For five minutes Scrimple sat on the floor of the kitchen staring at his shoes. He couldn’t face standing up and seeing the bodies of his friends.
During his time in the police there had been many dead bodies, but usually they were old men and women—nobody he knew.
There was one time though when he’d walked in on a friend who’d killed himself with a gun and that event had screwed him up for a long time. Now, he couldn’t believe that it was all happening again. And somehow it was connected to the re-appearance in his life of Assistant Commissioner Bottle.
Scrimple reached over and pulled open the door of the fridge, grabbing a full bottle of mineral water. He rested the cold plastic against his forehead, then took a few swigs of water. His mouth tasted vile from the vomit. After drinking half of the bottle he began to feel better. Mentally he was sober as a judge but there was still a lot of alcohol sloshing around in his blood.
What was he going to do? He could call the local police. He should call the police. But then, sooner or later, the Bangkok police and Superintendent Somchai would find out and things would get complicated.
He could hardly walk out of his flat and leave the bodies there. They would start to decompose and smell. The neighbors would get curious and the security guards would get suspicious.
He could hardly dispose of the bodies. There were cameras in the lifts and all the public areas. What was he going to do?
Wrap up each body in a carpet and sling it over his shoulder then dump it in the rubbish room? What a ridiculous thought and not fair on the memory of his friends.
Was there anyone who could come and help him clear up the mess and make the bodies disappear?
There was one person, perhaps who could pull it off. Two in fact, but he wasn’t sure the phone numbers still worked, nor did he want to get in touch with these men again. That would be like opening a Pandora’s box of infinite horror.
He would have to deal with this by himself. For another ten minutes he sat on the floor and finished the rest of the mineral water. Then, with a huge effort of self-control he stood up and walked to the front door which he’d closed but not locked. He turned the lock and slid the bolt across.
Gingerly, he approached the two bodies, bracing himself as he stared at the gunshot wounds, the blood spatter, the entry and exit points. He imagined someone coming to the door. Liam opening it and letting the person in. A conversation, perhaps wanting to know where Scrimple was. The guys hadn’t known. Then suddenly: a gun was produced, threats and bullets flying.
It was the last thing the two Irish lads would have expected. Yet, what was it all about?
Was it about the money or was it about the dead girl in the apartment?
* * * *
By now it was after two in the morning. Scrimple had decided on a plan. He needed some time to think and find out what was happening. If he called the police and waited for them to come, they would arrest him and ask questions later. Their first assumption would be a gangland killing. Some argument between drug dealers. They would think that Scrimple and the guys had been involved with the Russians or crossed onto someone else’s turf. Because only with drugs or other gang stuff did you get this kind of extreme violence.
It would be hard for Scrimple to talk his way out of it. Not impossible, because the evidence would point away from him and there should be witnesses who had seen him much later than the time the killings must have happened. And then there would be the video tape from the security cameras. But all that would take time and then Somchai from Bangkok would get involved.
Scrimple needed to be away from that. He went into his bedroom, picked up his overnight bag and then left the flat. He made sure to pull the security bolt out so that the door couldn’t close properly. Anyone pushing against it would find it open.
The security guard downstairs was asleep. Scrimple stepped out of the building and made the phone call:
“Hello, can you speak English? Yes, I want to report a murder. Two murders. This is the address…”
After he had told the police everything they needed to know, he walked back up to the main road and waved down an empty tuk-tuk. It brought him down Beach Road again until he reached Soi 8, where he knew a cheap hotel. He checked in, paying cash, five hundred Baht for the rest of the night. It was the sort of place that mainly did short-time rooms, so there was no need to show a passport.
The room smelt of disinfectant and the bed was lumpy. He took a long cold shower after which he felt much better. He considered calling Nari but it was late and he didn’t want to wake her up. She lived in a house on the outskirts of town with two servants and a driver who doubled as a bodyguard. She would be fine, because he was sure nobody could know that he’d visited her and left the bag with the cash in her safe. Who could have followed him on the motorbike taxi as it weaved through the traffic? And who could possibly know of the relationship between Nari and Scrimple? Nobody did. He’d never talked to anyone in Bangkok about her.
He’d have to go and visit her tomorrow morning of course and warn her just in case. Or perhaps he would have to simply take the money back and hide it somewhere else. Without the money she was no longer involved.
