CITY OF ANGELS – A Murder Story in 30 Chapters (part 4 + 5)

On Thailandblog you can read the pre-publication of the thriller 'City of Angels' which, as the title suggests, takes place entirely in Bangkok and was written by Lung Jan. Today chapter 4 + 5.

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Chapter 4.

Tanawat didn't steal his name for an informant. Loosely translated from Thai, Tanawat meant knowledge and he hoped for that when it came to the dark underbelly of the City of Angels or just the night-black fringes of human existence in general. In the past, J. had regularly used his services and special connections. They had come to appreciate each other over the years and J. knew that if anyone could succeed in bringing him closer to the mysterious thieves, it would be Tanawat. He had succinctly explained the matter to his informant over an informal drink four days ago, and today he had arranged to meet him in one of the dingy eateries along the river, between Tha Chang Pier and Phra Chan Pier and near the colorful covered amulet market. It was primarily a practical choice that drove them to this location. Not only did you sit here out of sight in a place that was not too busy, far from the teeming masses a few hundred meters away, but it was also convenient because in the immediate vicinity of his loft and near Thammasat University. After all, no one, with a few exceptions, knew that Tanawat had been teaching at this institution for years, a perfect cover for someone who thirsted not only for academic knowledge…

'I don't know who you have kicked in the shins, but this case is not right', Tanawat immediately shot loose. 'First and foremost, there is your client. I'm not sure you realize how dangerous he can be. Anuwat is not only respected within the environment, but feared above all. He is a deadly spider who has woven a complex web of intrigue around him. One bite, and the game is over… In the distancethe material moisture meter shows you the he's gone over corpses a few times and won't hesitate for a second to do it again should the need arise...'

'Come on, aren't you exaggerating just a little bit? '

'Exaggerate ? I ? ' replied the professor irritably. ' No dude, and don't forget that he has raised corruption in the City of Angels to a rare level. He has turned it into Art with a capital K. Like no other, he has recognized and proven that corruption is the fertilizer on which the entire system in this beautiful but ruthless country thrives ... Both in politics and in the police and the army, he has a few excellent connections who are caught in his net, sometimes even without knowing this…. In the period before the military under the leadership of the army chief of staff, General Prayut Chan-o-cha seized power in May 2014, he baked sweet cakes with both Abhisit and the Taksin family. Once 'to save democracy' the politicians were pushed aside, he became in no timed best buddies with the military junta. I'd be very careful if I were you…'

'I do too ' said J. while being ostentatious Ray Ban started brushing.

'Yes, just laugh about it, where' snapped Tanawat off, 'in the criminal pecking order in this city and far beyond, he is a player beyond category. His expensive tailored suits, ditto lifestyle and millions-devouring art collection cannot hide who he really is: an insane psychopath who craves money and power, but I don't know exactly in which order… You know, when he started legal business a little over a quarter of a century ago, one of the first companies he bought was a huge crocodile farm near Pattaya. Quattons proved that this was not out of concern for the slack production of high-quality wallets, handbags and shoes, but because of the alternative meat processing possibilities offered by its giant saltwater crocodiles. In no time, some of his opponents and other sleepers had disappeared without a trace if you know what I mean…  In short, no match for an art dealer from the province who occasionally plays detective – or what passes for it – in his spare time…'

' Hey… hola, dim it…! Just a reminder: I am not the first person blessed with very few gray cells farang who plunges headlong into a dangerous adventure for a little money. I realize all too well what he is capable of, but I'd be dumber than the proverbial backside of the equally proverbial pig if I let this thing go...'

'Which I really don't like' Tanawat replied, ' is the fact that no one, but no one speaks. Everyone keeps tight lips, which is really exceptional in this city. You'd be surprised how many doors have been slammed in my face the last few days. If this were Sicily then I would say we are dealing with a typical case of the omerta, classic Mafia secrecy. You know, this word not only stands for the criminal code of honor but is also used as a synonym for what is aptly referred to in the criminological reference works as 'a stubborn silence is indicated.'

