William slammed the door and jumped out of the car. The traffic always drove him crazy.
What a fucked-up country. What a fucked-up city. How can they live like this every day? A mess from morning until night.
More people lived in Hong Kong than in Bangkok but the traffic was never this bad.
He thought he knew the reason for this. It was the corruption. Thailand was rotten from the top down and that was why he was here. To take advantage of their weakness and take away their money.
He strode with long strides up the ramp towards the lobby of the Sheraton. Even at school he’d been tall. That’s why they’d respected him and later, when he’d become a police inspector everyone had to look up to him to meet his eyes.
He’d been a policeman five years and then the temptations of the dark side had wormed their way into his brain. There was so much power to be abused and so, in small, subtle ways he’d began the journey towards criminality. He would take money from a gangster who’d been arrested but where the evidence was questionable. William would write up the case file as NFA—No further action and recommend the matter closed and the arrested person released.
He would go on vice raids in Mong Kok but call up a contact at the Wo On Lok whom he knew from gambling in Macau. When the raid took place, only low level people were arrested and William would find an extra twenty thousand dollars in a bank account he’d opened in his mother’s name. Finally he crossed a line when Old Uncle Tang asked him through a trusted party if he could make a witness to a murder disappear. William had demanded two hundred thousand Hong Kong dollars and after some haggling they agreed. A week later the decapitated and hand-less corpse of a teenage girl was found stuffed down a drain in the New Territories.
Shortly after that milestone, William had asked Tang to bring him on full-time. The head of the Wo On Lok had hoped to hold on to his tame copper but William wanted a shot at the big stakes. He knew all the rules of the game, the strengths and weaknesses of the Royal Hong Police Force and the time had come to take advantage. Uncle Tang brought him on as a junior enforcer with a special focus on English bars and clubs in Kowloon but soon William was running his own team of hard men who commanded protection money simply by appearing and writing what they wanted on a handy napkin.
William settled in his new persona. No longer was he a rogue cop but he was the new generation of Triad: smart, educated, vicious, focused. Uncle Tang took control of larger chunks of territory, eliminating his competitors through guile or overwhelming them with violence. William was the sharp weapon in the arsenal.
Then Uncle Tang was killed. There were no witnesses but it was the work of a professional assassin. William was in Australia when it happened and he didn’t return for a few years because things had changed back in Hong Kong and he’d developed a new powerbase for the Triad in Sydney. But eventually he came back and by that time Madam Tang was the boss. In many ways she was smarter and more ruthless than her brother. He had been of the old school, concerned with image, position and the traditions that had been inherited from previous generations. Madam Tang was concerned with making money. And the older she got, the more money mattered to her.
Now, in the lobby of the Sheraton, William looked over his shoulder and checked that Benny was keeping up.
Finally Chisin had made the girl crack and give them the details of where the old gwai-lo fuck was hiding and what he was trying to do. They’d been chasing their tails like drunken dogs following that fat idiot Scrimple. He’d had the papers all along but somehow he’d fooled them and William was consumed with a rage that could only be quenched by killing the man next time they met.
But now they had Bottle and although Madam Tang had expressly forbidden him to harm her husband, William wasn’t sure he could stop himself.
He jabbed the lift button angrily and barked at Benny to get ready. The other Chinese man was of medium size but had spent years lifting weights and abusing Clenbuterol so looked broad and powerful in a tight shirt and a loose windcheater that hid the shoulder holster Uzi submachine gun he was carrying.
They stepped into the lift with an older American couple who wore shorts and Nike running shoes. William glared at them as if it was all their fault. He had always hated white people although he’d learnt to hide it.
“I ring the door bell,” William said in Cantonese, “when you see movement in the spy hole you kick the door down. Got that?”
“Yes, daai lo,” Benny said solemnly.
The got to their floor and walked down the corridor to find the room number. William listened carefully, leaning close to the door. There were voices but he couldn’t make out what language they were speaking.
He rang the buzzer. The voices stopped. There was movement on the other side of the door. Benny kicked the spot below the door handle and the door jamb splintered. William charged the door with his shoulder as he pulled a Glock from its holster.
A middle aged Western man stood in the middle of the room in a bathrobe and a Thai lady-boy sat naked on the bed counting her money.
Pim, that bitch, had been lying.
* * * *
The phone rang five times and a Scottish voice answered.
“McAlistair, this is Scrimple,” he said.
