Death in the Rainy Season Page 10

  Nora’s friend. How ludicrous. Or perhaps not. The thought made Mariko uncomfortable. Still, it was probably natural for the girl to claim some of the drama for herself. And Nora had seen a lot of Hugo. Despite everything, he had been consistently good to her, taking the time to listen to what she had to say and even helping her with school-work.

  The funeral would take place in Paris on Sunday. Mariko would accompany Paul and hold his hand. At least she didn’t have to worry about Nora. She would remain here with Lydia’s family. Mariko looked forward to being alone with Paul. If they could just get over this awful week, his depression would eventually lift, and they would be fine.

  Mariko recognized the symptoms. She’d been there before. It seemed like little to put up with, Paul’s recurring depression, set alongside everything else she valued about her husband. She often wondered, in fact, whether she deserved him. Paul was the opposite of every other man she’d known. He was always intensely aware of her, always full of love and needing to express that love, and to receive reassurance. It made her impatient and sometimes it made her cruel. None of that seemed to bother him. They had never even had a fight, though she had tried, often, to start one.

  Mariko rinsed her cup and left it to dry, then turned the lights off on the way to the bedroom. She brushed her teeth and changed into a black top and loose cotton trousers, before sliding into bed next to her husband. Paul’s sadness was palpable. It was in the very shape of his body, a marooned, solitary wreck.

  She reached over and placed a hand lightly on his arm. He opened his eyes and watched her. For a moment, he looked like he didn’t know who she was.

  ‘Paul?’ she said.

  He sat up and looked at the room as if he was seeing it for the first time. Eventually he seemed to realize where he was.

  ‘How is Florence?’ he said.

  ‘As well as can be expected. Physically she’s OK. Emotionally . . .’ She didn’t finish her sentence. Instead, she reached out and stroked her husband’s head.

  ‘You seem so groggy. Did you take a sleeping pill?’ she asked, and he nodded.

  ‘I met the policeman who’s here, the one from Paris,’ Mariko said. ‘He came to Florence’s house.’

  ‘Serge Morel.’ Paul nodded. ‘He called on my mobile. Just before I fell asleep. He said he and the local detective want to talk to me about Hugo. I asked if it could wait till tomorrow. I’m not really up to it.’ He tried a smile. ‘What’s he like?’

  She thought about the tall Frenchman who had interviewed Florence. She had found him interesting. A quiet and attentive man. He didn’t give anything away, but perhaps that was right, given the nature of his profession. She didn’t say any of this to her husband, stating simply, ‘He’s very good-looking.’

  ‘So that’s all you can tell me? That he’s attractive?’

  ‘In a nutshell, yes.’

  He gave a quick laugh, and she recognized the old Paul for a moment, before the image flickered and died. She watched him sit up, his movements slow and careful, like a patient recovering from an operation.

  ‘Where are you going? Do you want some dinner?’

  He hesitated.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She coaxed him back onto the bed.

  ‘We just have to get through this now. It will get easier, with time,’ she told him.

  Paul shook his head. She heard a deep sigh.

  ‘I don’t see how,’ he said. ‘Hugo’s dead. Everything is different now.’

  He turned his back to her and lay still again. She didn’t think he would go back to sleep again so soon, yet after a minute or two, she heard him snore.

  She thought about what he’d said. Everything is different now. The words had felt like a warning, like the pronouncement of something final and irreversible.

  ‘Oh my God! What did they say?’

  Lydia’s face was bright and expectant. Nora thought she looked like a dim-witted dog, waiting for its owner to throw a stick or something. Right now she wanted nothing to do with Lydia, but she didn’t have the energy to avoid her.

  The two of them were sat side by side on deckchairs, at one end of the garden, away from the other kids milling around the pool and on the lawn. It was dark but the pool lights were on. Justin Timberlake was singing about heartbreak but in a cool, sexy way that evoked quite the opposite picture. It was more like foreplay, Nora thought, a word that made her heart beat faster as she sought and found Jeremy with her eyes. He was there standing by the pool and though he was too far and it was too dark to tell, she imagined he was searching for her too, his head turned in her direction. For the first time since learning about Hugo’s death, her mind felt clear and she was almost happy. Music throbbed through her veins and there was the taste of gin and lime on her tongue.

