Rob Gunns   Synopsis  'Clipped'

Clipped

By Rob Gunns

PROLOGUE

Something was dripping on the floor and Nok thought it was her.

The white blur wouldn’t stay still and her face felt strange. One minute it stung and burned, the next it itched. Right now it felt hot and wet like it was covered in melting chocolate. She wanted to touch it but her arm wouldn’t move. Nothing did.

It had been a bad day. Her son was sick and Nok was worried. The boy lived with his grandmother in Loei, a twelve-hour bus ride away, and Nok hated that she couldn’t look after him. She had talked on the phone so long that the club mama-san fined her for being late.

Splat-splat-splat.

The drops were getting quicker, becoming a trickle.

She tried to remember how she had got here (and where exactly was here?) but every time she thought of something it would disappear a moment later, like grabbing at smoke.

The Pink Bunny had been quiet. Only two girls left with clients and Nok’s regular hadn’t turned up. She was happy not to sleep with a stranger but also disappointed, she needed money to send a present to her son. With the fine she had actually made a loss. She said goodbye to Nit and Mui at two in the morning and walked to the end of the road to get a taxi. Now she was here, dripping. With a fuzzy head and a tingly face and arms and legs that wouldn’t move. All she could do was blink and wiggle her tongue. And she couldn’t do that much because there was something in her mouth, something that tasted like floor cleaner. Nok wondered how she knew what floor cleaner tasted like.

A door opened behind her.

Nok didn’t read newspapers and only watched the soap operas on TV but even her foggy brain knew what was happening. Everyone in Bangkok was talking about it.

Nok was surprised how calm she felt. She just hoped her son would grow up strong and healthy.

Ever since she started at the Pink Bunny Nok had been terrified of AIDS. Before each client she did a silent prayer and always insisted they use a condom. Now though, as the footsteps came towards her, Nok knew that AIDS was no longer a worry.

It wasn’t a comfort.

CHAPTER ONE

I’d never felt better. Everything was going to plan and I was on my way to sign a two-hundred million pound contract. The only thing that wasn’t perfect was the setting. My first impressions were of a sweltering, polluted city, gasping for breath under a hazy sun. It was nine in the morning and already forty degrees. Traffic was gridlocked.

‘We’re going to be late,’ said Hugh, my boss.

‘No, we’re not.’

‘We haven’t moved in ten minutes.’

‘We’re fine. I gave us two hours to get there.’

Hugh sniffed. ‘How far is it?’

‘About four miles.’

I looked out of the taxi window. A man was selling pineapple, papaya and something green and waxy I didn’t recognise.

‘If it’s going to take that long,’ said Hugh. ‘I shall acquaint myself with local news.’ He unfolded the Thai Times and put on his reading glasses. ‘Although I imagine it’s all bumper rice crops and elephants trampling on peasants.’

Hugh wasn’t interested in the deal. He was retiring in a year and didn’t want hard work to spoil his final months at a company he’d brought to bankruptcy. Marble West had gone from owning the world’s most exclusive resorts and casinos to being bought, split up and sold off. All under Hugh’s stewardship. Hugh was now Managing Director of The Bits Nobody Wanted To Buy.

We moved a few metres and the fruit man was replaced by a support pillar for the Skytrain. An election poster was taped to it.

‘Fascinating,’ said Hugh.

‘What’s that?’

‘There’s a serial killer on the loose in Bangkok, snipping off women’s faces with nail-clippers. Your Suzie would like that.’

I glanced at the photo. A crowd of people stood on a bit of dusty scrubland, a body visible between their legs. She was naked but her face, genitals and injuries were all hidden. I remembered something and leaned over to check the photographer’s credit.

‘I thought serial killers were only a product of decadent western culture,’ said Hugh. ‘And nice Buddhist places didn’t have any.’

I was surprised Hugh knew Thailand was Buddhist.

‘I think everywhere’s got them now,’ I said. ‘They’re like mobile phones.’

***

The Thai State Lottery Commission was on the thirty-first floor of the Rama X Tower on Sukhumvit Road. Electric doors opened into a chilly lobby with lots of black marble and security guards with caps. The lift was colder than the lobby.

‘I’ll let you do the talking,’ said Hugh. Which was good because Hugh hadn’t read the proposal.

A receptionist greeted us in traditional Thai style; hands together in prayer position, head bowed.

I’d leant five Thai words on the aeroplane so I said hello badly. Hugh smiled.

‘Welcome, good morning, Mr Fortescue-Smythe and Mr Cross. We expecting you. Please to come with me.’

