Death in the Rainy Season Page 20

  ‘It depends on whether I end up in jail,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘How can you be so sure it wasn’t me who killed him?’ Adam asked.

  She kicked off her shoes and sat back on the bed, cross-legged.

  ‘Because you wouldn’t have the balls to do what that person did to him.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘It’s a good thing. The sort of person who could do that to him . . .’ She shook her head and rested her hand on his arm. ‘So what do you say, Adam? Friends?’

  He nodded. That was another thing about Kate. She didn’t make him feel inadequate, the way Hugo had.

  ‘We can give it a try.’

  ‘OK. Good.’

  She stood up. His head was level with her waist now and he found himself thinking of the two of them and the last time they’d been close. Without thinking, he moved his head against her belly and dug his fingers into her hips, so hard that she flinched.

  ‘Hey!’

  He loosened his hold but didn’t let go. Instead, he raised his head and pressed it against her breasts.

  ‘Do you think this is a good idea?’ she said, but he could hear her heart thumping, the quickness of her breath.

  Without answering, he reached for the buttons on her trousers and began to undo them.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Nora took a sniff of Jeremy’s sheets before lying on the bed. They seemed clean enough. The room itself was another story. It stank. She figured the smell had to come from the pair of trainers lying by the door. The ones Jeremy wore when he went running. He ran along the river in the evenings, four times a week, with a couple of the other boys from school.

  She tried to focus on the book in her hand. Her school essay was due in two weeks. The Great Gatsby and the death of the American Dream. 800 words. She hadn’t even started the book. She tried to get past the first page, but it was useless – the words made no sense at all, no matter how often she looked at them.

  With a sigh, she turned her gaze to the walls. It was such a boy’s room. There were posters of The Killers and the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and one of a topless girl lying on a car with her back arched and her hair splayed across the windscreen. Nora felt a stab of jealousy. Did Jeremy fantasize about the girl on the car, with her perfect body? Had he been thinking of her the last time they’d been together in this bed, her straddling Jeremy and him looking up at her? They had both been so impatient, he hadn’t even bothered to take his trousers off properly, or his shoes. Later, the shoes would leave a muddy trail across the bedspread.

  Three months earlier, if anyone had told her she would fall for Jeremy, she’d have laughed in their face. Yet here she was, obsessed with him just as she had been obsessed with Hugo. The way Jeremy looked at her sometimes was enough to make her weak at the knees.

  She let her eyes wander over a collection of beer cans lined up on the windowsill. All from different countries, various trips he’d made with his family. The way they were arranged, so self-consciously, said more about Jeremy than the cans themselves. It all looked superficial, like he’d gone around his room thinking about how he might want to project himself. It was a display meant for others, nothing to do with Jeremy himself. At school, she saw how he dumbed himself down just so he could fit in with the kids who were considered cool.

  Taking time out at his parents’ house had been his idea. When she had said she needed to get away from her family, Jeremy had shown her where the spare key was hidden. At first she’d felt uncomfortable moving around the empty rooms. This was where his family lived, slept and argued. She felt like a criminal, intruding on their private space. All the time she was on the alert, expecting his parents to turn up. But his parents were with him in Belize. She had nothing to worry about.

  After a while, she relaxed. She looked through the CD collection in the living room and picked a Coldplay album. Jeremy had told her once he found them tiresome and Nora pretended to agree, though secretly she liked their wistful melodies. She left the volume on low so the neighbours wouldn’t wonder who was in and come knocking. In the kitchen, she found a packet of Oreos and a carton of apple juice. She took these into Jeremy’s room, removing a stack of boy magazines from the bedside table to put them down.

  This was good, she thought, looking around. It no longer bothered her that she was alone in someone else’s house. She felt she had a right to be there. This was where she and Jeremy had made love, her very first time if not his; where she had fallen asleep without worrying for the first time in months, her head nestled against his damp chest.

  Besides, she needed to be here. She had an appointment to keep.

