Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

music plants. He began to dig down. Something beneath the ground was attempting to dig upwards. Siri was overwhelmed by the wonderful song. The refrain squeezed at his heart strings, squeezed blood out of them, squeezed until they snapped, one by one. His heart, stringless, broke away from his chest like an untethered blimp and was carried off by the music plants, rising, lost in the blood-red sky. As his seventies cultural attache, Dtui – self-confessed addict to Thai pop magazines – would say, it was all very Beatles.
    A breath fanned his hand and his fingers felt the outline of a mouth deep in the dirt. These were the lips that sang the love song. He raked away the debris with his fingers so the singer could breathe fresh ait He hurriedly brushed dirt from the nose, from the eyes. The voice was beginning to break. It slipped off key and fell, tumbling through octaves. It came to rest on a deep, bronchial B flat. Siri knew he had to save the tune. With increasing desperation he strove to free the singer from his tomb. He lifted the head and cradled it in his arms, willing the song not to die. And that was when his fingers knew. Beneath their touch the cheekbones rose, the eyebrows bristled. And as he swept back the thick hair, his thumb and forefinger traced the outline of a left ear, missing a lobe.

15
A MOSQUITO INSIDE THE NET
    “I really don’t know what he’s getting at,” Phosy said, not for the first time. Even though his desk was directly behind that of his superior, Sihot shook his head in response. Phosy held a note from Dr Siri. Daeng had dropped it off after Siri’s departure, a last-minute memo scribbled in Siri’s barely legible hand. Against his better judgement, Phosy had done what the doctor had suggested. He’d listened to Neung’s story. It had been very slick. It explained everything apart from why three victims, all known to the suspect, had been killed. Phosy was disappointed that the doctor could have fallen for it. Of course Neung had it all worked out. It was easy enough to do when the evidence has been handed to him on a plate. Even Phosy could have done that. He was furious that Siri could have been so naive, presenting the accused with the police department’s entire case.
    But Phosy had listened patiently and asked the appropriate questions at the end. “Who would want to frame you? Do you have any enemies? Has anybody threatened you?”
    And all the answers had been negative. If Neung was about to go to all the trouble of inventing innocent relationships with the victims, surely he could have come up with a scapegoat to divert attention from himself. But, no. And, if it were possible, he made it worse for himself. Phosy had thought to ask whether the initial Z meant anything. And rather than deny it, Neung had the impudence to boast that they’d called him Zorro in Berlin. Something about his style, evidently. He’d been christened by his coach and the name had stuck with his students. Neung hadn’t even the common sense to withhold that juicy fact. So, Phosy had his watertight case and had no doubts in his own mind that he had the right man. No serious doubts. Of course, all criminal cases leave some gaps. But Siri’s note rankled him. It wasn’t a list of chores so much as unanswered questions. And of course he knew the questions. He had them on his own summary paper. He didn’t need Siri to remind him.
Did Chanti suspect his wife was having an affair with Neung?
Did he care?
Why were the Vietnamese so reluctant to hand over the case to us?
Did Kiang see her affair with Neung the same way he did?
Did they fight?
What was the timing of Neung and Jim’s respective arrival in⁄departure from Berlin?
Who was taking painkillers and why? (Does Neung have an injury? )
Does Neung still have the knife used to cut out the signature?
Does his father think Neung is guilty?
Do you?
    Certainly, a lot of it was merely the tying up of loose ends. As a good policeman he would have done that anyway…if they hadn’t been so understaffed. Just him and Sihot and so many reports to write. And what was the point? They had their man, didn’t they?
    It was the post script to the note that had most riled the inspector. Just who did this little doctor think he was? Not satisfied with playing detective and telling him how to do his job, he had to interfere in Phosy’s personal matters, too.
Phosy, I’m sorry. I meant to tell you this earlier this evening but I was distracted by the