Whoever had killed Liam and Declan was after Scrimple and the money. That sounded logical.
What he really needed to do was talk to Cliff Bottle. How the hell could he find the old man?
* * * *
The telephone rang. The ring tone on his mobile was a jazzy tune and it felt too jaunty for this time of the day. He’d been charging the phone in the socket at the foot of the bed.
Light was seeping through the curtains. He threw back the musty brown blanket and reached for the phone. It was a number he didn’t recognize.
“We know you are somewhere between Soi 6 and Soi 12,” a voice said. It was a Hong Kong Chinese accent, spoken by someone whose English was fluent. There was something familiar about the voice, but Scrimple couldn’t place it.
“Who is this?” he said. “How do you know where I am?” Even as he said it, he knew the answer. On his mobile phone it always showed which was the nearest cell tower he was connected to. Somehow they had some technology that could locate his mobile but only to the general area of the cell. It was still too close for comfort.
“You have something that belongs to me. I want the briefcase with the money and we’ll leave you alone,” the Chinese voice said.
Scrimple snorted with disgust. “After you killed my friends in cold blood? You want me to trust you to simply hand the money back?”
“Do you have a choice? You are wanted for murder by now. You are not in a position to negotiate.”
“The security tapes from my building will show it wasn’t me who killed Liam and Declan.”
There was a laugh at the other end of the line. “There are no security tapes.”
“Of course there are.”
“Take your chances, Scrimple. We took all the tapes out and bribed the security guard. He could identify us but I don’t think so. He got enough money and we know where his family lives.”
“Bastards.”
“Yes, Scrimple. I know. Now what about the briefcase?”
“I don’t have it.”
“Who has it?”
“It’s in a safe place.”
“You saw what we did to your friends. They would not cooperate. They wouldn’t tell us where you’d gone.”
“They had no idea.”
“Okay. It doesn’t matter now. I want you to meet us in an hour at the go-kart track opposite the Bangkok Pattaya Hospital. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes.”
“Bring the money and we let you go. Then you can find a way to explain the rest to the police.”
“Did you kill the girl in Bangkok?”
The line had already gone dead. Scrimple tossed the phone on the floor in frustration. He had a mild hangover despite all the mineral water he’d drunk. He rummaged in his overnight bag and took a couple of locally-made Tylenol.
What the hell to do?
He didn’t have much time. If the police were after him they would circulate his picture on the news and eventually someone at the hotel or on the street would recognize him. There was only so much he could do to disguise himself. There were thousands of fat, middle-aged foreigners in Pattaya but all it took was for one person to report him and claim whatever reward money the police would be posting.
Scrimple still couldn’t place the voice. It was someone from his past. It must be someone from Hong Kong. His subconscious teased him, yet he couldn’t find a name or a face.
It was ten thirty in the morning and the noises from the street were still muted. Pattaya was a town that went to bed in the early hours and woke up late.
He called the number he had for Jim Bellows. It rang six times before a sleepy voice answered.
“Jim, how are you, mate? Scrimple here. Sorry to wake you.”
“It’s all right. Time to go and open the office anyway.”
“Have you heard from the police?”
“Nothing so far. We’ve got nothing to worry about. They’re not that stupid. It was just one of those weird things.”
“I’m not so sure,” Scrimple said.
Jim said, “What do you mean?”
“Nothing. It’s just weird. You’re right. You remember Assistant Commissioner Bottle from our time in the Force?”
“Rip-your-balls-off Bottle? Sure. What about him?”
“You haven’t seen him in Bangkok in the last year have you? Or rented him a property?”
“No,” Jim said. “Why are you asking?”
“It’s just that he came to see me, sort of out of the blue. We had a bit of a chat but I forgot to get his phone number. I want to get back in contact with him.”
“No idea. I can ask around. There’s a few ex-coppers I talk to. They might have an idea. He had a Chinese wife so he’d be retired in Hong Kong. Or they might have gone off to Spain or Australia.”
“I suppose so.”
“Have a good week-end. I’ve got to get in the shower.”