  The only thing that nagged at her was the thought that her mum would be worried. She was angry with her but halfway through the day, she’d felt charitable enough to send a text.

  I’m OK but I need some time alone, she’d said.

  What about dinner? Make sure you’re back before then.

  It was so typical of her mother to worry about the practicalities.

  Nora hadn’t bothered answering.

  She sat on Jeremy’s bed with her back against the wall and pulled out the photograph from her pocket. In it, Hugo was laughing, his blue eyes lit up and his mouth wide open. Her dad stood next to him, one hand on Hugo’s shoulder. Paul and Hugo. She had caught them beautifully in that moment. In the photograph, Hugo’s eyes were staring right at her. She had found it difficult to disentangle herself from that stare back then, and now she found it hard again and had to avert her eyes. She looked instead at Paul. Studying his face carefully.

  The emptiness in his own eyes, since Hugo’s death, frightened her.

  By now they would have incinerated him. Her mother had said so. His wife Florence would carry his remains back to France. What would she carry them in? An urn? What did an urn look like, exactly? It seemed so weird. Nora just couldn’t picture it. This happy, smiling man in the photograph, so alive and real, was now dead and reduced to ashes. It was impossible.

  ‘He was part of the family in a way, wasn’t he?’ Mariko had said. Nora knew the words were for her benefit. Her mother hadn’t ever considered Hugo part of the family. It was another lie. She was wrong as well to think that Nora saw him as some sort of genial uncle.

  They’d had something special for a while, she was sure of it. You and I have a great deal in common. His exact words. He had listened quietly, while her mother and Paul fretted about her schoolwork. Mariko didn’t get how her child, her own flesh and blood, could obtain such average grades at school. As if it were some genetic flaw.

  The five of them at the dinner table. Florence had been there too. Her mother picking at a sliver of fish, with its side of green salad. Paul filling her mother’s glass, touching her shoulder. Hugo nodded and smiled, and joked that he would make an excellent tutor. At one point, he had caught her eye and winked. It had made her smile.

  And so Hugo had started tutoring her. He’d opened the door to his study – he never locked it; he didn’t need to because Florence would never have set foot in it without permission – and invited her to step in.

  ‘You know I don’t share this space with anyone, Nora. I’m letting you in here because I know it’ll inspire you, just as it’s inspired me, every time I’ve felt discouraged or preoccupied about things.’

  She had waited, hoping he would confide in her, tell her things no one else knew. But he’d opened the blinds and cleared the desk so she could put her books down. He’d smiled with his eyes and invited her to take a seat.

  ‘So, what shall we tackle today?’ She would tell him what she was working on at school but more often than not he would set off on a different tangent. They talked often about Cambodia. It was obvious to her that he got a kick out of telling her things she didn’t know. Sometimes she caught him looking at her thoughtfully, and she wanted to ask what he was thinking.

  ‘Seriously?’ His blue eyes were wide with disbelief. ‘You don’t know about Kissinger
? Kissinger was Cambodia’s undoing. Him and Nixon together. Doing the devil’s work.’

  ‘The devil’s work. Right.’

  ‘They were evil men.’

  ‘You think the Americans are responsible for what happened to Cambodia? But the Khmer Rouge were Cambodian. Not American. They turned against their own people,’ she said. She felt quite grown-up during these conversations. Hugo seemed to take her seriously. He looked at her and nodded slowly, even though he was about to refute what she said.

  She turned and buried her face in the pillow. Tears trickled out of the corners of her eyes. She had loved him so desperately. For months, she’d sleepwalked through the days, while he’d occupied her every waking thought.

  Jeremy’s house was at the end of a dead-end street. Next door they were clearing the land and building a car park. Throughout the long afternoon, she listened to the men calling out to each other in Khmer across the wasteland. She heard the relentless rumble of diggers. A truck rolled down the street and left an hour later, piled high with debris. Later, the rain started, building to a crescendo till it took hold of everything, pressing against her eyelids and chest. She was inside a cave, the waters swelling around her.

