Scrimple stared at the door. He imagined it crashing open any minute with an assault team of armed policemen. He had visions of Colonel Somchai beating up Jim until the secret hiding place could no longer be kept a secret.
He was stuck in this apartment with cans of beer, cigarettes, corn flakes and milk. But how long before someone worked out where he was? All he’d dared do was send Jim a text message saying that things hadn’t worked out and he was back at the place where they’d last met.
He couldn’t stay here forever. But he hoped he had a day or two more so he could make some decisions. He lit another Mild Seven and pulled over the saucer he was using as an ashtray. A brigade of cigarette butts were lined up in their ashes.
There was an old phone number he’d been given years back by Bill Jedburgh. He couldn’t be sure it still worked.
It was two in the morning, the view of the river was calming but Scrimple couldn’t sleep. In his mind’s eye, he saw the two guys he’d killed and thought, foolishly, that if he closed his real eyes and opened them again the men might be there standing in front of him.
That was rubbish. They were dead and he’d acted in self-defense. No ghost had any right to come and point an accusing finger at him. But who knew about ghosts? Nobody knew anything about ghosts. The Thais were always talking about their spirit world, convinced that it surrounded them like the air they breathed. That was just all Asian crap. Scrimple had never seen a ghost. Not knowingly. He’d killed before, by accident, under similar pressures, yet no one had come to visit him with hollow eyes in the dark of the night.
That was all rubbish and he was feeling sorry for himself. On the table was a bottle of Five Pipers whiskey, the only thing that the Seven Eleven had been able to offer. The bottle was half-empty so he picked it up and drank from the neck, two large gulps of liquor that burnt their way down his throat. He dared any ghosts to come and visit him. He would kick them back to the place they’d come from.
Scrimple thought he was pathetic. And he was drunk. It was stupid to think of dead people. They were gone. There was no coming back.
He took two more swallows from the bottle and washed the hard taste down with Singha beer.
* * * *
A few hours later he woke up feeling as if a cat had vomited into his mouth.
He staggered to the bathroom and stood in freezing cold water for as long as he could take it. Then he turned the tap up warmer and let the strong spray strike the back of his neck and shoulders.
There had been dreams, confused and garbled, images of people past and present but the only one he remembered with clarity was a vision of Mabel coming to him. Her of the wine-red lips and short China-doll hair. In the dream she had reached for him, called him darling and then turned into a zombie-like monster, her skin dripping off her skull like molten wax.
Scrimple tried to force the image from his mind. It was a nightmare, all jumbled up with the angst and pressure fomenting in his unconscious. Sweet misguided Mabel, for whom he’d killed a man when he was still a young police inspector back in Hong Kong.
Eventually he came out of the shower, drank a pint of orange juice and water then swallowed two Panadols. He stood by the window for a long time in his towel and made up his mind what to do next.
He found the number he was looking for and dialed it with nervous anticipation. He felt as if he was on the cusp of making a deal with the devil. A part of his mind told him he should have made the call a long time ago but the rest of him felt this was the last resort, opening a Pandora’s Box into another world he didn’t understand.
The phone was still connected and began ringing, then the tone changed slightly as if it were roaming to another country. After six rings the voicemail kicked in and Jedburgh’s low, cultured voice came on telling him to leave a message.
Scrimple hesitated, then left his name and number.
He put the phone down and let out a long sigh of tension, then lit the first cigarette of the morning.
Half an hour later he made another call. This time to Pim’s number.
She came on quickly as if she’d been holding the mobile in her hand. There was a wariness in her reply when he introduced himself.
“The police are looking for you,” she said conversationally.
“Oh, yes and what else is new?”
“They say you killed some more people. Some tourists in Phuket.”
“That’s rubbish. What, every little crime committed by a foreigner in the Kingdom of Thailand is now being attributed to me? “
“Where are you hiding? Do you need help?” she said in a softer, caring voice.
“Yeah, I need some help. I need to get out of this mad country.”
“Is that where you are? Trying to fly out of Phuket?” she asked.
“No, that has nothing to do with me. I’m somewhere else.”
