Read Online Six and a Half Deadly Sins by Colin Cotterill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Colin Cotterill
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scary old guy—a man, he’d learned, who was the senior foreman on the road project.
After fleeing Luang Nam Tha, Phosy had driven to the Chinese border crossing at Ban Boten. It was a village of a few thatched huts, but it was a busy checkpoint. The officers who manned the post seemed to know what they were doing. It was a sensitive political spot, so a senior lieutenant headed the team. Phosy knew him. Within half an hour, they’d cleared the inspector’s passage into China and sent a number of messages through the military network. In another hour, he was in Meng La. Given his position within the Lao hierarchy, he could have expected a hostile reception at the new trade office. The Chinese hadn’t taken the order to leave Laos in good humor. They’d reclaimed the trucks they’d donated to the northern cities, loaded up every stick of furniture and bulldozed the buildings. A day later they were all across the border with a number of Lao wives and girlfriends in tow.
But trade didn’t end. The new office continued to function, and crossing at Ban Boten or Pang Hai was made easy for affluent Lao who had dealings with the People’s Republic.
So Phosy was welcomed warmly. The consular staff spoke Lao. Once they’d heard the inspector’s mission, they ushered him upstairs to Xiu Long’s office, where Mrs. Loo translated for the director. Xiu had stepped out from behind his desk, handed the heavy ledger of forms to his accountant and followed Phosy to his jeep. Loo hadn’t been quite so enthusiastic. She’d made enough fuss to be allowed to stop by her residence and pack an overnight bag. The border guards on both sides had been surprised to see Phosy’s passenger. The inspector stopped at the Lao post to be sure his messages had reached Vientiane, and with a nod and a smile from the lieutenant—only five hours after having left—he was back in Laos.
It had been an atypical Lao day. In a country where a single activity can take a lifetime, so much had happened: the threats, the border, the reclamation of a police unit and nowa visit to the crime scene. He wondered whether perhaps time sped up the closer you were to China.
Yao was not one of Phosy’s regional languages, so he had to rely on Constable Buri to translate. The young man looked at his sergeant constantly as if to confirm he wasn’t giving anything away. They hadn’t been given a chance to collude. The village was the usual mishmash of bamboo and thatch held together by flowering bushes and clotheslines and plastic pipes spidering out of a central water tank. The acting headman didn’t seem that surprised to see them. He led them down behind the communal meeting hall along a narrow path to the clearing where they’d found the bodies.
One patch of weeds had been thoroughly soaked in blood, now black, but the scent was unmistakable. Two spears of bamboo sharpened to a point lay to one side. One had been broken in half. Both were sticky with blood. Across the clearing sat the shirts, draped over a log. In front of each were sandals neat in pairs. Then, to Phosy’s surprise, two hats—a baseball cap and a straw boater—were perched on top of the shirts. There were no fruit trees around the clearing, no vegetable patches, no signs of recently severed branches.
According to the translator, the two men had been friends. They drank together. But the incident had taken place early in the morning, and there were no empty bottles to be found.
“They probably just came to work in the forest and were set upon by bandits,” said Sergeant Teyp.
Phosy smiled and mentally added the sergeant’s name to his list of suspects. “That’s possible,” he said, “but what work would a man do without implements?”
“Could have been stolen,” said the sergeant.
“Along with all evidence of being used? Possible. But why would a worker remove his hat and shoes and shirt before commencing work? What’s the temperature up here at sunrise? About five
After fleeing Luang Nam Tha, Phosy had driven to the Chinese border crossing at Ban Boten. It was a village of a few thatched huts, but it was a busy checkpoint. The officers who manned the post seemed to know what they were doing. It was a sensitive political spot, so a senior lieutenant headed the team. Phosy knew him. Within half an hour, they’d cleared the inspector’s passage into China and sent a number of messages through the military network. In another hour, he was in Meng La. Given his position within the Lao hierarchy, he could have expected a hostile reception at the new trade office. The Chinese hadn’t taken the order to leave Laos in good humor. They’d reclaimed the trucks they’d donated to the northern cities, loaded up every stick of furniture and bulldozed the buildings. A day later they were all across the border with a number of Lao wives and girlfriends in tow.
But trade didn’t end. The new office continued to function, and crossing at Ban Boten or Pang Hai was made easy for affluent Lao who had dealings with the People’s Republic.
So Phosy was welcomed warmly. The consular staff spoke Lao. Once they’d heard the inspector’s mission, they ushered him upstairs to Xiu Long’s office, where Mrs. Loo translated for the director. Xiu had stepped out from behind his desk, handed the heavy ledger of forms to his accountant and followed Phosy to his jeep. Loo hadn’t been quite so enthusiastic. She’d made enough fuss to be allowed to stop by her residence and pack an overnight bag. The border guards on both sides had been surprised to see Phosy’s passenger. The inspector stopped at the Lao post to be sure his messages had reached Vientiane, and with a nod and a smile from the lieutenant—only five hours after having left—he was back in Laos.
It had been an atypical Lao day. In a country where a single activity can take a lifetime, so much had happened: the threats, the border, the reclamation of a police unit and nowa visit to the crime scene. He wondered whether perhaps time sped up the closer you were to China.
Yao was not one of Phosy’s regional languages, so he had to rely on Constable Buri to translate. The young man looked at his sergeant constantly as if to confirm he wasn’t giving anything away. They hadn’t been given a chance to collude. The village was the usual mishmash of bamboo and thatch held together by flowering bushes and clotheslines and plastic pipes spidering out of a central water tank. The acting headman didn’t seem that surprised to see them. He led them down behind the communal meeting hall along a narrow path to the clearing where they’d found the bodies.
One patch of weeds had been thoroughly soaked in blood, now black, but the scent was unmistakable. Two spears of bamboo sharpened to a point lay to one side. One had been broken in half. Both were sticky with blood. Across the clearing sat the shirts, draped over a log. In front of each were sandals neat in pairs. Then, to Phosy’s surprise, two hats—a baseball cap and a straw boater—were perched on top of the shirts. There were no fruit trees around the clearing, no vegetable patches, no signs of recently severed branches.
According to the translator, the two men had been friends. They drank together. But the incident had taken place early in the morning, and there were no empty bottles to be found.
“They probably just came to work in the forest and were set upon by bandits,” said Sergeant Teyp.
Phosy smiled and mentally added the sergeant’s name to his list of suspects. “That’s possible,” he said, “but what work would a man do without implements?”
“Could have been stolen,” said the sergeant.
“Along with all evidence of being used? Possible. But why would a worker remove his hat and shoes and shirt before commencing work? What’s the temperature up here at sunrise? About five
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