  Evening came. She lay still on the bed, watching shadows gather on the walls. She was hungry and thirsty again and she couldn’t see anything, it was pitch-dark in the bedroom. But she didn’t stir. Eventually, the rain stopped. She heard the swish of traffic along the flooded roads.

  After a while, she crept up to the window and looked out on to the lawn. It didn’t take long for her to see it. A small, flickering light, moving past the swimming pool and across the garden towards the house.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Morel checked himself in the mirror before leaving the room. He had borrowed a suit, a green silk tie and a white collared shirt from Nizet. After all, he’d packed for a holiday, not a wedding. The suit, tailored to Nizet’s muscular arms and back, was the right length but it sagged around Morel’s narrower frame. He felt uncomfortable wearing another man’s clothes, but he knew these Cambodian weddings. Sarit would appreciate the effort.

  As he was about to leave the room, the phone rang and he picked it up reluctantly, guessing it was Perrin.

  ‘I was about to call you,’ Morel lied.

  ‘Well? What have you got?’

  Morel summarized as best he could.

  ‘I don’t believe Adam Spencer killed Hugo Quercy,’ he concluded.

  ‘I see.’ Perrin seemed put out. ‘Any other leads?’

  ‘Nothing definite.’

  ‘What’s next then?’

  ‘One thing I’d like to do is take a closer look at Hugo Quercy’s involvement with the Ardas’ daughter,’ Morel said. ‘According to Florence Quercy, he was fond of the girl. Nora. He helped her with her schoolwork.’

  ‘What are you saying? That he was sleeping with her?’

  That would go down well with the minister and his sister, Morel thought.

  ‘I’m not making any assumptions,’ he told Perrin.

  ‘I expect you’ll have something for me tomorrow?’ Perrin’s voice was edgy. ‘The minister wants this wrapped up by the weekend.’

  ‘You know how these things are. It may take longer. Look, I have to go.’

  ‘Just make sure I hear from you tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Twelve o’clock sharp your time. Don’t forget it.’

  Morel took a moment to let his annoyance pass before heading downstairs. When the lift doors opened onto the glare of Sarit’s starched, white shirt, he saw he’d been right to dress up. The Cambodian officer gave him a long, appreciative look.

  ‘It’s very kind of you to invite me,’ Morel told Sarit as they headed outside to the car. There were three children already inside. Morel sat beside Sarit and fastened his seatbelt while Sarit turned the car into the flow of traffic. He smiled at the boys staring at him from the back seat where they perched solemnly, their hair still wet and neatly combed. Streaks of talcum powder on their cheeks.

  ‘Are these your children?’ Morel asked.

  ‘Yes. There is one more,’ Sarit said, pulling at his collar. ‘My daughter. She will come with my wife and my wife’s brother. You will meet them at the wedding.’

  ‘It really is good of you to have me. I hope no one will mind me taking up an extra seat.’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all,’ Sarit said.

  ‘Can I ask again how the bride is related to you?’

  ‘She is a cousin. The child of my father’s brother.’

  ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘No. Neither her father nor her mother. They were both killed by the Khmer Rouge. My cousin escaped with her older sister.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ Morel said, thinking how trite it sounded. How many times had he said those same shallow words here when faced with the unimaginable facts? Stories of extreme loss, told with a smile. The smile was a veil, a way of preserving one’s intimacy.

  Morel looked over at Sarit, gazing straight ahead at the heavy flow of traffic. His hair was as slick and neatly parted as that of his three sons. He was like a different man and Morel thought he might not have recognized him if they’d met in the street.

  The celebration was being held on the other side of the river. They drove to Sisowath Quay, parked and got out. The three children walked ahead, talking quietly. The older boy held the smallest boy’s hand. Everyone climbed on board the boat that would ferry them across the river. Sarit’s wife was there with their youngest child and Sarit introduced Morel. The woman was much younger than him, Morel noted. She was heavily pregnant.