“Are you in Pattaya?” she tried to guess.
“Look, I’m not telling you. There’s one thing I want to tell you. I’ve found all of those papers. The ones that Bottle hid in his briefcase. You were right. The money was just a decoy.”
There was a sharp intake of breath at the other end and then a moment of silence. Scrimple heard her say something to another person. It sounded as she was telling someone that Scrimple had found the documents.
“Are you there?” Scrimple demanded.
“Yes, I’m here,” she said.
“Do you want the documents? Does William or whoever want them? I can sell them to you. I need a passage out of Thailand and for that I need some serious money.”
“How much?”
“A hundred thousand USD.”
“That’s too much.”
“It’s what I want.”
“One hundred thousand. They’re just papers,” Pim said.
“Papers worth killing for,” Scrimple reminded her.
“I need to talk to somebody and call you back.”
“I’ll call you in half an hour. A hundred thousand. Cash. Green American currency.”
“I know what it looks like,” she said sharply and cut the connection.
He put the phone down and went to make himself a bowl of corn flakes. The phone began ringing the moment he started eating.
* * * *
Jedburgh finished washing his dive gear in the fresh water tank provided. It was good practice to keep your gear clean and salt free after every dive. He hung up the BCD and regulator, placed the neoprene suit on a hanger and watched it drip water all over the booties that he’d already washed and placed upside down on the rack.
“Never boring, that dive,” he said to Steve who stood watching some other boats come into the beach.
“It’s a good warm-up dive. How about doing a deep air dive tomorrow? Push down to fifty meters?” Steve watched him with a sneaky smile on his lips.
“Are you saying I’m too poor to pay for trimix?”
“Trimix is for real deep dives. Are you scared of fifty on air, cobber?”
“I like to think there’s not much that I’m scared of,” Jedburgh said, pulling on his navy blue polo shirt. “Now remind me, you little Aussie shit, is it at fifty-seven meters that the oxygen in air gets toxic?”
“If you believe the manuals.” Steve grinned.
“Seen anyone get convulsions and die of oxygen toxicity at fifty meters?”
“Only Rick Barnes, and he was drunk as a skunk at the time.”
“So, is it worth the risk?”
“It’s always worth the risk. Or where’s the fun?”
“Crazy fucker. I’m surprised you’ve never got a DCS hit.”
“I’m hardy,” Steve said with a wink.
“How deep is the Jap wreck?”
“About forty meters.”
“Let’s do that tomorrow on air and then plan ourselves a little sixty-meter Trimix dive for the day after.”
“Wimp.”
“Which arm do you want broken first?” Jedburgh said and picked up his rucksack. It was time for a bite of breakfast.
Jedburgh walked up the beach path to Eddie’s bar where he ordered an omelet and brewed coffee. Steve stayed behind in the dive shop to check emails.
The Filipina waitress shuffled over and placed a table mat and napkins in front of him. She smiled and said, “Is this your first time in Sabang?”
Jedburgh looked at her. “No, darling, I was coming here when you were still in kindergarten.”
She giggled and went to fetch the ketchup and sugar for him.
He reached for his rucksack and took out his three mobile phones, flicked them on and found one of them had a text message alerting him of a new voicemail.
When he called in, Jedburgh got a message left by a guy called Scrimple. The man sounded tense, asking him to call back when possible because he needed some advice.
Jedburgh poured some milk into the brewed coffee. He stirred the mixture pensively. There had been something in the news before he left Thailand about a man called Scrimple being wanted by the police. It was an unusual name but Jedburgh hadn’t immediately thought it was the same man he knew. They’d been in the Royal Hong Kong Police together and years later had met again while Jedburgh was working on a project for the Singapore Intelligence Department. He remembered Scrimple as an overweight, uninspiring individual but generally a decent bloke who’d not had an impressive career but managed to muddle through most of his life. Now it sounded as if he’d gotten himself into the worst kind of trouble. To be wanted for murder by the Thai police was an unenviable position. Jedburgh could sympathize because despite all his experience and precautions it remained one of his own worst fears.