  ‘Well, Mum was her usual unfeeling self but Paul is really broken up about it,’ she said. She had taken, over the last few years, to calling her father by his first name, and he had been good-natured about it. He was, it had to be said, good-natured about most things.

  ‘He and Hugo were best friends,’ Nora said. She had to shout to make herself heard above the music pumping from the speakers. There must have been forty people there, milling about the manicured lawn. Some had changed into their swimsuits and were in the water. Jeremy was now talking to a couple of other boys whom Nora recognized from school. Behind him the house was dark, except for the kitchen lights. His parents were away in Spain because his father was needed there for work. Even though it was during the school term, Jeremy would be flying out to meet them for an impromptu holiday. He was alone tonight, though, and had asked Nora whether she wanted to stay. She knew she couldn’t. She was sixteen and she was expected home. But really, given what had happened, why the hell shouldn’t she do what she wanted? Looking towards Jeremy, she felt giddy and breathless all at once, as though she’d just stepped back from the edge of a cliff.

  ‘That’s awful,’ Lydia said.

  ‘I know.’

  She had decided she wouldn’t tell Lydia about the episode where her Mum and Paul had locked themselves in the bathroom. Or about the dozens of phone calls she’d made before this had happened, over many weeks, just to hear the sound of Hugo’s voice. Had he known it was her? How could she have been so stupid? The last time he’d come to the house, he’d seemed so ordinary. She’d wondered what on earth she’d seen in him.

  Lydia prattled on, hoping for more, but Nora didn’t want to talk to her about her dad or Hugo anymore. Rihanna’s ‘Umbrella’ came on and she got up to dance. She moved to the centre of the garden where the other dancers were, closer to the pool, and noticed that Jeremy had stopped talking. He was standing apart from the others, looking straight at her. She tried to act natural, swaying her hips to the music, a half-empty glass in one hand. She closed her eyes but it made her dizzy. When she opened them again, Lydia was beside her.

  ‘I can’t believe he was killed,’ she said. ‘I mean, I actually met him, didn’t I? When I came over once? He was cute, right?’

  ‘Not really.’ Nora wished she would go away. Jeremy was moving towards them. He was wearing a white shirt and a pair of jeans. He looked almost too good to be true.

  ‘So Jeremy’s going to Spain,’ Lydia shouted. ‘Lucky! I wish I was going to Spain. Mum only ever takes me to Bangkok.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘At least we get to go shopping.’

  Nora forced herself to smile before looking away. Then Jeremy was by her side, sliding his arm around her hip and swaying from side to side, keeping time with her. He sang close to her ear, the smell of his cologne familiar and exciting.

  She leaned into him and forgot everything else.

  SEVENTEEN

  After he’d made the last of the phone calls from his hotel room, Morel sat back and rubbed his eyes. Nizet too had worked his way through his half of the guest list and reported back to Morel. Nothing. Aside from the Chinese delegation, only two of the people staying at the Paradise on the night of Hugo Quercy�
�s death were still in town. They’d both given mobile numbers when they’d checked in, which made Morel’s job easier. One was an adolescent who, according to Glaister, had booked the largest room in the hotel to celebrate his eighteenth birthday with a group of friends. Four of his friends had stayed overnight. The boy had given Morel the names and numbers of the friends who’d been with him at the Paradise. Presumably, they would be able to confirm that he hadn’t left the room.

  Morel spoke to the people who’d been staying in the rooms adjoining Quercy’s. The single guest was a French doctor, living in Bangkok. He told Morel he visited Cambodia regularly, to catch up with old colleagues and friends. He’d spent most of Sunday night at someone’s house. He’d returned to his hotel room around two in the morning and gone straight to bed. His friends could confirm this, he said. The couple confirmed too that there had been a disturbance next door. The wife mentioned a loud noise, and the sound of a man crying. She was hesitant, still asserting that she wasn’t sure whether she’d been awake or dreaming.

