The Solitary Man (25 page)

Hutch gripped the bars, his eyes intense. 'Chau-ling, this isn't 196 STEPHEN LEATHER going to go to trial. It's all been a mistake and when the police realise that, I'll be out of here.'

Kriengsak frowned. 'In what way has there been a mistake?' he asked.

Hutch sighed in exasperation. 'The drugs they found. They're not drugs. Once they've been tested, they'll have to let me go.'

The lawyer and Chau-ling exchanged glances again.

Hutch realised there was something they weren't telling him. 'What?' he said. 'What's wrong?'

The confusion was obvious in Chau-ling's eyes. 'Warren, the results of the tests came back this morning. You were carrying ninety-eight per cent pure Number Four heroin.'

Hutch's jaw dropped and he felt suddenly weak at the knees. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the bars tighter. The room seemed to spin and he closed his eyes.

'According to a friend of mine in the prosecutor's office, they will be looking for a speedy trial,' he heard Kriengsak say. 'And the prosecution will be pressing for the death penalty.'

Hutch's shoulders sagged. He let go of the bars and massaged his temples with the palms of his hands. 'What? What are you talking about?' He found it difficult to talk and the strength had drained from his legs.

The lawyer repeated himself, but Hutch barely heard the words. He sat down heavily. His head felt as if it was about to explode. It didn't make any sense. None of it made any sense. Pure heroin? How in God's name had the laboratory come to that conclusion? Something had gone wrong, badly wrong. Maybe the Thai police had set him up. Maybe when the lab had shown that the white powder wasn't heroin, the police had decided to take matters into their own hands and had substituted the real thing.

'Warren, it's okay,' said Chau-ling. 'They don't execute foreigners here. The King always commutes the sentence to life imprisonment. Not that ... I mean . . . you know . . . it's not going to come to that.'

Hutch wasn't listening. It had all gone wrong from the start. According to Billy, Hutch should have been sent to the main prison straight away, he shouldn't have been locked up in a police cell for three days. How had Billy managed to be so wrong? Hutch realised THE SOLITARY MAN 197 he was panting: his breath was coming in short, ragged gasps like a heart attack victim. He held his breath for several seconds and fought to stay calm. Panic wouldn't serve any purpose. He forced himself to breathe slowly and he clenched and unclenched his hands.

'Warren? Warren, are you all right?'

Hutch ignored her. Maybe Billy had set him up? But that didn't make any sense because if Billy wanted to cause him grief, all he had to do was to make one telephone call to the police in the UK. And if Billy wanted Hutch dead, then Billy knew people, very heavy people, people who'd quite happily pull the trigger on a sawn-off shotgun without the need for laboratory analysis or a trial. But that didn't make any sense either, because Hutch had never crossed Billy. In fact, in Parkhurst they'd been friends. And Hutch had agreed to help him get his colleague out of prison, albeit reluctantly. Why would Billy then go and double-cross him? Whichever way he looked at it, it didn't make any sense.

Perhaps it wasn't Billy who'd set him up; perhaps Bird had substituted the drugs. Maybe Bird was working against Billy and this was some sort of plot to destroy Billy's operation. But if Bird had betrayed Billy, then why hadn't Billy been in touch? And what about the man who'd delivered the drugs, the man who was supposed to step forward and take the blame so that Hutch could be released? Maybe he'd had a change of heart; maybe he'd set Hutch up so that he wouldn't have to go to prison.

Hutch put his hands up to his face and covered his eyes with his palms. Bird. Billy. The police. Bird's contact. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to set him up. There had to be a way out. There had to be something he could do to get out of his predicament.

'Warren. Pull yourself together.' Chau-ling spoke urgently and Hutch snapped out of his reverie.

'I'll be okay, Chau-ling,' he said. He looked up but he had trouble focusing. He shook his head and blinked several times.

She stared at him, her concern obvious in her eyes. 'Let Khun Kriengsak help you,' she said, her voice little more than a whisper. 'Let him at least present your case.'

