Read Online Everyone Burns by John Dolan - Free Book Online

themselves. I spotted the Geoffrey Rush look-alike hunched in a corner with a satisfyingly bruised nose for which I was responsible, and a black eye for which I was not. He showed no sign of recognition. The area smelled of apprehension and neglect, and the walls needed a new coat of paint. An overfilled notice board dominated one side, displaying wanted photographs, dire warnings to would-be criminals and, bizarrely, some rooms to rent. Overhead a strip-light flickered in a manner ideal for inducing an epileptic seizure.
    Working the reception desk was a foxy-looking female police officer who waved us through, giving me a wink as she did so. It probably meant nothing : I doubted she had any idea why we were there.
    We passed through another door, beyond which was a functioning lift. The three of us stood in silence, gazing ahead, as the lift ascended creakily to the top floor. A right turn took us to Charoenkul’s ante-room where his skinny secretary was sitting picking her teeth.
    “Is this Braddock?” she asked PC who nodded grimly, and we were promptly ushered into Charoenkul’s office.
    There he sat behind his desk, making notes in the margins of some dog-eared folder, presumably having slipped his S udoku book into a drawer before we entered. There were the inevitable royal portraits hanging on the wall to the left, above a teak wood book cabinet holding a few books like its heart wasn’t in it, and several framed photographs of Charoenkul himself in golf attire. To the right was a pristine whiteboard, presumably acquired to impress some visiting superior officer or dignitary. An air conditioner hummed on the wall behind him.
    Charoenkul let us stand like suspects at a line-up for a good half a minute, apparently engrossed in his activity, before announcing without looking up, “You two can go.” PC and DTs happily shuffled out, closing the door behind them.
    At length, he put down his pen, leaned back in his chair and studied me with his predator’s eyes. His uniform and general grooming were immaculate, as always. With his dyed-black hair and thin moustache, overpowering cologne and pot belly, Charoenkul was every bit the Asian peacock. Like many short men, he suffers from a Napoleon complex, in his case augmented by a paranoia that others are talking about him behind his back. He thinks his career has not gone far enough or fast enough; and this he attributes to professional jealousy which keeps him from his just deserts. His nickname – ‘Papa Doc’ – does not derive from any cuddly association with Bugs Bunny cartoons, but from character similarities with an infamous former dictator. His complexion may not be so black, but they share the same heartbeat of ruthlessness and corruption: brothers beneath the skin.
    He patted a book on his desk and addressed me in the Anglo-Saxon tongue. “I have been reading that the word Braddock has its origin in old English. It means ‘a broad-spreading oak’. Did you know that?”
    I indicated a vague affirmative.
    “Interesting that the branches of your family oak have now spread out as far as Thailand. Please sit.”
    I checked the chair was not attached to the mains, and then sat.
    “It was good of you to come at such short notice.”
    “I wasn’t aware I had a choice.”
    He smiled, showing his expensive dental work. “We always have choices in life, Braddock. It is simply a question of deciding whether we can live with the consequences of our choices.”
    I said nothing. With an experienced interrogator like Charoenkul, I have learned this is the best policy.
    He sighed theatrically and rubbed his face before leaning forward and whispering confidentially , “My wife thinks I work too hard. What do you think of that?”
    “She’s probably right. Wives usually are.”
    A beat. Then, “Yes. Yes, they usually are.”
    He pushed back his chair, walked over to the bookcase and picked up a photograph of himself holding a golf trophy.
    “I have so little time