He didn’t know what the hell to do now. Limping along the side of the main road he felt weak and useless. There was no real sidewalk but shop houses lined the road and cars roared past continuously.
Life had been too cushy in the last few years. There was a time, when he was younger, that he could have stood up to them and fought back harder. Now he was just powerless.
He wanted to sit down and rest, have a look at the bruises on his body but none of the shops so far had been a restaurant or a convenience store. They sold paint or furniture or hardware and then there was a garage. He was about two miles outside of Pattaya town.
He hopped on painfully for another twenty minutes until he finally saw a local convenience store that sold food and drink and had some tables outside under a ragged orange umbrella.
He ordered a bowl of noodles and a bottle of Chang beer, the only brand they had. They also sold painkillers and analgesics so he got a strip of generic Panadol and a tube of Counterpain cream. He began to rub the stuff on the areas where Chisin had kicked and punched him.
Bastard bonghead.
Scrimple had often dealt with guys like him and not thought much about it when he was in the police. But the uniform and the rank had given him the power to handle men like Chisin and now he was a civilian and in a country where none of his connections could help.
At least they had left him all his stuff when they dumped him on the road. He still had his mobile phones, his wallet with enough cash to get by and plastic cards to get more.
That was all strange. Why simply kick him out after they had gone to all the trouble of bringing him in? They could have squeezed him and tortured him until he gave them all Nari’s details and then they could go and get the money themselves. It was what he’d been expecting and he knew he would have given up her details within an hour of anyone inflicting pain on him. And after that they could have simply shot him and dumped his body in a field. They didn’t care about killing people. They had shown that easily enough with Declan and Liam and probably the girl in Bangkok who’d had her throat slit.
Scrimple shuddered and took a few long draughts from the oversized beer bottle. His damn shin hurt like hell and his jaw ached every time he chewed.
The owner of the shop came out and asked him if he wanted another bottle of Chang. Scrimple shook his head. He pointed at a chocolate bar under the counter and the man brought it out to him and waited as Scrimple counted out the money.
“Where you come from?” the owner said looking at Scrimple’s bruises. “You have boxing?”
Scrimple nodded. “Yes, yes boxing. My wife not happy I have girlfriend.”
“Hah,” the owner said and gave him a long appraising look as he made the money disappear in his apron. He then turned and went back into the gloominess of the shop. Scrimple continued eating his noodles for a few minutes then the owner came back out, this time holding a Thai newspaper. There was a picture of the royal family on the top part of the front page and text that Scrimple couldn’t read. On the bottom half of the page was a passport photo of him taken a few years back. He hadn’t changed much since then. Bald, a jowly face and a fat neck. There would be a lot of tourists in Pattaya who looked similar but to the shop owner it was pretty clear the picture was a close match.
“You give me five thousand Baht, I not call police,” he said, squinting at Scrimple.
“Three thousand,” Scrimple said cursing his luck.
“Okay.” The owner held open his hand and Scrimple pulled out his wallet.
Ten minutes later Scrimple was hobbling along trying to leave the location as fast as he could before the shop owner called the police for some extra reward money. Luckily he found a surly motorbike taxi driver on the next junction who agreed to take him down to Jomtien once he’d flicked away his cigarette butt.
As he was getting on the back of the bike Scrimple’s mobile rang and he answered, holding on tightly to the driver’s back as the bike shot forward.
It was hard to hear who was talking at first then he realized it was Nari and felt a new sense of empowerment as she told him she was back in town and in her shop. He asked her not to go anywhere as he was on his way over.
Sitting on the back of a motorbike taxi is always a wild adventurous ride. The young drivers usually knew no fear and tempted fate and the forces of nature as they ducked and dived between cars, vans and lorries, switching lanes with impunity, accelerating and slowing down as the road opened and closed around them. Scrimple held on and closed his eyes because he’d found a driver who was more insane even than the standard motorbike taxi man.
