get any ideas now.”
Still flabbergasted by his new relationship with Saloop, he stopped off in the downstairs bathroom and got some water boiling for a hot bath. He deserved that much.
He could tell someone had been in his room. He could also guess who. There was an unmarked envelope on his desk. Its deliverer, unquestionably some spinster from the Department of Education, had taken advantage of her excuse to enter his room by dusting, sweeping, washing up, and disorganising his books into neat regiments. It was time, he decided, to invest in a padlock. Some things were worse than crime.
He went down for a leisurely bath and soaked his hair in the left-over rice water they all used as shampoo. He inspected his well-worn body for evidence of the battle he’d just fought, but, if anything, he looked better now than he had when he left. Clean and refreshed, he returned to his room, wrapped himself in a dry loincloth, and waited for the kettle to boil. He carried the oil lamp across to the coffee table and blew the steam from his cup. Not until then was he ready for his letter. He checked the seal of the flap. It seemed untouched, no evidence of steaming or soaking. He slit it open with an old scalpel and pulled out the two sheets it contained.
Turning first to the signature, he saw it was penned by ‘a fellow crime fighter’, an indication that Phosy also feared it might be tampered with.
It began with a jolt.
My dear Maigret,
The hairdresser’s dead. My first suspicion upon hearing that was probably the same as your own. But comK was away at the time and this had all the hallmarks of a suicide. I was in the station when the case came in. The officer who’d gone to her apartment found the body, together with a suicide note. She’d slashed her wrists with one of the cutthroats from the salon.
Her arms were in a bowl of water that I assume had been warm at the time of the suicide. This is a way to stop the blood from clotting. She was paper-white, so it was quite obvious she’d bled to death. It’s unfortunate you were away, as the body would naturally have gone to you. As it was, the temple was eager to get her in the ground for all those religious reasons I’m sure you understand better than me.
The note confessed that she’d been desperately in love with comK, that she was jealous of the wife but couldn’t see him leaving her. She decided to do away with the competition. Access wasn’t a problem. One little detail I’d forgotten to check (sorry, I have been growing vegetables for a year) was that the salon she worked at was the same one where Mrs N had her hair done. I guess it wouldn’t have been so difficult for her to add the Cy. to the headache pills while she was under the toaster or whatever it is women do in those places.
I interviewed comK. He appeared to be distraught. I got the feeling he really had a soft spot for the girl. I’ve got one or two thoughts about all this. I haven’t submitted a report on anything other than finding the suicide victim. I’ll get your views when I’m back from the north (seminar). 1. comK is off the hook as far as I can see. 2. The murderer has already been tried and sentenced by her own conscience. 3. I wonder whether it’s to anyone’s advantage to make any of this other stuff public.
But of course I’m just a cop. What do I know? If you disagree, I’ll be happy to reconsider. Hope your holiday went well. Look forward to hearing the stories.
Best wishes.
A fellow crime fighter.
The coffee was cold.
“Well, I suppose that’s that.” He reheated the water and spooned the last of his Hanoi coffee grains into the filter. “All neatly tied up and buried.” He took his fresh coffee to the desk, but left the lamp on the coffee table. He blew away the steam and looked out at the moonlit temple grounds.
Saffron robes swayed gently on the washing lines. An elderly monk ladled water from a large earthenware jar onto the head of a young novice. A rusting Renault, now a garden ornament, wore two sleeping temple cats as hood ornaments. Everything was at peace.
“All neatly tied up and buried.”
? The Coroner’s Lunch ?
13
Time To Kill
Siri went to bed late, woke up early, and had no dreams at all. As he was leaving the house, he used his old chisel to gouge out the two shells from their holes in the front door. It left two ugly scars that he knew Miss Vong would complain about for a month. Saloop sat at his feet as he worked and looked up at him faithfully.
Eager to see the results of Nguyen Hong’s investigation, Siri was at the morgue by six, too early even for roadside noodles. If he’d expected to find something at the morgue, he was disappointed. His desk was empty of messages, notes or completed reports. Hok and Tran had vacated the freezer, which stood gaping and unplugged. The last notes in Dtui’s exercise book were about his autopsy of Tran 1, not surprising as she couldn’t possibly have taken notes from the Vietnamese coroner.
There was little point in being there at all. He had a lot of time on his hands, so he pencilled a note and walked it down to the offices behind the Parliament building. Joggers and cyclists still owned four-lane Lan Xang Avenue at that hour. A small group of tai chi uncles did combat with invisible slow-motion enemies in the shadow of the great Anusawari Arch.
Parliament was still in bed, but the guard promised to hand the note to Comrade Civilai when he got in. The noodle man was setting up when Siri got back to the hospital. He was given the first batch of noodles, in broth that had been freshly made, but it still tasted the same as ever: stale.
He ate slowly and dawdled his way into the hospital grounds, but he still had half an hour to kill. So he strolled around to the back of the morgue to the
“Morning, Comrade Ketkaew.” The man looked shocked to see him. The small earphone on a wire that he had been wearing vanished into his desk drawer.
“I hope you aren’t secretly listening to Thai radio.”
Siri walked in and sat on the spare chair the chicken counter reserved for interrogations. Ketkaew nodded but didn’t bother to speak. He eyed Siri suspiciously.
“I hope your wife gives you a good breakfast to build up your strength, working as hard as you do.”
“I cook for myself,” Ketkaew shouted, even though Siri was standing beside him.
“Don’t tell me you aren’t married.”
“Who has time for all that? In case you hadn’t noticed, I have a very responsible job. Now, what is it you…?”
“That’s very interesting.”
“What is?”
“That a good-looking chap like you doesn’t have a wife.”
“Hey, listen. I like women, you know. I’m not…”
“Of course you do. And it’s quite clear women like you, too.”
“I could have my pick.”
“Naturally. Responsible job and all.”
“Anyone I want, really. If I could be bothered.”
“Exactly. That’s just what I told her.”
“Her?”
“That’s why she didn’t think she had a chance, not with all the competition, and you having so little time.” He
