Behind the Night Bazaar (15 page)

She sighed then changed into the most conservative outfit she’d bought that afternoon: a white blouse buttoned to the neck, black skirt and flat sandals. She toyed with the idea of wearing socks under the sandals—a fashion statement she associated exclusively with evangelical Christians—but couldn’t bring herself to look that awful. She removed all but the barest traces of make-up and hung a large crucifix she’d bought at a street stall on a leather thong around her neck, making sure it sat over her blouse. As a final touch, she took the Gideon Bible from her bedside table.

‘Jesus loves you,’ she said to her reflection in the mirror.

T
wo tuk-tuk drivers refused to take Jayne to Loh Kroh no matter how much money she offered. A third agreed, drove in silence and deposited her at the end of a narrow, unsealed street. One side was lined with garment factories—sweatshops with names like Beauty Queen and Blissful Smile. On the other side, wooden shacks slumped against each other as if exhausted. It was a humid night and the street itself appeared to sweat, oily pools of water reflecting the glow of fairylights from the shacks. There were few people around apart from the brothel touts and bouncers who hovered in the doorways. Even food vendors steered clear of Loh Kroh after dark.

The factories were closed for the night, and Jayne headed down the street, picking her way around puddles and garbage, holding the Bible like a shield against her chest. A small, pink neon sign identified the Kitten Club as the only concrete building on the strip. The ground-floor windows were blacked out and the entrance partly concealed by an awning. There didn’t appear to be anyone on the door, and as Jayne moved closer, she heard music and voices from inside.

A tuk-tuk rounded the corner and headed towards her. Jayne retraced her steps and ducked inside a low-walled shack opposite the club. She peered through slats in the wood, watching as two farang men paid the driver and entered the two-storey building. When the tuk-tuk pulled away, she saw she’d taken refuge inside an old police box, a wooden booth with a thatched roof once used as an information and sentry point. Most of the paintwork had peeled away, there was rubbish on the floor, and a thick layer of spiderwebs appeared to keep the ceiling from caving in.

The booth gave Jayne an excellent vantage point for watching the club and the irony of using a police box for surveillance was not lost on her. Putting the Bible aside, she took out her camera and rested it on a narrow bench that ran the length of one wall. She loosened the slats to poke the lens through, then checked the focus. She’d be able to watch the action through another hole in the wall while recording it on film. She took out a notebook and pen, allowed her eyes to adjust to the gloom and began taking notes.

Tues. 7 May 1996
, 22.30. T
wo Caucasian men arrive
by tuk-tuk. Both mid/late-50s. 1) Bald; long face,
pronounced lines in cheeks, flabby neck; black-rimmed
glasses, square frames. Approx. 1.8 m.
Medium build. Red & white gingham shirt, white
trousers, clean sneakers. 2) Silver-grey hair, thinning
on top; stocky build, approx. 1.85 m. Didn’t see face.
Neat appearance, pale green shirt, possibly silk; grey
trousers, shiny material—synthetic(?); grey canvas
loafers, clean. Slight limp in right leg.

The detail was inspired by Holmes stories—the difference between seeing and observing, as Conan Doyle put it—and as the hour dragged on, to stave off boredom, Jayne made her own deductions about the two men.

The whiteness of the first man’s trousers suggested he was married to a woman whose fidelity he took for granted— only a doormat would be prepared to launder white trousers. Though lean, the loose skin on his face and neck implied he was once fatter. Since nothing in his appearance suggested vanity—his glasses ugly and old-fashioned—Jayne surmised he’d lost weight due to illness, or possibly on doctor’s orders to reduce the risk of heart attack. His sneakers were clean, despite Chiang Mai’s dusty streets, indicating he may have spent the day poolside at his hotel.

She didn’t get as close a look at the second man, but from his clothing deduced that he spent most of his time in air-conditioning: silk and polyester were sweat traps, but his armpits were dry. She imagined the limp was a war wound— he might have fought in Vietnam. Both men looked ordinary: white, middle class, middle-aged, conservative— the type she’d pass in the street without a second glance. But she’d seen them enter a brothel, and try as she might, Jayne couldn’t imagine the interest for these men in having sex with children.

