Killing a Kiwi in Thailand

By Malcolm Scott

Killing a Kiwi in Thailand is the true story of three Western expats who decided to swap living in Bali for residing in the resort city of Pattaya, Thailand. Tragedy then struck when one of the expats became involved in an argument with a murderous couple in a roadside bar.

The true story originates in Bali where the expats meet at an illegal card game held by a fugitive from the law and a struggling writer trying to survive and to live in a foreign country. Then along with another Australian, they help a naive but extroverted Kiwi escape from an abusive marriage to an overbearing Balinese wife.

The expats then travel from Bali to the Indonesian capital of Jakarta, and eventually to Bangkok and the seaside resort town of Pattaya. They plan to live, work and party in the city, and to travel to other parts of South East Asia.

One night, Kiwi Robert Hollick goes out for a walk in Pattaya with his six-month-old Shar-pei puppy dog on a lead.  He then becomes involved in a random argument with a Swedish man and his Thai girlfriend. Then after walking away from the confrontation, he is ambushed and murdered in a Pattaya street.

Malcolm Scott is woken in his Jontiem apartment by a phone call warning him that his friend has been beaten up. He races to Pattaya City with a small group of friends to find him, and in horrific circumstances, the small group discover he is already dead.

The group are then summoned to a meet and greet with the accused murderer on the same night their friend has been stabbed to death. They watch on horrified as the caged and blood-soaked killer is paraded in front of them like some type of macabre trophy.

The man charged with the crime then pleads guilty to manslaughter in order to have the charges against his Thai wife dropped. He then posts bail, and he requests permission of a judge to fly back to Sweden for family reasons.

Malcolm Scott and his friends try to stop the killer escaping from Thailand using intelligence supplied to them by an English lawyer with contacts in the judiciary. However, the information they supply to the New Zealand Embassy is largely ignored and generally dismissed as gossip.

The accused skips bail, but after a request by Thai Interpol he is arrested in Sweden and sent to trial. Unfortunately, the witnesses are unable to attend, and he receives an eighteen-month sentence for the savage, unprovoked, and random killing of a Kiwi in Thailand.

Killing a Kiwi in Thailand is the true story of author Malcolm Scott's best friend's murder and how the couple accused of the crime managed to escape justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Malcolm Scott
• Release date: Mar 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386940982

Malcolm Scott

Malcolm Scott has published three books about Bali Indonesia and one novel based around a kidnap in Cambodia and the fall of the Khmer Rouge. He has also written a number of screenplays across many genre’s from comedy to political drama to thriller. Malcolm is an author, screenwriter and blogger who has lived in South East Asia for the past fifteen years. He is currently living in Bali Indonesia while he completes his fifth book based around the murder of his friend in Thailand  in 2011. Since Malcolm began writing about about his experiences in Bali and then the tragedy in Thailand. He has preferred to keep his identity concealed and he has chosen to write his screenplays and his novels under noms de plume. Malcolm would prefer to use his real name but he also believes the people who read his books will understand the measures he is forced to undertake to keep friends and family safe by using a pseudonym. Malcolm has lived in Bali for ten years and Thailand for six and he has traveled Southeast Asia extensively. He also believes he is the luckiest person in the world to be able to earn a living doing what he was born to do in the places that he loves. Links to Malcolm’s books and to his screenplays can be found on his website listed below and we hope you enjoy discovering this innovative,  diverse and exciting writer.

Book preview

Foreword

This isn’t a book about Bali as much as it is a story about four friends who lived in Bali and Thailand for a number of years and the mischief they created and the misfortune they encountered. I have publicized the book as a sequel to Bali Raw because it is a continuation of what happened to Malcolm Scott during and after writing his first book. This story is also my attempt to discern how one of those friends met with ultimate tragedy halfway across the world from his home country of New Zealand.

Please take note of subheading on the book's jacket that reads, ‘The Pattaya Puppy Dog Murder’. This was chosen as part of the title because I felt it important that anyone thinking of purchasing this book. Understand that part of the story unfolds in Bali, but it also takes place in broader Indonesia and the resort city of Pattaya in Thailand.

I wanted to write this book as a sequel to Bali Raw but the title can be a little confusing, and I don’t want you to waste your time or money if it’s not what you’re looking for. If you’re seeking a travel guide to Bali or Pattaya then this book probably isn’t for you. Conversely, if you’re hoping to live in Bali or Pattaya, then maybe it will be, hopefully, the following paragraphs will give you a further insight.

I received hundreds of messages and reviews from men and women to tell me how much they liked the stories in Bali Raw. The book became an international bestseller and it remains popular after a number of years. I also received hundreds of messages and reviews from readers to tell me they did not like the book because the subject matter included stories on prostitution and violence.

I write about some of the seedier places in Southeast Asia but my aim has never been to promote prostitution or violence. My objective has always been, to tell the truth no matter how adverse or unpleasant it may appear. This means I must write about the sex industry and sometimes the sleazier events that occur in places like Bali and Pattaya. I also see it as my obligation to persuade men who become involved in the sex industry in Southeast Asia, to treat these women with the respect they deserve.

I have no problem if men enlist the services of consenting adult women in the Southeast Asian sex Industry. Most of these working women did not become involved in prostitution because they are sick with addiction, or they are too lazy to get a proper job. The truth is there is no welfare safety net in Southeast Asia. And the majority of sex workers are single mothers trying to raise children without the support of their kid’s fathers. The working women I write about in this book are consenting adults in their twenties or thirties, and they have made a conscious decision to do what they do for financial reasons. They simply need the money to support their families, and to my mind, no one has the right to deny them that opportunity because of their own personal moral judgments.

