“Death by owl was the official verdict. Or at least there was no evidence to prove otherwise. The original wife gets first grabs on the fortune but I get the feeling the minor wife won’t give up that easily. That should be nasty to watch. But it’s none of our business anymore.”

“What about Mimi’s dad?”

“Comrade Ouan? I suppose I shouldn’t really say.”

“Have you ever been beaten up by a girl?”

“You have to promise not to tell anyone.”

“Tell them what?”

“We, ehr . . . We decided not to press charges.”

She pushed him away.

“You can’t be serious,” she said. “The guy drugs three police officers and chains them up in a concrete room for two days and he’s going to get away with it?”

“We’ve put it down to tough Vang Vieng hospitality.”

“Phosy?”

“Look, Dtui, ours is a young administration still feeling its way. How would it look if three senior police officers allowed themselves to be overpowered and held hostage by one man? And I shouldn’t have even been there.”

Dtui smiled.

“Does this mean I’ll be getting my refrigerator now?”

“It’s not corruption. We’ll just call it . . . a tactical sidestep.”

“I’ll keep my mouth shut in return for a tactical microwave,” she said. “They’re all the rage now.”

“I’ve brought you something much better,” he said.

He was lying on his shoulder bag so he wrestled it out from underneath them.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

Dtui did as she was told.

“Now open them.”

She opened her eyes to see a plastic Ziploc sandwich bag between her husband’s thumb and index finger.

“What is that?” she said, trying to focus on the contents.

“Guess.”

“It surely . . . oh, it can’t be.”

“They were just about to set fire to the fellow,” said Phosy. “This is a valuable piece of forensic folklore. It will be invaluable in settling arguments long into the future.”

“And given that we don’t have a refrigerator, where do you propose we store ten centimeters of nasal hair?”

“I suppose if it keeps growing we could eventually stuff a cushion with it.”

“That’s disgusting,” she said, rolling onto her back. “You get more and more like Dr. Siri every day.”

“Which reminds me,” said Phosy, reaching once more into his bag. “This arrived today. Postman Ging special delivery. It cost me a pack of cigarettes.”

“It looks like a postcard,” said Dtui.

“It is. It’s from Daeng and Siri.”

“I haven’t seen one of those since the Americans left. Is there a picture?”

He flipped it over.

“Ooh, lovely,” said Dtui. “Since when did they have pyramids in Thakhek?”

“Probably not a lot of choice of postcards in Thakhek. It says, ‘Greetings from Egypt.’”

“It’s the thought that counts. What did they write?”