'Yes, Professor… You're not in an auditorium.'

"I know one thing, J.  The scare is good and even the most loose-spoken sources are now silent as if murdered ...'

'Hmm,' said J. taking a sip of his ice-cold Singha. 'Do you really have no clue?'

'Yes, but that trace is so vague that I will keep this line of thought to myself for a while. There may be a Cambodian link, but I can't comment on that yet. You know I like certainties. Unlike most of my compatriots, I am not a gambler. Give me time to sort it all out, because believe me, if I'm right, this is a very complex story.'

'How much time do you want? '

Look J., I don't want to embarrass myself if I'm wrong. You know how hard it is to lose face for a Thai… Give me another forty-eight hours…'

J. nodded understandingly ' I really can't make forty-eight hours. For Anuwat is time money and after almost a week of waiting, he really wants to see results urgently. Patience doesn't exactly seem to be his strongest gift. You know, his niece is really behind me. She calls at least twice a day to check on the situation. '

'Aaaaaah, the lovely Anong' smirked the professor who had met her a few times at a society event, 'you lucky one… But to the point now… Come on man, I really need more time. I don't want to mislead you either.'

' Okay, twenty-four hours but really no more because time is running out. Before you know it, this statue is in the private collection of some filthy rich bastard in Beijing, Moscow, Lonthe material moisture meter shows you the or Paris. And have we checked….'

The mere fact that even Tanawat was having trouble extracting information about this theft boded ill for J. Something, call it a gut feeling or instinct, told him that this whole thing smelled awful. Glancing at the mud-brown waters of Chao Phraya sloshing by, he said without appearing too gloomy: " Tanawat, these are deep waters and somewhere down here lurks a brutal and ruthless beast. You have to promise me you'll watch out because myself and this city can't miss yousen..'

'Now I'm really troubled… J. getting sentimental… Age is getting to you, Big Irish Softie!' Tanawat stood up and gave a brief farewell laugh, the sarcastic laugh that had become almost his trademark, but the laughter would soon die…

Chapter 5.

J., deep in thought, tugged at his newly raised Cohiba Corona, walked back to his base. Tanawat's caution was to his credit, but he'd never seen his old gabber so distressed and agitated, and that set off a number of alarm bells in his mind. He was not used to this nervousness and, to be honest, it also got on his nerves. With the thin smoke drawing graceful arabesques around his head, he entered his loft with a thoughtful frown, where he was greeted enthusiastically by a wagging and loudly panting jet-black mop of shaggy hair. Sam, his Catalan Sheepdog, was clearly pleased to have his owner home, but J. guessed that this display of joy was largely fortuitous and that his burly and very cunning four-legged friend was mainly after one of the greasy chews he had that morning. the market had bought…

J. had not fared badly in recent years. When he had racked up his first million baht in operating profit, he had bought his Breitling as an extravagant gift to himself. A real one, not the rubbish that could be found for a bargain in any Thai market… He was, after all, a guy who was up to date and felt he should display it… The watch also reminded him every day that hard work paid off. Apart from his business and a large, fully equipped house in the countryside, somewhere high in the mountains between Chiang Mai and Chiang Dao, he also had a home in Bangkok for twelve years. Although his home did not really do justice to the very spacious, fully equipped loft that he had set up in the heart of the Old City, in one of the many old and half-decayed warehouses near Tha Chang Pier on the banks of the Chao Phraya, as a comfortable place to work and live. On the outside, he had not put out a leg to mislead any unwanted visitors, but the interior, which seemed to be a mixture of a man cave, a museum and a library, had cost him a pretty penny.

