THE DISAPPEARANCE
Cavalier and Dempster left the rifles they had used in the locomotive and walked back along the corridors the half-kilometre to his cabin. On the way they were confronted by Cowboy coming out of his suite with his mother.
‘Is it over?’ Hinkley asked them. ‘We heard shooting! The back of the train was on fire!’
‘I don’t know,’ Dempster said, attempting to move on, ‘I was at the front of the train …’
‘Excuse me, Madame,’ Cavalier said and brushed past her, moving quicker now to his cabin, ten carriages away. Once inside, he calmed himself.
*
Dawn had opened up a clear vista to the bridge, where another battle had broken out. Smoke from the suicide-bomber explosions and the weapon fire filtered across the paddy field and down the track to the train. The odour of cordite lingered with it. Malaysian police vehicles pulled up around the trucks. Police fired into the vehicles and the odd retaliatory rifle shot could be heard. Soon afterwards, the fight ended and the police moved in close on the trucks. Terrorists including Basha filed out of the trucks, hands behind their heads, and into waiting police wagons.
With the fighting stopped, Huloton, who had been in touch with the Malaysian police a second time, and Makanathan, guarded by Jacinta and three of the train’s security men, wandered along the track. They noted the burnt-out tree trunk created by the explosion of the first suicide bomber. They could see the dismembered pieces of the bombers and their attire scattered over a wide area. The strong stench caused Makanathan to place a green handkerchief over her face. Vultures were in the fields and on the track picking at burnt flesh and cawing in appreciation. Makanathan, following her professional instincts, moved off the track and approached the prone figure of the bomber whose detonator had not gone off.
‘No, Doctor!’ Jacinta yelled. ‘Don’t examine him! His pack didn’t explode. It could be on a hair trigger right now.’
‘I’ll see that Malaysian police send a disposal squad.’ Makanathan tried to sound in command, but looked rattled as she backed off. ‘Who killed these terrorists?’ she asked.
‘I did,’ Jacinta said.
Minutes later Makanathan had regained control and was reporting to the chief of the Malaysian police operation, a lean, mustachioed man of about forty. She told him that she was in charge of investigating everything that occurred on the train. He was only too happy to agree to this. The police had apprehended at least nine terrorists at the bridge and on the surface now seemed to have completed a successful mission to stop their deadly acts. The chief did not want the responsibility of probing into events on the Express. Any damage to the train or any passengers would only make it appear as if the Malaysian police efforts had been less than efficient. He was keen for the Express to move on to Singapore, if it could.
He was less impressed when he was informed of the eight dead Filipinos, two Malaysians and four suicide bombers lying dead by the track. But that could be covered up and the media would not be informed. And even if the extra killings were ever made public, he would have the option of claiming his police squad had been responsible for the further fourteen terrorists’ deaths.
Huloton spoke politely to him. ‘I hope, Monsieur that we can keep the Express side of it away from the media?’
‘Of course,’ the chief replied with a pleasant grin.
Shortly afterwards, forty Gemas townspeople were helping train staff to clear the tracks of poles and sleepers.
*
While Makanathan was in touch with the Malaysian police, her husband began sweating profusely in their cabin. He checked his own pulse. It was erratic. He informed a guard, who helped him along the carriages to the infirmary, where a doctor attended to him.
‘I believe I’ve had a heart attack,’ the former surgeon said as calmly as if he was announcing he had a cold. The Thai doctor moved fast.
‘Lie down,’ he said, pointing to a single bed. He began hooking his new patient up to an electrocardiogram. ‘We’ll see if you have diagnosed yourself correctly …’
A Thai nurse assisted.
‘He has gone grey,’ she commented urgently to the Thai doctor. ‘He is going to pass out.’
*
Cavalier heard the train whistle blow just on 7 a.m. Much to his relief the long snake of the Express, with its injured tail, began to limp on its way, slowly building speed for the last few hours ride into Singapore. He looked out the window at the palm plantations that dominated the early morning and imagined that the two green bags carrying Blenkiron’s now deceased identity were now some distance down the river.
*
In the frantic defence of the Express, the search for Cortez’s assassin had been forgotten by everyone except Cowboy, who nagged his mother with his own sign language gestures, grunts, banging of his fist and stomping of his foot.
Makanathan’s priorities changed. She was upset to learn of her husband’s illness and was informed he had suffered a mild heart attack. The train doctor had treated him and his condition had been stabilised. It did not stop her carrying out her duties. Stoically, and assuming her role as coroner, which in effect she was in this event, she had to assess the scene of not one killing on the Express, but six. The five Mexicans killed were laid out next to Cortez in the refrigerator, all with name tags attached to their right big toes.
‘I understand why she is known as Doctor Death in Thailand,’ Huloton remarked in French to Cavalier when he knocked to collect his passport for the final ride over the Johor Causeway between Malaysia and Singapore. ‘She has positively revelled in the whole experience, despite her husband’s illness. I heard her humming a tune, not too loudly of course, when she examined the bodies. It was French. I believe it was “La vie en rose”.’
‘A woman of unremarkable taste in clothes and hairstyle,’ Cavalier responded in French, ‘brave and with remarkable taste in ancient face powder and wonderful forensic skills.’
‘Nevertheless, she did not find the murderer of that horror of a person, Cortez. Were you aware, Monsieur that you were under suspicion for it?’
‘No.’
‘’Owever, as you did not leave your cabin during the fatal period, you are in the clear.’
‘As I should be, Monsieur,’ Cavalier said with a suitably Gallic shrug of indignation.
‘Of course, Sir, I told the good doctor of my certainty of your innocence. Would you believe, your next-door neighbour in the wheelchair was suspected also? Absurd, no?’
‘Suspected by whom?’
‘That Australian imbecile.’
