Death in the Rainy Season Read online

  ‘I knew he was staying there under a different name. He’d told me on the phone, like it was funny. I went up there and I knocked on the door. He didn’t answer. I knocked again and realized the door wasn’t properly shut.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else?’

  Adam shivered. ‘No.’ He looked beseechingly at Morel.

  ‘There was a lot of blood. It took me a long time to look away from the blood and see him. At least it felt that way. Like a long time.’

  ‘And after that you crept into his house while his widow slept, and you stole something from her?’

  ‘Yes, God help me, yes. But I didn’t kill him. I swear.’

  ‘Why did you decide to get the folder to me, Adam?’ Morel asked.

  ‘Because I want to make it right.’

  ‘He was there. In the hotel room, the night Quercy was killed. He says Quercy was already dead when he walked in. The door was unlocked.’

  ‘You believe him?’

  Nizet had suggested they meet for lunch at a trendy new organic cafe that had opened amongst the shops and galleries on Street 240. Sarit had gone back to his office, to catch up on a few things, he’d said. He would return in an hour’s time. Morel ordered a smoked salmon baguette and a lime juice. Nizet had a salad.

  ‘I’m watching my weight,’ he said. Morel thought that he must be joking but Nizet’s expression remained earnest.

  Soft lounge music played in the background. The tables on the footpath were wet from the morning showers, the chairs overturned to dry. Paintings by local artists hung on the walls and organic foods were on sale near the cash counter; there were copies of Paris Match too, at least a year old, for clients to browse while they waited for their orders to arrive.

  ‘In answer to your question, yes, I think I do believe him,’ Morel said. ‘What motive would Adam Spencer have for killing Hugo Quercy?’

  ‘Maybe he wanted his job and felt he deserved it more. You said yourself he’s ambitious.’

  ‘Ambitious enough to kill Quercy? I don’t see it. Also, he doesn’t strike me as stupid.’

  ‘Yet he leaves muddy footprints all over Quercy’s house? Just so he can get his hands on a souvenir?’ Nizet asked.

  ‘That does seem strange. On the other hand, if he’d killed Quercy, there would have been blood on his hands, his clothes. But there were no blood stains in Quercy’s house. Only the footprints.’

  The food arrived and Morel bit into his sandwich. He waited till he’d finished chewing before speaking again.

  ‘The thing that still puzzles me is this,’ Morel said. ‘If Spencer is telling the truth, then why didn’t he call the police when he found the body?’

  Nizet snorted. ‘Remember this is Phnom Penh. He might have thought that calling the police wouldn’t do him any good, and I can see why he might have been less than confident that he would get a fair hearing.’

  Morel thought about what Adam had told him. He was a lonely young man, and in Hugo Quercy he’d found someone to love and admire. Morel guessed that perhaps Adam’s admiration for Hugo had been tinged with resentment; just as Kate’s love – for Morel was certain she had loved Hugo – had been unrequited. As for Paul Arda, he’d been convinced of his own inferiority in the face of all that confidence and success. Only Florence’s devotion seemed untainted, almost virginal.

  Morel reflected on his conversation with Florence Quercy. Her emotional statement about her friendship with Mariko Arda. He’d been surprised. He wondered whether Mariko felt the same about her.

  He stopped chewing and frowned. It occurred to him that he still hadn’t asked Mariko what she thought of Hugo. He would ask her at the earliest opportunity.

  ‘What’s next?’ Nizet said.

  ‘Sarit and I are paying a visit to that paedophile suspect I mentioned to you. I finally managed to reach him.’

  Nizet nodded, but he looked unconvinced. ‘Is this relevant? In terms of the investigation, I mean?’

  ‘It might be.’

  ‘Then fine.’ Nizet picked at his salad. ‘Remind me again, what’s the person’s full name?’

  ‘Thierry Gaveaux. Do you know him?’ Morel asked. Nizet thought about it and shook his head.

  ‘I don’t, I’m afraid.’

  Nizet put down his fork and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.

  ‘How is it going with Sarit?’ Nizet asked.

