The Chiang Mai Chronicle: A Declan Power Mystery

Prologue

He thought dungeons were from an ancient time. They were. He was in an ancient cavern. Chains, rusted iron shackles, also ancient, suspended him against a stone wall, buried deep within the foothills of the Himalayas. He squinted at his captors. Another blow from the bamboo cane lashed against his midsection. No sound came from within him. Sound meant life. Most of that had already been drained away. Fifty percent he figured. He had half his life splattered throughout the dank room. Only a tiny bead of blood made its way out of his body. He followed its journey as it sat suspended in air. This ball of blood was important. It represented the fifty percent of life that remained. He clung to that.

His captor spoke quietly to his inquisitor. A loud laugh echoed off the humorless walls. His captor drew close. Dressed elegantly in the latest Lan Na fashion which had recently made a stunning return to these parts, this person, a former friend, delivered a chilling message. “Enjoy your final resting place Martin Gay.”

He could not summon the strength to raise his head up and meet his executioner directly in the eyes.¬¬ A strange emotion overcame him. Pride. He appreciated the perfect English in which the ominous message was delivered. Whatever else could be said of Martin Gay, he was a good teacher.

His chains were unlocked allowing him to fall lifeless to the floor. The door slammed shut. Martin Gay was alone. No food, no water, no hope. He heard a rat chirp. Ok, maybe food. The rainy season had deposited a puddle somewhere he was sure. Ok, water. He had prepared for the worse. His present predicament was not a complete surprise. He had sent out an SOS. “Declan Power,” he muttered through shattered teeth. He could feel another five percent drain from his body. “Shit, no hope.”

Chapter 1

Declan Power woke up groggily. His alarm clock, per usual, was his diminutive girlfriend. Usually she used her mouth. Today it was a thud to his head with one of her rock hard pillows.

“Boss call, boss call. He sound serious too much!” she exclaimed in her high pitched voice.

He looked at the clock. Eight-thirty the annoying Donald Duck abomination of a time piece pulsated back.

“Bloody hell! The next time that cockney prick calls, at this time of the morning, you tell him to ‘piss off’ you hear.”

“I hear. Now come get your coffee. I go with my sister.”

“Get your cute little ass over here. I want to start me day right with my Pillsbury Dough girl!”

Nok Nolinrat, Oum, had become his life. She was the one thing in his world that was pure, something he could bank on. A girl from the mountains with little education and a girl from the bar with too much experience, she was his cute pudgy ball of energy that made his clock tick.

Oum giggled. It was a vivacious laugh that was never too far off. She hopped on his stomach and playfully slapped him across the cheek. “Sure sure, I want to finish my day good last night. But you drunk. Come back for lunch and boom boom in afternoon. Call your boss.” With that his soon to be bride skipped off.

‘Call my boss’ he muttered derisively. Declan extricated himself from his futon and deposited himself into the breakfast nook Oum had arranged. The pot of freshly brewed piping hot hilltribe coffee was a symphony to his senses. The undulating mountains of northern Thailand, the foothills of the Himalayas, beckoned for his attention.

The view was intoxicating. He took a bite out of his fresh croissant and smiled. He had made it. Declan Power was a newspaper man. ‘A newspaper man of note,’ he corrected himself. He had single-handedly put the Chiang Mai Chronicle on the map. It was the Chiang Mai’s only daily and he was top dog. Declan had broken two major investigative pieces in one year.  Each had been picked up by The Bangkok Post. Each carried his byline. Hell, even the Guardian had run with his story of the ‘Great TEFL Scam!’ 

But he wanted more. Not for himself however. Declan Power wanted to build something more for Oum. He had often mocked the middleclass way of life, still did in fact. Now his mind was filled with visions of white picket fences and his girl playing in the backyard with their kids. His eyes closed to give way for a contented smile.

His phone began to vibrate. He looked down at the shiny new iphone 5 with a scowl. If everything in his life was peachy, he still had a prick of a boss.

“What the fuck cannot wait till the afternoon?”