  With all the guests, Morel had listened patiently and kept detailed notes, so that he could follow up if necessary. But he felt certain that Quercy’s killer wasn’t on that list. It was partly intuition, but also the brutality of the attack suggested to Morel that it had not been premeditated. It seemed unlikely that the perpetrator would have planned the whole thing to the extent of booking a room. Then again, why had Quercy checked in if not to meet with someone?

  Morel stood up and paced. He had agreed to wait till the next day to speak with Paul Arda. But it couldn’t wait. He needed to speak with him now.

  He should tell Sarit what he planned to do, so that the Cambodian detective could join him. It was still technically his investigation. Morel picked up the phone and dialled Sarit’s number.

  ‘Are you still at work?’ Morel said.

  ‘I’m on my way home.’

  ‘Listen, I was thinking of paying Paul Arda a visit this evening. I thought perhaps we should go together.’

  Sarit seemed to be hesitating.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind but I have to be at home,’ he said. ‘Please go without me.’

  ‘OK, no problem.’

  Privately, Morel was relieved. The other man was no help to him at all.

  It was dark by the time he got to Arda’s house. The air smelled of rain. The night was black, starless. A single street lamp three houses down cast a feeble light on the pavement. Morel went up to the gate and rang the bell. There was no indication that anyone was home.

  The second time he rang the bell, a light came on in the front room. The door opened and Mariko Arda appeared. She pointed the remote at the gate.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ he said. ‘I did try to call but no one answered.’

  ‘It’s all right. Come in.’

  Morel took his shoes off and followed Mariko into the living room.

  There were shelves along two of the walls and they were filled with books. There were more books on the coffee table. A couple of dogs dozed in a corner of the room. One, the smaller of the two, had its muzzle on the other’s back. When Morel came in they didn’t stir.

  ‘Welcome.’ Paul Arda had entered the room. He held out his hand.

  ‘I’m sorry to come so late. I hope you understand why I didn’t want to wait. Given the circumstances.’

  ‘Of course. Please take a seat.’

  ‘I’ll make coffee,’ Mariko said, and she left the room.

  Morel looked at the man sitting opposite him. Soft brown eyes and a vague expression set in a cherub’s face. A man inclined to daydream rather than assert himself. He looked like he’d just got out of bed. His hair was curly, scruffy and long around the neck. His shirt wasn’t properly tucked in and one of the buttons was missing. Morel, who was always impeccably turned out, still found himself warming to Paul Arda.

  ‘Mariko says you’re helping the Cambodians with the investigation,’ Arda said. He dropped his gaze, shifting it to the glass coffee table.

  ‘That’s right. I’m assisting the Cambodians.’ Morel leaned forward. ‘Can you tell us a little bit about the last time you saw Hugo? His wife says that he called you on the night he died and that you gave him a lift,’ Morel said.

  ‘He called me in the early part of the evening and asked whether I could drop him off at the Paradise.’

  ‘I understand it wasn’t unusual for him to rely on you like that?’ Morel asked, still puzzled by this arrangement.

  ‘He often travelled by tuk-tuk as well. But you’re right, it wasn’t unusual. Though his wife also did some driving. That night he asked me. I was happy to help.’

  ‘Did he say why he was going there?’

  Paul nodded.

  ‘He said he and Florence had been having problems lately and that he was feeling tired and needed some space. He said he’d booked himself into the Paradise but that he intended to return home later. He didn’t mean to be away all night. He knew Florence would worry if he did that.’

  Morel thought about that.

  ‘If he wanted some space, why didn’t he just go out for a drink or a walk? Why book a room?’

  ‘He really wanted to be alone. He wasn’t looking for anything except a little space and some quiet.’

  ‘Was this something he’d done before?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. But, like I said, the two of them had been having problems.’

  Mariko Arda returned with a tray, which she placed on the table. She poured coffee into four cups and handed them around. There was a pause in the exchange while they helped themselves to milk and sugar. Morel drank his black.