His sitting area with the weathered Chesterfield and the black leather Barcelona chairs, not the replicas of Studio Knoll, of course, but the real work of Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, reflected not only his sense of style, but above all his desire for comfort. A meter-wide display case housed part of the ceramics and porcelain collection that he had built up over the years, laboriously because always with an eye for quality. The enamelled, early nineteenth century Bencharong porcelain added some bright, colorful accents to the display cabinet, which was dominated by a fine collection of Sukhothai ceramics including Kalong, Sawankhalok and Si Satchanalai pottery. There were even a few rare fourteenth-century pieces of the dark-glazed Sankampaengwerk and even rarer red-colored Haripunchai vases in pristine condition, crafted by Mon craftsmen over a thousand years ago. Across the street, a fine selection of silverware from the Mon, Lahu and Akha was displayed in a small antique Chinese display case, while an equally fine collection daab's or native swords was guarded by two authentic, complete and therefore very rare Harumaki Samurai armor from the Edo period.

His office, next to the living area, showed the same eclectic taste, albeit that almost every wall was hidden behind sturdy and tall bookcases that reflected J.'s varied literary interests and appetite for reading. The Roman know-it-all Marcus Tullius Cicero already knew almost two thousand years ago that a room without books was like a body without a soul and J. – judging by its interior – wholeheartedly agreed with him. There was only one painting in the office, but what kind of one. An extremely rare canvas of a breathtaking landscape in Connemara on Ireland's rugged west coast by Augustus Nicolas Burke, which he had acquired for a considerable sum at an English auction a few years ago through a stooge. It was, in fact, an ironic but expensive nod to his own turbulent past. Burke's brother Thomas Henry, at that time the most senior British civil servant in Ireland, had been stabbed to death by Irish republicans in Dublin's Phoenix Park on 6 May 1882. The fact that Burke's paintings were so scarce was due to the fact that a large part of his works were lost when, during the Irish Republican Easter Rising in 1916, the building of the Royal Hibernian Academy in Dublin's Abbey Street, where Burke had taught for years, was demolished. flames had gone up… The fantastically sculpted bronze bull on his writing table was a work by Alonzo Clemons that he was also particularly fond of. Clemons, whose work is hardly for sale in Thailand, is an American Idiot Savant with an IQ of 40 who, unlike another American moron, does not belong to the Oval Room in the White House, but who pleases the world with his extraordinary sculpture.

J. personally found the gigantic roof terrace the best asset of his base. An opinion whole-heartedly shared by Sam who, almost every time since he was a pup, accompanied his owner to the City of Angels, enjoying several hundred square meters of private playground in the heart of the city to his heart's content. It offered an unobstructed view of one of the most iconic images of the city: the magnificent and in every way unique Wat Arun, the Temple of Dawn on the other side of the river. Coincidence or not, this was exactly the place where the later king Taksin arrived on a beautiful morning in October 1767 after the fall of Ayutthaya with his army, consisting mainly of Chinese and Mon mercenaries, and from where he started the reconquest of the country from the Burmese. had deployed.

Yes, J. had done well for a boy from West Belfast, who'd nestled halfway around the world in an equally screwed-up town. When he arrived in Thailand almost thirty years ago, he had only a new identity and a master's degree in art history in his pocket. The reward for what some still considered betrayal. Growing up in Northern Ireland's capital, near Falls Road, he, like so many of his peers, was predestined, if not genetically or geographically, to become involved in some way with what is in balladry as poetic as the Patriot Game was described but in reality was a bloody and brutal civil war. A sordid conflict, in which the lines between good and evil had quickly blurred and the overconfident, the brave and the foolish had soon lost their way. Since J. had definitely not belonged to one of the aforementioned categories, he had survived, albeit not unscathed.

He had just turned twelve when in 1969 the Troubles had erupted. Disturbed and distressed, he saw how the older brothers and the fathers of the boys he had played football with had thrown stones at his mother and sisters and how, a few weeks later, they had set part of their neighborhood ablaze while the police, dominated by pro-British loyalists Royal Ulster Constabulary, looking at it with hands in their pockets. The anger growing inside him had to find a way out. J., like all the teenagers in the Falls, had started throwing stones and a little later serving Molotov cocktails. Before he really realized what was happening, the streets of his city were filled with armed British soldiers and he was walking around with an Armalite AR-16 in a Active Service Unit of an Irish Republican splinter group. Three years later, all members of his ASU, except himself, were either dead or captured. He had learned in an ungentlemanly way that he could only rely on himself. His intelligence, fearlessness, and perhaps a fair bit of luck had enabled him to rise through the ranks and direct much of the training programs for new recruits in the early XNUMXs. Violence, danger and death had long ceased to be strangers to him, but trusted companions in his increasingly smaller and dangerously paranoid environment.

