Death in the Rainy Season Read online

  ‘What were Hugo’s views, then? What motivated him?’ Morel asked Arda. He was genuinely curious.

  ‘I think what it came down to was that Hugo loved to make things happen. To start something and see it to the end. I don’t think it really mattered what that thing was, whether it was an aid project or a business idea. Though he would probably disagree if he were here. One thing’s for certain: Hugo loved his work and it consumed him. He liked it that way. Luckily Florence was fine with that.’

  ‘She didn’t have a choice,’ Mariko interjected.

  ‘Florence was fine with the way he invested himself in his work?’ Morel pressed.

  ‘Fine with being loved,’ Arda said, ‘without expecting to be the centre of his world.’

  Morel leaned forward. ‘You probably won’t like me asking this, but is it possible that perhaps Hugo was seeing someone else? Another woman?’

  Arda shook his head, a little too quickly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘He checked into a hotel the night he died. Without telling his wife. I know you said he just wanted to spend some time alone. But you have to agree that’s an unusual thing to do when you have a perfectly comfortable bed of your own just down the road. And a loving, pregnant spouse to share it with.’

  Arda’s face had turned pink. ‘Is this how you run an investigation? By looking for things that will compromise a man even though he’s dead, just so you can wrap up your investigation with an easy explanation?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Morel said calmly. He raised his coffee cup to his lips, before realizing it was empty. ‘But it is my job to find out about people. It’s a difficult job at the best of times. Because when you’re dealing with dead people, it’s hard to get at the truth. The dead aren’t around to tell their own stories. You have to listen to people tell you what they want you to hear, whether it’s to put a man down or place him on a pedestal.’

  Morel leaned back and stared at Paul Arda. He was looking dazed but he was still angry. His best friend was dead, after all. Mariko Arda looked shaken too.

  ‘I understand your loyalty,’ Morel told Arda. ‘The last thing you want to do is put your friend down when he’s gone. But let me tell you something.’ Morel raised his voice slightly to make sure he had the man’s full attention, and his wife’s as well. ‘I am not interested in judgement, Monsieur Arda. I don’t find it particularly helpful to dwell on whether people are good or evil. I am not a religious man, for one. But leaving that aside, such childish dichotomy simply doesn’t hold for me, though I know of course that many find it easier to think of the world in this way. Black and white. Good and bad. So I’ll ask you again,’ Morel said. ‘Was Hugo involved with someone else?’

  Arda poured more coffee into his cup. He added a spoonful of sugar and stirred it slowly.

  ‘It was Kate,’ Paul said quietly. ‘Hugo and Florence were going to have a baby, and Hugo seemed happy about it. He wanted to be a father. But he was distracted. He hinted several times that he had something else going on. I never got a straight answer. But I’m sure he was fucking Kate on the side.’

  Morel had time to register Mariko Arda’s look of consternation. Her husband saw it too.

  ‘What? You don’t believe me? You always said she lusted after him,’ he said.

  ‘She did.’ Mariko shook her head. ‘But I don’t believe Hugo was having an affair. I don’t believe it for a second.’

  He left Paul Arda slumped on the sofa. The man’s face had turned ashen, as though he’d been completely sapped of energy. It was Mariko who walked Morel to the door.

  ‘Is your husband going to be OK?’ Morel couldn’t help asking.

  ‘He’s taking it hard,’ she said, not looking him in the eye. ‘Paul has a history of depression. He’s vulnerable.’

  ‘It takes time to recover from something like this,’ Morel said.

  ‘You know, we have a daughter, Nora,’ Mariko said. There was something both tender and anxious in her voice. ‘She’s out tonight.’

  Arda came out just as Morel was leaving.

  ‘I almost forgot,’ he said. He handed a piece of paper to Morel. ‘Kate emailed this earlier. She thought it might be useful. That it might have something to do with Hugo’s death.’

  ‘What is it?’ Morel said, taking the paper from Arda’s hand.

