Cockroaches(26)

“Say hello and cop con crap,” Harry answered.

“Say what?”

“Say thank you.”

Harry smiled sheepishly and Liz spluttered so much she sent rice flying.





11


Saturday, January 11


Harry couldn’t put a figure on the number of prostitutes he had interviewed in a room like this, but it was not small. They seemed to be attracted to murder cases like flies around a cowpat. Not because they were necessarily involved, but because they invariably had a story to tell.

He had heard them laughing, cursing and crying, he had become friends with them, he had fallen out with them, had struck deals with them, broken promises, been spat at and slapped. Nevertheless, there was something about these women’s fates, the circumstances that had formed them, which he thought he recognized and could understand. What he couldn’t understand was their irrepressible optimism: that despite having seen into the deepest recesses of the human soul they never seemed to lose their faith in the goodness around them. He knew enough police officers who were incapable of the same.

That was why Harry patted Dim on the shoulder and gave her a cigarette before they started. Not because he thought it would achieve anything, but because she looked as if she needed it.

She had a flinty stare and a determined jaw that told you she was not easily frightened, but right now she was sitting at a plastic table, fidgeting nervously and looking as if she might burst into tears at any minute.

“Pen yangai?” he asked. How are you? Liz had taught him these two words in Thai before he entered the interview room.

Nho translated the answer. She slept badly at night and didn’t want to work at the motel anymore.

Harry sat down opposite her, rested his arms on the table and tried to catch her eye. Her shoulders lowered a fraction, but she still turned away from him with her arms crossed.

They went through what had happened point by point, but she had nothing new to add. She confirmed that the motel-room door had been closed but not locked. She hadn’t seen a mobile phone. And hadn’t seen anyone who didn’t work at the motel when she arrived or when she left.

When Harry mentioned the Mercedes and whether she had noticed the diplomatic plates she shook her head. She hadn’t seen a car. They were getting nowhere, and in the end Harry lit a cigarette and asked, almost casually, who she thought could have done it. Nho translated and Harry saw from her face that he had hit the bull’s-eye.

“What did she say?”

“She says the knife is from Khun Sa.”

“What does that mean?”

“Haven’t you heard about Khun Sa?” Nho shot him a skeptical look.

Harry shook his head.


“Khun Sa is the most powerful heroin dealer in history. Along with the governments in Indochina and the CIA he has controlled opium trafficking in the golden triangle since the fifties. That was how the Americans got the money for their operations in the region. The guy had his own army in the jungle up there.”

It slowly dawned on Harry that he had heard about Asia’s Escobar.

“Khun Sa surrendered to the Burmese authorities two years ago and was placed under house arrest, albeit in one of the most luxurious houses. They say he finances the new hotels in Burma, and some people think he’s still the leader of the opium mafia in the north. Khun Sa means she thinks it’s the mafia. That’s why she’s scared.”

Harry studied her thoughtfully before nodding to Nho.

“Let her go,” he said.

Nho translated and Dim looked surprised. She turned and met Harry’s gaze before putting the palms of her hands together at face height and bowing. Harry realized she had assumed they would arrest her for prostitution.

Harry smiled back. She leaned over the table.

“You like ice-skating, mister?”

“Khun Sa? CIA?”

The telephone line from Oslo crackled, and the echo meant that Harry heard himself talking across Torhus from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

“Excuse me, Hole, but are you suffering from heatstroke? A man has been found with a knife in his back, a knife which could have been bought anywhere in northern Thailand. We tell you to tread carefully and you’re telling me you’re thinking of trying to crack organized crime in Southeast Asia?”

“No.” Harry put his feet on the desk. “I’m not thinking of doing anything about it, Torhus. I’m just saying that an expert from some museum or other says it’s a rare knife that’s very hard to get hold of. The police here say it could be a warning from an opium mafia to keep away, but I don’t think so. If the mafia wanted to tell us something there are more direct methods than sacrificing an antique knife.”