Hutch stood up again and walked hesitantly towards her. He felt suddenly faint and put his forehead against the bars. Chauling 198 STEPHEN LEATHER reached out to touch him but an armed policeman barked at her and she pulled her hand back as if she'd been stung. 'Chauling, you have to listen to me,' he said. 'You have to listen to me, and you have to do what I say.' 'Anything, Warren.'

'Go home. Forget about me. Forget everything.' She shook her head quickly. 'No. You can't make me go.' Behind her, a black-robed judge and three women carrying files entered the courtroom and took their places. Clerks scurried about and several uniformed policemen walked in, carrying more files and talking in hushed voices.

'It is about to start,' said Khun Kriengsak. 'The proceedings will all be in Thai, so I shall have to translate for you.' 'Okay,' said Hutch. 'But I don't want to say anything.' 'You won't be asked to say anything,' said the lawyer. 'At this stage, all the judge wants to know is that the police have a case against you. It's nothing more than a formality.'

A gavel banged and the lawyer jerked as if he'd been pinched. He nodded curtly at Hutch, signalling that they'd have to be quiet. He went over to the sparsely filled public benches with Chauling and they sat down together. Chau-ling kept looking over at Hutch with anxious eyes but he ignored her and stared straight ahead.

TIM CARVER WAS STANDING by the water cooler when he heard his name being called. It was Ed Harris, a young agent on attachment from the DEA's New York office. 'Tim, call for you. London.'

Carver drained his paper cup, crumpled it and bounced it off the wall into a wastepaper basket. 'Yeah, two points, the crowd goes wild,' he muttered to himself. 'Okay, Ed,' he called down the corridor. 'I'll take it in my office.'

His phone was already ringing when he pushed open his office door. He sat down and picked up the receiver. It was Richard Kay, a British journalist he'd met only once but with whom he'd struck up an immediate rapport. They chatted for a while, reminiscing THE SOLITARY MAN 199 about Kay's recent fact-finding trip to the Far East, then the journalist came to the point.

'Tim, have you seen Jennifer Leigh recently?'

'A few days ago.'

'But not within the last forty-eight hours?'

'No. Why?'

'She's gone AWOL and the feature editor's doing his nut.'

'Sorry I can't help,' said the DEA agent. 'I gave her some background on a Brit who got caught with a kilo of heroin, but I haven't seen her since.'

'Warren Hastings?'

'That's the guy. She had some conspiracy theory, a hunch that something wasn't kosher.'

'Yeah, it turns out that she might be right.'

Carver tensed and reached for a pen. 'What makes you say that, Richard?'

There was a moment's hesitation as if the journalist was considering how much to tell Carver. 'I checked out the passport number she gave me. It's genuine. Issued just over seven years ago. So far so good. But then I went to look up his birth certificate. There isn't one.'

'You mean it's missing?'

'I mean that no one called Warren Hastings was born on the date in the passport. Nor during the months either side.'

Carver doodled on his notepad. 'How can that be?' he asked. 'It's the same procedure in the UK as in the States, right? You have to produce a birth certificate to get a passport.'

'That's right. The usual way of setting up a false identity is to use the birth certificate of someone who died without ever getting a passport, ideally an infant.'

'Same in the States,' said Carver. 'So you're saying that this Hastings guy got a passport without a birth certificate?'

'Uh-huh. There've been a couple of bad apples in the Home Office over the past few years, selling passports for cash to rich Chinese and Nigerians and the like. Two rings were busted and some of the passport numbers they sold are known, but most aren't. I'm assuming that Hastings or whatever his real name is bought one of them.'

'Have you told the Home Office yet?'

'Bit of a sticky wicket, there,' said Kay. 'There's a guy I pay for information, and I can't tell them officially without tipping them off that I've got an inside source. So mum's the word.'

Carver wrote the name Warren Hastings on his notepad and underlined it three times.

'Also, Jenn told me that Hastings avoided having his photograph taken,' continued Kay. 'And he had no relatives, none that he talked about, anyway.'