A mangy dog wandered into view, sniffing around the booth. It had scratched itself hairless in patches, hips jutting through scabious grey hide, sores on its muzzle and eyes. The back streets were full of unloved dogs. Thais believed them incarnations of people who’d been bad in a previous life. Jayne reached down as if to pick up a stone: strays were so used to having things thrown at them that the gesture was enough to make the dog yelp as if it had been hit, and lope away.

A motorcycle taxi pulled up outside the club. Jayne got a good look at the passenger as he moved into the bike’s headlight to pay his fare. As the driver took off, the man looked over in Jayne’s direction, allowing his gaze to linger so long she thought he’d seen her. But he turned away and, pausing to tuck in his T-shirt, went inside.

Jayne exhaled and picked up her notebook. She checked her watch and recorded the time—23.45—on a new page, but found it hard to continue. This man was younger than the other two, around her age. He was handsome: high cheekbones, strong jaw, broad forehead, aquiline nose. With olive skin and thick, dark short hair, Jayne guessed a Mediterranean background. He looked fit, a physique suggesting an outdoor job. A builder, perhaps, or a sports instructor. Why would a young, good-looking man go to a child sex brothel? Jayne knew it shouldn’t matter, but he disturbed her more than the older men.

Before she could add further to her notes, another tuk-tuk pulled up and three drunk men, shouting in German and punching each other, fell out onto the street. Though their clothes were stylish, sweat discoloured the backs of their shirts and one had dirt stains on the knees of his pants. They were having a dispute over who should pay the driver, who waited anxiously. After a minute or two of their loud banter, the door to the club opened, casting a shaft of light across the step, and Jayne saw a man who matched the image in Gavan’s fax.

Her heart racing, she crouched lower, releasing the shutter on the camera as a toad-like Thai man appeared beside Kelly and walked over to the Germans to remonstrate with them. One quickly shuffled over to pay the driver, who took off at once. The Germans and the bouncer disappeared beneath the awning, while Kelly paused to glance up and down the street before following them inside.

Jayne eased her finger from the camera button and slumped back against the wall of the booth. That pause had given her the shot she’d hoped for, a close-up of Kelly to show Nalissa.

She was on the verge of packing up when she heard a car engine. Through the gap she saw a brown vehicle with tinted widows stop outside the club. Camera still in position, she began shooting, almost losing her nerve when she saw who got out of the car.

Lieutenant Colonel Ratratarn closed the front passenger door, straightened his cap and marched over to the entrance, his gun holster visible over one hip. He was followed by two other police officers, one of whom Jayne recognised as Pornsak. The other—their driver—looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him. She kept taking photos until an abrupt click signalled the end of the film.

She rummaged through her backpack, found a new roll and reloaded the camera. If the cops were planning a raid, she guessed there’d be more than three of them, which meant they were probably paying Doug Kelly a courtesy call. Catching up with an old friend. Sharing news. Collecting the rent.

She took up her notebook, recorded the time and made detailed notes, using her camera’s zoom lens to take down the vehicle’s registration details. She had just put the notebook away when a voice behind her made her freeze.

‘What the fuck—?’

Hand resting on her camera, Jayne turned and gasped. It was the Mediterranean man. Before she could say a word, he ducked inside and crouched on the floor of the booth beside her.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ he whispered, his accent distinctly Australian.

Her back not just literally against the wall, Jayne considered whacking him over the head with her camera and making a run for it. But it was expensive equipment.

‘S-Simone Whitfield,’ she began. ‘I, uh…’

He eyed the crucifix around her neck. ‘Oh, Jesus, you’re with one of those Christian organisations, aren’t you. Shit, won’t you people ever learn?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Jayne said, inching the camera towards her.

‘Don’t try playing the dumb blonde with me!’ the man hissed. ‘I can see your camera. You’re doing surveillance, aren’t you! Playing spot-the-high-profile-businessman-or-politician-among-the-paedophiles. A nice little scoop to raise your organisation’s profile. Shit! I thought ZTCP had an agreement from you lot to back off and leave it to us now.’

Jayne had no idea who the guy was, but she relaxed at the reference to ZTCP, the anti-child prostitution agency mentioned in Didier’s paper. Bristling from the ‘dumb blonde’ comment, she eyed him squarely.