He wondered what had happened? Was it over a girl, as was so often the case in Thailand? Had Scrimple gotten into bad company and was involved in bad deals or drugs? Jedburgh hadn’t concentrated on the details of the news but it sounded as if there was a series of murders and that puzzled him because he couldn’t picture Scrimple doing something like that. A murder of passion over a girl, a drunken bar fight gone wrong, that could happen to any man who wasn’t in control of his life or emotions. But multiple murders sounded out of character. It sounded more like a frame-up and that was something to which Jedburgh could relate.
The omelet came with two slices of toast. He buttered the toast, poured brown sauce onto the plate and began eating. A fast drift dive always made him hungry.
They would do a twelve o’clock dive and float along at twenty meters or so, gradually ascending to shallower depths. Nothing hard or strenuous. It was a warm-up day and tomorrow they would push a bit more. He was still in excellent condition but hadn’t dived for a few weeks so the complex mixed gas diving that would allow them to go beyond the normal recreational depths of forty meters would have to wait until he had mentally and physically acclimatized.
When he’d finished his food he called the number Scrimple had left for him. He would help if he could because it was a matter of honor to help old friends and colleagues. But he wasn’t too sure how he could help. It sounded as if things were pretty desperate for Scrimple and what he needed was a lawyer not a perfect killer.
* * * *
The phone call from Jedburgh had calmed him considerably. There might be a ray of hope to get out of this mess. It had sounded as if Jedburgh would help him but for the moment he was in the Philippines and wouldn’t be back for a few days.
But at least there was a friend who could support him. Jim’s help had been invaluable but he didn’t want to involve him any further. A man like Jedburgh, however was a different animal. Scrimple had once had a glimpse of what Jedburgh was capable of doing. The man was a vicious machine with the emotions of an alligator.
Scrimple waited now for the time to call back Pim. It didn’t take long.
“There is someone who wants to talk with you,” she said.
“Scrimple, what the hell are you playing at?” Assistant Commissioner Bottle’s voice came down the phone, harsh and commanding. For a second Scrimple faltered, his old instincts of obedience to a senior officer kicking in, then he overcame his surprise and became angry.
“Where have you been, Bottle?” he yelled down the phone. “Do you have any idea what kind of shit I’m in because of you?”
“You always had a tendency to step into piles of shit, lad,” said Bottle without a hint of remorse. “Now do you have my briefcase still, with the papers?”
“I’ve got it and you’re going to have to pay for it.”
“The hell I will. You’ve already been paid. Where are the ten million Baht I gave you?”
“William took them off me. He’s got the money,” Scrimple said, trying not to sound sheepish.
“Damn your incompetence. But you’ve still got the papers?”
“Yes, no thanks to you. Why didn’t you tell me what the risks were and what was going on?”
“I should never have used you. I thought maybe you’d grown up but you’re still the same useless prick that you were twenty years ago,” Bottle growled down the phone.
“So I suppose Pim isn’t working for William then but working with you? I told her a hundred thousand dollars if you want the papers back. I need to get out of Thailand. The police are looking for me all over the place.”
“I know that,” Bottle said impatiently. “The girl shouldn’t have let you run off after we had the Cambodians cut you loose. My fault. Now will you come in and meet me with the papers and we can talk about some payment?”
“There’s nothing to talk about. You got me into this mess. You have to pay to get me out.”
Bottle grunted at the other end of the line. “I’ll arrange for you to get out on a boat. From Pattaya down south into Sihanoukville. From Cambodia you can go wherever you damn well please.”
“I need to clear my name,” Scrimple said.
“Bring me the papers. I’ll give you five million Baht and a clear run into Cambodia,” Bottle said. “Now don’t push it, lad.”
“I want to know what this is all about. Who was the dead girl in the apartment and why are these papers so damn important?”
“We’ll explain it to you when we see you. Where are you holed up?”
“In the Bangkok area.”
“Are you sufficiently disguised to walk around the streets without being spotted and turned in?”
“I can manage that,” said Scrimple.
