Hungry Ghosts by John Dolan

England vicar. Vicars are priests too, you know.”
    So an ex-vicar is asking a guy who’s killed his wife and a policeman to help find his drug-smuggling hippie sister. You couldn’t make this stuff up, could you?
    “Whereabouts?”
    “In Leicester.”
    “Really? I lived outside Leicester for thirty-odd years. Which church?”
    “St Mark ’s, in the city. Ever been there?”
    “I’m not much of a churchgoer, Mr . Fletcher. I did visit St Mark’s once a few years ago.”
    Just after I killed my wife .
    It’s not a memory I care to explore now.
    “So why did you leave the priesthood?”
    “I lost my faith, Mr . Braddock,” he states simply, “so I couldn’t go on being a priest.”
    “Was there a woman involved?” I ask rather rudely. Just checking whether everyone is like me. It’s a vanity thing.
    I think for a moment he’s going to tell me to fuck off and mind my own business. Then Fletcher drops his gaze.
    “You’re very direct, Mr . Braddock.”
    “Sometimes I am, Mr . Fletcher.”
    “Yes, there was a lady” he says quietly. “But that was only a part of it. And as for the lady concerned, I let her go.” He looks back at me. “A decision I’ve regretted ever since. And when Rosie is back and all this is over, it’s a decision I will reverse. I’m going to find the lady again and make things right.”
    I don’t know how to respond to this. Sincerity makes me uncomfortable, especially where women are concerned. It’s time to get back to business with the ex-vicar.
    “Mr . Fletcher, I think it's only fair to advise you, that although I know Bangkok reasonably well, you would probably be better off with a Bangkok-based Private Investigator. He’s going to be much more familiar than me with the lie of the land. Plus of course there is the Royal Thai Police, whom I assume you’ve already been in touch with.”
    He tells me about his dealings with the Bangkok police, and their inability to inspire confidence in him. He has also been to the British Embassy, employed a Bangkok PI and done some asking around with him personally. But he wants a backup, and based on Peter Ashley’s strong recommendation I’m it.
    I don’t mind being a backup, if he doesn’t mind paying.
    He gives me Rosie Fletcher’s details: 35 years old, 5’ 5” tall, graphic designer, frequent traveler, never married, not skinny, not fat. In her photograph she is fresh-faced, not unattractive and with long frizzy brown hair. She’s wearing a baggy, yoga-hag-type top so I can’t see how big her boobs are.
    I also get her cell phone number, email address, passport number and a whole host of other stuff that I may or may not need. I take his details as well.
    “When can you leave for Bangkok?” he asks.
    I look at the poor bugger. In spite of his evident self-control, it is obvious he is scared out of his wits for his sister.
    “Tomorrow. I’ll reschedule all my appointments. I’ll call you every couple of days.”
    “I have to go back to England,” he says wistfully. “Otherwise I would come with you. It doesn’t feel right –”
    I cut him off.
    “You’ve alerted the police and the Embassy, employed two PIs and spent time looking for Rosie yourself,” I interject. “There is no need for any guilt on your part. Let the rest of us take it from here.”
    He doesn’t look convinced, but he knows he has no choice.
    “Now the good part, Mr. Fletcher. You get to pay my assistant my retainer.”
    He smiles weakly.
    “I think you can call me Simon.”
    “That’s fine. Just so long as you don’t expect me to call you Reverend.”
     
    After Fletcher has left Jingjai comes into my office.
    She looks troubled.
    “David?”
    “Yes?”
    “How common a name is Laughlan Andrews in Scotland, do you think?”
    “Andrews is a common name, but as for Laughlan Andrews I have no idea. Why?”
    “I overheard some of your discussion with Mr . Fletcher,” she says hesitantly.
    “And?”
    “I know in the past one of the