At the first few red lights the driver stopped dutifully then revved his engine as if he was in the starting grid at the Macau Grand Prix but then he came to another set of lights which were changing to amber and he gunned through these, narrowly avoiding another motorbike coming from the other direction that had had the same idea. Scrimple pondered briefly on the fact that traffic lights were not very well synchronized in the kingdom of Thailand and then braced himself for impact as the driver slammed on the brakes to avoid a black BMW that had cut across them without indicating. An instant later they roared past the German-made car, the motorbike driver making obscene gestures with a hand that should have been on the handlebars.
At last they got near to Jomtien and Scrimple gritted his teeth for the remaining part of the journey. He gave the driver instructions on how to find Nari's shop. When they arrived he handed him double the agreed amount, partly for getting him there in one piece and partly for the speed. If anyone had been trying to follow them in a car it would have been impossible to keep up.
The motorbike rider grinned, pulled a packet of crumpled Krong Thip from his jeans and shook one out.
Scrimple turned and walked into Nari's travel agency. She was sitting there at her desk giving him a worried smile. There was nobody else there.
“I sent the girls away,” she said. “Your face has been shown in the newspapers and television.”
He nodded and flung himself into the chair. “What are they saying about me?” he asked.
“You are wanted in connection with two murders of other foreigners and it could be something related to drug trafficking.”
She frowned at him. “Is this true, Khun Scrimple?”
He waved his hand in irritated dismissal. “Of course not. I’m being set up. Somebody gave me some money to take care of and some Chinese gangsters have come after me to get it back. They killed two of my good friends and it looks as if I did it.”
Nari stared at him for a long moment and then said, “I believe you.” She still looked worried.
“These are dangerous people. It’s best if I take the bag I gave you and go away and hide.”
“Maybe that’s a bit of a problem, Khun Inspector,” Nari said, looking more uncomfortable now than worried. Scrimple started getting a bad feeling.
“What do you mean?”
She stared down at her desk for a moment and then fixed him with what appeared to be a contrite expression.
“I think I did something not so good. It was a mistake because I didn’t know about your problems.”
Scrimple felt the frustration welling up inside him. “What did you do? Tell me exactly.”
“When you came to me I knew it was money and I thought you just wanted to hide it for a time because you don’t want to put it in the bank or pay tax. So I thought maybe you don’t need it for a few weeks and I can use it for my own problems.”
“For goodness sake!” he half screamed. “What have you done with the money?”
“That’s why I went to Bangkok and did not call you back,” she said.
He nodded, waiting for her to explain.
“I have two bars in Bangkok and needed money to pay for the rent for the next five years. But business has been bad in Pattaya and I have no spare money and I was afraid to lose all my investment.”
“Go on.” Scrimple knew that in Thailand rents were often paid up front for the entire lease period rather than monthly.
“I go up to Bangkok and pay the money, about five million Baht and then I go for gambling to try to make up some more money for interest when I pay you back.” She paused and shrugged. “My luck is not so good. I lost one million Baht, not win.”
“Oh, great,” he said with an air of resignation. He knew she had a weak spot for the cards but to lose a million baht in a few hours game was a bit extreme even for a wealthy business owner.
“So you’ve got four million Baht left then?”
She nodded unhappily. “I will pay you back seven million Baht in a week. I have a condo that is for sale but the buyer kept on delaying, that is why I did not have the money for bars in Bangkok.”
He shook his head in exasperation and reached for the new packet of Mild Sevens he’d bought at the convenience store. “You don’t need to pay me a million Baht interest. Just get me back the original amount because I will need it to negotiate with these men that killed my friends.”
“No, if I had gone to the underground money lenders they would have charged me nearly the same money to borrow for one month.”
Scrimple shrugged and said, “We’ll worry about later then. First thing is, I need to find a place to hide out until you can get me back the rest of the money. Then I have to think how I am going talk my way out of this problem and persuade the police I’m not the killer.”
“You have to stay in my house. Nobody knows where I live and it is very safe with a wall and lots of security camera.”