  ‘A list of paedophile suspects compiled by Kids at Risk.’

  ‘The first name on the list is highlighted,’ Morel said. ‘Any idea why?’

  ‘I do know a little bit about this, as it happens. Hugo had direct dealings with this guy; he told me all about it the next day. He was very pleased with himself.’

  ‘In what context did they meet?’

  ‘At a club in town. A real dive,’ Paul told Morel.

  ‘What was Hugo doing there?’

  ‘Research.’

  Morel raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I’m not joking. He would do this once in a while. Hang out in a seedy bar, have a couple of drinks, watch the punters. He got a kick out of making them uncomfortable.’

  ‘Bars where underage sex was on offer?’

  ‘Depends what we’re talking about,’ Paul said. ‘Depends how young. You’ll find girls in the massage parlours that aren’t quite eighteen yet. They might be sixteen – Nora’s age – passing themselves off as older. The younger kids aren’t on display,’ he said. ‘You walk into these bars and you don’t see kids. But if you know where to look, who to talk to, then you’ll find what you’re looking for.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Mariko said.

  ‘How do you think? Hugo told me.’

  Morel looked at the name Paul had circled. Thierry Gaveaux. There was even an address.

  ‘How did he find out where the guy lived?’

  Paul frowned. ‘Who knows? With Hugo anything is possible. He might have followed this Thierry home for all I know.’

  ‘He took his job quite far, didn’t he?’

  ‘He was fanatical,’ Mariko said, and Paul frowned.

  ‘You make it sound like he was some kind of extremist,’ Paul said.

  ‘He was,’ Mariko said. ‘Work was his religion. It was the only way he knew how to live, by throwing himself completely into his work. The rest was foreign to him. Without his work, he was a child.’

  ‘You’re not painting an accurate portrait of Hugo at all,’ he said. Morel saw Mariko turn to her husband and saw him flinch under her gaze. There was an awkward silence, until Morel spoke.

  ‘I’m wondering whether there was ever anyone working for Hugo who might have resented him for some reason.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Paul said. He was sullen now, and his wife gave him a quick, impatient look.

  ‘You seem to know a lot about the organization, though,’ Morel persisted.

  ‘It was a big part of his life. So he talked about it. But apart from Kate, I didn’t know his colleagues. He talked about the work but he didn’t really talk about the people he worked with. Only in general terms.’

  ‘What about Adam Spencer? Did he talk about him?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Morel observed Paul’s dishevelled appearance for a moment, the way he held himself. He looked defeated.

  ‘You were his closest friend,’ Morel said.

  ‘Yes.’ Paul didn’t elaborate and Morel left it at that.

  He walked back towards the main road and waited for a tuk-tuk to come. One more stop, he told himself, and then I’ll go back to my room and pour myself a well-deserved drink.

  EIGHTEEN

  Morel knocked on the door and waited. He half hoped nobody would be home. It was also entirely possible that Samdech had moved.

  Morel had had trouble finding the place. But he remembered it was close to the Independence Monument. Just as he’d been about to give up, he recognized the side street and then the old apartment building, looking even more dingy than he remembered.

  At first he thought it must be abandoned. The blackened concrete facade mad
e him wonder if there had been a recent fire. It was hard to think of anyone living here. But then he’d caught sight of a man leaning out of a window. A dark silhouette against the night. Wearing a vest and smoking. The only human presence, as far as Morel could make out. He cut a lonely figure.

  The door opened, interrupting his thoughts. Morel looked at the figure before him. Samdech was an old man now, his face marked by deep creases. But his gaze was clear and sharp. There was a small girl by his side, wearing a faded pink T-shirt and turquoise shorts. Her legs were bare and her fringe was cut in a straight line across the top of her eyebrows. She stared at him with a great deal of curiosity, her eyes wide and unblinking.

  ‘Chum reap suor,’ Morel said by way of greeting. He hadn’t said he was coming. But Sam didn’t seem surprised to see him. Instead, almost as if he’d been expecting him, he opened the door wider to let Morel in.