  ‘He seems to want to be involved as little as possible.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ Nizet said. ‘A foreigner’s death won’t be a priority for him.’

  ‘How well do you know him?’ Morel said.

  ‘Well enough to know he’s as honest as police officers come here. Competent too.’

  Nizet looked at his watch.

  ‘I really must go. Good luck with everything.’

  While he waited for Sarit, Morel ordered a coffee. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and for the next half hour folded it into a variety of easy shapes, while he considered the investigation and how much progress he’d made.

  A picture was beginning to form in Morel’s head of Hugo Quercy’s life, and the people who had been close to him. Quercy himself remained an elusive character. He was a man who’d inspired devotion, but at least one person, Julia de Krees, had been unimpressed by him. A man married to his work. Important work, of course, yet one got the impression that Quercy had given himself a starring role in an organization that relied on teamwork rather than one man’s quest for personal glory.

  He sat back in his chair and examined his creation. The paper kite he’d just made was an exact replica of the one hanging in his family home, on a smaller scale. A khleng ek, a musical kite. Though his paper version obviously did not include the bamboo bow that allowed the kite to produce four different notes.

  The Khmer Rouge, in their merciless campaign of annihilation, had suppressed kite flying, in the same way it had crushed just about everything else that was traditional under Sihanouk’s reign. Now kites were flying high again. Morel had been here during the International Kite Festival in 1994. The festival had marked the revival of the Khmer tradition. In a country marked by tragedy, it had been a wonder to see anything joyous and graceful rise again.

  Morel looked up. Sarit had entered the restaurant and was looking around him as though he didn’t think much of the place. Morel scrunched up his kite. He was suddenly conscious of his setting. The place was pricey for Phnom Penh, and unaffordable for someone on a Cambodian police officer’s lowly wage.

  Morel stood. Sarit, in true Khmer fashion, smiled with no indication that he was thinking anything negative or critical.

  ‘Shall we go?’ Sarit said.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘That must be him,’ Sarit said.

  Morel looked towards the house. A black Renault Mégane had just pulled into the driveway. The driver got out. A thin, middle-aged man wearing glasses, a short-sleeved shirt and a tie. He was carrying a briefcase. He didn’t look around or notice the car parked on the other side of the street. Within seconds he had unlocked his front door and disappeared inside.

  ‘We don’t have enough to bring Thierry Gaveaux in,’ Morel said. ‘But we can make him sweat a little. Make him wonder why we’re talking to him.’

  They expected Gaveaux to open the door but instead a woman stood before them. His wife, presumably. She reserved a stiff smile for the two men who had come uninvited to her door.

  ‘Is your husband here?’ Sarit asked.

  ‘Yes. In fact, he just got home.’ She looked at Sarit’s uniform, then at Morel. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘We just need to ask your husband a few questions,’ Sarit said.

  ‘Come in, then,’ she said, and Morel could see her hesitate between her natural instinct to be hospitable and her concerns about their motive. ‘Thierry!’ she called out to the empty hallway.

  Sarit and Morel followed Madame Gaveaux through the house. It seemed enormous for just two people, and very tidy. There
were no magazines lying around, no shoes left on the floor. Did the couple have any children? If so, they must be grown up. There was a great deal of empty space and Morel wondered whether this was something the couple had strived for or whether it was simply that they could not fill it with their belongings. The resulting effect was chilling.

  Madame Gaveaux led them out into the garden. Here there was a semblance of disorder; there was only so much you could do with this riotous green, tropical lushness to replicate the blank iciness of the interior, though a gardener was doing his best to straighten things out. Before Morel and Sarit could sit down, Madame Gaveaux went back inside to fetch a hand towel. She returned and wiped the plastic chairs. The gardener, largely concealed beneath a wide-brimmed hat, was collecting leaves from the swimming pool. A large German shepherd ambled over to Morel and looked intently at him. Determining, Morel thought, whether to take a large chunk out of his leg or not.