She handed him a lighter and watched as he lit up. He considered her offer. Whatever the circumstances she was already in the same danger as he was, now that some of the money had been spent by her. If he walked away from here with the bag of four million there were no guarantees that Nari was safe. William could still find out about her and then Scrimple could not protect her. He wasn’t really angry that she’d borrowed the money. She had no idea that he would come right back for it nor that murders had been committed. To be fair, he was a bit upset but now they were together in the same boat. She had to help him deal with the situation. She owed him that and the balance of the money.
Nari said, “My boyfriend will come and pick us up. He is a tough guy and he has a gun.”
“How long can I hide at your place do you think?”
“As long as you need, Khun Inspector. We can get the money in a few days from the condo sale. I can help you talk to the police. I have some connection with the Police Colonel from the headquarters in Pattaya town.”
“How do you know him?”
She made a face. “Of course, I have some business all around town. I have to pay him and other people otherwise the business can’t work smooth.”
Scrimple grunted. “The oil to grease the wheels of commerce. Don’t you just love Thailand?” The last part was more to himself. Everything was a web of deals and payoffs. Nothing was ever simple or straightforward. For the Thais giving and owing favors determined by complex hierarchical relationships was a normal fact of life.
“Yes, that would be useful. These gangsters will have their connections but I need to be able to tell my side of the story.”
Nari put her hand on his and said, “I am sorry I borrow the money.”
“It’s okay,” he said gruffly and stabbed out the cigarette in the upturned lid of a tin ashtray borrowed from a restaurant called Zeppelin.
Nari went to the safe and got out the Adidas sports bag. The padlock was no longer on the bag so Scrimple assumed it had been an easy lock to pick. He looked inside and saw the smaller pile of remaining grey thousand Baht notes.
Her boyfriend arrived twenty minutes later. His name was Walter Kranz and he was built like a brick shithouse. He had huge shoulders, bodybuilder’s arms and short blond hair with blue eyes.
Nari introduced them and Walter crushed Scrimple’s hand in his own.
“I am from Frankfurt. Where are you from?” Walter said pleasantly.
“The North of England. But I left a long time ago.”
Walter laughed. “I left Germany a short time ago. I am an electrician and it is better to be in Thailand.”
“Yeah, I guess so. Nari said you have a gun. Can you use it?”
“Sure, why have a gun if you don’t know how to use it?” Walter laughed. “I was doing my national service and spent time in the Fallschirmjaeger, you know the parachutists.”
“That’s good. I was in the Hong Kong Police for nearly twenty years.”
Walter gave him an appraising look and nodded. Between Nari and Scrimple they brought him up to date on events and the potential dangers from William and his gang.
“Maybe I can bring in some help from my friends. Some of them did bank robbery in Germany and they are very tough boys.”
Scrimple shook his head. “No need. I think we just want to be careful and low key until we can sort this out with the money.”
“You remember where their house is?” Walter asked with a grin. “Maybe we can go there instead and give them a big fuck in the ass?”
“I know what area it is but don’t think I could easily find it again.”
Nari said, “Let us go home now. We can talk and eat.” She picked up the plastic bags with food containers that had been delivered from the next door restaurant.
It was already dark outside and Walter had parked the Porsche Cayenne directly in front of the shop. They climbed in and he pulled out and headed off in the direction of Pattaya. They got onto Sukhumvit Road and drove twenty minutes in the direction of Chonburi, finally turning off into a gated estate. While he drove Nari talked about her two bars in Bangkok. They were both on Soi 33 where the hostess girls wore all their clothes and many of the establishments had names of French impressionist painters. Nari had called her bars Goethe and Lessing. Scrimple had no idea who they were until Walter explained they were Germany’s most famous writers.
“Like your Shakespeare and Chaucer,” Walter said with a grin as he turned the car into the compound.
“They teach you about Chaucer at school in Germany?” Scrimple was impressed.
“Sure, why not? I am an electrician but that does not mean I am an ignorant pig.” Walter winked at him.
“An English electrician would hardly know who Shakespeare is or how to spell his name properly.”
