Eric appeared beside them. ‘This lady will help you find Mr Riley,’ he said, grinning, his head bobbing like a Bollywood dancer, obviously pleased with himself.

‘Thank you, Eric, good job.’ Mann kept a smile on his face as he waited for him to leave before he turned back to Sue.

She sat back in her chair and her eyes sparkled with intrigue as she eyed Mann.

‘Let me guess. You are an arms dealer who needs to find a guide through to Burma and the supply chain?’ She waited for a reaction and got nothing from Mann but a smile. ‘No? Okay then…’ She scrutinised Mann for a few seconds more. ‘You sure as hell aren’t a missionary—too sane looking. You don’t smell like a medic and, although you have a few scars, you’re too well dressed to be a mercenary. That leaves us with a misfit and we have plenty of them here. By the look of you, I’d say you are part Chinese. The main business with the Chinese in these parts is drugs. Most of them own the methamphetamine and the opium businesses around here. Okay then…I guess you’re having trouble getting to your refineries and you need to find a new way in and out?’

Her eyes hardened. Mann sat back in his chair, took a drink and smiled at her. Bon Jovi began singing about living on a prayer.

‘Good…very good.’ Mann smiled. ‘But it’s not right.’

Mann jerked his head in the direction of the backpacker who was unloading his heavy pack. ‘What is the lad buying, a visa?’

‘He is probably extending his visa. The kids come here all the time to do it. Anyone here for more than six weeks needs to get out and get stamped back in. Burma is the easiest way.’

‘Everyone has to learn some time,’ Mann replied taking a drink.

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s making some deal with Eric that involves him leaving his pack here and going outside to meet Eric’s cousin. I’m guessing he’ll take this lad’s money then set him up with his cousin who will slit his throat.’

‘No one goes near the Burmese border or Friendship Bridge, as it’s laughingly called, at night, especially with all the tension here at the moment.’

‘Then I think this lad is about to buy a death trip. Travelling is all about learning but there’s learning and there’s getting your throat cut.’

Eric caught Mann and Sue looking at him and he grinned haplessly. He looked very much as if he’d been caught out.

‘But not safe now.’ He leaned over and spoke in a stage whisper to the young backpacker and began furiously backpedalling: ‘Stay next door. Cheap room there. In the morning take this road straight to bridge and you will find it no problem.’ He held his hands up, palms to the ceiling, and wagged his head in Mann’s direction.

‘What do I owe you?’ The youth looked perplexed.

‘For you, my friend, no charge.’ He set a beer down on the bar for the lad. ‘Nobody gets cheated in King’s bar, my friend.’ Eric smiled and jiggled his head at Mann. Mann nodded his approval and returned the back-packer’s bemused smile with a wink.

Then Mann leaned forward across the table, rested his elbows and stared into Sue’s face. She stared back, unflinching.

‘Guessed it yet?’

‘The foreign kids…that’s what you’re here about, isn’t it?’

‘Right third time.’

‘What are you—a policeman?’ Sue asked incredulously. ‘Don’t think I have ever seen one in these parts. Not a foreign one.’

‘I am helping the Dutch parents of the five missing volunteers, but I need help. You obviously care about these kids.’ Mann nodded in the direction of the backpacker sipping his beer and looking happy. Eric appeared with a curry for Sue.

‘Have you eaten?’ Sue asked.

‘Yes, thank you, I think I had what you’re having.’

She laughed. ‘There is only one meal. It’s curry and rice or curry and noodles.’ She had a strange hint of South African in her voice, a soft roundness that gave it a melodic lilt. She held his gaze. She pushed the wispy curls at the side of her face back. Her cheeks were flushed from the warmth of the bar, her eyes were shining.

‘So, an international detective, how exciting.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘Like James Bond.’

‘Exactly.’ Mann winked.

She gave a small, throaty giggle. ‘Show me your gadgets then.’

Mann reached into his pocket and produced a small red-enamelled pocket knife.

‘A Swiss army knife,’ said Sue. ‘Very impressive!’

‘And it’s the one with the hoofpick.’ He grinned.

‘They must have a lot of horses in Switzerland.’

‘I’ve gone there many times looking for a horse,’ said Mann. ‘When I eventually found one, it was just my luck—someone had just done their hooves.’

Sue gave a deep laugh, slightly late, as if she’d got the punchline.

‘What about you?’ Mann asked. ‘Do I detect a hint of Afrikaans?’

‘You do. I spent my first ten years in Cape Town. My parents were South African but we moved around a lot after that.’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Over five years now. My main job is as a medic working in the hospital here. I work alongside the foreign medics who come and help. Like the two South Americans that I came in with. I am also a backpack medic.’

‘I met one of those—a guy called Louis?’

‘Louis’s a good friend. We go out into the hills, usually about eight of us. We take medical supplies to the remote villagers. We help wherever we can. Most of the injuries they suffer are from landmines, it’s the most heavily mined area in the world, after Cambodia. If the malaria doesn’t kill them, then landmines do. Our main job is to train them to treat their own. We have such a battle stopping them putting cow shit on open wounds or ripping out the placenta so they can take it to the woods to bury before it brings evil spirits to the house.’

‘Animists?’

‘You’ve done your homework. They will always cling to their ancient beliefs, which is fine, except when it’s killing them, and the Burmese don’t need any help doing that. Whenever another village is attacked across in Burma some of the villagers escape and the lucky ones find themselves here.’

‘How often does that happen?’

‘Weekly usually. It’s daily persecution at the moment.’

‘I’ve heard about the Shwit.’

‘Yes, they are merciless. It’s a grinding away of hope, a slow genocide. They just carry on doing what the Burmese junta do best. The ones who are determined to stay in their own land are the bravest but they’re slowly being wiped out. We do what we can. The backpack medic team are vital to the villagers.’

‘That must be dangerous, crossing into Burma? What about the Burmese military?’

‘The KNLA help us.’

‘Which ones?’ asked Mann. ‘I heard that some of the Karen are divided by religion. Buddhist against Christian, even within the army itself. Religion and killing, the two go together.’

‘Yes, exactly, we see it all the time…even the crucifix kills. No one knows what goes on here. Even the journalists who care, who live here, who write about it, can’t make sense of it and cannot offer a clear solution to the world. Have you been out to the Mae Klaw refugee camp yet?’

‘I intend to go tomorrow. I want to meet with Riley.’

‘Ah, Riley…’ She gave her rasping giggle again. ‘I know him very well. Come with me, I’ll pick you up. I work there once a week. I hold a clinic for the new mothers. Then you’ll see what the attack left behind. Of course, you won’t see the men’s decapitated heads and you won’t see the raped and murdered women, the butchered children; they are buried already. Let’s hope we will get in and get out safely. It’s guarded by the same guards who took the blood money six weeks ago.’

The door opened again and a new group of volunteers breezed in, dressed in baggy shirts and original seventies high-waisted jeans. Sue looked at them, smiled and waved as she said under her breath:

‘Here they come—the saviours of the human race. Their mission is to go anywhere in the world, to solve a given problem and to get out feeling much better about themselves. They don’t really care about the culture of the place, the cause, or the people.’ The group were talking noisily, oblivious to the rest of the people in the bar. ‘The NGOs play games with the refugees like they were children. They have the money allocated but they give it with so many conditions—they have to fulfil this and that criteria. The main one is that they can’t use it to fund the war. But it’s impossible when their brothers, fathers, husbands and even mothers are in the fight and the only thing they have in life is to struggle. Of course they are going to—fighting is the only job most of them have. Do the NGOs seriously think they are not going to take every last penny to continue the fight? The NGOs just play God—it’s part of the thrill for them.’