  ‘What sort of problems?’ he asked Arda.

  ‘With the pregnancy. Florence was fretful and emotional, and Hugo found it overwhelming sometimes.’

  ‘Did he tell you that?’

  Arda shook his head. ‘Not really. He didn’t need to.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Mariko said. She took a seat next to her husband.

  They both looked at her.

  ‘What’s nonsense?’ Arda said.

  ‘What you said,’ she replied calmly. ‘About Florence being fretful and emotional.’

  ‘Well, I know Hugo found her changed.’

  ‘Perhaps it wasn’t Florence who’d changed,’ Mariko said, raising her cup to her lips.

  Paul looked away from her and back at Morel. There would be time later to return to what Mariko had said, Morel thought. Right now he wanted to focus on Arda. The man looked worn out and Morel wanted to keep the conversation moving.

  ‘So tell me what happened,’ he said, looking pointedly at Arda. ‘You drove him there and then what? Did you leave straight away?’

  Arda hesitated before answering.

  ‘Hugo asked me whether I’d stay for one drink. He was quite insistent, in fact. But I wasn’t really in the mood. I was tired and Mariko expected me home. So I left.’ He looked pained. ‘I wish I’d stayed a bit. Maybe he needed to talk. I don’t know.’

  ‘Did you hear from him again, later in the evening?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And how did he seem when you saw him last? Preoccupied in any way?’

  ‘Not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. He was in high spirits.’

  Arda’s wife sipped her coffee. Her hands, Morel saw, were slender and bony. She wore no jewellery, except for her wedding ring, which was silver.

  ‘Tell me a little bit about Hugo,’ Morel said.

  ‘We were at university together,’ Arda said. ‘We both studied political science.’ He gave Morel a sheepish look. ‘You know, at university Hugo and I both considered ourselves communists. Ridiculous to think of it now, but back then we were so convinced that we were right, about everything.’

  ‘Most people are at that age,’ Morel said.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Anyway.’ Paul picked up his cup. Some of his coffee spilled onto the table and Mariko jumped up to fetch a cloth. ‘It was Hugo who encouraged me to come to Phnom P
enh.’

  ‘So Hugo was here in Cambodia before you,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Mariko and I were living in Paris. We came over for a holiday and made the decision then to move here.’

  ‘All because of Hugo?’

  ‘No,’ Mariko said, returning with the cloth and wiping the spilled coffee. ‘We were ready for a change, and we also liked what we saw during that trip.’

  ‘We wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t for Hugo,’ Paul said.

  ‘Of course we would have,’ Mariko said. She sounded impatient.

  ‘So what was Hugo like?’

  ‘Full of life,’ Arda said without hesitation. ‘I can’t tell you what it’s like to lose your closest friend. I’m finding it hard just to . . . just to get on with things.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?’

  Arda shook his head.

  ‘So after university, you went your separate ways? Tell me a little bit about that.’

  ‘Hugo knew what he wanted to do. He studied hard and then he went straight into the aid sector. Simply walked into the offices of an NGO he admired and told them he wanted to work for them and would do anything. He got his way, of course. He had a talent for winning people over. Next thing he was traipsing around Asia, delivering projects, making a name for himself.’

  ‘What does that mean, to make a name for yourself? In the NGO sector?’

  ‘Same as anywhere. Just because you’re representing some worthy cause doesn’t mean you’re not driven by the same things as other people. Hugo was ambitious. I don’t mean he wanted to be successful just to satisfy his own ego. No. He wanted his work to mean something.’

  ‘Did he still consider himself a communist then?’

  Paul Arda smiled. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘You didn’t discuss politics?’

  ‘We discussed all sorts of things,’ Paul said. ‘Work; the impact of aid and whether it makes any real difference; and yes, governments, politics.’ He looked at Morel. ‘But it wasn’t like at university, you understand. When you’re young you talk about things you haven’t experienced, like you actually know, even though you know nothing. As you get older, obviously that changes.’