  ‘You’re here in Phnom Penh,’ he said. As if seventeen years hadn’t passed since they’d last met.

  ‘I arrived early this morning.’

  ‘You’re here on holiday?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was no point explaining about the murder investigation.

  ‘Come in, come in. This is Jorani,’ he said, gesturing to the child.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Jorani,’ Morel said.

  ‘This is Serge Morel. He is my nephew. You can call him uncle.’

  The child said hello in a timid voice and disappeared down the dark hallway.

  Morel followed the old man into the kitchen, a small, bare room with a table and three chairs. The little girl was sitting there, playing with a bald plastic doll. Morel looked at her. He guessed she must be three or four.

  ‘This is your granddaughter?’

  The old man nodded.

  ‘My daughter’s child.’

  Morel wished he could remember the name of Sam’s daughter. He had met her, the last time he and his uncle had seen each other. She hadn’t been much older than this child then.

  ‘Is she . . . ?’

  ‘My daughter Chenda,’ Sam said. ‘She is a teacher at a primary school. She is working and will be back soon. Please sit down.’

  ‘She always works this late?’ Morel asked, surprised.

  Sam pulled his chair back and sat down.

  ‘Most of the teachers provide private tuition on top of the hours they work at school. We need the extra money and I am too old to be much use to anyone. Without it . . .’ He didn’t finish his sentence, gesturing instead for Morel to sit.

  ‘Are you sure I’m not disturbing you?’

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’ his uncle said, ignoring the question.

  ‘You invited me here, all those years ago. Don’t you remember?’

  The old man nodded slowly.

  ‘I remember. But how did you manage to retain my home address, all this time?’

  There was no suggestion of blame in his voice but Morel wondered whether an apology was due.

  ‘I have a habit of holding on to everything. Maybe it’s the job that makes me this way.’

  ‘So you’re still a police officer.’

  Morel nodded. He was unnerved by his uncle’s tone. He couldn’t tell whether Sam was glad to see him or not.

  ‘How long are you here for?’

  ‘A few days.’

  After that they both fell silent. Morel kept his eyes trained on the child, as a way of overcoming his awkwardness. Then the old man got up and went to the stove.

  ‘I’ll make us some tea,’ he said with his back to Morel.

  Morel nodded. He was ravenous, but food would have to wait.

  ‘That would be very nice, thank you.’ The old man made a gurgling sound and it took Morel a moment to realize it was laughter.

  ‘In all these years, your Khmer hasn’t improved one bit,’ he said.

  Once the tea was poured and they were again facing each other across the table, there seemed to be nothing to say. They both stared at the child, whose presence made the silence less awkward.

  ‘I’m sorry, I should have warned you I was coming. It’s late. Perhaps I should come back another time.’

  ‘What made you decide to visit me, after so long?’ the old man asked.

  ‘It was overdue.’

  ‘And now you are here, you have nothing to talk about.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Morel said. ‘It’s difficult . . .’

  ‘Your mother left us a long time ago. You have no obligations towards me,’ his uncle said.

  ‘I feel there is an obligation. She never forgot her family.’

  Sam looked at Morel with disbelief. The child seemed to sense the change in atmosphere and she gave Morel a quick, searching look.

  ‘How can you say that she never forgot her family?’ Sam said. ‘Your mother came just once, to show off her new husband. And then she never returned. In her mind, we ceased to exist.’

  Morel shook his head. Were they really going to have this conversation again?

  ‘That is simply not true. She was young and she made a new life for herself,’ he said carefully. ‘After what happened during the Khmer Rouge years, I think she was afraid to come back and see what had happened to her country and to her family.’

  ‘She should have come back. No one could understand why she didn’t. Our parents especially.’

  Without realizing it, Sam had stood up. Morel did the same. He was angry, with himself and with his uncle. What had he been thinking? He should never have come.

