Read Inspector Zhang Gets His Wish for Free Online

slipped in the banknote and took out the woman’s change. The woman took the change, checked it, put the money into the Prada purse, put the purse into her handbag, placed it on the passenger seat and closed the window. I didn’t see her thank the fruit vendor, but that was par for the course for Thailand. Women who drove expensive imported cars did not generally say “please’ or “thank you’, at least not to fruit vendors. The window wound up, the woman checked her make-up in her driving mirror, then put the Mercedes into gear.
    We were off.
    Finally.
    Jai yen.
    The taxi moved forward. The Mercedes lady was talking on her cellphone again.   She indicated a right turn but then turned left on to Sukhumvit Road, oblivious to the motorcycle that narrowly missed slamming into her offside wing.
    The traffic light turned red and the taxi jerked to a halt. There were two policemen sitting in the booth across the road from us. It was getting close to the end of the month which meant that the police were looking for any excuse to pull over motorists and either issue a ticket to meet their quota or collect some tea money to pay their minor wife’s rent. Bangkok’s traffic light system was perfectly capable of being co- ordinated by a multi-million-pound computer system but more often than not the police would override it and do the changes manually, using walkie-talkies to liaise with their colleagues down the road. That meant that when a light turned red, you had no idea how long it would stay that way. Your fate lay in the hands of a man in a tight-fitting brown uniform with a gun on his hip.
    Jai yen.
    I went back to my paper. My taxi driver wound down his window and spat throatily into the street again.
    Just another day in Paradise.
    Not.
    * * * * *
    CHAPTER 2
    Ying is a stunner. A little over five feet tall with waist-length glossy black hair and cheekbones you could cut steel plate with, a trim waist and breasts that are, frankly, spectacular.
    Whoa, hoss.
    Stop right there.
    I’m married and old enough to be her father.
      And I’m her boss, hoss.
    She looked over her shoulder and flashed her perfect white teeth at me as I walked into the shop.
    My shop.
    Dao-Nok Antiques. It’s sort of a pun on my name. Dao-Nok is Thai for turtle-bird and my name’s Turtledove. I’m not sure if anyone else gets it but it makes me smile.
    Ying was carefully rolling bubble-wrap around a wooden Chinese screen that we were shipping to Belgium. “Good morning Khun Bob,” she said.
    Khun. It means mister, but it’s also a sign of respect. She respects me because I’m older than her and because I’m her boss.
    “You are late,” she added, still smiling.
    Not much respect there. But she wasn’t being critical, she was just stating a fact. I was normally in the shop by nine and it was now nine-thirty.
    “There was a mango queue,” I said.
    “I see,” she said, even though she didn’t.
    “All the way down Soi Thonglor.”
    “I told them you wouldn’t be long.”
    “I see,” I said, even though I didn’t.
    “They’re waiting, in your office.”
    I frowned. “And they would be…?”
    “An American couple. They need your help.”
    There was a coffee maker by the cash register and I poured myself a cup and took it upstairs. The door to my office was open and my two visitors looked up, smiling hesitantly. He was a big man run to fat, in his mid to late forties. His wife was half his size , with wispy blonde hair,   and probably five years younger. He pushed himself up out of his chair and offered me his hand. It was a big hand, almost square with the fingernails neatly-clipped , but it had no strength in it when we shook.   “Jonathon Clare,” he said in a Midwestern accent.   “This is my wife Isabelle.”
    “Nice to meet you, Mr Clare,” I said. Mrs Clare smiled and offered me her hand. It was a child’s hand, milk-white skin with delicate fingers as brittle as porcelain.   “Mrs Clare,” I said, shaking