Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

conversation gets out to anyone else, you and the orphan are on the street. Get it?”
    Dtui put her arm around his neck.
    “I think we owe Siri and Daeng a meal, don’t you?”
    “We would have sorted this out eventually.”
    “Probably. In two or three years?”
    “You’re right. When the good doctor gets back from his trip we’ll take them somewhere nice. I’ll start saving.”
    “Good. Phosy?”
    “What?”
    “Can we have sex tonight?”
    “Dtui!” The policeman blushed the colour of a rat-excrement chilli.
    “What? We’re married, you know.”
    “A lady doesn’t…”
    “Sorry.”
    They looked out into the vast darkness all around them.
    “Phosy?”
    “What?”
    “Can we?”
    “Absolutely.”
∗
    It was some two, perhaps three hours later that Phosy, wearing only a loincloth and a grin, brought his papers into the police common room. He tugged on the bobble chain that clicked on the light bulb. He had a report to write about the three-épée case. The commissioner of police had been very pleased with the thoroughness of the investigation and was optimistic as to how the police would look in the eyes of the public once the trial was over. He had mentioned over tea that afternoon that, as far as he was concerned, the case was closed. All he needed was the final report. The trial, he conceded, was just a bit of trumpet blowing from Justice. Phosy didn’t have to be involved in all that. He didn’t even need to put in an appearance.
    Phosy had been confused. He’d asked how they could have a trial without the arresting officer present. How would they present the evidence he’d collected? The commissioner had smiled and leaned close to him, even though there were only the two of them in the office.
    “They’ll read out your report,” he said.
    So, pressure was on to have the report finished to read in evidence the next day. He opened the case of the portable typewriter and clicked his fingers. He had to get his spelling right. He’d have Dtui read through it in the morning to be sure the grammar was…Or perhaps not. She’d ask questions and the report would never be delivered. She’d ask questions like, “What kind of trial doesn’t allow the defendant’s representative to cross-examine the investigating officer?” She was like that. Logical. He looked at the folder with all his hours of interviews and communiques from Europe. He stared at the pile like a writer with a block. Apart from Dr Siri, everyone had decided Neung was guilty. It didn’t matter what the accused said or did during the trial. He was a dead man.
    Phosy put a sheet of paper between the rollers and held his fingers over the keys. They hovered there for a minute playing air keyboard, before he brought them down all at once. The keys wedged together and remained stuck, handprints in metal. What had Siri asked? “What does your instinct tell you?” And Phosy’s instinct told him a lot. Nothing about Neung suggested the man was  a mass murderer. Everything about this case was weird. There were more questions unanswered than answered. Ignoring them didn’t make the inconsistencies go away. The trial would go on for a day or two. There was time for just a little more police work.
∗
    Comrade Civilai sat on the end of the bed in House Number Two waiting for the guide to escort him to the ball. Anywhere else and he would have had two or three drinks beforehand to numb the forthcoming pain. He’d represented his country at numerous events such as this. Over the last five years he’d begun to wonder if it was the only thing he was good at, pretending to have a good time. The more objectionable he’d been in the cabinet meetings, the more overseas missions they sent him on. Anything to get him out of sight. There was nothing those politburo boys liked less than having someone disagree with them. Politics had changed him. He probably couldn’t tell a plough from a shear these days but he could name any cocktail from a hundred metres.
    And then came the retirement. It had been touch and go for a while whether they’d put him out to pasture or wrap a blindfold round his head and shoot bullets at him. Both had their good points. But thanks to Siri his fall from grace had one or two padded cushions beneath it. And here he was, a year later, still upsetting everyone. Making a nuisance of himself. And still they had him handshaking, head-nodding, gorge rising on the cocktail circuit. He hated it. But, at least he had