We followed her. She had the straightest, blackest and shiniest hair I’d ever seen. At the end of a long corridor she knocked on a dark door with no name-plate then slipped inside. I stared at the wood grain and felt my heart thumping. I was about to do it. My Big Deal. Months of hard slog, international fax tennis and conference calls at four a.m. would all be over. I thought of my bonus and smiled. Hugh had been so sure the project was doomed that he’d agreed to the amount without reading it properly.

‘What are they doing?’ said Hugh looking at his watch.

We had been waiting for over a minute and the receptionist hadn’t come out.

‘Can you hear voices?’

‘This is strange.’

I counted to sixty in my head. Hugh hummed.

‘Shall we knock?’ he asked.

‘No, not yet.’

‘Do you think they died suddenly?’

‘No, Hugh. They’re just… doing something.’

‘What? In total silence?’ He leaned his ear towards the

door.

Hugh was almost sixty and the second son of landed gentry. Which meant he’d missed out on the stately home and twelve thousand acres of Northumberland. Hugh got nothing but the family nose, a big Roman thing with dangly hairs.

We’d been waiting for three minutes.

‘Extraordinary,’ said Hugh. ‘This wouldn’t happen in England.’

My hands were clammy. I didn’t want my first handshake to be wet so I wiped them on my trousers but cleverly made it look like I was brushing off dust.

‘Sweaty palms?’ smiled Hugh.

‘No.’

I was still scowling when the door swung open and a Thai man smiled up at us. He had a round, fat face like a frog, heavy eyelids and hair sprayed up and over like a New York property developer.

‘Come in, come in!’ he said.

I looked inside but couldn’t see the receptionist. She’d vanished.

The man bowed then walked behind a big glass-topped desk and sat in a swivel-chair.

‘Welcome,’ he said.

Hugh and I sat in chrome and leather seats that angled backwards and made me feel like I was at the dentist. There was nothing else in the room except a fish-tank in the corner full of Pigeon Blood Discus, a breed I’d kept when I was a kid. There were way too many for the size of the tank and they darted around nervously, probably developing hole-in-the-head disease.

‘It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr Traiwatanapong. I’m Joe Cross and this is Hugh Fortescue-Smythe, the Managing Director of Marble West Group.

The man smiled. There was a big pause. ‘No.’ he said eventually.

And then silence.

He didn’t elaborate, just smiled. His mouth was a pouty cupid’s bow that should’ve been on a twelve year-old girl somewhere.

I waited, he smiled more, I gave up.

In a casual voice, ‘No?’

‘No.’

I glanced at Hugh but he was examining the wall and pretending he wasn’t there. Disassociation I think it’s called.

‘I’m not sure I understand, Mr Traiwatanapong.’

‘No,’ he said again. Another long pause.

Then he slapped his hands on his thighs and announced, like it was the funniest punch line in the world, ‘I’m not Mr Traiwatanapong, I’m Mr Thammawattana.’

‘Right,’ I said.

‘Ha! Ha!’ said Hugh, back with us and braying like an over-compensating donkey. ‘Not Mr Trai…’ he said and then got stuck with the name. ‘Mr Trai…’

Frog-face helped him out. ‘Trai-wa-ta-na-pong.’

‘Yes. We thought you were… him! But actually you’re…’ His eyes panicked. ‘…not. At all.’

‘No. I’m Wichai Thammawattana.’

‘Exactly!’ said Hugh,

‘But you can call me Wichai,’ said the man. ‘My first name.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Hugh. ‘That’s a lot better. Call me Hugh. And this is Joe. No need to stand on formalities.’

I was thinking about the deal. Mr Traiwatanapong was my contact, the Director of the Thai State Lottery Commission who had OK’d the entire thing. Where was he?

‘Is Mr Traiwatanapong sick today?’

‘No.’

I waited for him to continue but that was his full answer. I was starting to get concerned. I thought of cool wet grass under my feet, counted to ten and hoped my smile wasn’t slipping. Maybe it was my fault; maybe I shouldn’t ask questions where he could answer "no." But ‘Where is he?’ sounded rude.

‘Do you know…’ I started, ‘Where he is?’

‘We have an appointment with him.’

The frog sighed and put his hands on his tummy. His smile had gone. ‘I’m afraid Mr Traiwatanapong is no longer with us.’

Dead?!

‘I’m terribly sorry to hear that.’

‘Yes. It’s been quite a difficult time.’

‘I only spoke to him three days ago.’

‘It was very sudden.’

I thought about Mr Traiwatanapong and his wife and kids (did he have any? I didn’t know.) before my mind turned back to more selfish matters. Namely, My Big Deal and was it now Dead In the Water.

We were all silent for a moment, out of respect. Then Wichai started smiling again. ‘And I’m the new Chief Executive of the Thai State Lottery Commission,’ he said.

‘Congratulations!’ exclaimed Hugh. ‘And well deserved, I’m sure.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Congratulations,’ I repeated. My brain working out how this would affect us and how best to proceed.