“And I know John Cleese and the Fawlty Towers.”
Scrimple was impressed.
Walter jabbed him in the ribs with a huge elbow. “And don’t mention the War!” he quoted and roared with laughter while pulling the car up in front of a fancy bungalow.
It was an opulent house with marble floors and huge white sofas. The largest flat screen TV Scrimple had ever seen hung on the living room wall and in the garden sat a huge swimming pool that could have accommodated an entire battalion of swimmers.
Nari disappeared upstairs and Scrimple dumped the bag with the remaining money on the dining room table which could seat twelve and was made from a solid type of wood.
“You like this place?” Walter asked.
“Impressive,” Scrimple replied checking out the music center and the three-foot tall Denon speakers.
“I am the cook and the gardener,” Walter said with a grin and turned the television on to a channel that was showing English Premier League football.
“Chelsea will play Manchester United,” he commented and went off to the kitchen with the food containers.
A while later they were sitting watching the game, eating the warmed-up dishes and drinking cold beer from a set of robust German mugs that Walter had produced. Scrimple felt much better than he had all day. There might be a chance to talk his way out of this if Nari had the right connections.
She had changed and was wearing a loose-fitting house dress. He remembered when he’d first met her and she was just in her early twenties. Now she was a mature woman and although her face was starting to betray her age, she was as fit and slim as all those years ago.
He studied Walter and assumed the man was not much older than twenty-six. He probably wasn’t working as an electrician anymore. Nari could afford to keep him in good style and he appeared strong as a stallion, able to satisfy all her physical needs. Scrimple didn’t remember much about Nari’s physical needs. It had been many years ago and he’d mostly satisfied his own and not worried about anyone else’s needs.
He thought about the girl Pim and that she had suggested meeting for dinner. It was too late for that now and in any case it was too dangerous. There was something not quite right about her and whatever it was, it was worth staying away from. Absently he watched the footballers kick the ball around as Walter got excited and Nari quietly ate her food while leafing through a Thai woman’s magazine called Lisa. He sipped his beer and thought that alcohol was the best pain killer on the market.
Wayne Rooney, the Manchester player, missed an easy kick to the net and Walter jumped up in frustration. He banged the table with the palm of his huge hand and then swore in German for a while. But a few minutes later he was calm again laughing with glee at a series of clever passes by Chelsea.
Scrimple couldn’t get into the game. He went outside onto the patio and smoked a few cigarettes, staring at the night sky and listening to the crickets chirping.
He had to find a way to get hold of Bottle and understand what was going on. There must be people back in Hong Kong who would know what he was doing or where he was living. If Scrimple made some phone calls he could create some leads but for the moment he wanted to lie as low as possible. He wanted to be careful about using his phones.
The best course of action was to have Nari make some contact with the police and negotiate for him to turn himself in without being arrested. He needed a chance to tell his side of the story and for it to be believed. Maybe it would help if Nari took some of the left-over money and used it to sweeten up the local police chief. He wondered what had happened to Declan and Liam. He assumed their bodies would lying in a cold morgue waiting to be shipped home or for some relatives to get in touch.
There was no way to say sorry to his friends but Scrimple looked up at the stars and tried to convey how sorry he felt. They hadn’t deserved any of this. He grunted in anger.
Bloody hell, nor did I. So what the hell am I doing here half drunk, bruised black and blue and feeling sorry for myself?
Somewhere at this point he nodded off and woke up a few hours later as the night had become very quiet. Nari must have draped a blanket over him and there was a smell of mosquito spray around him. He pushed the blanket away and stood up stiffly, then went inside and found one of the many spare bedrooms that had been pointed out to him, where he stripped down to his smelly underpants and fell asleep again.
* * * *
There was a knock on the door which woke him up.
Walter came in with a cup of coffee and placed it on the bedside table. The big German was grinning and sticking out from the waistband of his jeans was the top part of a large revolver.
“You drink the coffee. You will feel better,” he said.
“What time is it?” Scrimple asked.
