La Nébuleuse iNSIEME by
Michel Jobin
(Excerpt from Part II: Surayud Kontho, p. 63-72)
Its sounds like the buzzing of a fly, caught between the slats of the blinds. Still since a fly would not survive more than two minutes in the foul air of Bangkok, Inspector Togliatti Marchesi decides it must be his cell. Cracking an eye open, he sees the phone vibrating on the floor, right beside his bamboo mat.
"Hello," he says, through the thick coating in his mouth, after grabbing the Samsung.
"Sorry to disturb you, boss, but we need you," the voice says on the other end.
"It's Sunday night, Paradorn."
"I know, but you absolutely have to come."
Paradorn Chularisi, deputy to Chief Inspector Marchesi of the Thai Royal Police, gives his boss the address and hangs up. From the tone of Chularisi's voice, Togliatti deduces that his deputy is no more delighted than he is to be forced to work tonight.
The inspector stands up, stretches, still a bit stoned: the effects of his last opium ball are still dissipating. As usual, the pipes left a furry taste in his mouth. He just wants to go eat some nice spicy curried roast duck, but that will have to wait for later. For the time being, duty calls.
Leaving the quiet backyard of the opium den, Marchesi renews his acquaintance with the city. It is a rough experience. On Chinatown's crowded sidewalks, dirty and smelly, passers-by slick with sweat and mangy dogs are scrambling between overburdened stands, despite the late hour. When he hears someone say that New York is the most furiously lively place in the world, Togliatti Marchesi can't help but smile. Come visit Bangkok, he thinks. In comparison, Manhattan looks like a Swiss village.
Walking more steadily, Togliatti heads towards the National Stadium Station and boards the spanking new Skytrain. The city has changed so much. Fifteen years ago, he would never have imagined such a marvel. At the time, the canals were often overflowing and, in the rainy season, the whole city became a huge swamp. Now, many of the canals have been filled in and an ultra-modern surface metro floats over the city. The Skytrain runs along a line of deserted concrete skeletons. How sad, he thinks. The other side of the coin. The monetary crisis of 1998 that ravaged the whole of Southern Asia. From one day to the next, real estate developers were ruined by the drastic devaluation of the baht and that put a stop to all their big construction projects. And so, today, Bangkok has dozens of immense structures, condo towers, luxury hotels, all in an advanced state of decay. Even the elevated highways that were being constructed were abandoned. That's the reason why the Skytrain was so welcome: it was a balm on the bruised ego of the city.
At Chong Nonsi Station, Marchesi gets off and walks to the Silom Boulevard. With his one hundred and fifty pounds on a six feet three frame and his ruffled hair, he has an unusual look. Even in his native Italy he didn't go unnoticed. Here, he doesn't count the times he's been asked to be photographed with someone. In front of number 54, Togliatti walks up to the Joo Long Lao.
Paradorn is waiting for him.
"I hope it doesn't bother you too much," he says, dragging him in his wake.
Paradorn knows his boss's habits very well. In fact, in the department, everybody knows them, but no one questions them: Thais are tolerant and unobtrusive, even cops. They believe everyone has a right to their little vices.
"No, it's all right. You?"
Togliatti knows that, each Sunday night, his protégé is betting on clandestine cock fights.
"Bah, I was losing anyway, so..."
The two colleagues cross together the central area, with its soft lighting; there are about thirty tables and a few alcoves. Marchesi has heard a lot about the place but it's the first time he's been in it. The exact opposite of the usual tourist bars thronged with Occidentals looking for young flesh. Gross Barbarians, those, he thinks. Dressed in Bermuda shorts and garish T-shirts, they are loud, noisy and generally coarse. An absolute horror for the Thai people, who see it as their duty to always be clean and well dressed, and to show calm and serenity in all circumstances. Just looking at the place, Marchesi understands that this establishment is clearly made for the elite.
In front of the door of room 9, Paradorn pauses briefly.
Okay," says Marchesi. "What have we got here?"
"Big stuff."
Paradorn opens the door, announcing:
"The Honourable Minister Surayud Kontho."
"Oh shit!" exclaims Marchesi, seeing the still body on the floor. "It's really Kontho?"