“Come to the Sheraton Grande Hotel on Asok and go up to Room 8674 in four hours time. We’ll do the talking then.”
“Bring the money. I’ll bring the papers. “
“Good.” The old man paused for moment and then his voice came over more mellow than before. “For what it’s worth, lad. I’m sorry we got you into this business. You were just supposed to be a post box.”
* * * *
It was only a small motorbike but Jedburgh thrashed it as fast as it would go. The road wound and twisted through the woods on the way from Sabang to Puerto Galera town. Bikes and large silver jeepneys came from the opposite direction. It was a narrow road and they had to duck and brake to avoid each other as they passed.
It was sweaty work avoiding the other traffic but Jedburgh grinned with the excitement. The blasted road still hadn’t been completed. Parts of it were nothing more than mud and rocks and his rear tire skidded as he bumped and banged over the rough patches.
Finally he came to the bottom of his hill. He slammed the bike into first gear and leant forward into the sharp gradient and the engine whined as it attacked the angle.
There was a dead corner near the top and you had to watch it because the road was narrow and if another vehicle came down at the same time there was nowhere to go in a hurry except into the trees and tumbling down the mountainside.
Jedburgh hit his horn and watched for the shadow of any car coming straight at him. He shot around the corner and the road flattened out and he kicked back into second, then third gear.
When he got to the house he left the bike and helmet downstairs in the garage. The gardener was working on the grass and gave him a cheerful greeting.
Jedburgh went inside, took two bottles of ice cold San Miguel from the fridge and gave one to the gardener. Then he stepped onto the veranda, sat down in the padded arm chair and put his feet up.
For a few days it could be very pleasant in the Philippines. He stared out over the islands and sipped at his beer. It was a phenomenal view that on a good day let you see for miles. In the distance a huge ferry was making its way out of Batangas towards Palawan and closer by small dive boats bobbed in the waters waiting for their customers to come up from the late afternoon dives.
Now, what to do about the fellow Scrimple? And was he in any way connected to all the recent jobs Jedburgh had been doing in Thailand? It would be too ridiculous a coincidence but why would Scrimple be calling him for help? Could somebody be using the man to lure Jedburgh out into the open?
Unlikely but every angle always had to be considered. It was a dangerous life Jedburgh led and the risks were always high. Much higher than riding a motorbike fast along the crappy roads of Oriental Mindoro.
He kicked off his shoes and reached for a cigar from the box on the floor. Lighting it with a long match, he began drawing on it, rolling the Dominican smoke around his tongue, then letting it dribble out from partially pursed lips, as he thought about things. One savored a good cigar, one tasted it with one’s palate as one would a silver spoonful of Beluga caviar.
Later he’d ride down to the Italian restaurant past White Beach and eat one of Luigi’s pizzas. It was a long ride but worth the food. He toyed briefly with the idea of calling the girl he’d spent time with during his last visit but decided against it. She would have found a new boyfriend by now and there was no point in confusing her. There would be plenty of others floating about.
In any case he wasn’t here to mess around with girls. He was here to relax and dive. That meant early nights and proper sleep.
He studied the cigar to see how much was left. Another ten minutes, he estimated, then he’d take a shower and drive back down the hill and through the town.
By now he’d made up his mind. He would do two more days of diving then make his way back to Bangkok and see what help he could offer the man Scrimple. If the guy was still on the run he could arrange for him to be hidden. McAlistair could help. That man had connections all over the place and more money than Croesus.
* * * *
The idea Scrimple had come up with was simple. He would leave the briefcase with the concierge and get a ticket for it then go up to the room and have the meeting with Bottle.
If things went well and Bottle was willing to pay he would hand over the ticket. This way he could reduce the risk of getting ripped off. He wanted to trust Bottle but he couldn’t be sure. The man had got involved with gangsters somehow and he may have gone completely off the rails. The papers may be worth more to him than his word or his integrity. And anyway, what was Scrimple to him?
But Scrimple took heart in the fact that Bottle had apologized. And that he’d found Bottle again, still alive and hopefully willing to explain some of the mystery.