“About nine o’clock. I just go to the gym. Nari likes to sleep late. You make yourself free in the kitchen. All the food is there.”
Scrimple nodded and struggled up in bed. He could really feel the bruises and the stress of the last two days. After he’d drunk the coffee he took a very long hot and cold shower then wandered out into the living room.
From a far-off room down a long corridor he could hear grunts and the banging of metal on metal, realizing that Walter’s gym was in fact in the house.
Scrimple’s breakfast was a bowl of Frosties, a large glass of orange juice and three Mild Sevens.
Apart from the distant noise of Walter lifting weights and the subdued hum of the central air conditioning, the house was eerily quiet. Outside the sun was already harsh and it would be another searingly hot day.
Scrimple went and turned on the television and desultorily flicked through cable channels. What bothered him again this morning was the fact that they’d simply let him go yesterday.
They hadn’t beaten him up, they hadn’t tried very hard to find out where the money was, they’d simply dumped him on the side of the road. Had something else happened and the situation changed? Were he and the money no longer important to William and the old Chinese woman who had looked at him like he was a brown beetle that had just crawled out of the dung heap?
And why had Bottle sent him to buy an apartment where a dead girl was waiting to be found? Scrimple cursed the old man and lit another cigarette, then stood up to smoke it outside.
Nari’s mansion was surrounded on all sides by an eight-foot high wall. There were security cameras on every corner, which moved languorously from left to right and back again. Two security guards in uniform sat by the front gate and a gardener was on his knees digging in a flower bed by the wall running along the side of the swimming pool.
It’s about as safe as you can get, Scrimple thought. He could stay here until Nari found a way to make up the balance of the money she’d borrowed and lost. And what about the office? He would have to talk to them soon. It was still a Sunday so he had time to consider but chances were, sooner or later, news of his involvement with the murders would have got out and reached Hong Kong and even London. CNN or the BBC would have picked up an exciting story of two murdered expats by now.
He walked back inside and began clicking the channels until he reached the international news reports. He watched for an hour but found nothing. That was good. Perhaps the police were still containing it in Pattaya or perhaps it wasn’t that great a story.
A pregnant panda bear in Beijing might be more interesting than two dead Irishmen in a sleazy beach resort in Thailand.
Nari appeared, slightly disheveled, her hair all over the place and without the careful make up she was in the habit of applying.
“You sleep okay, Khun Scrimple?” she asked.
“Great.”
“You eat breakfast?”
“Yes, thanks.” He jerked his head in the direction of the front gate. “Plenty of security here.”
She shrugged. “It’s normal for this housing area. If not you get too many burglars. They look at the big house and think ‘rich foreigner.’”
“I see. It’s a lovely house, Nari. You’ve done so well.”
She smiled and picked up the remote control for the flat screen.
“You mean for a poor little village girl who started working in a bar?”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said feeling awkward.
“You were always good to me and a special friend. I am sorry I took the money and can’t give it back to you.” She found the channel she’d been looking for and reduced the sound as the Bloomberg anchorman prattled on about the state of the markets. “I will call the police colonel today and arrange a meeting to help you as best as I can. But you must stay here a few days until we can arrange everything. I will get the money soon.”
“I’m lucky to have a friend like you, Nari.”
She glanced briefly at the television as the Hang Seng Index numbers came up then said, “Do you like Walter?”
“He seems like a great bloke. A German with a sense of humor. You’d better hold on to him. There aren’t a lot of those around.”
“Yes, I think he really loves me,” she said.
It was at this point that the first bullet hit her and took most of her right eye with it. Further bullets hit her in the neck and chest and she crumpled to the floor.
All Scrimple heard was a subdued popping like a row of champagne bottles being opened. The pristine white wall behind her was suddenly flecked with crimson color as if an impressionist had tossed a few cans of paint at it.
He dived behind one of the sofas and, as he landed and lay there breathing heavily like a demented Buffalo, it was Nari’s remaining lifeless eye that stared directly at him.