Angkor Cloth, Angkor Gold (The Angkor Series Book 3)

Book summary

In "Angkor Cloth, Angkor Gold," the aftermath of the Vietnamese liberation of Cambodia sets the stage for a haunting pursuit of justice. In refugee camps along the Thai border, a relentless killer preys on young girls. Decades later, as similar crimes resurface in Phnom Penh, the Minister of the Interior assigns investigator Chamreun and police officer Sophie Chang to uncover the truth. With Interpol connecting the Asian crimes to unsolved European killings, their investigation takes unexpected twists. As they delve into the chilling perspective of the killer's diary, a bond forms amidst the unfolding horror. This gripping novel explores forgotten victims, hidden secrets, and the unwavering quest for justice. Will Chamreun and Sophie unmask the killer, or will the victims forever be denied closure?.

Excerpt from Angkor Cloth, Angkor Gold (The Angkor Series Book 3)

Foreign Correspondents’ Club. Phnom Penh. 30t h November 2016

It felt like the rainy season was mounting one last desperate offensive on Phnom Penh, trying to retain the often flooded grip it had held over the city, particularly in the last six weeks. The rain was coming down in vertical sheets, almost shrouding Chroy Changvar from view and it didn’t look like it was going to end anytime soon.

Chamreun nursed his dragon fruit shake and stared into the wet darkness. It was times like this that he truly missed alcohol, missed its warm embrace and the option to hide in drunken oblivion. He’d had real trouble sleeping since his squad had helped close down the trafficking ring that had been killing Cambodian children, and nothing the doctors had given him had helped. He was losing count of the times he had bought a bottle of whisky on the way home only to argue with himself on arrival and end up pouring it down the sink to remove the temptation.

He looked out at the rain again. Sometimes he thought the city was like the hands of Lady Macbeth, forever trying to clean itself of the stains that had marked it for decades, yet never ridding itself of the echoes of violence and going slowly mad with the unceasing effort. Paul had taken him to a production of Macbeth in Bangkok last year and he had found himself sympathising with the ultimately tragic woman. Gazing down at his own hands he wondered if he too was becoming like the city in that respect. Despite the support and ongoing counselling from his abbot friend, Chanvatey, he still felt the burden of the violence he had visited on people. He knew that it was, in most cases at least, fully justified, but he still struggled to reconcile that justification with his growing religious beliefs. His guilt and the memories of his violent actions were things that invaded his thoughts every day. And not just every day; the faces of those he had tortured or killed were often in his dreams, well more nightmares than dreams, and he would wake drenched in sweat at several points during the night. Would he ever be free of this stain of guilt?

Out, damned spot! Out, I say!

The person he was meeting was late, and looking at the weather outside he didn’t think they would be turning up any time soon. There had been no SMS message or phone call, and no answer when he had tried calling. But if his friend had been coming by bike there was little chance they would have heard the ringing over the constant drumming of the rain, even if they had stopped somewhere to take shelter from the deluge. He considered sending a text to cancel the meeting then realised that if he left while the rain was this heavy he’d likely spend a couple of hours sitting in flooded traffic. In the absence of his friend, but the presence of a monsoon attack outside, he may as well order some food and hope that the rain might stop in the next hour or so.

He called the waitress over and ordered a classic chicken Caesar salad and a bottle of Kulen water, then returned to gazing at the interminable rain outside. Where next? His disillusionment with his work seemed to grow every day, and he knew that were it not for the camaraderie within the team he would likely have resigned straight after the trafficking case. Since then there had been little for the team to do; assisting the police with a couple of drug busts, the theft of some Ministerial documents by some amateurs which took two days to crack, and a few of the usual training exercises the squad undertook in quiet periods. He knew the team would write off his disillusionment as boredom and say that he just needed another major case to get his teeth into, but he knew the real problem went much deeper than that. He needed out. He needed away from death and pain and misery and all the things that went with his job.

He felt that he had paid his dues and made his contribution to moving his country forward, and now it was time to think more about himself. The price was too high to keep on paying, and he worried that one day this doubt would cost either his own life or the life of one of his team through a moment’s lapse of concentration.

