“The day is yours,” the abbot said to the prince. “The candle divination is proof that you have sufficient merit that you will be successful in what you plan.”
“I accept the result, though I do not ask for it,” the prince said. “Now all will return to our posts to make plans and await an opportunity to act. Your bravery in telling us this story will not go unrewarded,” he said, turning to me. “Now go to the palace and await word.”
The first time I’d journeyed to Chiang Mai, I’d found a peace of sorts in the rhythm of the river and the tranquillity of the wats. This time I was not there to try to re-create the calm I’d felt in the temple. That had been revealed as an illusion, or at best a temporary respite from the poison that seemed to seep around everything I saw and did. I had not come back to find comfort. I had come for revenge.
The headquarters of Busakorn Shipping was just outside of town, located in what looked to be an abandoned hotel. To one side of what had once been the lobby was an empty swimming pool. To the other, a two-story white stucco structure surrounded a courtyard in which an empty fountain sat in a sea of brown grass. Dragonflies flitted about the courtyard, and the air shimmered from the heat. There was a guard right inside the door who, after looking me up and down suspiciously, agreed to call Khun Wichai’s office.
“Tell him it’s Lara McClintoch. We are acquainted through the Chaiwongs. I have something I’m sure he will be interested in,” I said.
To the guard’s surprise, and in a way to mine, I was permitted to enter. Intimidating though it was, anger and guilt carried me across the courtyard past a number of young men, all of whom watched me closely. They nodded pleasantly enough, however, and directed me through a breeze-way at the back and then on to a warehouse beyond.
The warehouse was lined with shelving on which sat terra-cotta Buddhas by the hundreds, if not thousands. Khun Wichai’s office was at the back. Before I was allowed to enter it, a young woman searched me. She was polite but thorough. Two very large men stood outside the office door. They didn’t wei, perhaps because it would have taken their hands too far away from their guns. “Come in, Ms. Lara,” Wichai said at last. “Sit down, please. Tea? Or perhaps something stronger. Whiskey?” A man who looked capable of picking me up and wringing my neck like a chicken at the smallest of provocations stood in one corner.
“No, thank you. This is not a social visit. I’m here for what I hope will be a mutually beneficial exchange of information,” I said. “I have a number of questions, or rather, I need to test some hypotheses, and I hope you can help me. I’ve brought you a gift, something I thought you might like to have. A remembrance of things past.” I handed him a large package wrapped in brown paper.
The guard stepped forward and seemed about to whip the package away, but he was stopped by an impatient gesture on the part of my host, who after a few moments’ hesitation, opened it.
“You’ll perhaps want to have it fully restored,” I said. “This was just a first effort. It will clean up very well, though, don’t you think? If you’re looking for someone to do it, I’d suggest Robert Fitzgerald. You and he have a lot in common.”
“Where did you find this?” he said. His voice was even, but I could see he was wrestling with strong emotion.
“A man named William Beauchamp bought it from the artist’s son. It came to me through a series of circumstances.”
“Do you know her name?”
“Yes, I do.”
A slight smile crossed his face. “Then perhaps you should ask your first question, test one of your hypotheses.”
“Thank you. I am trying to confirm some details of the death, perhaps I should say murder, of William Beauchamp. Did you kill him?”
The guard, who apparently understood English, stepped forward in a rather menacing way. Wichai said something in Thai, and the man left the room, obviously reluctantly.
“There. That’s better, isn’t it?” Wichai said. “You are either brave or foolhardy, I’m not yet sure which.” Actually, I was desperate, but I didn’t say so. “But, to your question: the answer is no.”
“What about Bent Rowland, his agent?”
“I realize I have something of a reputation, but again, no. Perhaps at some point in this conversation you might tell me why you think I would be responsible for these deaths.”
“William was writing a book that somebody didn’t want published, and given it reflects rather badly on the Chai-wongs, I naturally think it must be one of them, or possibly one of their friends, concerned that its publication might reflect badly on certain business interests they have in common. Bent Rowland, Beauchamp’s agent, was, I believe, being paid by the Chaiwongs to make sure the book never got published, and died for the same reason Will did.”
“I haven’t killed anyone in connection with this at all yet.” There was just the slightest emphasis on yet. “Nor do I know with any certainty who did it. I could, however, speculate.” Up to this moment he had been looking around the room, or out the window, or on a spot just above my head. But suddenly he looked right at me. He had the most extraordinary eyes, almond in both shape and color, flecked with green.
“Helen Ford,” I said.
He looked out the window for a minute before replying. “I had occasion to introduce someone I assume was representing the Chaiwong family—they spoke to me through an intermediary, you understand—to an associate of mine who would be the sort of person who would undertake such an activity. The family was in some distress about the situation, and as their friend, and as you have hinted, a business associate, one who has plans for the company, naturally I felt obliged to help them.”
“Naturally,” I said.
“Speaking as a dispassionate observer, I must say it was all rather ineptly handled. I believe in killing someone only as a last resort. I would have thought large sums of money would have been effective, and if that failed, then intimidation. How could they have thought he wouldn’t find out about the false contract?”
“I see you know a fair amount about this matter. I have obviously come to the right place. Money worked with Bent Rowland, at least it did until he either became frightened or expendable. And certainly, given the fact that Will chose to move some of his belongings, including this portrait, to a safe place would indicate he was frightened. But I have more questions. Was this intermediary you spoke of Mr. Yutai?”
“Possibly.”
“And this colleague of yours you introduced him to? Would he have a stall in the amulet market?”
“That, too, is possible.”
“And I suppose that once the connection had been made, the two men might continue their business relationship on other related projects: intimidation, a little roughing up, and so on.”
“I suppose that, too, is possible, although I have to tell you I have no direct knowledge. I am only a dispassionate observer.”
“What if I told you the book was actually about her?” I said, pointing to the portrait. Still dispassionate? I thought.
“Was it?” He seemed momentarily disconcerted. “Then I regret my involvement, no matter how peripheral.”
“Your English is impeccable,” I said.
“Thank you,” he said. “It is a skill I acquired in my very early years as a purveyor of various commodities to American troops enjoying a respite, well deserved I’m sure, from the hostilities in Vietnam. My parents both died when I was quite young, and I was forced to support myself. I found I was rather adept at it. This book: is there a copy? No, of course not. That was the point, wasn’t it?”