William’s initial horror at Ambika’s death has been subsumed by guilt and fear. The woman he embraced so many times is now no more than a piece of meat, discarded by a carnivore under a bush. Over and over, he’s questioned whether not identifying her was the right thing. His conscience whispers he’s a coward, an assessment that he’s forced to agree with.
He wonders if anyone is waiting anxiously for her to come home. Her husband, a habitual drunkard, may not miss her, but perhaps there are children, though she’s never mentioned any. And then there’s the nagging matter of the Chinese salesman who stumbled upon him and Ambika in the rubber estate. What bad luck, to have one of his own patients discover them. He inhales sharply. As long as William isn’t the one to identify the body, nobody will make the connection between them.
“I think her name was Amber-something,” says Leslie. He has red hair, bleached to straw by the fierce tropical sun, and so many freckles that his face is a mess of dots. But William stares at him with intense relief, as though Leslie is the most beautiful person he’s seen all day. Thank God. Thank you, thank you. William’s own verification is no longer needed. How fortunate that they found her head, otherwise who knows how long the torso would have remained unclaimed in the mortuary?
“Apparently there’s something odd about the body.”
Alarmed, William says, “Did Rawlings do the postmortem?”
“He did. And then when they found the head on Sunday he had to do it all over again.”
“So what does he think?”
Leslie glances up, “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
Turning, William spots the stooped, familiar figure of Rawlings, the pathologist. Rawlings is enormously tall and storklike, and to make up for this, he lowers his head on its skinny neck when speaking.
William hurries after him, despite Leslie’s plaintive cry of “We need to talk about the party at your place!”
“Later,” says William. He’s completely forgotten about the monthly party, a much anticipated social event where people dine on canned food sent from Europe—peas, lobster, tongue—drink too much, and congratulate each other on having a wonderful time out in the Colonies. It’s his turn to host, and he must remind Ah Long to lay in extra wine and spirits and discuss the menu. William would rather eat fresh local food than something that has died and been sealed in a can, like a metal coffin. He shudders at the thought and quickens his pace to catch up with Rawlings.
The hospital cafeteria is an open, airy space with a thatched roof and a poured concrete floor. The daily menu includes both Western and local food. Rawlings stands in line at the counter and demands a kopi-o, strong black coffee with sugar, and a slice of papaya in his deep bass. Queuing behind him, William asks for the same.
“I heard you’ve identified the body,” William says as they sit down. There’s no need to say which one; there aren’t many unknown corpses in Batu Gajah.
“You were first on the scene, weren’t you?” says Rawlings. Taking out a penknife, he slides the slice of papaya neatly off its skin. Rawlings is a vegetarian, and William can’t blame him. He’d become one too if he had to spend his days examining corpses.
“Well, the police were there first,” says William. “Looked like a tiger or a leopard got her. What did you think?”
Rawlings squeezes half a lime over his papaya, and William does, too. He’s read somewhere that if you mimic people, they’re more likely to open up to you.
“I saw your notes,” Rawlings wipes his mouth. “And initially, I was inclined to agree with you. From the marks on the body, I’d say it was a tiger. The puncture wounds are too far apart for a leopard’s jaws.”
“Why do you say ‘initially’?”
“Tell me, was there a lot of blood at the scene?”
William casts his mind back to that clearing between the rubber trees. The thick, rustling layer of dried leaves on the ground, the clove scent of the Malay constable’s cigarette. The piece of flesh that was once an attractive woman.
“No. I assumed she was killed somewhere else.”
“The skin at the edges of the puncture wounds had no indication of hemorrhage or marginal erythema. No arterial bleeding, either, not even where the spine was snapped and the body separated.”
“No bleeding,” says William slowly. “So she was already dead before the animal got her.”
“Yes. Tigers are scavengers, too. When we found the head, it raised further questions.”
“What do you mean?”