Only much later did he realize that 1981 had been an extremely important pivotal year in his life. After Bobby Sands and nine of his Irish republican comrades starved to death in Long Kesh prison due to the stubbornness of British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, the armed struggle seemed to have become more hopeless than ever. The more J. thought about it, the more he realized something had to be done. In the late summer of 1983, he suddenly called it quits. He had come to the conclusion that he was not made of the stuff from which heroes were created. On the contrary, he couldn't anymore. The Sacred Fire that had once burned so fiercely within him had gone out. He wanted to cut it off, but not a hair on his head that thought about pleasing the British. That chasm was simply too deep and, as far as he was concerned, unbridgeable. He still had a way out because, like most Catholics in Ulster, he has dual Irish/British nationality. In exchange for very useful information on three weapons depots, a handful of buildings used in the republic as safe houses and a lucrative smuggling trade in fuel oil and petrol that had cost the Irish treasury several millions, he managed to strike a deal with the Special Detective Unit (SDU) from the Irish Garda Siochana, the National Police. With the blessing of the Irish Intelligence Service he was given a modest start-up capital and a new identity. He had never looked back since the day he got on the plane. He had seized the opportunity for a fresh start with both hands and emigrated to the other side of the world in the greatest secrecy. Away from the always and everywhere lurking death, blood and misery. Away also from the tangible hatred in a divided society. Away also from the tight straitjacket of the Church and the means of coercion used by her that spoiled all pleasure. Despite his tough image, he had one soft spot, which, incidentally, he had been ashamed of for many years and quite wrongly, because it didn't suit the grim, taciturn, leather-jacketed fellows of Ballymurphy or the equally secretive men with their ice-cold eyes and rock-hard fists from the Lower Falls: Art had always intrigued him. It had comforted him in difficult times and, just like in life, in art, you have to start anew every day. An idea that appealed to him. And so, in good spirits, he went to study art history at the university Department of Fine Arts from the University of Hong Kong where he soon specialized in antique Asian pottery and porcelain. Slowly but surely, the sharpest memories of what he would most like to forget completely faded away. He was already of the opinion that those who long for their youth only show a bad memory…

After successfully completing his studies, he had visited several countries in Southeast Asia in search of a place to settle down. Not a hair on his head thought about returning to Europe. However, it took a long time before he really found his feet in this corner of the world. India was too chaotic for him and Japan, attractive as it was, too expensive and hectic. Burma, which was led with a tight hand by a bunch of crazy generals, was out of the question anyway. Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia were marked by the violence of war and therefore not really an option. In the end he was hiding in the relatively safe anonymity of the big city. He chose Krung Thep, the City of Angels or Bangkok like most farang call the Thai capital. He had never intended to stay in Hong Kong. In those days there were just too many British people around for his taste, and you shouldn't try your luck. Thailand, on the other hand, was centrally located in Southeast Asia and was in the process of catching up economically. Moreover, life there was much, but also much cheaper than in Hong Kong, which was nice for his budget. In addition, he was enchanted by the intoxicating mix of ancient cultures and breathtaking nature that Thailand offered. Okay, not everything was as it seemed in the Land of Smiles. For a large part of the population there was little to smile about and the political instability and the military's hunger for power did not do the image of the country any good either. A country that, much to J.'s chagrin, was still an extreme class society, where - try as he might - as farang not really fit. There was the very small, very conservative and generally very wealthy upper class, the so-called Hi so along with the gradually growing middle class that – often in vain – will do anything to achieve Hi so to promote. And then, of course, there was the large crowd, which no one took into account and who just tried to survive day after day. An old friend of his, a Farang doctor who had lived in Chiang Mai for years, had once told him that Thailand could, in fact, be compared to a beautiful, pretty woman that you fall in love with almost instantly. But slowly you discover that not everything is as it seems and you discover a lot of nasty things that lie…