‘Cowboy? He is no imbecile, I can assure you, Monsieur Huloton.’
‘Granted, Monsieur. I “mis-spoke”.’
‘What?’
‘It is a word the Americans use when they make an error.
I’ve been watching the presidential election on TV.’
‘Cowboy’s views should be taken seriously. He has perfect recall, although, it should be said, perhaps not in perfect sequence, or of any consequence. His mind could well be quite brilliant and useful, like satellite junk in space: valuable if it could be captured, yet useless when floating to nowhere.’
‘Exactly.’
Cavalier handed over his passport.
‘By the way, have you seen our American friend?’ Huloton asked. ‘I have just knocked on his door and there was no answer.’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever spoken to him?’
‘I can honestly say I have not.’
‘That is most odd, Monsieur, seeing he has been next door to you.’
‘Bit reclusive, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, a recluse; that is the best description.’ Huloton gave a tight laugh and pouted. ‘One wonders why he bothered to take the trip in the first place. If you do see him, remind him we need his passport to enter Singapore. It is urgent.’
‘I promise to look out for him,’ Cavalier said.
‘Many of the passengers are failing to answer the knock at their doors. We’ve had to slip notes to assure them that all is back to normal. What with the disturbance, and before that the murder, they are naturally worried.’
‘They know about the murder?’
‘Mais, bien sur! Rumours of anything out of the ordinary spreads like wildfire on a train.’
‘You’ve had murders before?’
‘Mon Dieu, no! But we have had deaths.’
*
Despite his sudden and unexpected proximity to the murderers employed by the cartel operations in Asia, Marco Rodriguez could not bring himself to associate with them beyond the absolute necessity to do so. He’d left that to Cortez and wished to distance himself from the cartel’s more nefarious activities in South East Asia. But now Cortez was dead, along with five other Mexican cut-throats, and Rodriguez was responsible for the remainder of the gang.
As the train nosed towards it destination, he and his wife Maria finished packing. ‘I don’t want to associate with my compatriots,’ he told his wife as she painted her nails. ‘They are a link to my uncle’s past. I want nothing to do with them.’
‘But darling, they saved the bullion. You have to help them.’
‘That’s all I care about. I must claim it on behalf of my company. Don’t you see? My direct association with them will get questions from everyone about how it was acquired. The Singapore banks will not accept it if they think it’s hot or somehow ill-gotten.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Maria said, standing to adjust her bra as if it and her breasts had to be aligned and displayed in a centimetre-perfect manner. ‘Gold is gold. Your company has control of it. You have receipts from all those trading shops you bought it from, for a start.’
‘Someone is going to challenge our ownership,’ he said with a frown, ‘perhaps the Thai government. Its junta likes such booty. Or even the Singaporeans or Malaysians.’
‘I’d be more concerned about the Americans.’
‘I can only hope that the lawyers I’ve already lined up will be able to allow it to be taken to the banks.’
*
Azelaporn ordered Jacinta to join him and his Chinese courtesans in his suite for breakfast.
‘I don’t think I can pay you the rest of your money,’ he said, hoping that his two women would stop Jacinta from reacting.
‘Tell me why,’ she said, stirring her coffee and staring. ‘We are ensuring safe passage of the bullion, aren’t we?’
‘You don’t understand,’ he said, opening his hands to her plaintively. ‘I did the deal with Cortez. There was only a handshake agreement; nothing was written down.’
‘Not even an email?’
‘Any communication was deleted long ago.’
Jacinta gave him a withering look.
‘Oh, but you’ve been paid, haven’t you?’
‘No.’
‘You are a liar!’
‘I was to be paid once the bullion was delivered to Singapore.’
‘Doesn’t Rodriguez realise you have not been protecting him and the gold for nothing?’
Azelaporn feigned helplessness.
‘Ask him about it,’ she said, glancing at the Chinese, ‘or I will.’
*
After breakfast was served in the last hour of the trip, the steward could not raise Blenkiron. He sent another staff member to find Huloton, who was in the infirmary with Makanathan. Seeing that her husband was asleep and being monitored, she accompanied Huloton to Blenkiron’s presidential suite. Huloton used his master key to open the door. He walked in, followed by the steward and Makanathan. A distinct odour of cleaning fluid pervaded the suite. The first thing they saw was the empty wheelchair with a pair of crutches resting on it. It faced a window, which had been raised.
‘Mon Dieu!’ Huloton said. ‘He has committed suicide!’
‘Not necessarily,’ Makanathan said, taking out a camera and examining the room, the bathroom and the cupboards. ‘He has left a suitcase. It is empty.’
‘Do we have his passport?’ Huloton said to the steward.
‘No, Sir, he never surrendered it for the final border.’
‘You have photocopies?’ Makanathan asked.
‘We do.’
‘Hmm,’ Makanathan mumbled, ‘I will do a DNA sweep of the room, although it seems someone has done a thorough job in cleaning up, and perhaps destroying evidence.’
‘No one has been in the room, except the American, since the journey began,’ Huloton informed her.
Makanathan began examining the door-sized partition to the adjoining cabin.
‘It is sealed and can’t be opened,’ Huloton said dismissively as he watched her. ‘All the carriages’ main suites have them. They were never used, at least since my company took control of the train.’
Makanathan pulled a face and nodded.
‘What are your thoughts, Doctor?’ Huloton asked.
‘I can see two possibilities. One was of course, that he jumped, or in his case fell, from the train. How long has it been since he was seen?’
‘About 2.15 a.m. this morning, just before the murder …’ ‘Or two, someone has made it seem that he jumped.’ She ruffled her spiky hair and muttered, almost to herself, ‘There is a chance that Cowboy was right, after all.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The American is the only passenger to have left the train after the murder of Cortez. He must be top of the list of suspects.’