‘I wonder, Mr Thammawattana…’

‘Wichai.’

‘I wonder, Wichai, do you happen to know why we’re here?’

He pondered.

‘No,’ he said finally, ‘But it is always a pleasure to have foreign guests. I particularly enjoy English visitors because they speak so nicely and they remind me of my time studying English in Brighton.’

My heart sank.

‘Such a lovely pier.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed.

‘Lots of gays.’

He didn’t say this like it was a good thing or a bad thing. Just a thing.

‘Yes,’ said Hugh. ‘I adore Brighton pier.’

So there we were. A new lottery director who knew nothing about the deal. He might be happy with his predecessor’s work or he might want to renegotiate. He might even want to bin the deal completely.

‘Perhaps I should tell you why we’re in Bangkok,’ I said.

‘Of course.’

‘We’re here…’

‘Would you like some coffee?’

‘Yes, please.’

Wichai pressed speakerphone and ordered. Then he sat back in his ergonomically-designed chair and swivelled from side to side.

‘We’re here because Marble West has negotiated to modernise and operate the Thai State Lottery.’

No reaction.

‘As you know, at the moment people buy tickets with numbers pre-printed on them. They can only have the numbers they can find. However, with our new electronic system the customer can choose the numbers they want.’

Wichai’s face was blank.

‘With Mr Traiwatanapong we developed a nine-month plan to order and install terminals, train shopkeepers and run a publicity campaign. Over a seven year period we believe we can increase revenue by between fifteen and twenty per cent and because it will be more efficient the amounts paid to the government, charities and to prize winners will all increase by up to thirty percent.’

I paused. Any response? No.

‘And it could be operational by January.’

Wichai nodded. ‘Fascinating,’ he said, not looking at all fascinated.

‘I’m wondering how we should proceed, Wichai.’

‘Why don’t you give me something to look at.’

‘Of course.’ I opened my briefcase and took out a business plan.

‘Oh, no. Just a couple of pages.’

‘Right.’

I looked at the inch and a half thick proposal and wondered which couple of sheets I should give him. Luckily I also had a copy of Hugh’s ‘Executive Summary’ which was a half-page idiot guide to the whole deal and the only thing Hugh had read. Whatever he claimed.

I handed it over.

‘Thank you,’ said Wichai. He moved the piece of paper to the corner of his desk without looking at it. Then he adjusted its angle so it was perfectly square to the top and side of the desk with an equal border on both sides.

A different receptionist brought our coffee and I wondered where the first one was and what we were going to talk about for the rest of the meeting.

‘Do you like your hotel?’ asked Wichai, sipping.

‘It’s very nice,’ said Hugh. He had a face like he’d just sucked a lemon and was doing a bad job of covering it up. When I tasted the coffee I knew why. It was instant and Hugh would rather swallow dishwater than let a drop of low-grade caffeine pass his lips. He put the cup gently back on its saucer, like he was laying it to rest.

‘Which hotel are you staying at?’ asked Wichai.

‘The Grand Siam,’ I said.

‘Very nice. Aren’t the river views superb? Especially from the suites.’

We didn’t know. Company travel budgets meant we were in standard rooms overlooking the car park.

I didn’t know whether to lie or not but Hugh jumped in. ‘Actually, we’re on the other side,’ he said, not at all ashamed of his cheap room.

Wichai nodded, deep in thought. ‘Have you been to Bangkok before?’

‘Me neither.’

‘It’s a fascinating city. There are many things for you to experience.’

‘Just avoid the serial killer,’ joked Hugh.

Wichai didn’t smile.

‘How many has he killed now? Six?’

‘Apparently,’ said Wichai.

‘You think there might be more?’ Hugh’s eyes grew wide.

‘Who knows.’

‘I must say it’s fascinating to visit a city in the grip of serial killer fever. Can’t be good for tourists, though.’

‘No,’ agreed Wichai.

‘Must be similar to our own mad cows.’

I was worried the cheap coffee was having a bad effect on Hugh’s tongue so I changed the subject. ‘Where would you recommend we visit in Bangkok?’ I asked.

‘You’re not interested in killers, Mr Cross?’

Unsuccessfully as it turned out.

‘I prefer football.’

‘Joe gets enough killers at home,’ said Hugh.

‘Really?’ said Wichai, his interest piqued. ‘Please explain.’ He seemed a lot more interested in my domestic life than my lottery proposal.

Hugh knew I hated talking about Suzie but always managed to bring it up. ‘His girlfriend is a psychiatrist,’ he said. ‘A famous one.’

‘Psychologist,’ I corrected for the umpteenth time. ‘A forensic psychologist.’

‘She’s on television,’ said Hugh.

