Cockroaches(105)

He got up and walked to the window again. The cold on the inside and the hot, humid air on the outside of the pane had combined to produce a fine, gray layer of condensation on the glass.

“He didn’t kidnap her because he was frightened I was finding out more than I should. He had no reason to believe that; I couldn’t see further than the end of my own nose.”

“So what was the motive for the kidnap? To confirm our theory: that it was Klipra who was behind the murder of the ambassador and Jim Love?”

“That was the secondary motive,” he said into his glass. “The primary one was that he had to kill her as well. When I …”

They could hear the faint sounds of a bass in the next-door room.

“Yes, Harry?”

“When I saw her she was already doomed.”

Liz breathed in. “It’s almost nine, Harry. Perhaps you should tell me who the murderer is before Løken comes?”


Løken had locked the door to his flat at seven and walked down the street to catch a taxi to Millie’s Karaoke. He had seen the car at once. It was a Toyota Corolla, and the man behind the wheel seemed to fill the whole vehicle. In the passenger seat he saw the outline of another person. He wondered whether he should go over to the car and find out what they wanted, but decided to test them first. He thought he knew what they were after and who had sent them.

Løken hailed a taxi, and after it had gone a few blocks he could see that the Corolla was indeed following them.

The taxi driver noticed that the farang at the back wasn’t a tourist and dropped the offer of massage. But when Løken asked him to take a few detours the driver apparently revised his opinion. Løken met his eyes in the mirror.

“Sightseeing, sir?”

“Yes, some sightseeing.”

After ten minutes there was no longer any doubt. The plan was clearly that Løken should lead the two policemen to the secret meeting place. Løken wondered how the Police Chief had caught wind of their meetings. And why he took it so amiss that one of his inspectors should be involved in a bit of irregular cooperation with foreigners. It might not have been totally by the book, but it had produced results in the end.

On Sua Pa Road the traffic came to a standstill. The driver squeezed into a gap between two buses and pointed to the pillars being built. A steel girder had fallen and killed a motorist last week. He had read about it. They had published the photos as well. The driver shook his head, took out a cloth and wiped the dashboard, the windows, the Buddha figure and the photo of the royal family before spreading out a copy of Thai Rath over the wheel with a sigh and opening it at the sports section.

Løken looked through the rear window. There were just two cars between them and the Toyota Corolla. He looked at his watch. Half past seven. He was going to be late, even if he couldn’t shake off these two idiots. Løken made up his mind and tapped on the driver’s shoulder.

“I can see someone I know,” he said in English and gesticulated behind him.

The driver was skeptical, suspicious that the farang was going to run off without paying.

“Back in a minute,” Løken said, squeezing out of the door.

One day less to live, he thought as he breathed in enough CO2 to knock out a family of rats, and walked calmly through the traffic toward the Toyota. One headlamp must have hit something because the light shone straight into his face. He prepared his speech, already looking forward to seeing their surprised faces. Løken was only a couple of meters away and could make out the two people in the car. Suddenly he was unsure of himself. There was something about their appearance that wasn’t right. Even taking into account that policemen were not generally the smartest, they did at least know that discretion was the first commandment when you were tailing someone. The man in the passenger seat was wearing sunglasses despite the fact that the sun had set some time ago, and the giant in the driver’s seat was very conspicuous. Løken was about to turn back when the car door opened.

“Hey, mister,” a soft voice said. This was a mess. Løken tried to get back to the taxi, but a car had squeezed in and blocked the way. He looked back at the Corolla. The Chinese man was coming toward him. “Hey, mister,” he repeated as cars in the opposite lane began to move. It sounded like whispering in a hurricane.

Løken had once killed a man with his bare hands. He had smashed his larynx with a rabbit chop, the precise way they had been taught at the training camp in Wisconsin. But that was a long time ago, he had been young. And terrified. Now he wasn’t, he was only angry.

It probably wouldn’t make any difference.