‘Listen, mate,’ she said, her voice low but steady, ‘I don’t know who you are, but this isn’t what you think. I’m working undercover as a private detective investigating a murder. What’s your story?’

The man frowned. He looked her up and down slowly, as if deciding whether or not to believe her. Then he gave her a wry smile and extended his hand. ‘Mark d’Angelo,’ he said, ‘Australian Federal Police.’

‘Mark,’ she shook the proffered hand, hoping it was dark enough to hide the colour in her cheeks, ‘I think we need to talk.’

D
oug Kelly sat at the bar nursing a glass of single malt scotch. His upturned mouth, bald pate and patches of curly hair above his ears gave him a comical air at odds with his conservative clothing and bleak mood. He’d lost enough weight recently to need a belt for his khaki slacks, and his navy-blue shirt hung loose to conceal the bunched-up waist. Liver spots were appearing on the back of his hands. Checking his watch, he looked over the top of his glasses to scan the room.

Most of the tables were occupied and some patrons had already chosen a girl to sit with them. Other girls maintained a steady flow of traffic between the tables and the bar, placing orders for drinks while keeping an eye out for an offer. There was a spotlight over the stage at the end of the bar in anticipation of the evening’s entertainment. The club was doing a roaring trade, but Kelly was distracted.

At times like this he missed Pattaya. The port town had been good to him, but there was too much competition there, and the product had been spoiled. The girls were jaded—most spoke American English and seemed to be studying for diplomas in business—and the customers weren’t getting the service they’d come to expect from Thailand. Kelly blamed the collapse of the Soviet Union. Pattaya was fine when it was just the regular tourists and sailors on R&R. But then the Russians got in on the act and ran their operations like the mafia, undermining the accepted order of things and distorting the market.

The Russians undercut him in every respect but one: they increased the percentage paid in protection money to the Pattaya police. Up until then it had been like dealing with country cops in New South Wales where Kelly had grown up: provided he maintained regular payments things stayed civil, even friendly. After nearly ten years, Kelly thought he’d be exempt from any sudden price hikes. But he’d overestimated his own worth. As soon as the cops saw what the Russians were prepared to pay, they started leaning on Kelly; and in light of his already shrinking profit margins it wasn’t smart to stay.

So he sent out feelers through his networks, and picked up the buzz about Chiang Mai. The girls were reputedly unsophisticated—many coming from hill tribes and neighbouring countries—and the overheads were much lower. He was able to lease a venue in a part of town previously considered off-limits to non-Thais, and although the place needed work—it had holes in the ground for toilets when he took it over—labour was cheap and easy to come by.

There was no shortage of girls, and there appeared to be almost no limit to what customers were prepared to pay for them—the younger, the better. The first time a customer asked Kelly if he could procure ‘a virgin under thirteen’, he baulked. But the man was prepared to pay as much for one night as Kelly made in a week.

He intended it to be a once-off, but when word got out, Kelly became inundated with requests, which placed him in a dilemma. Privately he thought you had to be a sick weirdo to get off on fucking kids, and he didn’t see himself as the sort of man who’d run a child sex brothel. On the other hand, there was no denying the demand, and Chiang Mai was full of businessmen with fewer scruples than Kelly. At least he would ensure the girls got their fair percentage of the take.

He decided to compromise: once a night, the club would offer a younger girl to the highest bidder. The rest of the girls would be of legal age, albeit young-looking. He gave these specifications to his Thai agents and left the procurement to them, keeping his own dealings with the girls to a minimum. It wouldn’t have surprised him to learn that more than a few were under sixteen. But as far as Kelly was concerned, he was doing the right thing by both his clients and his employees. Business was booming, he’d worked out a deal with the cops, and a comfortable retirement seemed assured. But that was before the Canadian started causing trouble.

He’d fronted up one night and accused Kelly of complicity in the death of some girl he could barely remember. The girl had died of AIDS, though what the link was with the Kitten Club, he didn’t know. Kelly paid a doctor to conduct regular health checks and give condoms to the girls, and there were signs stating that the business abided by the ‘100 per cent condom use’ policy. Maybe the kid was a junkie. While drug use was forbidden on the premises, Kelly explained he couldn’t be held responsible for what his girls might get up to out of hours.