I always used to think that it was Rabbi Burns the famous Jewish philosopher who said that the best laid plans of mice and men often go astray, and it wasn’t until I was in my thirties that I discovered that it was really the Scottish poet Robbie Burns.
Who knew?
But the point was, I suppose, that it doesn’t matter how you plan things, the unexpected can always happen. The trick is how you handle the unexpected. I had about thirty seconds to decide what do once I realised that the middle-aged woman at the wheel of the silver-grey Audi 8 was turning into the Santhanavit house and beeping her horn so that whoever was inside would open the gate for her.
An old lady in a stained denim dress dragged the wheeled gate back, using her shoulder to push it. Mrs Santhanavit tapped her fingers impatiently against the steering wheel until there was a gap large enough to drive through and she eased the Audi forward.
The old woman wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her dress and began to drag the gate closed. I jogged across the road and slipped through, ignoring her protests.
Mrs Santhanavit was climbing out of her car when I jogged up the driveway, a large Louis Vuitton bag on her arm.
‘Mrs Santhanavit?’
She frowned at me through a pair of Dolce and Gabbana glasses.
I stopped jogging. ‘My name is Bob Turtledove,’ I said, ‘I’m from the Betta English Language School.’
Which, if you think about it, was strictly speaking true.
I decided against speaking to her in Thai and to play the slightly-stupid English teacher.
‘I was wondering what had happened to Tukkata.’
‘Tukkata?’ she repeated. She leaned inside the car and pulled out half a dozen Siam Paragon bags.
‘Your daughter hasn’t been to the school, I wondered if I could talk to her.’
She closed the car door. ‘Tukkata?’ she repeated.
‘Yes, Tukkata.’
‘She’s not here,’ she said. She was heavyset with short-thick legs wearing a multi-coloured silk shirt and white trousers and white flat shoes, with a heavy gold bracelet on her right wrist and a gold Cartier watch on her left.
The old lady had stopped closing the gate and stood where she was, watching me and probably wondering whether or not she should call the police.
‘Do you know where she is, Mrs Santhanavit?’
She shook her head and began to walk towards the house. I followed her, but then the front door opened and a stocky man in a starched white shirt and dark trousers glared at me. ‘Who are you?’ he shouted. ‘What are you doing here?’
He was about fifty, his hair was greying at the temples and thinning at the back. He had a wristwatch that matched his wife’s and around his neck was a gold necklace as thick as my thumb from which hung a large Buddhist medallion that was the size of a coaster.
He spoke to his wife in rapid Thai, telling her to go into the house. He sounded like a man who was used to being obeyed.
He walked past her and came up to me. He was about six inches shorter than me and he had to crane his neck to glare up at me. ‘Get off my property!’ he barked.
‘Mr Santhanavit, I’m from the language school, I just wanted to check that Tukkata was okay,’ I said. ‘We haven’t seen her for a while.’
‘She’s fine,’ he said. ‘I want you to go.’ He pointed at the gate. ‘Go now or I will call the police.’
‘Can I speak to her?’
‘Why do you want to speak to her?’ he said.
‘To see if there’s a problem.’
‘There’s no problem,’ he said. ‘She’s sick. In her room. Go now.’
I looked over at the house. A curtain moved in one of the ground floor windows. It was probably Mrs Santhanavit. I looked up at the bedroom windows. All the curtains were open. I didn’t believe him. I didn’t believe that his daughter was sick and I didn’t believe that she was in her bedroom.
I believed Mrs Santhanavit when she said she wasn’t there.
Which meant that Mr Santhanavit was lying.
Interesting.
I nodded and smiled and turned around and walked back through the gate. The old lady smiled and began dragging it shut behind me.