“How the hell are you mate? I’ve been seeing on the news that you’re a veritable Hannibal Lecter.” Julian McAlistair chuckled at the end of the line.
Scrimple faltered for a moment. “It’s just all bullshit.”
“I know it is. I’ve been talking with the J man.”
“Then you know I need some help.”
“The cavalry’s on the way. You should have called us earlier.”
“I know. I was just afraid to ask for help.”
“You’re a prat. We help each other out. You should have known that.”
“Yeah. I thought I could fix it by myself.”
“No worries. Let’s not talk too long on the phone. I’ll send a driver to pick you up.”
“Where do you want me to be?” Scrimple asked.
“You’re in the Bangkok area now?”
“Yes, somewhere around Sukhumvit.”
“I’ll text you a location and time. Do you remember what the number of the statement form was in the police?”
Scrimple thought for a moment and the answer was obvious. He’d spent years filling out the forms.
“The driver will give you that number so you can be sure he’s my guy. Best to be careful. Okay?”
After McAlistair had hung up, Scrimple felt relieved. It was as if a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He wasn’t free and clear by a long shot but he could start to see the path through the minefield. He’d been on his way to the safe apartment but now that all he needed were the details for the pick up there seemed no point in going back and taking the risk that somehow the cops had found out about the place.
He decided to make a call to Jim and check if anything had happened. But after a few rings the phone just went to voicemail. It could be nothing. Jim could be in a conference or showing a flat and not wanting to be disturbed. However it made Scrimple nervous. If he could get hold of Jim and be told that everything was fine he would be much happier.
The weight of the money in his pocket felt good. It was a passport to solving his problems. It was also a huge load of cash to be carrying in a brown envelope. It would be good to have a gun again. He dismissed it as a foolish thought. Guns just got you into trouble. Nobody walking by on the street would suspect that the ill-dressed, middle-aged falang was wandering around the streets of Bangkok with a huge stash of cash.
Scrimple considered what had happened to Bottle. William must have somehow found out where he was staying. Was Bottle still alive and had he handed over the documents? If anyone had the guts and personality to stand up to that bastard William it was the old man. Maybe there’d been a shoot out between the bodyguard and William for the papers? He’d find out on the evening news.
He tried calling Pim’s mobile number and just got a message saying the phone couldn’t be connected. That made him even more concerned.
Scrimple pulled down his baseball cap as a beggar woman holding a young child tried to approach him and he ducked around her. He tripped on the uneven pavement, then recovered his balance.
He had to decide where to go now. He had a few hours to kill. There were a thousand bars he could choose from. In the end he decided on a place called The Ship Inn. It was small and cozy and around the corner from Soi Cowboy.
He crossed the big Asok junction which was always difficult since the traffic came from all directions, and then walked down Soi Twenty-Three. The pub was empty except for an old Western tourist reading a paperback novel and nursing a large whiskey and water.
They nodded at each other with the politeness of strangers in a foreign land. Scrimple went down to the far corner and sat down. There was only one girl working behind the bar and she came down and took his order for a large Singha. The place had dark wood floors and other wood paneling, evoking the comforting smells and images of some inn tucked down the side street of a rustic English market town.
The girl brought the beer and Scrimple drank from it with quiet appreciation. He patted the pocket with the money as if to reassure himself it hadn’t vanished.
Five minutes later a text came in from McAlistair which said cryptically “Saam Dim Jung Mo Sin Do Sukumvit Gai Hau.”
Scrimple looked at the words for a while understanding what they were supposed to mean but wanting to be sure.
The words were in Cantonese using the Sydney Lau Romanization that they had learnt in the police. Most Chinese speakers wouldn’t be able to recognize the syllables unless they had learnt the same system. Romanization was a method of using the Western alphabet to emulate the sounds represented by Chinese ideograms. It was a simple code and unlikely that the Thai police would understand it. There wasn’t much chance that they were bugging McAlistair’s phones but, just in case, it seemed an added, sensible precaution.
The first three groups of letters gave the time. Three o’clock. The next three groups translated as “no wire road” which would mean Wireless Road, junction of Sukhumvit road. He would have to figure out where to stand on the junction once he got there but he suspected it might be one-way traffic at that time of the day and the best location to be picked up by a passing car would be obvious.
He smiled and felt much better already. Trust the lads to support him. He should have asked for their help right from the beginning. Of course things could still go wrong, he pondered, as he finished his beer and waved at the girl for another one.