  ‘People and their dogs,’ Sarit said, and reached into a pocket for his cigarette packet. This time Morel didn’t bother telling him to wait till they had left.

  ‘Tommy, out of the way,’ Madame Gaveaux said, holding her wet hand towel. ‘He’s generally harmless,’ she added. Somehow her choice of words didn’t provide any comfort.

  ‘Please sit down, the seats are dry.’

  They obeyed. Morel wondered where her husband was.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Thierry Gaveaux said. He had crept up so silently that Morel was startled. He saw Sarit jump too.

  Morel turned to face him. Gaveaux cut an unimpressive figure. He could have been a mid-level fonctionnaire in a bank, handing out cash to little old ladies who would be comforted by his blandness. He moved towards one of the plastic chairs and, before sitting down, ran his hand carefully and repeatedly across the seat, brushing away invisible dirt, a gesture that seemed more of a tic than one born of necessity. He then waited expectantly, hands folded on his lap. Morel glanced at Madame Gaveaux and saw her look questioningly at her husband. She didn’t seem worried, only put out.

  ‘Perhaps we could offer these gentlemen something to drink?’ she said. Her husband raised his eyebrows at his visitors.

  ‘A glass of lemon juice, perhaps? Or would you prefer coffee?’

  ‘Whichever is easiest,’ Morel said. He felt the intense scrutiny of Gaveaux’s eyes behind the glasses. They were dark and small, like raisins.

  His wife started to rise from her chair.

  ‘I’m happy to do it, dear,’ he told her, but she placed a hand on his arm and shook her head.

  ‘That’s quite all right, I’ll do it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Morel said, but Madame Gaveaux had already left. She moved quietly and efficiently, like her husband.

  ‘We’re investigating a death,’ Sarit said in French. ‘A man named Hugo Quercy was found dead in his hotel room on Monday morning.’ He gave Thierry Gaveaux a summary of what had happened. ‘We’re here because we found your name among his papers,’ Sarit concluded.

  ‘Thierry’s name? Why?’ Madame Gaveaux had appeared out of nowhere, bearing drinks and a clean ashtray. She looked unsettled. Thierry blinked at his wife.

  ‘It’s nothing, dear. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.’ He turned his cool gaze to the two police officers.

  ‘Do you think I could have one of your cigarettes? I don’t smoke often but once in a while . . .’ Sarit handed over his packet and Gaveaux took a cigarette from it.

  ‘What did you say the name of the dead man was?’

  ‘Hugo Quercy,’ Sarit said, handing him a lighter.

  ‘I don’t know a Hugo Quercy.’

  ‘Then can you explain why he had your contact details?’ Morel asked, looking for a reaction. He added, casually, ‘Maybe it had something to do with his line of work?’

  ‘What was his line of work?’ Gaveaux asked blankly.

  ‘He was the director of an NGO called Kids at Risk.’

  ‘I know it. Everyone does,’ Madame Gaveaux piped up. ‘They work with the street children here. I’ve heard a lot of good things about them.’

  Morel turned to the husband. ‘You’ve heard of them too, I presume?’ He wished the German shepherd would sit somewhere else. The dog was so close Morel could see the grooves in its wet tongue and smell its hot, rancid breath.

  ‘Yes, but I wasn’t aware of the director’s name.’

  Madame Gaveaux looked like she might say something but then thought better of it.

  ‘Is there anything else?’ her husband asked. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t know how we can help you. It’s a shame this man is dead but it really has nothing to do with us.’

  Gaveaux was holding the cigarette but he hadn’t raised it to his lips once. He was looking at the gardener at the other end of the swimming pool. The man had finished cleaning the pool’s surface and was now raking the petals that had fallen from the frangipani trees.

  ‘Madame?’ A young Cambodian girl had come up to them, so silently that again Morel gave a start. Why was everyone so damned quiet in this house?

  ‘Dinner is ready.’ She was young and pretty. Morel noticed that she kept her eyes on the tiles at her feet, unwilling to take a step closer to the four of them.