Suzie’s fame was new. When I first met her she assessed high-risk prisoners and did police profiling on the side. Then eighteen months ago she had been instrumental in catching the Essex Strangler. The tabloids latched onto her good looks and overnight my girlfriend became a celebrity. She carried on her research and police work but also joined Crimewave UK as resident psychologist. Now Hugh, like millions of other people, watched her every Tuesday after the late news.

‘She’s a match for any serial killer,’ said Hugh, sounding like Suzie’s number one fan.

‘Maybe she should come here,’ said Wichai. He smiled but I thought it looked a little tight.

‘Oh, I’m sure the Thai police are very capable,’ said Hugh.

‘Possibly,’ said Wichai. He opened his desk drawer and took out a sheet of paper and a pen. ‘I’ll make you a list of where to go in Bangkok.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Hugh.

Wichai started writing but after the first word his pen stopped. He shook it and scribbled but nothing happened. When the paper ripped I took out the Thai Airways pen I’d got on the plane.

‘Thank you,’ he said. I hoped he wouldn’t notice the teeth marks. I’d got stuck doing the crossword and chewing sometimes helps me focus. It hadn’t worked, seventeen across was still blank.

Wichai took out a new piece of paper and wrote in tiny capitals. He hadn’t got far when the intercom buzzed and a voice told him something in Thai. Wichai said ‘OK’ and switched off. Then he finished his word, slid the paper across the table and stood up.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

‘I have a very important meeting now, I hope you will excuse me.’

Hugh and I stood up. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you.’ I put Wichai’s tourist tips into my briefcase and braced myself.

‘How would you like to proceed?’ I asked.

‘Follow me,’ said Wichai. ‘I’ll show you to the lift.’

Was that a joke? Or had he misunderstood? Hugh smirked and followed Wichai out of the room. I brought up the rear, badly wanting to kick Hugh’s heel and trip him up.

We walked down the corridor and a hollow feeling grew in my stomach. It felt like my confidence, hard work and hopes had all been liposuctioned out.

The only person in reception was a young white woman with stringy black hair and a sour expression. She had a ‘Lingua-blitz Teacher’s Manual’ on her lap.

Urgent meeting? With his English teacher?

I smiled as we passed but she didn’t notice. She was flushed and her eyes looked red. Maybe I’d cry too if I had a one-to-one lesson with Wichai coming up.

We stopped at the lift. Wichai pressed the button and we waited; three smiles on full-beam, one slightly more desperate than the others. I was on the point of asking again about our next step when the lift door opened and Wichai looked right at me.

‘Joe,’ he said. ‘I can see you are disappointed. But please don’t think your proposal is dead. I’m sure I can help you.’ He gestured for us to get into the lift.

We did.

‘Come back tomorrow at eleven,’ he said.

The doors pinged shut and we were in the very cold lift again. Hugh said nothing but exuded ‘I-told-you-so’ from every pore.

‘He’s going to sign,’ I said.

‘Of course.’

‘He will. It’s a good deal and I’m going to make him see that.’

‘I’m sure you will.’

‘I’m not leaving this country without a signed contract.’

CHAPTER TWO

The taxi swung into the hotel drive, narrowly missing a woman with a wooden beam over her shoulder and cooking pots hanging from either end.

At the main entrance Hugh paid, asked for a receipt and didn’t tip. We got out of the cab into the thick, wet air and while Hugh marched into the entrance I found a spare note for the driver. I caught up with Hugh halfway across the high-ceilinged, chilled-like-a-refrigerator lobby.

‘It’s freezing in here,’ I said.

‘It’s not freezing,’ said Hugh, ‘It’s bracing. Fresh air never killed anyone.’

A Thai man in a suit glided across the marble floor in our direction. His aftershave got to us before he did, hitting the back of my throat and making me cough.

‘Good afternoon,’ said the man, shaking our hands. He had a purple silk shirt and purple silk tie, very long eyelashes and a big hospitality industry smile. ‘My name is Sompong Kittiporn and I am the manager of the Siam Continental.’ I looked at his name badge. It was true.

‘Please follow me.’ He guided us to the lifts.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Hugh.

‘Special surprise,’ said the manager, pressing the top button. Hugh, who doesn’t do surprises very well, looked unhappy. I generally like them but I was hungry, needed a cold shower and was brooding about the disastrous meeting and how to salvage it.

On the fifteenth floor the manager ushered us down a corridor and through an open door.

‘The Oriental Suite,’ announced the manager with a flourish.

‘Wow,’ I said.

The opposite wall was floor-to-ceiling glass and looked out onto the Chao Phraya River, longtail boats and the Wat Arun temple. Inside was just as impressive; ten times the size of my room and stuffed with antiques. Every surface had a vase of flowers, sometimes four, and when I moved my feet I bounced up and down in the deep carpet. There was also no bed so I guessed this was just a reception room. Or people paid a fortune to sleep on a sofa.

