‘It’s not all black rice, is it?’ Cavalier asked Geoffreys, waving his arm at fields several hundred metres away.

‘There may be other crops out there,’ Geoffreys replied. ‘Bananas, I think. But the main export produce is black rice.’

Cavalier wandered towards the outer crops, but was waved away by farmers and a security guard. As he moved back to the main group, he noticed two trucks pulling up along the road at another entrance to the plantation. A gate was opened and the two heavy vehicles trundled along a path in the fields to a distant warehouse.

Cavalier was about to ask Geoffreys more questions but thought better of it when he saw he was in a heated discussion with the muscular Farquar, who was tall and covered in gaudy tattoos. Cavalier moved within a few paces and gathered that Geoffreys was far from happy with the behaviour of Farquar and his group in the second minibus.

*

The two vehicles reached Chiang Rai an hour later and the tourists alighted to look at the White Temple and have lunch. Pin was perplexed Cavalier wanted to join the tour too.

‘You’ve seen the temple and Chiang Rai so many times,’ she said.

‘I always like to walk through it,’ he said, taking a photograph with a small camera, ‘it’s spiritual.’

‘You’ve never said that before.’

Other tourists turned to look as their chat turned acrimonious. Cavalier led Pin out of the temple and across the road to a restaurant. In the cafe next door Farquar and the gang of five were sitting drinking beer. Cavalier changed direction and entered another restaurant.

They were joined by Geoffreys, who sat with them.

‘That bloody cabal,’ he said, dropping his voice and nodding in the gang’s direction, ‘they’ve been drunk all the way from Chiang Mai.’

‘Who are they?’ Pin asked.

‘Neil Farquar, the goatee-bearded wonder, owns the tour business. He and his mates join the trip a few times a year. The other tourists have all objected to their boorish behaviour. They wanted to join the bus you’re on. The guys are all arseholes! They have beer for breakfast and three of them work out in the gym for two hours every day. They only seem to consume protein drinks and more beer at lunch and dinner.’

‘They all look like brutes,’ Pin observed, ‘even the woman.’

‘Farquar will sometimes drink twelve vodkas and then work out.’

‘How old is he?’ Pin asked.

‘Thirty-six.’

‘He’ll have a stroke before he’s fifty-six,’ Pin predicted. ‘Imbibing alcohol like that lowers the blood pressure. If the physical exertion is so much, the heart can’t pump blood to the brain. Hence the stroke.’ They all glanced over at Farquar, who was saying goodbye to his squad. He looked back at them.

‘Where’s he from?’ Cavalier asked.

‘Estonia. Brought up in Tasmania.’

‘What’s he like?’ Cavalier asked, as casually as he could.