“If Hiro Uenobu exists or existed we might be able to find out whether he really was a pilot. He doesn’t get anywhere near an airplane in the Lao or the Japanese segments of the diary. Something must have happened. And perhaps we can confirm that he was in Manchuria on the dates he gives. Then apparently he arrives in Indochina but not in Thakhek. I suppose it’s possible he gives a false place name for security reasons. He seems quite knowledgeable about salvage so perhaps that part was true. Then there’s a gap. His last Japanese entry was in 1940. He’d just left China and arrived in Vietnam. When the Lao entries begin he’s already on his way here, or so he says. If we take it at face value, that’s a gap of three months when he writes nothing. By late ’41 he’s in Thakhek or wherever writing fluent Lao, second in command, and having a good time with a unit of men who apparently don’t exist. Doesn’t this all tickle your funny bone just a little?”

Daeng had caught a knot of river weed that refused to release her hook.

“Have you ever considered that the diary might have been written by two different people?” she said, tugging on her line.

“What?”

“That soldier Hiro keeps a diary about his placement in Manchuria and he drops it.”

“He drops the diary?”

“Yes, or just loses it. He’s off pillaging and raping his generously donated virgins, has a little too much stolen whisky and drops it on his way back to the barracks. And somebody else picks it up, sees it’s a finely crafted tome with half the pages untouched, and he keeps it for himself. When he comes to Laos he learns the language and writes his nonsense in it just to practice. Either that or he gives it to a Lao as a present.”

Siri pondered silently.

“Damn,” he said.

“Different language, different style, different person.”

“Damn,” said Siri again.

“Your friend Kimiko didn’t uncover anything about his younger days?”

“No. The diary started in Shiga Prefecture, Japan, with Hiro saying goodbye to his family. He’s about to be transferred to Manchuria. He’s thirty-four already but we don’t know anything about his early years. It really is intriguing.”

“Siri, you really need a hobby that’s more suitable for your age.”

“The only thing suitable for my age is decomposition,” he reminded her.

They heard an enthusiastic “yoohoo!” from the lane behind them, and Roper, sodden with sweat, came bounding up to them on the dock. The structure swayed. The girls shied away from him.

“Good news,” he said.

“We can go home?” said Daeng.