Hugh fidgeted. ‘Well. It’s a lovely view but we’ve had a busy morning and we’re still a bit jet-lagged.’ He smiled his superior smile. ‘I think we’ll go back to our rooms now,’ he said and started to walk towards the door.

‘But this is your room,’ said the manager.

‘What?’ I said, forgetting my manners.

Hugh turned around. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘This is your room now. For one of you. The other has the Presidential Suite.’

‘There must have been a mistake,’ said Hugh.

‘No,’ said the manager. ‘The suites have been reserved for you with the compliments of Mr Wichai Thammawatta.’

‘Wichai?’

‘Yes. He telephoned to say that it would give him great pleasure if you would stay as his guests. Please feel free to use all our facilities; room service, spa, business centre…’ He made a grand sweeping gesture as if the list of facilities was endless. ‘Mr Thammawatta has instructed that he be billed for everything. He has also provided a car and driver for use during your stay. Please telephone reception and it will come to the entrance immediately.’

Hugh and I stood in stunned silence.

‘I don’t understand. Why is the Thai Lottery Commission paying for all this?’

‘It isn’t, Sir.’

‘But you just said…’

‘The Thai Lottery Commission is not paying. This is a gift from Mr Thammawatta, in a personal capacity.’

‘These rooms must cost a fortune. How can he…?’

The manager smiled at me. ‘Very easily,’ he said. He did a little bow then left.

***

‘Here’s one from today’s newspaper. The Thai Times Business section.’

‘Read it to me,’ said Hugh.

I’d run to my old room and got my laptop. An internet search produced a couple of hundred hits for Wichai Thammawatta.

‘It says that "Mr Something, an opposition Member of Parliament, yesterday asked why Mr Traiwatanapong was sacked as Director of the Thai State Lottery Commission …’

‘Didn’t Wichai say he was dead?’

dead.’

‘And get this. He was sacked as Director and replaced by…’

‘We know who replaced him,’ interrupted Hugh. ‘A funny-looking man called Wichai.’

‘…replaced by the Prime Minister’s son Wichai Thammawatta.’

‘Oh,’ said Hugh.

‘It also says "Mr Thammawatta graduated in Chemical Engineering from Chulalongkorn University and has personal assets of over 1.2 billion dollars US."’

My jaw dropped.

‘Blimey,’ said Hugh.

Wichai wasn’t just a weird guy whose signature I needed, he was a super-rich, well-connected weird guy and I had a feeling they were worse. I grabbed some paper to take notes and reached into my jacket pocket for my pen. It wasn’t there. I remembered I’d given it to Wichai but didn’t know if I’d got it back or dropped it.

‘Can I borrow your pen?’

‘Where’s yours?’

‘Don’t know.’

Hugh handed me his Mont Blanc. ‘Be careful with it,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’

‘I wonder where he got all that money.’

‘Family trusts, I imagine. The Thammawatta family are one of the richest in Thailand. Wichai’s father used his connections and made even more billions from property and telecommunications.’

‘And then became Prime Minister?’

‘Yes.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘Research, Hugh. It’s in my report under "Political Situation in Thailand."’ The report Hugh hadn’t read.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, frowning, ‘I knew it rang a bell.’ Hugh was a terrible liar and regularly made it worse by forgetting which lies he’d told.

‘Of course you do,’ I said. ‘You told me you especially enjoyed the section on Thai politics. You called it "very insightful."’

‘Really?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

He stared out of the window. ‘Well, it must have been good if I said that.’

I looked around the room, still not believing my eyes. ‘Do you think we can accept this?’ I asked.

‘I don’t see why not,’ said Hugh. ‘Although it is rather unorthodox. We should be bribing him.’

‘I guess.’

‘Which suite do you want?’

‘You stay here. I’ll have the Presidential.’

Hugh stopped smiling, suspicious that I was giving him the inferior suite. He pondered. ‘No, I think I’ll have the other one. You seem settled here.’

‘OK,’ I said, not bothered.

Hugh frowned, now wondering if I was doing an elaborate double-bluff. ‘I am the more senior,’ he said.

‘I know,’ I replied. ‘That’s why you get the Presidential Suite. So you can sit in it and do executive things.’

‘Quite,’ said Hugh. ‘I shall go and inspect my new lodgings.’ He was halfway out of the door when his head popped back, grinning like a kid who’d got two Christmases in one year. ‘And a car!’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you think we’ll get a Bentley?’

***

I went through the figures again, looked at where Wichai might want to renegotiate and planned a fall back position. Then a fall back, fall back position. And then the absolute worst terms we were willing to accept. The thrill of the challenge, even this unwanted one, had my blood pumping. I refused to consider that Wichai might not sign.

