The Rat Catchers' Olympics by Colin Cotterill

Author:Colin Cotterill
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Crime Fiction
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2017-06-30T20:51:53+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Asians Is Asians

Siri and Daeng stood in front of a dirty grey five-story building in Severnoye Chertanovo, an area known for its depressing prefabricated skyscraper apartment blocks. Soon this old architectural relic too would be knocked down and replaced by something even uglier. Siri looked up at the weather-beaten bricks and the smoky window panes. In a fourth-floor window was the scary face of a wizened old crone frowning down at him. He poked out his tongue at her. A village van pulled up at the curbside and they watched Roger climb down from the back seat. Roger was a smart lad and Siri knew he didn’t have to explain why they’d arranged to meet him here. He could have opted out but he didn’t.

“How did you find the place?” he asked, shaking hands with both Siri and Daeng.

“We didn’t,” said Daeng. “It was Dtui. She took photos of Maen and the javelin girl to the taxi rank and in ten minutes she had an address. Dtui phoned us and we phoned you.”

“You know when I was last in the Soviet Union,” said Siri, “you couldn’t even get a tour guide to crack a smile. Now you just have to click your fingers and the locals would do anything for you.”

“I told you, uncle,” said Roger, “it’s the new spirit of openness. The world is our friend.”

“You know, if you’d sooner not be here we’d quite understand,” said Daeng.

“My Lao brother is in prison,” he said. “What kind of relative would I be to leave him there?”

Daeng kissed him on the cheek and he blushed puce.

The building was dilapidated but still inhabited. When they forced their way into the foyer through the bulky glass doors they weren’t surprised to find nobody manning the reception desk. It was obvious the caretaker had a lot to keep him busy. Siri looked at the steep staircase and sighed. There wasn’t even a lift to decline. They began to climb, allowing the doctor a rest on each landing. The stair carpet was of no identifiable color and it smelled of potatoes. Paint was peeling from the ceiling like impoverished Christmas decorations and the wooden banister had been worn into waves by generations of hands.

On the fourth floor balcony one door stood open and a woman with many decades of ugliness behind her stood blocking their path. It was the crone from the window.

“More Asians?” she said.

“They’re not moving in,” Roger assured her.

“What do they want?” she asked.

“This is the President of Asia and his wife,” he told her.

“Asians is Asians,” she said.

Daeng asked Roger if this was the neighbor who’d identified Maen. He asked her.

“It appears so,” he said.

“Ask her what she saw.”

“She says if you’re press she can’t tell you.”

“We’re not press,” said Daeng.

Easily convinced, the woman told Roger what had happened.

“The Russian girl arrived with that Asian on Sunday,” she said. “I told her it was sinful what she was about to do. She yelled filth at me and I yelled filth back at her.

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