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and thereafter only see whatever confirms that position, ignoring all evidence to the contrary. Still, three cheers – or at least two – for confirmation bias: without it I wouldn’t have a business. Monkey thinks ‘detective’, monkey sees ‘detective’. Not that I’m labelling all Geordies as monkeys. Just the ones who interrupt my dinner while wearing socks with sandals.
    Across the road Jingjai is still mixing drinks. While she smiles and jokes with the customers, she does not seem inclined to engage with any particular one. Perhaps she is too busy at the moment. Perhaps they are not her type. Perhaps it is too early in the evening. Perhaps this job is making me overly-cynical. I ask for the bill.
     
    *       *       *       *       *
     
    When I arrive home around 11.30 pm Wayan has already turned in, but Claire is still awake in the bedroom.
    “Hello my darling,” she says, “you look tired.”
    “A little.” I dump my camera on the dressing table.
    “It must be awful for you taking photographs of pretty Thai girls all evening.”
    “It’s hell. Unfortunately, my tastes only run to flame-haired English women.”
    She laughs. “You’re such a liar. Let me see your war wound.”
    “It’s just a scratch and it’s healing already. Shame, really. Scarface Braddock had a ring to it. I’ll have to come up with some other marketing ploy.”
    “Or get into another fight.”
    “Or get into another fight. That would work.”
    I rub my eyes and sit down on the bed.
    Claire says, “Seriously, are you all right? Tell me about your day.”
    I tell her about the emotional gangster’s wife, the unemotional German, the broken-hearted Slough-dweller, the rude Geordie, and the latter part of my evening in Girly Bar Heaven, snooping around and clicking a woman with thick ankles.
    “That is not chivalrous,” she lectures me sternly.
    I feel chastened, but unburdened. “Tell me about your day.”
    She sighs. “My day? What transpired for me today? What would you guess? Everything and nothing as usual. Waiting, waiting, waiting for something to happen. Good, bad, anything. Anything old, anything new, anything borrowed, anything blue. But nothing happens. Ever. Most days I may as well be dead.”
    “That’s not funny, Claire.”
    “No,” she says, “Sorry. Sorry to be so ... enigmatic. But you know, my love, I can’t really tell you about my day if you don’t already know. You understand that, don’t you?”
    I don’t reply.
    “Come to bed, David,” she says gently.
    “I can’t,” I reply curtly. “I wouldn’t be able to sleep now. Anyway, I need to get some photos downloaded and finish up a report.”
    “But you look exhausted.”
    “I’ll only be half an hour.”
    “I need to sleep now, even if you don’t.”
    “It’s OK, you sleep. We can talk tomorrow.”
    “Yes, tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow.”
    I pick up my camera. “Goodnight, Claire.”
    “Goodnight, David.”
     
    I go downstairs to my study and fire up the laptop. I download tonight’s pictures of Miss K from the camera: pictures of Miss K leaving her house with her Thai husband, riding with him on his motorbike, kissing and fondling him in a bar. Each photograph displays a time and date stamp. I save them into a file with earlier pictures of her and attach the file as an annex to my report.
    The report is addressed to a Canadian client, Joe Mears. Joe is a gentle fiftysomething widower from Toronto with a ruddy, kind face and silver-grey hair. His more streetwise younger brother (whose name I forget) ha d brought him on an extended holiday to South East Asia to ‘show him some real life’. While in Samui, Joe had met Kung, a thirty-five-year-old divorcee, and, much to his surprise, had fallen for her. His brother, a more experienced Asian traveller, had forseen problems and brought Joe along to see me.
    I read through my draft report on Miss K. I always use initials in my reports: my viewpoint