Someone, the police or William could be monitoring mobile phone calls and have figured out his new number. Then with a bit of lateral thinking they would recognize the Cantonese words and know where Scrimple would be waiting. Then, as he stood there, all hopeful, a hail of bullets from a submachine gun would cut him down. It was a horrible image and he shook it off like a wet dog who’d been drenched in the rain.
The other patron got up from his table and started walking towards Scrimple who frowned. But the man walked past, nodded casually again as he went past into the toilet at the back.
A few minutes later he came out again and stopped next to Scrimple’s table.
“You here on holiday?” the man said in a broad Yorkshire accent. He was wearing shorts, white socks and sandals.
“Not exactly. I work here,” Scrimple said cautiously. “Used to work. I’m on a bit of a break at the moment.”
“Grand place for a break, eh?” The man winked. “Them Thai girls can’t get enough, can they?”
Scrimple nodded. “As long as they think you’ve still got more to give them.”
“It’s the money in nit? That’s what they’re after?” the man said.
“Most of the time. But sometimes it can be true love.”
“There’s bugger all true love up in Barnsley where I come from. I’ll settle for whatever’s on offer here. My name’s Ken by the way. Mind if I join you?”
“Go ahead. I’ve got an hour to kill,” Scrimple said relieved that he had someone to drink with and take his mind off his problems.
* * * *
William told Benny to get lost. He would call him later. He was so angry that he could barely stop himself shaking.
They had left the businessman and his transsexual prostitute shocked but unharmed. William didn’t want to go back to Madam Tang and report failure. He needed time to think and decide what was next.
He had a killing rage on him and knew that it would take time to calm down. Within half an hour he was in an underground gambling den in Bangkok’s Chinatown. They knew him here and the bouncers were told to keep an eye on him but also to give him a lot of room.
He played the cards with the fury of a man possessed. He lost thirty thousand Baht. Then he won seventy thousand Baht. His phone was turned off. The room was dark, a vast cavern of a place filled with smoke and the sweat of anguished men and women who were gambling with their monthly wages or their life savings.
The manager of the gambling den came over and asked if he wanted any refreshments, a girl perhaps, or a boy if that was his inclination.
William nodded and tossed some chips at the dealer. He stood up and followed the manager into a back room reserved for special patrons.
He was handed a balloon glass of brandy and a box of cigarettes. An older woman whose face was smothered with make-up that looked an inch deep led in a stable of young girls. They were nervous, fresh from the villages, William sensed. He glowered at them and finally chose a tall one whose skin was nearly white and who’d tied her hair up into a pony tail.
“Is she clean?” he asked the manager in Cantonese.
“Oh, yes. And we gave her injection just last week so there is no need to worry about babies.”
“That’s good. Do you know who I am?” William said to the manager.
It was a rhetorical question but it was part of a ritual.
“Of course. You are Dark Snake who used to follow Master Tang. They say you will be the new leader of the Triad when you go back to Hong Kong.”
“Which Triad do you follow? Who does this place belong to?” William asked.
“We are Chiu Chow here,” the manager said and mentioned the name of the sub-branch who took his protection money.
“I used to know your brothers in Hong Kong but they have been hit hard by the police in the last few years.”
“We don’t have that problem here in Thailand. The police are our friends. Outside I could show you four men who are in the police.”
“I used to be in the police in Hong Kong. Now they have all become pussies,” William said grimly and downed his brandy. “Afraid of their own shadow. Everybody following the rules like little Christian school children.” He glanced up at the girl who was waiting, timidly clutching a pink plastic handbag.
The manager bowed obsequiously and the mama-san led William out of the back of the building, across a courtyard and into a small boutique hotel.
When the door was locked William threw the terrified girl onto the bed and unleashed his anger on her pale, skinny body.
* * * *
Standing on the pavement, Scrimple looked hopefully at the snarl of traffic going past him.
He’d not intended to get drunk but Ken had been persuasive and they’d both downed several pints. They’d talked about football and the English weather and Ken had complained bitterly about immigrants coming into his community and opening more curry houses than a village needed.
Eventually Scrimple had stood up shakily and after returning much of the beer to the porcelain had walked out with care into the afternoon heat.
