Cockroaches: The Second Inspector Harry Hole Novel by Jo Nesbø

sense everyone sitting in the narrow alleyway was eavesdropping. He lowered his voice.
    “With all due respect, you’re lying. I saw the receptionist at the embassy taking asthma medication with my own eyes, Mr. Sanphet. You sit in the embassy half the day, you’ve been there for thirty years and I imagine no one can change a toilet roll without your knowing. Are you claiming you didn’t know she had asthma?”
    Sanphet looked at him with cold, calm eyes.
    “I’m saying I don’t know who might have left asthma medication in the
car
, sir. Lots of people in Bangkok have asthma, and some of them must have been in the ambassador’s car. Miss Ao is, as far as I know, not one of them.”
    Harry watched him. How could he sit there without a drop of sweat on his brow while the sun shimmered in the sky like a brass cymbal? Harry glanced down at his notepad as if his next question were written there.
    “Did he ever drive children in the car?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Did you pick up children sometimes, drive him to schools, nurseries or anything similar? Do you understand?”
    Sanphet didn’t bat an eyelid, but his back straightened.
    “I do understand. The ambassador was not one of
them
,” he said.
    “How do you know?”
    A man looked up from his newspaper, and Harry became aware he had raised his voice. Sanphet bowed.
    Harry felt stupid. Stupid, wretched and sweaty. In that order.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
    The old chauffeur looked past him, pretending he hadn’t heard.
    “We have to go now.” Harry got up. “I heard you like Grieg, so I brought you this.” He held up a cassette. “It’s Grieg’s symphony in C minor. It was first performed in 1981, so I thought you may not have it. Everyone who loves Grieg should have it. Please take it.”
    Sanphet got up, accepted it with surprise and stood looking at it.
    “Goodbye,” Harry said, making a clumsy but well-meant
wai
greeting and motioning to Nho that they were going.
    “Wait,” the chauffeur said. His eyes were still fixed on the cassette. “The ambassador was a good man. But he wasn’t a happy man. He had one weakness. I don’t want to sully his memory, but he lost more than he won on horses.”
    “Most do,” Harry said.
    “Not five million baht.”
    Harry tried to calculate in his head. Nho came to his rescue.
    “A hundred thousand dollars.”
    Harry whistled. “Well, well, if he could afford that then—”
    “He couldn’t afford it,” Sanphet said. “He borrowed money from some loan sharks in Bangkok. They rang him several times over the last few weeks.” He looked at Harry. It was difficult to interpret his expression. “Personally, I believe a man has to settle gambling debts, but if someone killed him for the money I think they should be punished.”
    “So the ambassador wasn’t a happy man?”
    “He didn’t have an easy life.”
    Harry remembered something. “Does Man U mean anything to you?”
    The chauffeur’s expression clouded over.
    “It was on the ambassador’s calendar for the day of the murder. I checked the TV guide and no one was showing Manchester United that day.”
    “Oh, Manchester United,” Sanphet smiled. “That’s Klipra. The ambassador called him Mr. Man U. He flies to England to see games and has bought loads of shares in the club. A very peculiar person.”
    “We’ll see. I’ll have a chat with him later.”
    “If you can get hold of him.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You don’t get hold of Klipra. He gets hold of you.”
    That’s all we need, Harry thought. A caricature.
    “The gambling debts radically change the picture,” Nho said, back in the car.
    “Maybe,” Harry said. “A hundred thousand dollars is a lot of cash, but is it enough?”
    “People are murdered in Bangkok for less than that,” Nho said. “Much less. Believe me.”
    “It’s not the loan sharks I’m thinking about, it’s Atle Molnes. The guy comes from a very wealthy family.