  There were others on board and a few greeted Sarit. Wedding guests too, presumably. After returning the greetings, Sarit led his family to the prow, where it was quiet. There, Morel stood with them, watching the river with its sporadic traffic of boats. All along Sisowath Quay, the cafes and restaurants were doing a brisk trade. The other side of the river was draped in shadow.

  As they drew near, they passed a floating village, a Vietnamese fishing community similar to others Morel had encountered along the river and on the Tonle Sap Lake. This was a small community, just six or seven boats near the riverbank, moored close to each other. A naked child stared at him from the prow of the skiff closest to him. A row of plastic bags hung like lanterns from the thatched roof and smoke curled out from the interior. Someone was cooking dinner.

  The ferry drew alongside a pontoon and a few people climbed out. Then the boat headed a little further down the riverbank to drop off the wedding guests. Here, the walkway was nothing but a set of planks hastily knocked together, bobbing in the river. They had to walk across it one at a time if they didn’t want to find themselves wading to shore, knee-deep in silty water. As it was, Morel’s feet sank into the water before he’d reached the riverbank. Once he’d made it across, he clambered as best he could up a slippery slope, where the rains had turned the earth to mud. At the top, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his shoes.

  They walked, with nothing to guide them except the light and noise ahead, coming out of the darkness a couple of hundred metres on. When they got there, the wedding party was in full swing. They stepped into a large, airless tent occupied by dozens of tables. Morel recognized Sok Pran, the doctor who had examined Hugo Quercy’s body. He waved from a table.

  ‘Monsieur Morel! Over here!’ Morel realized Pran was cheerfully drunk.

  Sarit seemed to know everyone. His wife took a seat and remained there throughout the evening, happily filling her children’s plates and her own and chatting to the women seated next to her. A few people came to speak with Sarit. Some were deferential, as though they couldn’t quite forget who he was. Others must have been long-time friends because there was none of that reserve. Sok Pran was one of them, making loud, inappropriate jokes anytime he thought someone was listening to him.

  Inside the tent, the ground was a mess of trodden dirt and food scraps, the damp ai
r like cling film. The live music came through the speakers mangled and scratchy. By the time the tenth course appeared, Morel was lost in a fog of oblivion, bloated and stunned by the unrelenting noise. His glass seemed never to stay empty for long. At one point in the evening, he caught Sarit looking his way. Morel was getting drunk but Sarit, he realized vaguely, was perfectly sober.

  ‘We need to talk!’ he told the policeman. He had to raise his voice to compete with the singer’s. Up on stage an old-fashioned crooner, a Khmer-styled Sinatra, had given way to a sassy band led by two women dressed in black high heels and tight leather shorts. The girls strutted across a stage, filled with so much smoke Morel worried they might trip.

  Morel and Sarit returned to the table and Morel poured wine from a half-empty bottle. He leaned towards Sarit and started telling him in detail about the folder. Nizet hadn’t come up with anything on it so far. Sarit listened quietly. He seemed to be carefully assessing what Morel said, or maybe he wasn’t. Morel couldn’t tell. Morel was halfway through a sentence when Sarit took a sheet of paper from an inside pocket and handed it to him.

  ‘This was in the dead man’s pocket.’

  Morel’s first reaction was shock, then anger.

  ‘You do know the removal of evidence from a crime scene is a serious offence?’

  Sarit nodded. ‘Of course I know.’

  Morel unfolded the paper. It was a list of Khmer names and addresses. He recognized a few of them. They were the same names he’d come across in the green folder. These were the people who had told Quercy their stories about being dispossessed.

  ‘There’s something else you should know,’ Sarit said.

  ‘Go on.’

  The Cambodian policeman looked towards his wife. Their youngest boy was trying to get onto her lap while she fed morsels of food to her daughter.

  ‘One thing I’d like to make clear first. I don’t want any trouble,’ Sarit said. ‘I would prefer not to be involved in this aspect of the investigation.’