being thorough. So why don’t you just tell me what happened?”

  “Look,” said Wee. “I’m not a doctor. Who knows whether it was a heart attack. The local medic had about ten weeks of training. I doubt he could tell herpes from a hernia. It could have been anything. I saw the body. There were no wounds, no signs of a struggle. When you live out in the countryside there’s any one of a hundred ways to die. A liver fluke can have you in the grave in a few hours. There was nobody to do an autopsy so, no, I can’t tell you. All I can say is I’m sorry he didn’t leave this earth in a more unpleasant way. I’d like to have watched him die slowly. Sorry you don’t like coincidences. But that’s not my problem.”

  Phosy looked at the sergeant’s impassive expression. “Okay,” he said.

  “Is that all?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

  “Is that all . . . sir?”

  “I think it is. Please pass on my congratulations to your team. My secretary has new orders for you on her desk. You can pick them up on your way out.”

  Sergeant Wee walked to the door and was about to leave the room, but he stopped, took a step back and saluted. Phosy returned the salute and frowned. Wee was going to be a hard horse to break, but if he ever sorted out his head he’d be one hell of a good policeman. Phosy opened his notebook and wrote a reminder to send Siri to the south before the cremation. The chief inspector didn’t leave anything to chance.

  He looked at the clock on the wall. It was seven hours late to the second and, therefore, reliable. He didn’t dare alter it for fear it might stop. The knock on his door was so tentative he mistook it for the sound of a lizard beating a moth against the window. He shouted, “Come in!”

  The man shuffled in. He was short and had a permanent bad-smell scrunch to his nose. He took a seat and Phosy looked at him. Zil drivers were, through necessity, faithful to their bosses. There was no end to the secrets they were sworn to keep. Breaking that trust w
ould inevitably result in the termination of a comfortable job and a trip to a re-education camp. But every man had his own fears of why a senior policeman might want to see him. Sometimes all Phosy needed to do was stare. He gave Uthit enough time to come up with his own defense.

  “I had no choice, comrade,” said Uthit.

  Phosy glared.

  “The judge was drunk,” Uthit continued. “Never seen him so drunk. I know. I know the regulations. I should have sat there and resisted but . . . well, he’s a judge. What could I do? He was insistent. I have seven kids. It’s not a job I can afford to lose.”

  “What time are we talking about here?” said Phosy.

  “Must have been a bit before three. Can’t be certain. I haven’t got a watch.”

  “When you got out of the limo, what did you do?” Phosy asked.

  “I headed back to the dormitory. It was ten odd k. I had to be up at seven for another job.”

  “Did the car pass you again?”

  “No. Didn’t see nothing.”

  “And you weren’t concerned about the plight of the Zil and its new driver?”

  “Oh, I worried about it,” said Uthit. “I worried about it all the way home. I thought about what shit I’d be in if the judge ran it into the river and drowned. It’d be my fault, right? Didn’t get any sleep.”

  “What made you think I wanted to talk to you about that morning?” Phosy asked.

  The driver stared at the hands on his lap.

  “Well?” said Phosy.

  “The judge was talking to me today,” said Uthit. “He said you’d probably want to see me about that incident.”

  “And what was his advice?”

  “Just to tell the truth. He said he was the one at fault so there was nothing to worry about.”

  Phosy watched him squeeze his hands together.