* * * *
When Scrimple got to Nari’s shop everything was still closed. He’d tried to call her first but only got the voicemail. He’d no idea exactly where she lived. They’d kept in touch and he would visit her occasionally at work but besides that was not involved in her life. She’d mentioned a young German boy the previous evening as her latest boyfriend. Maybe the guy lived with her, maybe he just came around when she wanted physical intimacy.
He walked up the road and found a McDonald’s that was open and which sold him an Egg McMuffin and a reasonable cup of coffee. He sat outside wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, smoking a cigarette.
The Thai police might get his photos in the paper or on television but he didn’t think they’d move that fast. Sooner or later he had to give himself up and explain why he’d run away from a crime scene. He thought he’d be able to talk his way out of it except for the words of the man on the end of the telephone. If the surveillance tapes had been taken and the security guard bribed, then Scrimple was in deep, deep shit.
For now he was still free. He knew where the money was even if he couldn’t get hold of it and there was a chance that things might settle down and go away if he could reach an accommodation with the killers. But the idea of walking away from the men who’d killed Liam and Declan filled him with self-loathing. There was no way he could do that, was there?
He smoked another cigarette and tried calling Nari again. There was still no reply apart from the voicemail, and the shop remained resolutely quiet. It was getting late if he was going to make the meeting at the go-kart track on time.
Scrimple ground what was left of the Mild Seven into the pavement with his heel then walked back and checked the restaurant where he and Nari had eaten the previous evening. It too was closed and silent.
There was nothing much else to do. He didn’t want to miss the meeting. He had to know who the people were that were doing this and he had to try and get some idea of why it was happening so he could work on a plan to extricate himself.
* * * *
The go-kart track opened early but there were no customers yet. The little racing carts appeared run down to Scrimple, with peeling paint and threadbare tires. A mechanic was trying to fix a control-wire on one of the carts while two other workers were arranging piles of huge tractor tires that would be used as crash barriers.
Next to the go-kart track was another tourist attraction called Little Siam. It was advertised as having scaled-down replicas of all the major cities and landmarks of the world. There was a large car-park between the two places which made it a convenient place for a meet.
Scrimple stood in front of the ticket window of the go-kart track, having explained to the girl already that he wasn’t interested in racing.
It was ten minutes before a black Lexus pulled up. It had tinted windows and stopped twenty yards from him like an African panther ready to pounce.
After a few seconds the rear doors opened and two Asian men got out. They were both wearing jeans and expensive-looking designer shirts hanging loosely over their trousers. There was something vaguely familiar about the taller of the two men. His eyes were hidden by dark sunglasses while his mouth was fixed in a cold smile. He had grey hair that was long and tied back in a ponytail. The other man was stocky, with broad shoulders and short bandy legs.
“Hello, Scrimple. We meet again, as they say in the movies,” the man with the ponytail said.
“You’re William. You used to work for Tang Siu Ling,” Scrimple said, memories and recognition flooding back instantly. He should have recognized the voice but it was out of context. Now the connection began dawning on him. In fact William was a Hong Kong Chinese Triad and the last time they had crossed paths was when Scrimple still worked for Cliff Bottle.
“You haven’t got the briefcase with the money?” William said, accusing him but still with his supercilious smile. “Is there any reason for that? I seem to remember you liked playing games. You weren’t very smart twenty years ago, so I don’t expect you to be any smarter now.” William’s English was excellent, although he had a standard Hong Kong accent tinged with American diphthongs.
“I couldn’t get the money from where I left it. I gave it to a friend and I can’t get hold of him at the moment.”
“I really hope he hasn’t run away with our money and stuff. Chisin here would have to get his guns out again. Your friends got really fucked over.”
Scrimple looked at the stocky man who was missing two front teeth and was grinning at him with the gaps.
“You bastards. Those guys had nothing to do with any of this and you just gunned them down because they had no idea where I’d gone?”
“Life and death can be pretty shit,” William said. “Anyway, they were just gwai-lo so not even really human as far as Chisin is concerned. A waste of all the bullets.” He let out a dry laugh.
“What the fuck is all this about?” Scrimple said.
William shrugged, cleared his throat and spat a small gob onto the tarmac between his cowboy boots. “If you don’t know then there’s no point in talking about it. I know the old snake Bottle came to you with the briefcase of money and we want it and you have it.”
“What’s Bottle involved in? What’s he got to do with you?”
