The Coroner's Lunch by Colin Cotterill Page B

exhaust and neither rose nor dissipated.
    Siri, in its midst, threw his head back and laughed, and at that second he made a decision. It was the fastest and potentially most dangerous decision he’d made for a long time. “I need to talk to you about a case.”
    “It can wait till Monday.”
    “No. No, it can’t.”
    The inspector looked deep into Siri’s green eyes and nodded. “I’ll come to your rooms this evening.”
    “You know where I live?”
    “I’m the police.”
    Without bothering to explain, Phosy sped off through a shoal of bicycles, leaving the riders choking in black smoke.
     
     
    Phosy somehow managed to negotiate the stairs to the landing outside Siri’s door without making a sound despite the loose boards. So when he knocked, Siri jumped. “Come in.”
    The policeman let himself in. He’d already left his shoes outside. He was casually dressed and was holding a bottle. You couldn’t help but respect a man who turned up at your door with a bottle. Siri looked at it. “I hope that isn’t a urine sample you want analyzed.”
    Phosy came inside, quickly located the glasses and started pouring. “It’s only Thai brandy. I should have asked if you drank.” He handed a glass to Siri, who nodded to his generous guest.
    “Is this a service of the new police force?”
    “I was taught to show respect to my seniors.”
    “You don’t have to suck up to me, you know.”
    “I know.”
    “Good luck.”
    “Good luck.” They both drank.
    “It seems you learned a lot at that camp.”
    “It was a valuable experience. I can recognize seventy-three varieties of vegetables. I could tell you how old a rice shoot is, or how many months pregnant a buffalo.”
    Siri laughed. “Good luck.”
    “Good luck.”
    They finished the first drink, and Siri took the bottle and poured a second round.
    “So, they didn’t convert you to communism?”
    “They made me aware of the values of the socialist system and the worthy eff—”
    “Okay, okay, I won’t ask you any more questions about the camp. Tell me about Phosy the man.”
    Over the next hour, Siri learned that Phosy had been married and had two children. While he was in the north, they fled across the river; he hadn’t heard from them since. He came back to a house empty of family and furniture, and was currently living in one room.
    Phosy learned that Siri had been married and faithful to only one woman in his life. She had been unwilling to interrupt her contribution to The Cause, so they had never had children. This made loneliness all the more difficult when, eleven years earlier, she’d been killed under mysterious circumstances, leaving Siri with little enthusiasm for life, work, or the furtherance of the Communist Movement.
    It was amazing what two strangers could learn in a short time with the aid of Thai brandy. Interesting, too, that each had weighed up the other so quickly and decided he was to be trusted.
    “So, did you really have a case to discuss, or were you just hoping I’d turn up with some booze?”
    Siri knew he’d gone too far to back out now. He lowered his voice. “I can tell you, but I don’t know if you’d be interested in doing anything about it.”
    “Why not?”
    “It could get you in trouble.”
    “What about you? Aren’t you afraid of getting in trouble?”
    “I’m permanently in trouble.”
    “Who told you you could trust me?”
    “Your Mongoloid cousin and your hemorrhoidal sister.”
    They laughed and drained the last dregs from their glasses.
    “You don’t want to believe them. They’ve got big mouths. You got any coffee?”
    While Siri prepared the aluminum filters and spooned in the rich coffee, he reviewed the official version of Mrs. Nitnoy’s passing for Phosy. But when he’d put the steaming cups on the table, he went over and closed the window shutters.
    Mr. Ketkaew’s arrival at the hospital had reminded him there were ears everywhere: in the temple, in the house, in the next room. The