When I was happy that I could do no more planning I started unpacking for the second time. Five minutes later Hugh walked in slurping a yellow cocktail. I made a mental note to keep the door locked in future.

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘It’s free,’ he grinned. ‘And so were the three before it. What a generous man Mr Wichai is.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed.

‘Should we call and say thank you?’

‘We’ll see him tomorrow.’

Hugh’s eyes meandered around the room. Eventually he smiled. Which meant his must have been bigger. Or had more pictures. Or did better in whatever screwed up criteria Hugh was using to compare them. Then he looked down at the bed and my half unpacked things and something caught his attention. Before I could hide it or distract him, he swooped down on a furry maroon box and snapped it open. It was like a very posh heron catching lunch.

‘Gosh!’ said Hugh. ‘It’s enormous.’

I nodded.

‘Must have cost a fortune.’

I nodded again.

‘I hope she likes it.’

‘So do I,’ I said with feeling.

It was 18-carat white gold with three diamonds.

‘When are you asking her?’

‘In ten days. We’re going scuba diving after we’ve signed the deal.’

‘Is that still the plan?’

‘Sure.’

Hugh didn’t look convinced.

‘It’s a good proposal,’ I said, ‘Good for all of us.’ If he’s smart enough to realise that, I thought. After all, this was a guy with a degree in engineering, parachuted into the Chief Executive position by his father. How much did he know about business? ‘He sounded pretty positive when we left.’

‘He did, didn’t he?’ said Hugh. He closed the box and put it back on the bed. ‘But it doesn’t matter if Wichai signs or not, does it? Not if Suzie says yes.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Come now, Joe. Don’t play naïve. You’d be marrying into a hugely wealthy family.’

I laughed. ‘Suzie’s parents are Oxford professors. They live in a tiny house full of books. They’ve got no money.’

‘I’m talking about her Godfather, as you well know. Sir Jack Bilton who owns companies all over the world, including, in case you’ve forgotten, our own.’

‘He’s her Godfather. He’s not family.’

‘He’s in a position to be very helpful.’

‘Suzie’s career doesn’t need any help.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of Suzie, I was thinking of his favourite Goddaughter’s fiancé. Sir Jack might decide to make him Managing Director as a wedding present.’

This sounded reasonable in theory but had a couple of fatal flaws. Firstly Sir Jack, having sold off the valuable bits of Marble West, promptly forgot we existed. And secondly, Sir Jack had met me three times but couldn’t remember who I was. Even after being reintroduced he’d got my name wrong. He might have adored Suzie but he wouldn’t have made me MD of a tube of toothpaste.

‘One wonders if he bought Marble West with the express purpose of promoting said favourite Goddaughter’s fiancé.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘He bought Marble West because it was undervalued and he knew he could make a fortune. He didn’t even know I worked here.’

‘He does now.’

‘Of course. Suzie told him when she found out he’d bought us.’

Hugh scratched his chin.

‘Believe me, there’s no way Sir Jack would replace you with me.’ I left open the possibility that Sir Jack would replace Hugh with somebody else.

‘Really?’

‘Totally. Even if Suzie asked him I’m sure he wouldn’t do it.’

Hugh seemed happier. ‘Well, you know him better than I do.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. Which wasn’t at all true.

Hugh stood up.

‘What are you going to do now?’ I asked.

‘I think I shall have a cocktail by the pool,’ said Hugh. ‘They have something called a ‘Slippery Nipple’ I’d like to try.’ He grinned at his naughtiness. ‘Are you coming?’

‘No. I’m going to look at the figures again.’

‘And this evening?’

‘I’m out.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘What’s the local beer?’

‘Don’t drink it, you’ll look like a backpacker.’

‘Is that bad?’ I asked.

‘Not if you’re a greasy-haired bum in fake Diesel.’

‘Right.’

‘I hate backpackers,’ said Max. ‘Wish they’d all go home.’

Max was the same age as me but two inches taller and two feet wider. He was wearing a sports vest which showed a lot of hard, black muscle and a dragon tattoo that covered most of his upper torso, clawed into a nipple and breathed flames down to his left elbow.

A waitress in a tight ‘Tiger Bar’ T-shirt came over.

‘Heineken, please,’ I said.

Max gave her a big smile. ‘Two,’ he said, holding up a couple of fingers like a peace sign.

The waitress wrote this down. When she’d finished she looked me straight in the eye, giggled and said, ‘You velly han-some.’ Then she walked back to the bar.

Max winked. ‘I think you’ve pulled, mate.’

‘Is she a…?’

‘A bar girl? No.’

‘What’s a "bar girl"?’

‘A prettier way to say "prostitute."’

‘Right.’