Part of him didn’t care if he ended up dead, but he also didn’t want to be responsible for a friend’s death and then he had to think about his family too. Losing his sister had devastated what was a close family unit; if they lost him too then he knew his mother’s heart would break. His phone rang and he looked at the screen. Damn, was that woman telepathic? He had thought about her for the first time that day and here she was phoning him.

“Hi, Mama, sok sabai?”

“Is everything okay? You haven’t phoned for days.”

“Sorry, I’ve been a little busy. I was going to phone you when I got home tonight.”

“You’re not at home? Do you have rain there? It’s a big storm down here.”

“I was meant to meet a friend but then the rain started. They haven’t turned up and I’m going to have something to eat in the hope that the rain stops before I finish.”

“What are you eating? You never seem to eat well, always rushing about and eating barang food. It’s not healthy for you,” his mum said.

“I’ve ordered a Caesar salad and a bottle of water,” he replied with a wry smile on his face.

“See? Barang food. It’s not good for you.”

“It’s a salad, Mama,” he answered, not mentioning that it likely had more calories than a McDonald’s meal.

“Yes, well,” said his mum, sensing she could be losing the battle but determined to fire a final salvo. “That may be, but Khmer food much better for you.”

Chamreun sighed.

“Yes, Mama. I’ll have some Bai sach chrouk for breakfast.”

“It would be better if I made it,” said his mum, grabbing some small victory from what had seemed like defeat. “You haven’t been home for weeks. Come and see me. Your father misses you.”

Chamreun knew that his father would never say something like that, even if he thought it. Like most Cambodian men of his generation, he thought emotions were something best left to women.

“Mama,” he said before she could launch another offensive, “I have a free weekend coming up. How about I come down and spend it with you and the family?”

There was an unexpected pause at the other end of the line. “Do you promise?” his mum said.

“I promise. I’ll drive down on Friday night and come back to the city on the Sunday evening. How does that sound?”

“It sounds wonderful. I’ll cook all your favourite food and we can have a party Saturday night,” his mum said happily.

“Great, Mama. Look, I have to go. The waitress is bringing my food.”

“Just remember, not too much barang food. We will see you on Friday.”

Chamreun put the phone away, relieved the interrogation was over but happy that he would see the family at the weekend. The only downside was that he knew there would be at least two or three female guests invited to the festivities on Saturday, maybe a friend of his sister’s or the niece of one of his mother’s friends. Since Aya’s death, but especially in the last few months, his mother had been dropping lots of hints that he should be thinking about marriage soon. It was one reason he hadn’t been home too often; the succession of prospective brides was beginning to be a little off-putting. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get married, it was more that he couldn’t consider it while still in such a dangerous job. And if… when he did quit, he felt he needed some time to adjust to normality again. He hadn’t even thought about what he would do once he left the armed forces. Things like ‘aptitude in torture’, ‘knowing 20 ways to kill a man with your bare hands’, and ‘insertion of a special forces team into enemy territory’ were hardly skills that looked good on a CV. It wasn’t as if he was short of cash either as the Minister had allowed the team to hold back some of the cash they had confiscated from the various illegal operations they had broken up over the last few years. But what could he invest it in? He couldn’t see himself running a bar or restaurant, that was for sure, but then he couldn’t see himself running any sort of business. Some time off to gather his thoughts was definitely the core of his future plans, once he summoned the courage to tell his boss that his time in uniform was over.

His phone rang again. This was getting weird. First he thought about his mother and she phoned seconds later. Now he had thought about his boss, the Minister of the Interior, and here he was phoning immediately after too.

“Hello, sir, how are you?”

“I’m good, Chamreun, thank you. And you?” the Minister said.

“I’m good too, thank you,” Chamreun replied, wondering where the small talk was leading.

“Chamreun, we, well, I, have a situation. Can you be at my office at 9am tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir, I will be there for 9.”

And with that the call was over, leaving more questions than answers. The fact that the Minister had said ‘I’ made it sound personal rather than government business. Chamreun wondered what he was getting into this time, and if whatever awaited him at the Ministry could be the opportunity to make this his final mission.