“So you aren’t as clever as you thought you were,” said Siri. “You’re just a common or garden murderer. There’s nothing smart about throwing an elderly lady in a river or setting fire to an old couple.”

“That is your fault, Fake Surgeon,” said the Thai. “And I’m in a hurry to get it over with. So if you’d just be kind enough to tell me why your charming wife here isn’t dead in spite of a heavy overdose of methotrexate . . .”

“Yeah, you know, that wasn’t clever either,” said Siri. “That had nothing to do with existing conditions. Rheumatoid arthritis was never going to kill Daeng naturally.”

“Whatever! Why didn’t the medicine kill her?”

“Because she didn’t have rheumatoid arthritis.”

“Of course she did. I’ve been through her file.”

“She got over it.”

“People don’t get over arthritis,” said Dom.

“My wife did. She’s remarkable. You should have considered that in your flawed plan. She has skills too. Did you know she can whistle?”

“What?”

“Whistle. She could whistle the eyeballs off a buffalo.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Go on, darling,” said Siri. “Show the foolish boy how loud you can whistle.”

Daeng whistled. It was impressive but no world record.

Dom laughed and he flicked a flame from the Zippo.

“I’ve got better things to do,” he said.

He reached behind him for the rolled-up newspaper and lit the end. It took a while to catch. Siri cocked his ear toward the door but there was no sound. He needed a few more seconds.

“How did you get the Ibuprofen to Civilai?” he asked.

“Didn’t need to,” said the Thai. A healthy flame had engulfed one end of the newspaper. “His wife came to the clinic regularly. She’d mentioned that her husband couldn’t sleep. I put together a little pill box and delivered it myself when Civilai was away.”

Siri heard a scamper of footsteps on the landing and suddenly the confused face of Ugly appeared in the doorway.

“Hello, my friend,” said Dom. “I hope this wasn’t your backup plan. This dog’s loved me from first sight. Sorry, boy. I didn’t bring any cheese today. Amazing how many dogs are cheese junkies. They can’t—”

Having looked at Siri and Daeng, who were suddenly screaming for help, tears pouring down their faces, Ugly ran full speed at Dom and buried his fangs in the back of his neck. It was the perfect attack spot. The victim couldn’t punch or kick him away. Dom dropped the newspaper, which continued to burn, on top of the skirts which had yet to catch fire, and dragged the dog across the hill of fabric. Despite his prey swinging from side to side, the dog didn’t let go. Dom screamed and cursed.

“This is stupid!” he yelled. “He’ll get tired. There’s nothing to be gained from this.”