Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

locations of all the top-secret Vietnamese missile silos and the names of all my spy schoolteachers and their hat sizes. Spare me .”
    “ I don’t know what you’re talking about .”
    “ Don’t you? That’s a shame .”
    “ What are you trying to say, old man? ”
    “ That you’re a poor excuse for a human being. That’s what. You’re no more a monk than I’m a malt grinder. The old, ‘get into his heart and drain him of information’ routine. It’s been done to death. My word, if this is the best your founding fathers can come up with, I’d give your ugly regime six weeks before it vanishes up its own backside .”
    “ You can’t t– ”
    “ Has this ruse ever worked? I don’t believe anyone conscious would ever fall for it. Go on, get out. Call your cronies and tell them you’ve failed .”
    The kind eyes of the heavy, and now defrocked, monk cloud over. The smile curls into a smirk. He glares at me. He glares needles into my eyes. Then he shouts for the guards and, as they unlock his chains, the man has the audacity to ask, “What was it that gave me away? ”
    I’m flabbergasted. Astounded. Does he really believe I’ll point out his errors so he’ll be able to get it right on the next poor soul? Instead, I give him a gesture I’ve seen work effectively in some Hollywood films. I’ve found very little opportunity to use it myself. It involves the unfurling of the digitus medius. The monk has obviously seen the same movies. He stretches, walks back to me and slaps me with the back of his hand across the cheek. He turns and walks out of the room. I know that whatever cruelty awaits me beyond that door has just increased ten-fold, but I don’t care .
    And what is this, my hard-to-please poltergeists? You haven’t been lifted by this display? Inspired? You sit with no noticeable emotion on your faces. Ah, but there she smiles, my mother, a very broad smile that drools with bloody red betel. A mother’s pride for her clever son. So clever he’s doomed himself .
∗
    Word had come back from teacher Oum at the Lycee Vientiane that the tests on victims one and two had proven negative for sedatives. Siri was now more certain than ever that both women knew and trusted their killer. He hadn’t found it necessary to render them unconscious before impaling them with ninety centimetres of steel. But the contents of the vitamin bottle he’d found at the auditorium had been more difficult to analyse. The results showed a strong possibility, although not conclusive, that it had contained morphine elixir. If it was indeed connected to the case it added to the questions rather than answered them. What was it for? It had to be assumed that either the killer or the victim had consumed the elixir to deaden pain. As there was no evidence of previous injuries on Jim’s body, and no indication of illness or disease, the likelihood was that the killer had been suffering in some way. Perhaps from an injury sustained in one of his attacks. Teacher Oum had only just got round to looking at the samples from the third victim and was in the process of testing them for morphine. There was a good deal to discuss.
    Phosy’s Intelligence Section at Police HQ had, in its heyday, enjoyed a staff of five. Then, some genius at the Ministry of Interior had decided Vientiane was under control and three of Phosy’s men had been dispatched to the provinces. Despite their own comparative inexperience, they had been sent to train ex-foot soldiers in the art of policing; a thankless and hopeless operation. So Phosy and Sihot were it as far as detecting was concerned. As they had three victims, and as Siri had done all he could in the morgue, Phosy recruited him unofficially to help out. He was given the task of looking into the life of Kiang, the second victim. For a closet detective like Siri, this was not unlike winning a Nobel prize. He took Nurse Dtui with him as back-up and left Geung to guard the morgue.
    Apart from Ministry of Education copies of Kiang’s academic records obtained from Bulgaria, the only source of information they had for Kiang was her mother. So, that’s where they began. The house was in That Luang district on a hill which was unlikely to experience the floods. Two ancient flamboyant trees stood guard outside the front fence which itself had taken root and sprouted leaves. A straw and bamboo gazebo sagged in front of the house. It stood beside an enormous grey water jar that spilled over with