Carver put down his pen and pulled a half-empty pack of Marlboro from his shirt pocket. He tapped a cigarette out and lit it. 'So her hunch was right,' he said. 'Hastings isn't his real name, he's hiding from something. Or somebody.'

'Yeah, that's the way it looks. Jenn went to Hong Kong to sniff around, and then she was on her way back to Bangkok. But since her last phone call from Hong Kong, we haven't heard from her.'

'Does she always keep in touch with the office? I got the feeling she was a bit of a maverick.'

'She's a bit headstrong, but she's always professional,' said Kay. 'And she wanted the information I've got, so she'd call for that if nothing else.'

'Where was she staying the last time she was here?'

'The Shangri-la. And she was flying Thai. She might have spoken to them about reconfirming her ticket.'

Carver wrote the name of the hotel and the airline on his notepad. 'I'll check around, Richard. Give me your number and I'll get back to you.'

Kay gave him the office telephone number. 'Hey, by the way,' said the journalist. 'What's this about you telling her you were gay?'

Carver chuckled. 'She told you that, huh?'

'Could have knocked me down with a feather. Didn't seem to gel with what the two of us got up to in that massage parlour you took me to, but I didn't put her right. Did she hit on you?'

'Like a ten-ton truck. Suggesting that women didn't turn me on seemed to be the most diplomatic way out. She's dangerous, that one.'

'A maneater,' agreed Kay. 'But I hope she's okay.'

THE JUDGE SAID NOTHING for almost an hour. One by one files were handed to him and he read them silently, occasionally making notes on a pad. He was middle aged and overweight with a high forehead, bulging eyes behind thick lenses and jowls under his chin that wobbled as he turned his head. He looked for all the world like a brown-skinned frog contemplating his next meal. Eventually he looked up, put his pen down on his pad, and interlinked his fingers. One of the female officials, the eldest and clearly the most senior, called out a name. One of the Thais stood up. The judge asked a policeman several questions and then said something to the prisoner. He began to reply but the judge silenced him with an impatient wave of his hand. Two guards took the prisoner away and led him through a back door.

Warren Hastings was the next name to be called. Hutch got to his feet and stood straight, his chained hands in front of him. Immediately Khun Kriengsak stood up and addressed the judge. The judge nodded, and then began to talk to a uniformed policeman.

Kriengsak went over to the bars and motioned for Hutch to come forward. As the policeman read from a file, Kriengsak translated in a hushed voice, so quietly that Hutch had to strain to hear. The policeman had related the details of the arrest at the airport and the results of the lab test on the heroin that was discovered in his bag. The policeman took a sheet of paper and held it up. The judge motioned for the woman with Hutch's file to hand it to him. He polished his glasses and flicked through the paperwork and pulled out a sheet of paper which he studied carefully.

'The police say that you signed a confession, admitting that the heroin was yours,' whispered the lawyer.

'Under duress,' said Hutch.

'Nevertheless . . .' said Kriengsak, but he didn't finish. He listened to what the policeman was saying. 'They say the arrest was the result of a tip-off from a regular informant.'

The judge nodded gravely and then looked at Hutch, blinking 202 STEPHEN LEATHER behind the thick lenses. He spoke for less than a minute, then put the file aside and waved at the senior assistant to continue with the next case.

'You are to be held in custody for twelve days,' said Kriengsak. 'No bail.'

'Where?'

'Klong Prem.' A uniformed guard took a sheet of paper from the judge and passed it through the bars to Hutch. 'You must sign that,' said Kriengsak. He handed Hutch a slim gold pen.

Hutch fumbled to hold them both with his handcuffed hands. He scanned the sheet. It was all in Thai. 'What is it?' he asked.

'You sign it to say that you understand that you are being remanded for twelve days. After twelve days they'll bring you back here. And for every twelve days thereafter until your trial. You'll have to sign a form like this each time they take you to prison.'

'Just a thought,' said Hutch. 'What would happen if I didn't sign?'

'Then they'd keep you in the holding cell,' said the lawyer patiently. 'Without food or water or a place to sleep.'