"Yes it is. And did you see? He still has the needle in his arm. Poor schlub," Paradorn says disdainfully.
Marchesi now understands why he was called, even though theoretically it is his day off. Sensitive cases are often assigned to him because, although he is a farang, the Chief Inspector is highly respected inside the department. He is above all seen as a jai yen, a discreet, level-tempered man, which is considered a great quality by the Thais. Besides, he is efficient and has many talents - his specialities range from economic crime to homicide, from fraud to various forms of counterfeiting. He also has a reputation as a free thinker, and therefore less subject to outside influence.
He steps closer to the body.
"At first glance, it looks like an accidental overdose, but we'll check more closely. Starting by taking as many pictures as you can."
Paradorn leaves his boss to relay his instructions to the forensics team waiting in the corridor.
While the team begins its work, Marchesi closely examines Kontho's inert body. If he was not used to that kind of spectacle, he would probably feel like puking. The dying body released faeces on the floor, the skin of the face is darkened, soiled by vomit. To complete the picture, the tongue is protruding from the mouth, making for a sinister grimace.
Obviously the minister didn't have the best reputation: corruption and favouritism often cropped up when people talked about him. But if he was also a junkie, Marchesi certainly didn't know about it. No more than other aspects of the minister's private life, for that matter.
Paradorn returns, accompanied by two heavies.
"Mr. Kontho's bodyguards."
Marchesi submits them to a barrage of questions about the habits of their boss, of course, and his possible addiction to hard drugs.
"No, Mr. Kontho never touched that shit," says the first man firmly, to cut that part of the conversation short.
"No doubt about that," the other one concurs.
The two men exchange a glance, shrugging. At once Marchesi understands it's useless to insist. The muscle men are going to have more than their share of troubles. Their boss died on their watch; nothing worse could happen and they know it. Marchesi lets them go and demands to see the owner of the Joo Long Lao.
A little while later, Mrs. Vadakan comes to meet him. She's relatively advanced in age, with an amiable face and an elegant bearing. The fact that a minister has been found dead in one of the rooms of her establishment has no doubt shaken her, but she doesn't let it show.
"How can I help you?" she asks after the introductions.
"What can you tell me about his habits?"
"Mr. Kontho was a respectable, dignified man. He came here almost every night when he was in Bangkok. He liked to relax with our hostesses, young women of legal age, as you probably know."
"I don't doubt it, Mrs. Vadakan. Did those young women ever mentioned to you that Mr. Kontho did hard drugs?"
"I can assure you that Mr. Kontho was not a drug addict."
"Did you know him well?"
"Yes, quite well. He liked to talk. He was an interesting man."
"Did he seem different to you, these last days?"
"Not really. Mr. Kontho was a busy man who was always worried. To my knowledge, there was nothing unusual."
"Did he come here by himself or with someone else?"
"Most of the time by himself. Well... except for his two bodyguards. Occasionally he might bring a guest. It happened several times recently."
"Who was it?"
"I don't know his name but I'd seen him before. A British man."
"Can you describe him for me?"
"Fifty or sixty, thereabouts, short, a little chunky. To hide his baldness he combed his hair over the top of his skull. He was quite energetic and expansive."
"A friend or a business acquaintance?"
"Hard to tell, but they did seem quite close."
"When you say you'd seen him before, when was his previous visit?"
"A year, maybe two. I would be hard-pressed to be more precise, but I never forget a face."
Marchesi asks Paradorn to go quiz the bodyguards about the British man, then he follows up with his usual array of questions, to which Mrs. Vadakan answers carefully and patiently. She spares no effort to give the inspector any possibly useful information. Unfortunately, she doesn't tell him anything really extraordinary, since, until one of the girls discovered Mr. Kontho's body, she had noticed nothing special that evening.
"Do you have a video surveillance system to film who comes in and goes out?"
"Yes."
"I would like to get a copy of tonight's recordings, is it possible?"
"Of course. Come with me."
Mrs. Vadakan leads Marchesi to the bar and asks the barman to retrieve the surveillance video.
The barman leans over the bar and pushes the recorder's eject button, under the counter. Nothing happens. The man pushes again. Still nothing. He straightens up.
"I think we forgot to put a tape in," he says, laughing.