“It doesn’t matter, Scrimple,” William said, as if talking to a child. “You get that briefcase and we’ll leave you alone. How you talk your way out of the murders of your two friends is your problem. As long as you don’t mention us. If you spend enough money on them maybe you can persuade the police that it was a burglary gone wrong.”
“You can go to hell,” Scrimple said with venom.
“We’re wasting our time here,” William said. “I’ll call you again in two hours and expect that you’ve got the briefcase by then. We’ll find another place to meet and that will be the end of that.”
Scrimple said, “Tell me, whatever happened to Mabel? Did you let her leave Hong Kong in the end? She just disappeared.”
William looked at him blankly then began to laugh. “Oh, that little stuck-up bitch. She was the one who caused all the trouble. In the end we sorted it all out. And we sorted her out.”
“You killed her.”
“No, nobody killed her. You get me that briefcase and I might tell you where to find her.”
* * * *
The baseball cap made his head sweat but he didn’t want to risk being recognized by anyone who might have been shown his photograph, so he had to keep the sunglasses and the cap on.
After the two Chinese men had left in the black Lexus, Scrimple stood around for a while venting his frustration and trying to work out where to go next.
William’s Triad boss, Tang Siu Ling had died over ten years ago so Scrimple wondered if William was now the big boss or if he’d set up shop for himself. Apart from going grey he looked as fit and as frightening as when they’d first met. William had started out as an inspector in the police so they shared a common background.
What were these men doing here in Thailand and what did they have to do with Cliff Bottle?
Scrimple tried calling Nari again but got no answer, then snared a green taxi from out of town to bring him back to his hotel. He got the taxi to drop him off at the end of the soi so he could cautiously approach his cheap hotel and observe if the police had managed to track him there yet. There were thousands of hotels and guest houses in Pattaya. He doubted that the police would be able to find him but it was worth being cautious.
He noticed nothing out of the ordinary. No uniformed officers or anyone suspicious lounging around the lobby waiting for him to return. Even if his picture had already been shown on Thai television most foreigners looked the same to the average local and even if there was a good reward they wouldn’t want to lose face by pointing out the wrong person.
Scrimple had his key on him so he walked straight to the lift and went upstairs. He turned in the opposite direction from his room and stepped into the laundry room he’d noticed in the morning. He waited for five minutes and nothing happened. Nobody had followed him up in the next lift.
He quickly packed his bag. He’d decided not to stay. It was too risky in a public hotel. He would have to find some other place to hide out. Nari was the obvious choice. It was beginning to worry him that she’d still not called back.
Downstairs all he did was drop off his key. Everything had been paid the night before and the girl at reception barely gave him a glance.
Fifteen minutes later he was back outside Nari’s travel agency. This time it was open and he was relieved as he stepped inside.
“Where is Khun Nari?” he asked the two girls at the desks. They had been smiling at him hopefully, assuming he wanted a flight ticket booked or a hotel sorted in Phuket.
“She not come today,” one girl said.
“Can you call her? I’m her friend. I left a bag with her and want to pick it up.”
The girl nodded and put her desk phone on speaker and punched in some numbers. It began to ring and after six rings went to the same voicemail he’d been getting.
“Maybe she busy or go up to Bangkok,” the girl said, trying to be helpful.
“Do you know where she lives? Maybe I can go and meet her.”
The girl shook her head. “I think she live behind Number Four road but I don’t know.”
“Nobody knows where she lives?” Scrimple said, surprised.
Both of the girls shook their heads. “What about in the restaurant, out the back? Does anyone know how to find her?”
The girls shook their heads again but the first one went out the back to ask anyway. When she came back a few moments later it was the same story.
“Do you have a key to the big safe? Nari put my bag in there last night?” Scrimple said.
The first girl gave him a strange look. He recognized it. It was the one that Thais reserved for weird, crazy behavior by foreigners. The other girl simply giggled. There was no way any employee would have access to the safe or its combination.
“Okay.” He sighed, starting to get depressed. “If she calls or comes in, please tell her to contact Scrimple urgently.” He wrote down the number and name for the girls, then paused, considering his next words. “It’s a matter of life and death. Can you tell her that?”
The girls stared at him uncertainly as if they had not understood his English. “Life or…” the first girl said.
He shook his head. “Never mind.”