  ‘You judge her very harshly,’ he said, sitting down again and making an effort to appear composed. ‘I never spoke with her about this. I don’t know that she spoke to anyone about her feelings. But I’ve thought since that she probably spent the rest of her life regretting her choice. The fact that she never spoke about it says something.’

  ‘I can’t understand it,’ Sam said, taking Morel’s cue and returning to his seat, though he did so with clear reluctance. ‘I can’t understand how you turn your back on your family.’

  Morel had no answer to that. Had his mother, perhaps, been ashamed of herself for escaping the years of horror unscathed? Had the guilt been too much, so that she felt she couldn’t face her family? Like all children, Morel had always seen her simply as a necessary extension of himself. He’d taken her for granted. He wished now that they had spoken about her past.

  He didn’t know how to voice any of this, and meanwhile his uncle was pushing his chair back. He didn’t look at Morel.

  ‘Time to go to bed,’ he told the child.

  ‘I should go too.’

  Sam didn’t respond.

  At the front door, Morel turned to his uncle. He wanted to say, Why can’t the two of us just have a normal conversation? Why does it always have to centre on the past? And then he realized: the past meant something different to Sam. It meant war and suffering, and loss.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  The moment seemed to stretch out. The child tugged at her grandfather’s sleeve, demanding attention. Sam looked at her but didn’t say anything. He gave no indication that he had heard the apology.

  ‘Goodnight,’ Morel said, once he understood that his uncle wouldn’t respond. He turned and walked away.

  Morel ordered a Caesar salad with a glass of wine from room service. When it arrived, he only picked at the food but he drank the wine quickly.

  He looked at the dragonfly sketches he’d done in Siem Reap and spent some time refining them, erasing and starting over until he was pleased with what he had. Then he took another piece of paper and folded a fish, followed by a bird. Child’s play. He repeated the exercise, more slowly this time, using an advanced box-pleating technique to create scales and feathers.

  His father had bought him his first origami book. His mother had applauded his efforts.

  ‘You have a gift,’ she’d exclaimed on more than one occasion. Morel’s father had rolled his eyes.

  ‘It’s not a gift. It’s the effort he’s willing to put
into it,’ Philippe Morel had said. It was his son’s turn, then, to roll his eyes.

  Morel climbed into bed and turned off the light. His mother had been a generous woman, tender with her children and tolerant of her husband’s complexities. A gifted pianist, she had been sent to Paris from Phnom Penh at the age of seventeen to study at the conservatory. She had abandoned her studies after meeting Philippe Morel and as a nineteen-year-old bride joined him on his first diplomatic posting to China. Despite her privileged background – her father had been a minister in King Sihanouk’s government – she had been a woman of simple tastes and ambition. She continued to play the piano but didn’t seem to regret having given up her career. She gave piano lessons a few times a week and took care of her family and home. She seemed content. But Morel wondered now what it had cost her to be cut off from her country and her relatives in Phnom Penh. Why had there been no contact?

  He yawned, and turned his mind back to the investigation. He thought about Paul and Mariko Arda, and the people he’d interviewed on the phone. He thought about Pran, the old doctor who’d examined Hugo Quercy’s body, and the detective, Sarit, whose passivity he found intensely frustrating. There was so much to process, a lot more work to do. And he was exhausted.

  He fell asleep and woke up an hour later. At first he thought the noise he was hearing was coming from the air conditioning, but then he realized it was pouring outside. He got up to go to the bathroom and glanced out the window on his way back to bed. Through the rain all he could see was the blurry reflection of the lights around the pool. He turned off the air con and slid the balcony door open to let some fresh air in.

  Once again, Morel found himself overwhelmed by the task ahead. If he were back home, he would have his team. He would have Lila; as always, she would be two steps ahead of him. He would be in a city he knew so well he could practically find his way around blindfolded.

  Here, he was on his own, working within a system he didn’t really understand. He was used to working methodically, according to a well-defined set of rules and procedures. He drew a certain comfort from that system, even if he knew from experience that a good detective relied on a great many other skills than a simple knowledge of the rule book.