The Dying Beach by Angela Savage Read Free Book Online

typically left neat suicides—not like the bloody mess they’d found in the girl’s room.
    Jayne took his left hand in hers. ‘I don’t know how much you saw, but there was a deep cut in Suthita’s left arm and blood had pooled in her palm. This means she would have used her right hand to make the cut, then dipped her right index finger in the blood to write her suicide note on the wall, yes?’
    She touched her right index finger to the palm of his hand, making the hair rise on the back of Rajiv’s neck.
    â€˜But Suthita was left-handed,’ Jayne said. ‘I noticed when she wrote down the address of the temple where Pla’s body is being cremated. I mightn’t have remembered except the girl at Barracuda Tours was left-handed, too. It was odd to encounter two in a row when just the other day you told me that—’
    â€˜â€”only ten per cent of the population is left-handed.’ Rajiv finished the sentence. He felt his face burn. ‘But that means—’
    Jayne squeezed his hand and dropped it.
    â€˜It means we have to get moving.’

8
    Bapit restored his phone to his chest pocket, making his safari jacket sag on his gaunt frame. His uncle had the bones of a bird, Othong thought, and the heart of a vulture.
    â€˜That was Sergeant Yongyuth,’ Bapit said, as though Othong hadn’t overhead every word. ‘They’ve found the girl’s body. They’re ruling it as a suicide.’
    Othong kept his gaze level with the phone in the old man’s pocket, but he could feel Bapit’s growing rage.
    â€˜Explain to me again what the hell happened.’
    â€˜Well, I remembered Uncle saying he’d kill to get his hands on the girl’s notebook and—’
    â€˜What girl? What notebook?’
    â€˜The girl from the power plant consultations. Remember? When Uncle heard she’d drowned, he said—’
    Bapit slapped him. ‘That was a turn of phrase, you imbecile.’
    The slap didn’t carry much force but Othong’s face burned all the same.
    â€˜If you think I’d want you to kill an innocent girl to satisfy my curiosity, you’re even more stupid than I realised,’ Bapit said.
    â€˜I didn’t mean to kill her, Uncle. It was an accident.’
    â€˜So you say, nephew. And knowing you to be a clumsy, stupid oaf, I believe you. That is the only reason I have not handed you over to the police. Now go and put some clean clothes on.’
    â€˜I don’t have any—’
    â€˜The mae ban found some for you.’
    Othong didn’t wait to be told twice. He scuttled off to the spare room to find laid out on the bed a pair of pants and a shirt large enough to fit him. Not Uncle Bapit’s clothes. The old man was a walking chopstick. They must have belonged to his cousin, Vidura, clothes left behind when he went off to serve with the Thai Army on the Cambodian border. Vidura the golden boy, the smart one. Uncle would never have slapped Vidura on the face, never called him an imbecile. Right up until the moment he tripped a landmine, Vidura had never fucked up like Othong.
    His uncle’s insults stung all the more because Othong had thought himself very clever to locate the right address. And he honestly hadn’t meant to hurt the girl. He’d started out politely explaining that he just wanted her to hand over Pla’s things. But when the girl started screaming about ghosts and farangs, Othong couldn’t think straight. He’d barged inside and hit her in the mouth, intending to shut her up for long enough to hear him out. But she lost her balance and struck her head hard on the corner of the bed as she crashed to the floor. He tried all he could to rouse her, but nothing worked. The breath had gone from her and he couldn’t bring it back.
    Othong was prone to accidents. As a child, he strangled kittens by holding them too tightly, trampled newborn chicks