12
Sunday, January 12
In the end they had parked and begun to search for the address on foot. Nho had tried to explain the ingenious system of addresses in Bangkok, with main streets and numbered side streets known as sois. The problem was that houses didn’t follow in numerical order as new houses were given the next free number wherever they were in the street.
They walked through narrow alleyways where pavements served as extensions of living rooms with people reading newspapers, sewing on treadle machines, cooking or taking an afternoon nap. Some girls in school uniforms shouted after them and giggled, and Nho pointed to Harry and answered something or other. The girls howled with laughter and held their hands to their mouths.
Nho talked to a woman sitting behind a sewing machine and she pointed to a door. They knocked and after a while it was opened by a man wearing khaki shorts and an open shirt. Harry put him at about sixty, but only his eyes and wrinkles revealed his age. There were wisps of gray in his smooth, black combed-back hair and the lean, sinewy body could have belonged to a thirty-year-old.
Nho said a few words, and the man nodded while looking at Harry. Then the man apologized and was gone again. After a minute he returned, now wearing an ironed, white short-sleeved shirt and long trousers.
He had brought two chairs with him, which he placed on the pavement. In surprisingly good English he offered one to Harry while sitting down on the other. Nho remained standing beside them and rejected Harry’s signal that he could sit on the step with a faint shake of the head.
“Harry Hole, Mr. Sanphet. I’m from the Norwegian police. I’d like to ask you some questions about Molnes.”
“You mean Ambassador Molnes.”
Harry looked at the man. He was sitting as straight as a poker with his brown, freckled hands in his lap.
“Of course. Ambassador Molnes. You’ve been a chauffeur at the Norwegian Embassy for almost thirty years, I understand.”
Sanphet closed his eyes by way of confirmation.
“And you respected the ambassador?”
“Ambassador Molnes was a great man. A great man with a big heart. And brain.”
He tapped his forehead with one finger and gave Harry an admonitory look.
Harry shivered as a bead of sweat rolled down his spine and inside his trousers. He looked around for some shade where they could move their chairs, but the sun was high and the houses in this street were low.
“We’ve come to you because you knew the ambassador’s habits best, you knew where he went and who he met. And because you clearly got on well with him on a personal level. What happened on the day he died?”
Sitting quite calmly, Sanphet told them how the ambassador had left without saying where he was going, just that he wanted to drive himself, which was very unusual during working hours as the chauffeur had no other duties. He had waited in the embassy until five and then he had gone home.
“You live alone?”
“My wife died in a traffic accident fourteen years ago.”
Something told Harry he could give him the exact number of months and days as well. They had no children.
“Where did you drive the ambassador?”
“To other embassies. To meetings. To Norwegians’ houses.”
“Which Norwegians?”
“All sorts. People from Statoil, Hydro, Jotun and Statskonsult.”
He pronounced the Norwegian names perfectly.
“Do you know any of these?” Harry asked, passing him a list. “These are people the ambassador was in touch with on his mobile phone on the day he died. We got this from the telephone company.”
Sanphet took out a pair of glasses, but still had to hold the piece of paper at arm’s length as he read aloud: “11:10. Bangkok Betting Service.”
He peered over his glasses.
“The ambassador liked a flutter on the horses.” And added with a smile: “Sometimes he won.”
Nho shifted his feet.
“What’s Worachak Road?”
“A call from a public phone box. Please carry on.”
“11:55. The Norwegian Embassy.”
“The odd thing is we rang the embassy this morning and no one can recall speaking to him on the phone that day, not even the receptionist.”
Sanphet shrugged, and Harry waved him on.
“12:50. Ove Klipra. You’ve heard of him, I suppose?”
“May have.”
“He’s one of Bangkok’s richest men. I read in the paper he’s just sold a hydroelectric power station in Laos. He lives in a temple,” Sanphet muttered. “He and the ambassador knew each other from before. They were from the same part of the country. Have you heard of Ålesund? The ambassador invited …”
He raised his arms in resignation. Not a subject worth talking about now. He went back to the list.