  ‘Thank you,’ Madame Gaveaux said. She hesitated, then turned to the two visitors.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Morel said, ‘we won’t trouble you any longer. Thank you for your time.’ He stood up and stretched out his hand.

  Gaveaux reached out to shake it.

  ‘What happened to your arm?’ Morel said. The man’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘I just noticed you’re careful with it. Did you hurt it recently?’

  He let out an uneasy laugh. ‘Yes. You’re quite observant.’

  Gaveaux’s hand was clammy. Morel resisted the urge to wipe his own against his trousers.

  The girl saw them out. She looked underfed and Morel wondered whether he should say something. Instead, it was Sarit who spoke to her. She raised her head and answered so quietly Morel couldn’t catch what she said.

  ‘I asked how long she has been working here,’ Sarit said as they got back into the car.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Just three weeks, she says.’

  ‘She seems very young to be working as a maid, don’t you think?’

  ‘She says her family lives outside Phnom Penh. I suppose they need the money.’

  Morel thought about the man they had spoken to and his twitchy wife, whose restless eyes had followed his every word and gesture.

  ‘Did you notice?’

  ‘What?’ Sarit said.

  ‘He never asked who I was.’

  ‘He knew you were police. That was enough.’

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t ask why or how I was involved in this case.’ Morel grew thoughtful. ‘The way he looked at me. As if he already knew who I was and what I was doing here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Sarit said.

  ‘Yes. I got the impression he knew. And what I’d like to know is, how?’

  Sarit reached into his pocket for his car keys.

  ‘I asked Antoine Nizet to look into the land eviction angle too, by the way,’ Morel said in a neutral tone.

  ‘Nizet?’ Sarit said.

  Morel nodded.

  ‘Nizet will know where to look,’ Sarit said after a brief pause. ‘That was a good move.’

  Something passed between them. Indefinable, yet for the first time in three days, Morel felt a sense of relief, as if something unyielding had started to give.

  ‘What are your plans for this evening?’ Sarit asked when they arrived at Morel’s hotel.

  Morel pictured his hotel room and the crumpled pages on his desk. He had hoped that he might spend time with his uncle and cousin again, but there had been no word from Sam. Chenda had said her uncle would call ‘when he is ready’. Morel had to leave it at that. In the meantime, he didn’t relish the thought of another night spent drinking alone, staring at the same four walls.

  ‘N
othing in particular.’

  ‘In that case, I would like to invite you to a wedding.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  Hugo stuck to the main road, hoping a motorbike or tuk-tuk would come along soon to get him home. It was something of an anticlimax to be walking home now; he was feeling quite sober too. He wondered whether he’d broken the other man’s arm and also how he would manage to clean himself up and get into bed without waking Florence.

  A black car pulled up alongside him. He stepped back from the road and lost his balance, falling hard. When he got up again, he saw the window was down on the passenger side. A man was looking at him. From his uniform, Hugo saw he was a senior police officer. There was someone else besides him. Hugo peered inside. Could it be . . . ? Surely not.

  ‘Monsieur Quercy?’ the man said in French. He flashed his characteristic smile, the one he saved for the cameras.

  ‘ Yes?’

  ‘We have some questions for you.’

  ‘What kind of questions?’ Hugo asked, but the man didn’t answer. He got out of the car and opened the door for him, in the friendliest possible manner.

  ‘Please. Get in.’

  They dropped him home and somehow he managed not to wake Florence as he got into bed.

  He lay on his back, wide awake. They knew about him. What he’d been up to. He’d expected violence but they’d been understanding. Helpful, even. Together they’d talked it through and come to an agreement. Should he trust them? Of course he should. They had worked together many times before.

  With their backing, he could really do some good work. They had said they would support his programmes for the kids. Anything you want, we’ll make sure you get it.

  Earlier, outside the club, it had been a close call. But he’d had a couple of those before. The car accident, for example, all those years before. His friend had died. But he, Hugo, had survived. It had seemed like a miracle at the time. He’d vowed never to get behind the wheel of a car again. But maybe there was a reason he’d been spared.