Free The Coroner's Lunch by Colin Cotterill

you didn’t put them back.”
    “Medicines are hard to come by. And in all the rush….”
    “But the ladies you gave the pills to didn’t suddenly collapse on the table, so….”
    “So we may eliminate the pills as potential causes of death.”
    “I’d like to take what’s left, if you don’t mind. There may have been some allergic reaction. Not that I have the resources to find out what that might have been.”
    “I’ll go and get them. Can I ask you why you thought she might have had a headache?”
    “During the autopsy I noticed the smell of Tiger Balm. It was concentrated around her temples. That usually suggests a headache.”
    “Excellent. You know, this is all rather exciting. Could you hook this last chain up over the stage? Afraid we haven’t got any balloons.” She ran off and left him to hang the decoration.
     
     
    While he was up on the rickety chair hooking the straws over some convenient nails, he thought about what she’d said. It really
was
quite exciting, this inquiry. He had to admit he was enjoying the cloak-and-daggery of it all. He was glad to be out of the morgue talking to live people, exceeding his very limited authority. It was the first time since the job began that he could feel his adrenaline pumping.
    “There are only three left, I’m afraid.” Puffing and blowing, Dr. Pornsawan held out a small brown bottle. “That probably isn’t a wise choice of chair, the legs aren’t glued.” Siri got down in a hurry, leaving a strand of straws dangling above the podium. But it was too late to do anything about it.
    The frenzy at the Lao Women’s Union grew to a riot. Siri and Pornsawan looked to the door where a small army of men in ceremonial uniforms was slowly seeping into the almost-ready dining room. The men took up positions along the walls.
    “Oops. Looks like our guest is early. You may have to join us for lunch, Doctor.”
    “I’d sooner not. Why all the fuss about the wife of a Mongolian president?”
    “They’re giving the LWU a sizable grant to develop education for girls in the provinces.”
    Siri wondered what the Mongolians would be getting in return, but didn’t let his cynicism show. He thanked Dr. Pornsawan and headed toward the one set of doors leading into and out of the canteen. In the confused scrum at the doorway, he ran into a small woman whose features had all gathered at the center of her face. She was surrounded by larger people in suits and silks. The small woman, assuming, as he was a man, that he had to be someone important, reached out to shake his hand.
    Siri transferred his baguette to his left hand and returned the handshake. She had a good grip for a president’s wife. She looked beside her at the interpreter and asked him a question. He asked a similar question of the Chinese interpreter beside him, who finally asked the Lao/Chinese interpreter, who asked Siri who he was.
    “I’m the official food taster. You can never be too sure.” He bowed politely and walked on. By the time the Chinese whisper had made it back to the President’s wife, he was already out under the warm mid-day sun.
     
     
     

The Boatman’s Requiem
     
     
    As he was quite a way from his riverside log, and hungry, he walked down to the nearest point on the Mekhong and found a shady spot under a tree where he could eat his baguette in peace. He particularly enjoyed his lunch that day. He was overcome with a peculiar feeling that, as he didn’t feel the way he normally did, he probably didn’t look the same either. He imagined himself to be in disguise.
    During his stay in Paris decades before, he’d taken delight in the weekly serializations of one Monsieur Sim in the
L’Oeuvre
newspaper. They followed the investigations of an inspector of the Paris police force who was able to solve the most complicated of mysteries with the aid of nothing more lethal than a pipe of tobacco.
    By the time he got to Vietnam, Siri was more than pleased to learn that Monsieur