Yet he loved his new country and people dearly, only slightly less of its leaders…

An American crooner with a mafia connection once claimed that New York 'the city that never sleeps', but apparently he had never been to Bangkok in his life. The busy, exuberant metropolis was and is one of the most exciting cities in the world. The city was perhaps a bit too exciting and J. had to experience this in the first weeks and later even months. It soon dawned on him that he had to look for a slightly less feverish alternative. He had wandered the land for months and finally followed not his mind but his heart. At last, through trial and error, he had settled in Chiang Mai,'the Rose of the North', a metropolis on a human scale, which has charmed him with its atmospheric walled Old City since the first time he had visited it. Just like his hometown, J. had grown older and wiser and slowly but surely settled down over the next few years. It had been a long and arduous process, but in the end he had found peace with himself and the world. Now he ran a small business with five permanent employees and a handful of casual helpers and was accountable to no one. He was now doing exactly what he wanted. What else did you need in life? Point. End of discussion.

J. had integrated his business office into the loft for purely practical reasons. That was a smart move. He soon realized that not all matters could be settled in distant Chiang Mai. Sometimes his dealings required some discretion and then this was an excellent place. Moreover, the international and even national shipping of cargo was something that preferably happened from the City of Angels with its port, railways and airports. And it also saved him a lot of rental costs, which especially appealed to his bookkeeper... No, when he was offered the opportunity to buy this old warehouse, he really shouldn't have thought long about this offer. On the ground floor he now had more than enough storage space and also had a small but fine restoration studio, while the first floor was taken up by the loft and his office.

When he entered his office, he was bulging in a gray linen jacket that looked like it had been stuffed into a backpack of a backpacker, traveled here from the other end of the world, Kaew was waiting for him. Kaew was his right-hand man when it came to doing business in Bangkok. Many were misled by his mock naivety, rounded appearance and slow behavior, which in turn turned out to be an advantage for J.'s business figure. Another advantage was that Kaew spent many years as a journalist at 'The Nation' had worked in one of the two nationally published Thai English-language quality newspapers, which meant that he not only had an almost perfect command of the English language, in contrast to the rest of the Thai population, but also had an extensive network of informants and contacts in all conceivable sections of the society had.

But he also had his less good sides. J., for example, was convinced deep down that some, no doubt serious, flaw in a past life had thoroughly disrupted Kaew's karma and he was now doomed to live a greasy and fat life… To make matters worse, Kaew was a convinced Anglophile who, moreover – oh, horror – had a soft spot for the British royal house. A predilection that bumped J.'s Irish chest head-on and occasionally made him question Kaew's sanity… Nevertheless, he had offered Kaew a job more than a decade ago after the savvy and highly intelligent Bolknak had managed to get him out of a a very predicament in which a bunch of ancient manuscript cabinets from a monastery in Keng Tung, a corrupt Burmese general and armed to the teeth Shan rebels had played a leading role.

Kaew, who had a little brother dying of round-the-pot twisting, got straight to the point:

'And ? Have you made any progress yet? '

' No fuck, it looks damn strong like Tanawat is afraid to stir the shit deeper…'

'Didn't I warn you that this thing stinks' said Kaew, with a tone of reproach in his voice. 'But, as always, Mister won't listen. Sir knows better. Because Mister has been living here for a few years. But Sir apparently doesn't realize…'

'STOP!J. sounded a little annoyed when he interrupted Kaews' Jeremiade. 'He finally, after much insistence, told me that there might be a useful lead, but he left me in the dark. He will let me know something tomorrow…'

'Well, I'll be curious,' muttered Kaew, refocusing on the now-cold skewer of pizza Quattro Formaggi whom he had been preparing before J. had disturbed him in this most important business. 'You seem to have forgotten what an important part of a good diet is eating…” it sounded gruffly from the other side of his desk.

To be continued….