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Authors: Stephen Leather
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thirteenth, to be exact. A Saturday.
“We wondered…” said Mr. Clare. “We thought…” He shuddered and Mrs. Clare reached over to hold his hand.
“Jon Junior doesn’t go to nightclubs,” said Mrs. Clare. “He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t like the music.”
“If…” said Mr. Clare, but then he winced as if he didn’t want to finish the sentence. I tried an even more reassuring smile to see if that would help. To my surprise, it did. “If Jon Junior was by any chance involved…in the fire.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “Would they tell us? Would they even know? They said that the bodies...” He shuddered.
Burnt beyond recognition. That’s what they’d said.
The more salacious Thai newspapers had run pictures of the aftermath of the fire and it wasn’t pretty. I could see why the Clares wouldn’t want to talk about the possibility of their son being among the dead.
“I really don’t think that’s likely,” I said, and I meant it.
“But they haven’t identified all the bodies,” said Mr. Clare, happier to talk about it now that I’d downplayed it as a possibility. “And there were a lot of foreigners. More than fifty they said in the Tribune.”
“That’s true. But there are other considerations.”
“Considerations?” echoed Mrs. Clare.
“If Jon Junior had been living in Bangkok and had been in the nightclub, his friends would have noticed. Or the people he lived with. Or the people he worked with. Some one would have realised that he wasn’t around.”
“That’s what I said,” said Mr. Clare, nodding. He patted his wife’s hand. “That’s exactly what I said.” He flashed a tight smile at me as if to thank me for the reassurance. “But you will check, right?”
“Of course I will.”
“And how much do you charge?” asked Mr. Clare.
“That’s difficult to say,” I said. “I’m not a private detective, I don’t charge by the hour.”
“You sell antiques, Mr. Richards said,” said Mrs. Clare.
“That’s my main business, but I’ve been here for almost fifteen years so I have a fair idea of how the place works. I’ll ask around and I can try a few leads that the police wouldn’t necessarily think of.”
“He said you used to be a police officer.”
“In another life,” I said.
“In the States?”
I smiled thinly. “It’s not something I talk about, much.”
Hardly at all, in fact. Too many bad memories.
“I understand,” said Mr. Clare. “Mr. Richards said you were a good man. And reliable.”
“That was nice of him,” I said, though I figured what Matt Richards was really doing was getting the Clares out of his hair as quickly as possible. “I’ll start by making a few calls, see if I can find out where he was planning to live and work, and take it from there. I’d expect you to cover any expenses, and then when I’ve finished I’ll let you know how much work I’ve done and you can pay me what you think that’s worth.”
“That’s a strange way of doing business, Mr. Turtledove.”
“It’s a strange country, Mr. Clare. But things have a way of working out for the best here.”
CHAPTER 3
So, all I had to do was to find one lost American in the Village of Olives . That’s how Bangkok translates, I kid you not. Bang means “village” and kok is an olive-like fruit. Doesn’t have much of a ring to it, so the Thais prefer to call their capital Krung Thep, or City of Angels . Actually, the full Thai name gets a place in the Guinness World Records book as the world’s longest place name. Krungthep, Maha Nakorn, Amorn Ratanakosindra, Mahindrayudhya, Mahadilokpop Noparatana Rajdhani, Burirom, Udom Rajnivet Mahastan, Amorn Pimarm Avatarn Satit, Sakkatuttiya, Vishnukarm Prasit.
Rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?
It translates as “ The city of angels, the great city, the residence of the Emerald Buddha, the impregnable city of God Indra, the grand capital of the world endowed with
“We wondered…” said Mr. Clare. “We thought…” He shuddered and Mrs. Clare reached over to hold his hand.
“Jon Junior doesn’t go to nightclubs,” said Mrs. Clare. “He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t like the music.”
“If…” said Mr. Clare, but then he winced as if he didn’t want to finish the sentence. I tried an even more reassuring smile to see if that would help. To my surprise, it did. “If Jon Junior was by any chance involved…in the fire.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “Would they tell us? Would they even know? They said that the bodies...” He shuddered.
Burnt beyond recognition. That’s what they’d said.
The more salacious Thai newspapers had run pictures of the aftermath of the fire and it wasn’t pretty. I could see why the Clares wouldn’t want to talk about the possibility of their son being among the dead.
“I really don’t think that’s likely,” I said, and I meant it.
“But they haven’t identified all the bodies,” said Mr. Clare, happier to talk about it now that I’d downplayed it as a possibility. “And there were a lot of foreigners. More than fifty they said in the Tribune.”
“That’s true. But there are other considerations.”
“Considerations?” echoed Mrs. Clare.
“If Jon Junior had been living in Bangkok and had been in the nightclub, his friends would have noticed. Or the people he lived with. Or the people he worked with. Some one would have realised that he wasn’t around.”
“That’s what I said,” said Mr. Clare, nodding. He patted his wife’s hand. “That’s exactly what I said.” He flashed a tight smile at me as if to thank me for the reassurance. “But you will check, right?”
“Of course I will.”
“And how much do you charge?” asked Mr. Clare.
“That’s difficult to say,” I said. “I’m not a private detective, I don’t charge by the hour.”
“You sell antiques, Mr. Richards said,” said Mrs. Clare.
“That’s my main business, but I’ve been here for almost fifteen years so I have a fair idea of how the place works. I’ll ask around and I can try a few leads that the police wouldn’t necessarily think of.”
“He said you used to be a police officer.”
“In another life,” I said.
“In the States?”
I smiled thinly. “It’s not something I talk about, much.”
Hardly at all, in fact. Too many bad memories.
“I understand,” said Mr. Clare. “Mr. Richards said you were a good man. And reliable.”
“That was nice of him,” I said, though I figured what Matt Richards was really doing was getting the Clares out of his hair as quickly as possible. “I’ll start by making a few calls, see if I can find out where he was planning to live and work, and take it from there. I’d expect you to cover any expenses, and then when I’ve finished I’ll let you know how much work I’ve done and you can pay me what you think that’s worth.”
“That’s a strange way of doing business, Mr. Turtledove.”
“It’s a strange country, Mr. Clare. But things have a way of working out for the best here.”
CHAPTER 3
So, all I had to do was to find one lost American in the Village of Olives . That’s how Bangkok translates, I kid you not. Bang means “village” and kok is an olive-like fruit. Doesn’t have much of a ring to it, so the Thais prefer to call their capital Krung Thep, or City of Angels . Actually, the full Thai name gets a place in the Guinness World Records book as the world’s longest place name. Krungthep, Maha Nakorn, Amorn Ratanakosindra, Mahindrayudhya, Mahadilokpop Noparatana Rajdhani, Burirom, Udom Rajnivet Mahastan, Amorn Pimarm Avatarn Satit, Sakkatuttiya, Vishnukarm Prasit.
Rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?
It translates as “ The city of angels, the great city, the residence of the Emerald Buddha, the impregnable city of God Indra, the grand capital of the world endowed with
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