He was still angry with Bottle for bringing all this on him but losing his temper wouldn’t solve the problems. Only money and connections could solve matters.
Arriving early at the Sheraton he approached the second floor lobby cautiously, checking for any suspicious characters. It was a small lobby, easy to survey and nobody rang any alarm bells.
Scrimple confirmed with the receptionist that Mr. Bottle had checked into the room. Then he used the room number and name to deposit the briefcase with the concierge.
Tucked into the front of his trousers and hidden by his shirt was the Colt automatic he’d taken off Lung. It was scratched and battered but had been well-maintained and there were still eight rounds in the magazine.
Holding the ticket in his left hand he took the lift upstairs to the correct floor.
When he rang the door bell the familiar voice called “Come” and the door opened to reveal Bottle in a dark blue safari suit. Sitting on a small chair in the right corner of the room was an older Thai man who held a revolver in his hands although it was pointed at the floor.
“Its okay,” Bottle said. “He’s with me and covering my back. You’ve learnt by now we can’t be too careful.”
Scrimple nodded. He’d been expecting Pim but she wasn’t to be seen.
“Sit down. Do you want a drink?” Bottle said, pointing at a sofa in the opposite corner. Scrimple asked for a beer and got it.
“Where’s the briefcase?” Bottle demanded.
“Nearby. A friend’s holding it for me.” He’d pocketed the ticket before knocking at the door.
Bottle nodded. “So you lost all the money?”
“William and Chisin took it off me then called the police and I was arrested.”
“They’re both nasty pieces of work. Should have arrested them and thrown away the key when I was still in the Force.” Bottle shook his head with disgust and took a swig from a glass of what looked like whiskey. “I suppose I owe you an explanation.” The old man raised his eyebrows in query.
“Yes,” Scrimple said quietly.
“After I retired I got involved in some business deals in Pattaya. I’d got a bit too close to the Wo On Lok triad back in Hong Kong. You don’t need to know the details but they had me by the balls over something in the past and I was persuaded to front up some property developments around Pattaya. Have you heard of Richbillion developments?”
Scrimple nodded. He’d seen their billboards advertising luxury condos being built all over town.
“Well, that’s us. Was us. Now things are all falling apart.” Bottle snorted and took another sip from his whiskey. “I found out that William and that bitch that pulls his strings were about to double-cross me. So I took out an insurance and walked off with a bunch of cash and all the title deeds that were in my name. I wanted to park the money and the deeds with someone they had no idea about. That’s when your name popped into my head. I knew you were around. So I asked you to buy that apartment. Fact was that I already owned the place under another name and so would be buying it from myself.”
Scrimple said, “I don’t understand.”
Bottle smiled bitterly. “The place was in the name of a young girl called Nit. She’d been working for me. I wanted her out of this business and so thought I’d change the ownership of the place.”
“Was she your girlfriend?” Scrimple asked.
“No. Don’t be ridiculous. She was a little secretary that I’d got involved with things that were over her head. Her only failing was that she was loyal and honest. I wanted to protect her from the fallout so I’d given her cash to go back home to Nonthaburi and get the hell out of this business of mine.” Bottle’s face was creased with anguish. “Trouble was that William and the old bitch had already found out about the flat and they must have come after Nit to find out where I was. She had no idea so they must have slit her throat and dumped her in the flat as a warning to me. Get me to come out of hiding.”
“Poor little girl,” Scrimple said, shocked by the story. He’d seen her dead so the memory hurt him as much as it was affecting Bottle, who’d caused her death.
“I was trying to be too clever,” Bottle said and stood up to walk over to the window. He twitched the curtain to look at the grey Bangkok skyline. “And now there are more dead bodies piled up than before. I saw from the news. Two Irish lads? A German man and his Thai girl friend?" He let the curtain drop back in place. “That devil William. He has no soul. He is just a creature of destruction.”
“Who’s the old Chinese woman that he works for?” Scrimple asked.
“Ah, that’s my damn wife,” Bottle said and walked over to refresh his drink. “She’s been a millstone around my neck for forty years.”