“The police you lazy Irish slob!” Peter Morgan scowled.

“Boston Irish you ignorant fuck.” Power was sure there was a difference. Better or worse he was not certain. ‘Police’ caught his attention though and he straightened up in his chair. “The Police! What the hell do they want?”

“You! At their headquarters by the Three King’s Monument at ten A.M. sharp. You better get a move on.”

If the day was going to begin too soon, it would begin with a shave. The daily routine was ritual. It had significance. His father would go three, four, sometimes a whole week without dragging a blade across his face. He was not his father. He stared icily into the mirror. His passport claimed thirty nine years. That was about right considering the face that peered out from the mirror. A smirk appeared. Forty was the new thirty. He ran a comb through the thick hair that sat on his head. Ruddy red, unruly in the Bobby Kennedy way, it served as a beacon announcing his approach. 

A slight mist greeted him as he steered his shiny new Honda Phantom onto Suthep Road. He enjoyed the rainy season. It cooled things off. The air and the bar scene both calmed during what would be the summer months in the West. It gave him more time to relax, poke around the seedier underbelly of the city, and continue work on the book that seemingly had no ending.

Last year, at this time, it had given him the time to make a name. Always on the lookout for a story, he was able to knock the lid off the scam being run over at King Mengrai University. Boy what a scandal! TEFL certificates for cash and a one year visa in the Kingdom. The con had become a cash cow for the university.

Declan Power broke the story and it spread like wildfire throughout Thailand, Southeast Asia, and beyond. What it didn’t do was make him any friends. In fact it had cost him the first friend he had made in Chiang Mai. But what the hell did he care. He was a newspaperman.

The cops wouldn’t be interested in that bit of investigative journalism though. They most probably had come across some sorted tale amidst the muck and mire he usually traded in. As much as he wanted to think otherwise, the bar scene, the hookers and their johns, was his stock in trade. “The Bernard Trink of Chiang Mai,” he was often referred to. Declan wasn’t impressed being compared to the Bangkok nightlife legend. He was more concerned cutting his own path.

He had hoped his crack work on the TEFL scam would have opened doors into more respectable work. But it appeared it served merely as his fifteen minutes of fame. Screw it! He had a great girl, a great job, and an asshole of a boss. That was as good as life could get he figured.

He breezed into the old city when something struck him as odd. Why the hell would the police call his boss? They had his number. A number they had used on several occasions. On most occasions they called to have him give a talk to a farang, a foreigner, who had gotten too drunk and taken things too far with a girl from the bar. That was simple. Declan would help the cops and the detained tourist reach a figure. That was a profitable side job.

Other occasions were less pleasant. He’d had to identify two bodies over the last eighteen months. Both situations were not uncommon. One, a young U.S. Marine, went on a bender where he managed to drop two thousand United States Dollars over a weekend. Declan had come across him at the Stairway to Heaven bar on Loi Kroh. He had even managed to get a photo of him. The obnoxious marine was destined to be his ‘Arsehole of the Month.’ This feature had become almost as popular as his ‘Pole-Girl’ page that ran once a week.

The asshole reference was prescient. Apparently the soldier liked his sex rough. One such girl he had hauled out of a bar was forced to unwillingly play his games. The marine learned a fatal lesson. Most girls in the bars have ‘brothers’ waiting at home. Early one morning Declan had been awakened by his friend at headquarters. Could he come and identify a body? He helped out the police and they helped out him. That was the arrangement.

The sight was gruesome. Declan laid his eyes on the soldier, hanging from a tree naked, his dick in his mouth and a broken pool stick dangling from his ass. Life’s lessons come in different ways. Declan walked away, a bit nauseous, but with little sympathy.

He had had to find a new ‘Arsehole of the Month’ however. Declan Power just didn’t have the heart to mock the dead. In any event Chiang Mai was stocked with replacements.