“They did a search for the other body parts in a half-mile radius. The inspector used dogs and they found the head and one leg. That’s not unusual in large animal kills, by the way.”
William fights to keep his composure, fixing his eyes on a spot behind Rawlings’s left ear.
Rawlings says, “The head was very interesting though. Do you want to see it?” He half rises, but William raises a hand.
“Not before lunch, thanks.”
“It was almost untouched. In fact, the whole body gave me the same impression: that the animal was starting its routine—that is, removing limbs, disemboweling the torso—and just stopped.”
William covers his mouth. The ripe orange papaya flesh that yields under his spoon is so fleshy and sensual that vomit rises. He thinks about Ambika’s generous smile, her smooth shoulders sliding under his hands and then it all dissolves into a mask of blood and yellow fluids. He wants to cry.
“Are you all right?” Rawlings stares at him, hooded eyes narrowed in concern.
“Stomach problems,” William lies.
Rawlings continues, “Without the dogs, we’d never have found the head. What’s interesting is that it looked like there were traces of vomit in the mouth.”
“So what does that mean?”
Rawlings steeples his fingers. “The first possibility is that the poor woman was killed by a tiger, perhaps by mauling the throat or suffocation. It’s hard to say because we don’t have a neck anymore. But then the tiger left its kill and returned much later—maybe a day or so—for the rest of the postmortem injuries. What kind of animal does that?”
“Perhaps it was disturbed,” says William. There’s a sick tightening in his gut; a bad feeling that he’s going to hear something that he’ll regret.
“Very few things will disturb a tiger feeding except for humans or another tiger, which would have then eaten the kill. And there haven’t been any reports of people driving away a tiger. We could have waited to see if the animal came back.”
“She was human. A person. We couldn’t leave her out as bait!” Without realizing it, William has raised his voice and a few heads turn.
Rawlings looks at him with surprise. “It’s not like it hasn’t been done before. There were several cases in India when man-eaters were ambushed when they returned to the corpse.”
William has often been accused of being cold and unfeeling, but he thinks that compared to Rawlings, he’s a mess of emotions. If he isn’t careful, people will be suspicious. Swallowing hard, he looks down into his coffee cup.
“In any case, I’m not keen on that theory. It’s much more likely that she died out in the rubber estate and was scavenged by a tiger. Death could be due to natural causes. Another possibility is someone killed her.”
“It’s a long shot to murder,” says William in dismay. “She could have been bitten by a snake. Or any other number of things.”
Rawlings waves his hand dismissively, then leans forward. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
But Rawlings changes his mind, sitting back. “I can’t confirm it yet. But I’m writing it down as a suspicious death. This will go to the coroner’s court.”
This isn’t news that William wants to hear—far better if Ambika were simply the unfortunate victim of a tiger. He recalls how she’d recently asked for more money and wonders if Ambika had other lovers. His chest constricts. If that’s the case, they’ll start looking for everyone associated with her.
“One way or another,” says Rawlings, “the tiger in this case behaved very strangely. The locals will be full of gossip that it’s a ghost tiger or something foolish like that.”
“Keramat,” William says automatically. “A sacred beast.”
Rawlings snorts. “Sacred beast! Exactly.”
William stares across the room, thoughts unspooling like loose threads. Besides the salesman, who else has seen him with Ambika?
He needs to be careful.
* * *
Ren is making an omelet. It’s a tricky, delicate task, requiring patience over a charcoal fire. Since finding the body over the weekend, William has been nauseated and out of sorts. He can’t stomach rich food like chicken in coconut gravy or fried pork chops. Returning early today, he requested an omelet and Ren volunteered to cook it.
Omelets were a favorite of Dr. MacFarlane’s and Auntie Kwan taught him how to make them fluffy and meltingly soft. Ren tips the omelet carefully onto a plate; the secret is to take the eggs off the heat before they’re completely set. Looking up, Ren breaks into a smile and amazingly, so does Ah Long.
“You can serve it yourself,” he says.