Hutch signed. He almost made the mistake of using his real name, and struggled to make the C that he'd begun to write look like the W of Warren. He handed the paper and the pen .back to Kriengsak. 'Now what happens?' Hutch asked.

Before the lawyer could answer, Hutch's shoulders were seized and he was pulled away from the bars. He looked over his shoulder. Chau-ling had got to her feet, her face creased in anguish.

He was taken through the door at the back of the seating area, along a corridor and through a second door. Behind the second door was another corridor, with cells on both sides. He was put in the first cell on the right. It was barely twenty feet square with green-painted walls and floor-to-ceiling bars on the side facing the corridor. There were already more than thirty men there, most of them in brown sleeved shirts and short pants and almost half with chains on their legs. They sat on a dirty cement floor or stood at the bars shouting to prisoners in the cell opposite. Hutch walked to the back of the cell, but stopped when the smell of the toilet hit him. There was an open sewer stinking of urine behind THE SOLITARY MAN 203 the squat toilet. He returned to the front of the cell and found a place to sit while he waited. After an hour Matt was put into the cell and he sat down next to Hutch.

'Klong Prem,' sighed the American.

'Yeah, me too,' said Hutch. 'Was your lawyer there?'

'For all the good that it did me. I paid him thirty thousand baht and he didn't even have a copy of the arrest report. He'd been drinking, too. I could smell it on his breath. I asked him to translate what the judge was saying, but all he kept telling me was that it was routine, that the judge would be angry if I held him up by asking for everything he said to be translated. Then he asked me for another fifty thousand baht.' He closed his eyes and banged his head on the wall again.

Hutch drew his legs up against his chest. He didn't like the look of the chains that the men were wearing, and the brown uniforms suggested that they had already spent time in the prison. Did that mean that he too would be put in chains?

There were footsteps in the hallway, but Hutch didn't look up. 'Khun Warren?' It was Kriengsak, holding his briefcase in one hand.

Hutch got to his feet and went over to the bars. 'Thanks for translating,' he said.

The lawyer accepted Hutch's thanks with a slight smile. 'I am only sorry that you would not let me do more, Khun Warren. Do you still insist that you do not require my services?'

Hutch had a sudden impulse to beg the lawyer to do whatever it took to stop him being sent to prison, but he knew it was pointless. He shook his head.

'Very well,' said Kriengsak. 'I wish you the best of luck.' He turned to go.

'Wait!' said Hutch. 'You've been inside Klong Prem?'

'Not personally,' said the lawyer, without any sense of irony. I 'But I have had several clients who have had the misfortune to % spend some time there, despite my best efforts.'

Hutch put his head closer to the bars. 'Klong Prem,' he said. 'What's it like? What can I expect?'

'It will not be pleasant.' The lawyer took a deep breath as if preparing himself for a courtroom speech. 'First, you must n 204 STEPHEN LEATHER understand that prisons in Thailand do not operate as they do in the West. Prisoners here do not have the same rights, even prisoners such as yourself who are on remand. We assume that if the police say a man is guilty, he is. You will be chained as soon as you reach Klong Prem. The chains will stay on for at least a month, perhaps longer, but if you are prepared to bribe your guards, the chains can be taken off sooner. The food you will be given will be worse than you can possibly imagine, but you will be able to buy better food, fruit and vegetables. You will be put in a cell with up to twenty other prisoners, but if you are prepared to pay, you can be moved to a better cell.'

'I can buy myself a better cell?' asked Hutch in astonishment.

'In Klong Prem, you can buy almost everything,' said the lawyer. 'Except your freedom.'

Hutch groped for his wallet. He opened it. There was only two thousand baht inside.

'I'm sure Miss Tsang will deposit money for you,' said Kriengsak.

Kriengsak stepped aside to allow two guards to open the door to the holding cell. The two Nigerians were ushered in and the door relocked. Joshua gave Hutch a gentle pat on the back and mumbled something that Hutch couldn't quite catch.

'And I have to stay in prison until the trial?' Hutch asked Kriengsak.