Marchesi rolls his eyes. The worst thing is that he's not surprised. It reminds him of the time when, soon after he'd arrived in Thailand, he'd bought a brand new bed. The store was in Bangkok, but the factory was three hours away from the city. After he'd slept a few weeks on his sofa, he was told at last that his bed would be delivered the next day. On the appointed day, a delivery truck came to his house. While one of the delivery men was taking care of the paperwork, the others had gone to the back of the truck. As soon as the liftgate was open, they'd all burst out laughing. Bent double, they were slapping their thighs, pointing to the back of the truck. Both worried and intrigued, Marchesi went to investigate: nothing in the truck! The four delivery guys had driven three hours with an empty truck, and they thought it was hilarious.
This detachment still fascinates him today. It is what attracted him on his first visit: the Thai people's lightness of being. Coming from a milieu leaden with history, he found it terribly impressive.
His childhood had been one long demonstration. When he was in the cradle, his parents, Communist Party members in Bologna, read to him from Marx's Das Capital to lull him to sleep. Steadfast Stakhanovists, who'd gone so far as to name him Togliatti, in homage to the founder of the Italian Communist Party. Afterwards, they'd never understood why their son had become a cop. Togliatti wanted to get as far as possible away from their world. The Red Brigades and the class struggle, no thank you. He instead believed in common sense, in quietly making people more responsible. His long acquaintance with the reds had mostly resulted in a persistent distrust towards whoever was demonstrating in a group, whatever it was.
As soon as he had joined the police in Milan, he'd taken the training required to become an investigator, specializing in fraud and counterfeiting. For this reason, he had been dispatched to Bangkok in 1985, with some colleagues, a special assignment.
At the time, Ferrari had lodged a complaint against the Thai government. A lot of their exclusive merchandise was being counterfeited, with the logo of the rearing horse, and sold freely in the streets of Bangkok, poor quality products that usurped the logo. At some point you could even buy "Fellali" watches - the schemers had probably placed their original order by phone... To add insult to injury, the Thai government had asked for the Italians' help.
Marchesi had been immediately and terribly smitten by the country. So much so that, once the investigation was over, he had asked to stay. The police in Milan and in Bangkok had rapidly struck a deal. Marchesi would keep on being paid by the Italians, but he would now work in Bangkok, for the Thais. Besides enhancing cooperation between the two friendly countries, the arrangement was a good reason for Italian officers to travel to Thailand once in a while, in order to check that "everything was going well." For the Thais, the presence of a Western policeman, speaking perfect English and equipped with a network of European contacts, was an added asset.
During these fifteen years, Togliatti has grown deep roots in Bangkok. Not easily fooled, he's quickly realized that the Thais had no intention whatsoever to put a stop to the counterfeiting networks - you can still buy "Ferrari" watches on Patpong Street for less than ten dollars. Minor offenses, for which protection money is a good source of revenue from the top to the bottom of an underfinanced and pragmatic police force.
Marchesi turned his attention instead to financial crime, a much more serious department, although not totally isolated from political pressure. But it's no different in police forces all over the world. And as long as I can stay here, he thinks, I'm willing to be accommodating in many ways. He no longer sees himself living anywhere else. He's not even been back to Italy for five years.
The owner glares fiercely at her employee and apologizes for his carelessness.
"Be assured of my total willingness to cooperate, Inspector Marchesi," she says before coming closer and lightly clasping his arm." I hope you will soon arrest those who killed Mr. Kontho, Inspector."
At least, this is clear, he tells himself when Mrs. Vadakan leaves the room.
Paradorn comes back:
"The heavies only know that the British man was called Edward. He was a friend of Kontho's."
"They don't know his family name?"
Paradorn shakes his head.
"Okay, you can have the body bagged and taken away," Marchesi says. "And see to it that the autopsy is done as fast as possible."
"Kontho was well known, it shouldn't be a problem."
"It might well be the only place where his notoriety will be useful to us... As for the rest, I rather feel we're gonna be in deep shit."
"You think the upper echelons will try to intervene?"
"What do you think?" is Marchesi's only reply, as he scratches the stubble on his face...
© 2005 Éditions Alire & Michel Jobin
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