‘She’s just a girl who works in a bar.’

‘OK.’

‘Subtle difference.’

Max was one of my best friends. We’d met when we both worked in a fancy bar in Covent Garden. I was paying my way through college and Max was on the British judo team but didn’t get any financial support. We spent our nights selling overpriced drinks to a bunch of suits with no social skills and then got up a few hours later; me to study and Max to put on a dressing gown and throw people over his shoulder. One day Max got on a plane to Thailand and never came back.

‘Good to see you, man,’ said Max. ‘It’s just like old times.’

‘How long has it been?’

‘Two years.’

‘You should phone more,’ I said, knowing Max’s response.

‘Guys don’t phone, chicks phone.’

‘E-mail?’

‘That’s for nerds.’ He gave me a big smile and chuckled.

‘Do you miss home?’

‘Nah.’ He leaned back, shaking his head. ‘Too grey, too cold, nobody smiles.’

The waitress came back with our beers.

‘I saw you in the Thai Times today,’ I said.

‘Yeah?’ He tried to sound casual. ‘What did you think?’

I remembered the picture of the dead woman. ‘Nice composition,’ I said.

Max had come to Bangkok to learn Thai boxing. After six months he broke an ankle and it never healed properly, finishing his days as a sportsman. He drifted around a bit, liking Thailand too much to leave. Finally he reinvented himself as a ‘tragic photographer.’ Not ‘tragic’ as in no good but ‘tragic’ as in very sad, like car crashes, shootings, knife attacks. Crime scenes with lashings of blood were his speciality.

‘Thanks.’ He took another swig of beer. ‘Sometimes it’s difficult, the English language papers are a bit squeamish.’

‘And the Thai ones?’

‘The gorier the better. And this Clipper nutter has tripled my income. One more and I can buy a new bike.’ He stopped. ‘That sounded bad. I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘I know.’

Max ruffled his mini-dreads, inch-long tufts sprouting from his head. ‘How’s work?’

How could I explain? ‘Not really going to plan.’

‘That’s the problems with plans, mate. Better off not making them.’

I laughed. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

‘Live for the moment. The future will look after itself. And you know, if you think about it, the future never comes…’

‘…because its always today. Yes, I know, you’ve told me a million times. I just don’t want to be an eighty-year-old with no pension, no house and no money.’

‘Don’t think about it, mate.’

Max picked at the beer label but his fingernails were too short and he had trouble getting started. For someone so relaxed about life he bit his nails a lot.

I watched him work the label from two edges. ‘Isn’t it a bit grim?’

He looked up. ‘What?’

‘Taking pictures of all that stuff.’

Max suddenly looked serious. ‘You know what? It makes me feel alive. Seeing dead people makes me love life more.’

I could see the logic in that. But headless motorcyclists and old ladies getting scraped off buses still sounded depressing.

‘You’ll have to come round one night, see my portfolio.’

‘I’d love to,’ I lied.

‘I’ll just show you the best ones. And you can meet Nong.’ Nong was his Thai girlfriend.

‘Suzie’s coming over in a week. Why don’t we go out for dinner, the four of us.’

‘Sure.’

Max’s mobile started ringing.

‘Sorry, mate.’ He half stood up and got the phone out of his back pocket. ‘Could be work.’ He checked caller ID and answered in Thai. I didn’t understand a word but could tell it was something big. Max scribbled something on a piece of paper, double-checked, then hung up.

‘Reckon I just got my new Yamaha.’

‘Clipper Killer?’

‘Looks like it.’ Max gulped the rest of his beer, shoved some money under the bottle and burped loudly. ‘You coming?’

‘Uh…’ I wasn’t sure if he meant leaving the bar or coming to the crime scene.

‘We’ve got to be quick or they’ll cover it up.’ He looked at me, waiting for an answer.

‘I…’

‘Good,’ said Max. He grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the bar. He didn’t let go until we were pushing our way through crowds of tourists, beggars and street traders on the Suriwong Road.

‘Keep up!’ he shouted. He obviously thought the pavement was too slow because he ran into the road and started sprinting along the white line in the middle, taxis and motorbikes coming at him from both directions. After a hundred metres he nipped across the other lane of traffic and down a side alley.

By the time I got there Max had his helmet on and the engine was running.

‘Get on!’

I looked at the tiny space on the seat behind him.

‘Where’s my helmet?’

‘You don’t need one. I’ll drive slowly.’

I didn’t believe that.

‘Hurry up!’

The idea of driving through Bangkok on the back of a motorbike with a man in a hurry, and without a helmet, seemed stupid to say the least.

‘How many beers have you had?’

‘One!’ he shouted above the engine. ‘And it was on a full stomach! Now get on the bike!’

What the hell, I thought. I’m on holiday.