He was nervous but the alcohol helped. Toyotas and Mercedes drove past. Multi-colored taxis and the occasional tuk-tuk with half-clad tourists. Finally a burgundy BMW slowed down flashing its flights twice in succession and he stumbled forward as the passenger door was pushed open and the driver leant over yelling, “Mr. Scrimple, POL 155?”
“That’s me,” he said quickly and, tossing his rucksack over into the back seat, jumped into the car.
“You wait long?” the Thai driver asked as he pulled rapidly back into the flow of traffic to the annoyance of the taxi behind him.
The driver was neatly dressed in a white open-collared shirt and dark trousers. He smiled quickly at Scrimple then concentrated on ducking across the lanes.
“Maybe take two hours. You can take a rest,” the driver said and punched up a CD of soft rock oldies that had Scrimple drifting off to sleep within minutes. He woke up sometime later when the urge to pee dragged him to the surface. The driver found the next petrol station where they stopped for ten minutes.
“Where are we going?” Scrimple asked a bit later. They were still on the road to Pattaya and it seemed to him that his whole life had now become an endless shuttling up and down between the two cities. He shook his head to clear the somewhat gothic thought. They had long passed the shops and fast food places on the other side where he’d been freed at gunpoint from the custody of Colonel Somchai.
The driver pointed ahead and said, “The Bolthole, maybe you know it?”
Scrimple shook his head. “What is it?”
“Private club. For members only. Golf, tennis, relaxation. You like it, sir. Everyone likes the Bolthole.” The man grinned.
“It sounds like my kind of place,” Scrimple said, yawning. He was starting to get a headache which must have been because of the beer. Other parts of his body ached and he cursed William and Chisin for the pain they’d caused him.
He thought about what they were doing. Had they found Bottle and taken the documents off him? He hoped Bottle’s man had killed the Chinese gangsters but there was no knowing. Half way through this thought he fell asleep again and woke up when the BMW was slowing down.
They were on a long drive at the end of which stood a building that looked like a traditional English manor house. It was impressive and for a moment Scrimple thought he was still asleep and that this couldn’t be real. Gravel crunched under the wheels and the driver pulled up, smiling at Scrimple.
“We arrived,” he said. “Just go inside. The girl know you coming and take you to room.”
Scrimple nodded. “Thanks for the lift.”
“No problem. My job,” the driver said, then hopped out and came around to open the passenger door.
A minute later Scrimple stood in the darkly impressive main hall of The Bolthole. It looked, felt and smelt like a baronial mansion and the tiled floors were covered with expensive-looking carpets. A pretty Thai girl sat behind a desk tapping something into a large screen Apple computer. She jumped up and came over to greet Scrimple, giving him a very low wai.
“We are expecting you,” she said.
“That’s great.”
“We have a nice room for you with a view of the eighth green.”
“Is there a big comfortable bed?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Is there a fully stocked mini-bar?”
“Yes,” she said smiling and holding up a large old-fashioned brass key and pointed at what he was carrying. “Is that all your luggage?”
“I’ve been traveling a bit light lately,” he said, wondering if the girl recognized him from the news. It didn’t seem to bother her if she had. She led the way through a long corridor decorated with hunting prints. They took a fast lift up to the third floor and she opened the bedroom door for him with the key.
It was everything a weary world traveler could desire. He walked over to the window and looked out onto a panoramic view of rolling green hills that had been artificially made for the pleasure of golfing members. A few buggies were moving across the fairways and a team of overall-clad workers were doing something with trees and shovels in the distance.
“It’s great,” he said.
“This is the mini-bar,” she pointed out. He watched her pert bum as it strained against the material of the tight skirt she was wearing. “Dinner will be served between seven pm and eleven pm in the Raffles Room, Mr. Scrimple. There is a dress code but you can find a jacket and tie for your size in the cupboard,” she said.
“Dress code?” Scrimple said, momentarily confused. He hadn’t encountered one of those for a long time in Thailand. This place sounded very traditional.
“No dress code in the coffee shop if you prefer or you can order room service. But the food is special in the Raffles Room. The new chef has just come from Paris.”
Scrimple just stared at her for a moment processing the information. “Okay,” he finally said. She gave him another deep wai, fingertips touching her hair as she bowed, and left him standing in the middle of the room.
He looked at his watch. It was six thirty and he had to admit he was hungry. He opened the cupboard and found a blue blazer with brass buttons and the Bolthole crest on its breast pocket.
Why not, he thought?