Dr Siri Paiboun 01; The Coroner’s Lunch

“Excellent. You know, this is all rather exciting. Could you hook this last chain up over the stage? Afraid we haven’t got any balloons.” She ran off and left him to hang the decoration.

¦

While he was up on the rickety chair hooking the straws over some convenient nails, he thought about what she’d said. It really was quite exciting, this inquiry. He had to admit he was enjoying the cloak-and-daggery of it all. He was glad to be out of the morgue talking to live people, exceeding his very limited authority. It was the first time since the job began that he could feel his adrenaline pumping.

“There are only three left.” Puffing and blowing, Dr Pornsawan held out a small brown bottle. “That probably isn’t a wise choice of chair, the legs aren’t glued.” Siri got down in a hurry, leaving a strand of straws dangling above the podium.

The frenzy at the Lao Women’s Union turned to panic. Siri and Pornsawan looked to the door where a small army of men in ceremonial uniforms was slowly seeping into the almost-ready dining room. The men took up positions along the walls.

“Oops. Looks like our guest is early. You may have to join us for lunch, Doctor.”

“I’d sooner not. Why all the fuss about the wife of a Mongolian president?”

“They’re giving the LWU a sizable grant to develop education for girls in the provinces.”

Siri wondered what the Mongolians would be getting in return, but didn’t let his cynicism show. He thanked Dr Pornsawan and headed towards the one set of doors leading into and out of the canteen. In the confused scrum at the doorway, he ran into a small woman whose features had all gathered at the centre of her face. She was surrounded by larger people in suits and silks. The small woman, assuming, as he was a man, that he had to be someone important, reached out to shake his hand.

Siri transferred his baguette to his left hand and returned the handshake. She had a good grip for a president’s wife. She looked beside her at the interpreter and asked him a question. He asked a similar question of the Chinese interpreter beside him, who finally asked the Lao?Chinese interpreter, who asked Siri who he was.

“I’m the official food taster. You can never be too sure.” He bowed politely and walked on. By the time the Chinese whisper had made it back to the president’s wife, he was already out under the warm midday sun.

? The Coroner’s Lunch ?

3

The Boatman’s Requiem

As he was quite a way from his riverside log, and hungry, he walked down to the nearest point on the Mekhong and found a shady spot under a tree where he could eat his baguette in peace. He particularly enjoyed his lunch that day. He was overcome with a peculiar feeling that, as he didn’t feel the way he normally did, he probably didn’t look the same either. He imagined himself to be in disguise.

During his stay in Paris decades before, he’d taken delight in the weekly serialisations of one Monsieur Sim in the L’Oeuvre newspaper. They followed the investigations of an inspector of the Paris police force who was able to solve the most complicated of mysteries with the aid of nothing more lethal than a pipe of tobacco.

By the time he got to Vietnam, Siri was more than pleased to learn that Monsieur Sim had restored his name to its full Simenon, and that Inspector Maigret mysteries were now appearing as books. The French in Saigon had shelves of them, and a number found their way north to be read by those communist cadres who’d spent their formative years in France.

Siri had been able to solve most of the mysteries long before the detective had a handle on them – and he didn’t even smoke. Now, below the swaying boughs of the samsa tree, he felt a distinct merging. The coroner and the detective were blending. He liked the way it felt. For a man in his seventies, any stimulation, should it be kind enough to offer itself, had to be grasped in both hands.

He walked back along the river, but when he reached the intersection that would have taken him back to his morgue, he responded not to obligation, but to instinct. He flagged down a songtaew, one of the dwindling number of taxi trucks plying the Vientiane streets. He told the driver where he wanted to get off, and squeezed amid the zoo of villagers already crammed inside. The songtaew followed the river east, away from the town. It was never so full it couldn’t pick up more passengers.

Twenty minutes later, Siri was helped down by a strong girl who held a cockerel under her other arm. He paid his fifty liberation kip to the driver, crossed the road, and stood for a moment in front of the newly christened Mekhong River Patrol, wondering what he was doing there. The MRP, a navy of sorts in a landlocked country, had the near-impossible task of policing the long river border.

The pilots of the hurriedly converted river ferries were army men, trained in two weeks to operate boats that were so noisy you could hear them a mile off. Anyone crossing the river illegally, unless they were stone deaf, could easily hide themselves until the armour-plated craft chugged on by.

Siri was directed out back to the boat captains’ dormitory. There, the night-shift skippers sat playing cards, or stood in circles kicking a rattan ball back and forth. He was in luck. Following an unfortunate accident, the person he sought had been transferred to the night patrol. Siri found Captain Bounheng rocking back and forth on a cane chair, like an old man. He was only in his twenties.

Siri introduced himself and shook the young captain’s hand.

“Do you mind if we take a walk?”

Bounheng was confused but followed Siri out across the dry rice fields. “Is this normal?”

“For a coroner to follow up on cases? Oh, yes. It happens all the time. I spend as much time interviewing as I do looking at dead bodies. It’s all very mundane. Reports. You know.”

Bounheng seemed a little more at ease. “He never should have been there.”

“The longboat man?”

“We were docking. He was fishing in an illegal spot.” The captain was deliberately striding ahead of Siri, who was hard pressed to keep up with him.

“I understand. The old fool. These fishermen are an ignorant crowd. Never do what they’re told.” He jogged round in front of the fleeing man. “Can I ask about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes. How long had you been…in control of your boat?”

There was a long hesitation. “I mean, this is a new unit. Only just been set up.”

“I understand. So? Months? Weeks?”

“A week.”

“And I imagine it’s really stressful work.”

“Stressful?”

“I’d say so. Patrolling against any would-be attacks from anti-communists from across the river.”

Bounheng laughed involuntarily. “Dr Siri, I’d been up-country fighting hand to hand for two years. This is a holiday cruise compared to that. No anti-communist in his right mind’s going to launch an armada across the river in a built-up area. The most stressful thing we ever see is villagers swimming across to Thailand. With the river this low, there are plenty taking their chances.”

“So what you’re saying is that it’s a bit of a slack posting.”

“It’s very peaceful.”

“How fast do you travel?”

“Ten knots. That’s the rule.”

“What a good job. I should apply.”

Bounheng laughed again a little nervously.

“But I…”

“What?” the captain asked.

“No, it’s not important. I’ve got enough for my report. It doesn’t matter.”

“No. Come on.”

“Well, if you were travelling at ten knots and coming in to land…”

“Yes?”