***

Max drove like a crack addict who’d missed a fix and was on his way to score. He may have been going slowly for me but we were still the fastest thing on the road, swerving between beat-up buses and pick-up trucks, leaving everyone else behind at traffic lights. The wind was so strong I was slipping off the back of the saddle. I jammed my face into Max’s rucksack and pulled myself back on. I hoped we were almost there.

We weren’t.

Beer and fear and speed put funny thoughts in my head. Like, if my head hit the road, how big a splash would my brain make? Or if I fell off and scraped my arm along the tarmac, would it hurt or would I black out from the pain first?

Eventually Max slowed down and we turned off the main road. We drove past apartment buildings, gates, a restaurant. It got darker and quieter.

In the distance I saw a group of people standing near some rubbish bins. As we got closer I made out police cars, police officers in brown uniforms, locals in shorts and a stray dog. There were no street lights but the police had torches.

Max stopped twenty metres away and I got off the bike. My legs were wobbly, my T-shirt soaked and every part of me was tensed.

Max took off his helmet and grinned. ‘I told you I’d go slowly.’

‘Thanks,’ I coughed.

He pulled out his camera and jogged towards the huddle. ‘We’ll have another beer when I’ve finished. Shouldn’t be long.’

I unclenched my hands, which kept making fists by themselves, and tried to relax. It was a sticky night and a tree or flower nearby smelt good. In the distance was the faint roar of the main road. I turned away from the crowd and faced the way we’d just come. I didn’t need to see the body. It didn’t seem respectful.

Twenty minutes later my body was producing the right chemicals again and adrenalin gave way to sleepiness. I’d also remembered my appointment with Wichai. In the excitement I’d forgotten about the most important meeting of my career.

‘Max!’

There was no response but a camera flashed in the middle of the crowd so I headed for that. Even though I couldn’t see anything my pulse quickened and my throat got dry. I’d just tell Max I was going, I wouldn’t look.

I stood behind the circle and waved my arm. ‘Max! Hey!’

But he was focused on a pixellated screen and oblivious to the world. I edged around and then through the crowd. From the very corner of my eyes I could sense something naked on the ground but I couldn’t really see it. It wasn’t distinct. I couldn’t see anything bad because I was making myself stare at the back of Max’s head like I’d never stared at anything in my life.

I tapped Max on the shoulder and he looked up. He didn’t have the face of a man staring at mutilation. Maybe the camera lens put you at a distance. Or maybe he was busy thinking about line and form and texture.

‘I think I’ll go,’ I said. ‘I’m up early.’

‘You sure? I can give you a lift if you don’t mind waiting.’

‘No. Thanks though.’ I’d already resolved never to get on a bike with Max again. ‘I’ll get a taxi on the main road.’

‘You sure you don’t want to wait? I’ll be done in half an hour. I’ve just got to do some wide shots and pay the police.’

‘"Pay the police?"’

Max smiled. ‘You think I find out about this stuff first for free? I get told first because I pay the most.’

I must have looked shocked because Max started to laugh. ‘You’re not in England anymore, mate.’

‘I’m starting to realise that.’

‘Different country, different rules.’

‘And hotter.’

‘Stinking.’

I felt a yawn coming on. ‘I’d better go. I’ll give you a call.’

‘Later, mate.’ Max slapped me on the back and I jolted forward. He was no longer a professional sportsman but Max was still the strongest person I knew.

‘Good to see you,’ I said but Max didn’t hear me. He was back with the pixels, absorbed, checking the pictures he’d already taken.

And then I saw her. Max had moved and I’d stopped concentrating and there she was, slap-bang in front of me. For a moment it didn’t click. But then it hit me, recognition coming with the force of a speeding truck, acid stomach juices squeezing up into my throat.

She was on her back, our feet almost touching and as I looked down it felt like our eyes met. Her face had gone; eyebrows, nose, lips and cheeks all snipped away leaving a congealed, dark mess. In some places the clips went deep, in others only the surface had been taken off. It was meticulous and brutal and had not been quick.

I wondered if she had been alive. And who could have done something like this.

I didn’t want to gawp so I looked away. I was sad and repulsed and angry and not sure if I could trust my stomach. The nice-scented tree was now sickly and I wanted to leave.

But something drew me back. Something inside me wanted to pay respect. She was naked and tortured and lying in dust surrounded by strangers and the least I could do was look her in the eye and say some kind of prayer, not turn away in revulsion.

So I looked back.

Only a couple of inches were visible. It was rammed deep into her ear, deep enough for the other end to be in her brain. The gold writing shimmered in the torch light and I didn’t know how I’d missed it the first time I looked at her but I had.

It was a Thai Airways pen, like the one I’d lost that morning.

Rob Gunns   Synopsis  'Clipped'