Siri stared at his wife. They were together at a table, straightening aluminum spoons and forks. The cheap rubbish from China tended to curl up after a few months of sweaty palms.

“The bread woman?”

“You should have known I’d find out.”

“What’s to find out? We had one date and that was a disaster.”

“You liked her enough to ask her out. Tell me about her.”

“Really? All right. The bread woman, a.k.a. Lah, is, as far as I know, alive and well and baking baguettes with her sons. When I was still at Mahosot, Civilai and I would get our lunch from her cart and sit and eat on a log beside the river. Damn, I should really go and see how Civilai’s doing. He’s been bedridden for two days. I’ll go in the morning and force some doctoring on him. I know if it was serious, Dr. Porn would contact us; she’s looking after him, but a second opinion can’t hurt.”

“We can take him a bottle of something to cheer him up,” said Daeng.

“Did Phosy say anything else about the journalists?” Siri asked.

“He ruled out the two Poles because they didn’t arrive in the country until two days after we found Ugly’s letter. And the Russian died of old age six months ago. He was replaced at the last second by someone much younger.”

“That only leaves the East German,” said Siri.

“Phosy talked to him. He was certainly in Hanoi when you were there and you might have met up with him in the caves at Vieng Xai. He wrote some pieces from there, being careful not to give away the location.”

“Anything about me?”

“He claims never to have heard of you.”

“Then we have to learn as much as we can from our two dead ones,” said Siri. “Apart from the fact that they unquestionably died of drowning, I didn’t see any signs of violence. The tall one hit his head, probably on the dashboard. That might have been enough to knock him out. There were no seatbelts. The photographer’s airways were clogged. I’m guessing he suffered from allergies. I doubt that was serious enough to kill him.”

Daeng looked up and sniffed.

“What is that smell?” she asked.

“I’m boiling chicken bones in the back garden in a tin drum,” he said.

“What on earth for?”

“I’m afraid I cannot disclose that information.”

“If you are planning to serve them with my noodles, it’s very much my business.”

“Goodness me, no. You can’t eat them. They’re old.”

“Where do you get old chicken bones?”

“At the dump,” said Siri. “Ugly dug them up for me. He’s a natural. We managed to recover some thirty kilograms of the things.”

“Thirty . . . ? That’s disgusting. How did you get them back here?”