“Second Lieutenant Jiep,” said Phosy. “If you’d been observant you’d have noticed that all three of us have sores and abrasions on the back of our shoulders and dirt on the backs of our shirts. We have dried blood and bumps on the backs of our heads and our hair is dirty. But our legs appear to be fine. As none of these conditions existed before we arrived it suggests that Comrade Ouan here stood between our legs, picked them up like the handles of a wheelbarrow, and dragged us here feetfirst. Isn’t that right, Comrade?”

The man groaned.

“If he did have an accomplice, they’d have taken an end each. As we aren’t concussed and drenched in blood I assume this place isn’t so far from the restaurant. How am I doing, Comrade Ouan?”

There was no reply.

“But the time has come for you to engage in some form of communication,” Phosy continued. “I’m assuming from your obvious distress that things haven’t gone the way you intended. As you can see, the situation we find ourselves in is rather bad for all of us but not without its funny side. We obviously can’t let you go without finding out why we’re here. So it’s possible that unless we can start a conversation all of us will starve to death. I have a theory, so I’ll go first. I hope you can sob and listen at the same time. It occurs to me, given the rarity of major crime in this vicinity, that the death of the Vietnamese and our abduction are in some way connected. You’ve generously given me time to formulate my theory so here goes.

“A local girl accompanied the Vietnamese to his favorite picnic spot with its charming view of the valley. She may have gone innocently, fascinated by the arrival of someone exotic and far more interesting than the boys she’d grown up with. Her intentions may well have been pure enough. But the Vietnamese died. The girl was overwhelmed with emotions. She ran home to her village and came to you, her boyfriend, to expl—”

“Her father,” said Ouan damply through the tears.

“I’m sorry?” said Phosy.

“I’m not her boyfriend.”

“Now there’s progress,” said Sihot.

“To her father, right,” said Phosy. “And her father knows only too well that the police are not to be trusted in this country. They would never believe the word of a poor country girl when she says she wasn’t responsible for the man’s death. They’d put her in handcuffs and parade her in front of the rich people’s court and say, ‘We have our killer!’ And what do you know? A policeman arrives from the big city asking questions about local girls.”