because you were the last person to see him alive. You went over to him after the journalist went back to his seat, and you must have killed him then. You went to the toilet to prepare your weapon, and when you came back, you leant over Mr. Srisai and stabbed him through the hole that had been left by the bullet that had struck his vest earlier in the day. You probably put one hand over his mouth to stifle any sound he might have made. With your skills I have no doubt that you would know how to kill him instantly.
The bodyguard looked up at Captain Kumar. “Do I have to listen to this nonsense?” he asked.
“I am afraid you do,” said the pilot.
“I know you have the knife on your person, Mr. Gottesman, because you have been sitting in that seat ever since Mr. Srisai was killed,” said Inspector Zhang. He held out his hand. “Either you can give it to me, or these Thai police officers can take it from you. It is your choice.”
The bodyguard stared at Inspector Zhang for several seconds. Then he slowly bent down and slipped his hand into his left trouser leg before pulling out a black carbon fibre stiletto knife. He held it, with the tip pointing at Inspector Zhang’s chest. Then with a sigh he reversed the weapon and gave it to him.
Inspector Zhang took the knife between his thumb and finger. There was congealed blood on the blade. Sergeant Lee already had a clear plastic bag open for him, and he dropped the knife into it.
Inspector Zhang stood up, and the two Thai policemen pulled the bodyguard to his feet. He put up no resistance as they led him away.
“So the Thai police will take over the case?” asked Sergeant Lee.
“The victim was Thai. The murderer is Israeli. The crime was committed in Thai airspace. I think it best the Thais handle it.”
“And the Commissioner will be satisfied with that?”
Inspector Zhang smiled. “I think so far as the plane is allowed to fly back to Singapore, the Commissioner will be happy,” he said.
Sergeant Lee closed her notebook and put it away. “You solved an impossible mystery, Inspector Zhang.”
“Yes, I did,” agreed the Inspector. “But the real mystery is who recommended Mr. Gottesman in the first place, and I fear that is one mystery that will never be solved.”
“Perhaps you could offer to help the Thai police with the investigation.”
Inspector Zhang’s smile widened. “What a wonderful idea, Sergeant. I shall offer them my services.”
Stephen Leather
Stephen Leather is one of the UK’s most successful thriller writers. Before becoming a novelist he was a journalist for more than ten years on newspapers such as
Find out more from his website, www.stephenleather.com.
Thousand and One Nights
Pico Iyer
Dear Susan,
There were people coming at me from every side, more people than I can describe, from every corner of the world. Large Arab men in their smocks and gowns, teams of Japanese businessmen in suits, men who looked like they’d been left over from the Vietnam War and earringed couples who could have been from anywhere—all of them thronging down this lane of lights and looking into the entrances, into red-lit magic caves, all smoke and noise, to see if they could spot a Chinese princess. There’s one area—you wouldn’t believe it (or maybe you would; I suppose the place has become quite a legend now)—where they have whole Arabian palaces on a dark lane, furnished with great chandeliered rooms full of divans and men in gallabeahs smoking hubblebubbles, while girls of every shape and size move among them, from one dream chamber to the next, looking for a touch of magic, a month’s salary in a night’s adventure.
Anyway, you know all about Bangkok already. And this isn’t the kind of thing one would ordinarily be telling a sister. But since Sarah went away—well, you know how it is. Nobody will listen to me, or if they do, they listen in a way that says they’re only being kind or doing their charity work for the day. You’re the only one who understands. I tell myself that talking to you is like talking to a better version of myself.
So there I was in the Arabian Nights. It sounds mad, I know, but I felt as if I’d fallen into some other kind of world that was waiting beside me the way a shadow might, like those stories Nana used to read us in the nursery. Remember Alice in her rabbit hole, ending up on the underside of the world? Or the little girl who went to sleep and woke up in another place? I suppose it’s what people get when they pop those pills you told me about in the disco, or shoot themselves full of the
Plus, of course, I was jet-lagged. Walking and walking through the streets after dark and looking for lunch at 3:00 a.m. Everything took on a different aspect, as if—how can I put it?—well, as if I weren’t seeing the lights, really, only their reflections in a puddle. Everything blurred and shimmery and reflecting. I’d look at my face in the shop windows, and I wouldn’t know who it was looking back at me. As if I’d left my self—my regular daily self—in England and now some kind of outline or facsimile was playing me, off the ground and weightless, in a trance.
The noise from the bars, the boys coming up and trying to pull me into their caves. “Here, sir, very good,” “Come here, no problem, only looking.” I’d turn a corner and end up in a little lane that opened up onto the river, the shining golden pinnacle of a stupa at the other end. And then I’d stumble back, and there were all these signs —Bad Boy, Helicopter, The Alternative—and you could imagine you were in the mind of a magician. Aladdin’s cave, I thought.
So anyway, I walked and walked, all night, it seemed, and at one point I went into this little alleyway—lights, girls in bikinis, people selling elixirs of some kind in bottles—and I stopped off in a trattoria (they have everything here) for lunch. Outside, on the street, there were flocks of girls rather vamping it up: with long hair that swung below their shoulders, long slim legs, high heels, leopard-skin shorts, the lot.
They were cavorting up and down the street, having fun, really, occasionally stepping into a pool hall, red-lit, or one of the open-air bars that look out onto the street; once, one of them came and stood looking at me where I sat, eating on the terrace. Looking at me very directly, half-pout and halfcaress.
“Where you come from, mister? What you need?”
“Nothing. I’m just passing the time, really.” I sounded foolish, I knew, but I didn’t know how to sound here.
“No want la-dee?” The way she said it was itself a sort of insinuation.
“No, thank you. I’m here on business.”
“Same-same,” she said, “business,” and let out a husky laugh. “Business, pleasure, same-same. You show me good heart, I show you good time.”
“I’m sure,” I said. “Maybe tomorrow.”