'I'm afraid so, yes.'

'Which will be how long?'

'Three months. Four. Trial dates are unpredictable in Thailand.'

Hutch rested his forehead on the bars. A group of brown- uniformed policemen walked in twos down the corridor. One of the guards shouted at the prisoners and gestured for them to stand up. Hutch looked at Kriengsak expectantly.

'You are to be taken to the prison now,' said the lawyer. 'All I can do is to wish you the best of luck. If you should change your mind about representation . . .' He didn't give Hutch time to reply, as if he already knew what his answer would be. He smiled sympathetically and walked away, leaving Hutch feeling more alone than he'd felt since he'd arrived in Thailand.

THE PHONE ON TIM Carver's desk trilled like an injured bird and he picked it up. It was a Thai scientist at the police forensic laboratory. His name was Chat, and though Carver had never met the man he spoke to him several times a month. Their conversations were always in English. Carver's Thai was as fluent as a Westerner's could be, and it was considerably better than Chat's English, but the scientist refused to speak to the DEA agent in Thai. Carver wasn't sure if it was because the scientist felt threatened by Carver's grasp of the language, or if it was simply that Chat wanted to practise his English, but whatever the reason, the conversations were punctuated with pauses and hesitations as Chat sought to get his grammar and vocabulary in order.

'Mr Tim, we have received now the results of the heroin test,' said Chat, labouring over each word.

'That's good,' said Carver, flicking a cigarette out of its packet with one hand.

'It is from heroin that we have had before,' Chat continued.

Carver lit his cigarette and settled back in his chair. 'Even better,' he said.

'What?' said Chat.

Carver realised his words of encouragement had only confused the scientist. 'Nothing,' said Carver. 'Please go on.'

'Yes, good,' said Chat. 'It is identical to a batch we tested last year. From Chiang Mai. I have a reference number. Do you have a pen?'

Carver reached for a ballpoint. 'Yes,' he said. Chat gave him the reference number used by the Thai police. It wasn't familiar, but then Carver dealt with hundreds of cases every year. 'Chiang Mai, you said?'

'The big one last year. Fifty kilos. From Zhou Yuanyi.'

Carver remembered the bust, one of the biggest that year. It had been handled by the Thais, and the DEA hadn't been informed until after arrests had been made. One of those arrested had been Park, the man Carver had gone to see in Klong Prem prison. He wrote,

'Zhou Yuanyi' on a sheet of paper and underlined it. 'Fax me the report, will you, Chat? I'd like to see it as quickly as possible.' 'Of course, Mr Tim,' said Chat. 'Right away.' Carver smiled as he replaced the receiver. The fax could arrive any time within the next week or so. The Thai definition of 'right away' was flexible, to say the least.

THE PRISONERS WERE SHEPHERDED on to a coach by brown-uniformed guards with shotguns. It wasn't one of the pristine white coaches that Hutch had seen parked outside the prison: it was shabby with blue rusting paintwork, though it did have similar metal screens on the windows. There were more prisoners than seats and Hutch and the two Nigerians had to stand during the two-hour journey to the prison. The main road leading out of town was almost blocked solid with traffic and they moved at a snail's pace. Two guards with shotguns rode at the back of the bus, another rode up front with the driver.

Hutch looked down at the manacles on his ankles. They were shiny stainless steel, almost brand new, with a lock on each shackle. The chain allowed him to take steps about three-quarters of his normal stride. Several of the prisoners had tied strips of cloth to the middle of their chains which they held to keep the chain from dragging on the ground as they walked. Hutch managed to get a close look at the manacles on the legs of a Thai man in prison uniform and what he saw scared him: there appeared to be no locking mechanism, just pieces of metal which had been curved around the ankles. He hoped they weren't standard wear in the prison. Chau-ling's lawyer had said that he would be forced to wear chains for the first month. If the manacles had locks, at least he stood a chance of getting them off: the chains worn by the Thai prisoner could only be removed by forcing the metal link apart, something that would require superhuman strength or, more likely, some sort of machinery.