It truly was the low season. He easily navigated his way through the barren cobblestoned streets. ‘The police always called him,’ he muttered to the vacant sidewalks. They barely knew his boss. This led him to only one conclusion. They needed him to testify about the events surrounding his second front page scoop. He eased back into his seat, revved up his chopper, and smiled. ‘Always happy to help his friends wearing the badge,’ he chirped. 

The usual louts and touts were lounging just outside of Chiang Mai’s Police Headquarters. They had their reasons. It was a good place to pick up business. Declan snickered as he observed the bedraggled deadbeat revelers straggling out of the precinct after a night in the can. They were kings of the night only twelve hours ago. Rampaging through the red light district, the naughty knights had two things on their mind. They would get blazingly drunk. Then they would take their pick of the girls coo cooing in their ears.

He recognized one unlucky soul who stumbled with dazed eyes out on to the street. He had been flying much higher around midnight. A dazzling girl hung on his arm as the drinks flowed and the laughs inched higher and higher. His smile beamed even brighter as he walked out of The Hungry Pole. It was one of Loi Kroh roads naughtier establishments where anything was possible for the right price. She was an Isaan girl with long legs and the curves of a country road. The beauty from the northeast was also not a day over fifteen. Virginity doesn’t come cheap. The good luck accrued from the pick of a cherry came at a price. A crisp eighty thousand baht for the men in brown Declan figured. Another twenty large was stuffed in the bra of the juvenile lady of the night as she learned how to ply her trade. The cherry would be on sale again that night. 

‘The beat goes on,’ Declan whistled as he walked into the station.

Oum blew on her steaming cup of rice soup. She stared intently into the mists of steam trying to avoid the desperate pair of eyes which lay upon her. They had been friends for years but recently their bond had become frayed.

Nam looked around the crowded restaurant. Steaming cups of Thai noodle soup wafted through the air obscured only by heads hovering over the bowls. “Oum, I want speak English. I not trust people.”

“Ok,” Oum answered. It was an odd request.

“You must ask Declan to help me!”

Finally, reluctantly, Oum lifted her head to meet her friend’s stare. The panic in her Nam’s voice was evident. They had started in the bar scene together many years ago. Fresh from the mountains both had come to Chiang Mai in search of fun and fortune. It seemed like yesterday that they were prancing naughtily around Loi Kroh. The rhythmic chant of ‘Welcome, welcome, to the farang ATM’s who would stroll by still rang in her ears. She and Nam were the success stories. Nam had found Marty and Oum had fallen for Declan. Now there was trouble in her friend’s paradise. She was loath to bring that bad luck into her life. Not now. Not when her dream was about to come true.

Oum fidgeted with the napkin. “But how can Declan help?” 

“Marty, Marty go away!” Nam sputtered before breaking into tears.

Oum was even more confused. She took Nam’s hands and redirected her gaze to the soup. “I’m sorry Nam. But Declan will not know where Marty is. Remember, Marty said he will kill Declan after Declan make the story about Mengrai University.”

“Yes, but then Marty and I opened World TEFL! He sold it a few months ago. Marty wasn’t mad at Declan anymore.”

Oum screwed her nose in disdain. “Sure, I remember,” she answered pointedly. “Marty come in our bar and laugh at Declan. He let everybody know how rich he was and how my Declan was nothing more than a poor paperboy.”

“I know Marty could be not so nice,” Nam replied brushing away a tear. “But he took good care of me and our baby. And he always thought Declan was his best friend in Chiang Mai.”

Oum’s eyes opened wide. She asked incredulously: “Really Nam?”

Nam brushed away her friend’s sarcasm. “It doesn’t matter. A man, government man, come to our house last month.”

Oum folded her arms across her chest. Government meant trouble. “What did he want?”

“I’m not sure. They talk alone. But Martin was afraid. I never see him like this before. He said our baby and I would need to leave the country. I was happy. I thought great, we could live as a family in Australia.”

“Then what is the problem?”

“He said the government man asked for his passport. Government man, from Bangkok sure, say Martin and I can not leave Thailand.”

“Nam, I’m sorry, so sorry. Declan cannot help you though.” Oum emphasized the last sentence. She wouldn’t let him.