Free The Axe Factor: A Jimm Juree Mystery (Jimm Juree Mysteries) by Colin Cotterill

spilled their beans over the phone, there’d be no meetings in dark warehouses. No body discoveries. No arriving in a room where one entire wall was dedicated to photographs of you, illuminated by candles. No meals at the Opposite the Train Station Restaurant.”
    “There’s no such restaurant.”
    “That might not be the name, exactly. But the sign’s in Thai and I’m only up to the written character for ‘soldier’ in my self-study program. It really is opposite the train station. What do you say?”
    “I don’t have an entertainment budget.”
    “My treat.”
    So, that was it. The banter that led to the first date. It was lunch at the Opposite the Train Station Restaurant, and it did indeed have a view of the Lang Suan train station. On a good day you might get nine passenger trains on that single track between Bangkok and the deep south. Invariably, those trains would get derailed or blown up by southern terrorists or just break down because they were antique. If they survived all that, they could merely plow into a backhoe on one of the unmanned crossings or careen down into a flooded valley like a water ride at Disney World. A five-hour delay was a good day. In fact, the only real inconvenience about Thai rail travel was on those unique occasions when the train arrived on time. You see, nobody ever turned up at the hour stated on the timetable. Those trains would leave the station empty, and the railways would run at a loss. Bad scheduling made economic sense.
    The reason I bother to mention all this is that our luncheon that day was accompanied by a cabaret. The eleven fifteen from Thonburi had arrived with a motorcycle entangled in its undercarriage. A shirtless, dark-brown man with a blowtorch had been entrusted with the task of removing it so the Sprinter could continue its sprint. The passengers were all out on the track giving advice, phoning ahead, and smiling violently at the station staff, who were largely innocent.
    “Do you suppose the motorcycle rider’s under there as well?” Conrad asked.
    Only a murder writer would garnish a meal with such bad taste.
    “If he is, a blowtorch probably isn’t going to do him much good,” I replied, kind for kind.
    Conrad laughed.
    “During the floods the farmers park their motorcycles up on the embankment so they don’t get bogged down in the mud,” I said. “The train drivers usually slow down and beep their horns to give the locals time to move them. Some might just bump them off the tracks. Looks like this fellow was in a hurry.”
    “How could you possibly know all this?” Conrad asked.
    I smiled and took another spoonful of coconut fish soup. In my haste I accidentally took in a lemongrass leaf, which was part of the debris you’re supposed to leave in the bowl. I wasn’t about to spit it out. I chewed it a little and swallowed it. It’s probably still in my intestines.
    “I’m a journalist,” I said. “I ask the right questions of the right people.”
    It was my Lois Lane line. In fact, I didn’t imagine for one second the farmers would be so stupid as to park on a train track. I just wanted to impress him with some local color. I’d been prepared for the worst after his “somebody’s mistress” comment, but he’d apologized for that the moment we met in the restaurant car park. He’d offered to pick me up at the resort, but I’d made up some appointment and told him I’d meet him here. As it turned out, Grandad Jah wouldn’t let me have the Mighty X so I’d arrived on our motorcycle. It’s hard to look your best with insects stuck to your sweat and mud flecks on your face. The helmet plastered down my interesting spiky hairdo into a globule of fettuccini.
    He’d still seemed pleased to see me when he stepped out of his SUV, Gatsby-cool even down to the brown loafers and chinos. When we’d walked past the waitresses, they must have thought I was being interviewed for a laundry position. My only saving grace was that I was