I don’t feel guilty writing about the more transparent side of the Southeast Asian Sex Industry. But I have no wish to write about the darker evil side, paedophiles, slavery, forced addiction etc. I have never been involved, and I don’t want to be involved, but more importantly, I would not want to promote that kind of sickness in any way.

Some people may also claim that one feeds the other, and I am sure that is the case in a number of circumstances.  The problem of having immoral criminals deeply embedded in the sex industry won’t be solved until governments take responsibility. Turning a blind eye has never fixed anything, and the industry isn’t about to just disappear. These governments need to legalise and monitor certain areas of the industry so they can isolate and eradicate other areas. This won’t happen if they deny the existence of sex workers, or if they force them to hide behind a curtain of corruption and secrecy because of the threat of illegality.

I believe true stories which show the humanity of the people involved in the worlds I write about are important.  However, please don’t buy this book if you are looking for a travel guide as this isn’t for you. You should only buy this book if you want to read a well written and true story, which allows an insight into how expats live and die in Southeast Asia. This story is also deeply important to me on a personal level, so I hope you will allow me to share my experiences of friendship and a tragedy in Bali and Thailand.

Malcolm Scott.

Curly on Rob

Bon Jovi – Welcome to wherever you are.

If you had to guess who would have been killed in Thailand then you definitely would have picked Rob. He loved to party and to be the centre of attention, and once we helped him escape his overbearing wife, we unleashed a beast. Unfortunately, the need to be seen is not a healthy thing in a place like Pattaya and he got noticed by the wrong person. I sometimes think he sensed he was going to be killed because he squeezed as much fun out of the last years as he could manage. I’m also glad that he chose Mullet, Pugwash and I to spend this time with, as I don’t think I have laughed more in my life. I was happy to meet and spend time with Rob, but I wish the end of his life hadn’t been so devastating and tragic.

Mullet on Rob

Mullet- Rob is the only person I’ve met, who has had a Facebook hate page dedicated to him.

What gets to me is that he called me to catch up and I missed him by five minutes. That night when I arrived at the bar where he was later killed they told me he had just left. The staff didn’t know where he was but had I been told that he was around the corner, I would have definitely chased him up. Then maybe I would have been able to warn him that he was tangling with somebody dangerous. Rob just couldn’t sense danger and all his friends knew that you had to pull him back from the edge of the cliff on occasion. The sad thing is he was harmless and he hated violence more than anyone I’ve ever met. Rob was full-forward motion, but he just liked to make people laugh and to be noticed, and it was all about having a good time.

Pugwash on Rob

Rob - Who gives a shit what people think? I just have fun, I don’t hurt anyone. If they don’t like what I do they can suck my balls.

I learned that Rob had been killed by a bunch of bar girls when I flew up to Thailand to surprise Rob, Mullet and Curly. I knew that Mullet would be sleeping so I went to Rob’s favourite bar hoping to find him out drinking. The Thai’s are not exactly subtle and as soon as I walked in they told me that he had been murdered across the street. I was floored, that’s no way to learn that your good friend has died. I rang Curly and he explained that he and Mullet had tried to call but I had been away fishing. I didn’t even get to go to Rob’s funeral and I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to a good friend. Something was stolen away from all of us on the night he was killed, and I think about him all the time and still miss his crazy antics. (Hands out, palms up, looking at the sky)

Rob on Rob

Rob – I have, ‘Welcome to Wherever You Are’ tattooed on my chest but my favourite Bon Jovi song is, ‘It’s My Life’.

I expect Curly will write a book about what happened but I don’t want a eulogy and I really don’t want him to whine on and on about the night I was killed. I just don’t have time for that depressing shit and let’s face it I have an eternity now. When you read this book you should keep something in mind, if you don’t like what I did, or how I behaved, you can suck my balls. Ok with that said I will let Curly get on with the story. But be warned, I will be offering my opinions as this book winds to it depressing conclusion.  This is my story as far as I’m concerned and being that my body weight has been reduced to a scattering of ashes blowing around some fucking mountain in New Zealand. This is probably my last real opportunity to stir up some shit.

Bali

Curly on meeting Mullet

Curly - If I needed one word to sum up Mullet, I’d say he was slippery.

Mullet changed his name by deed poll before I met him, but he never uses the name that is in his passport. He picked the most common name he could think of, and he introduced himself to all his friends and associates with the fake name. We were friends for a year before I saw his real name in his passport and I still don’t know the name he was given at birth. But then none of this really matters because most people refer to him as Mullet.

I was living in a half-built villa/hovel in Seminyak Bali when I wrote my first book Bali Raw. The paint was peeling off the walls in large flakes and the floor was unsealed concrete. The two bedrooms had an oily black and alien looking mould clinging to the ceiling and walls. And I have seen better amenities in public toilets than we had in our bathroom. The house was a decrepit shit-hole, but the rent was cheap, and it was central. I also have fond memories of the house because I met some of the best people I have ever known while I lived there.

The guy I was living with was a drug dealer from Australia who was hiding from the law and still is. Mullet, a nickname given to him by another friend Rob, moved large quantities of weed across borders, but he never dealt in anything stronger than marijuana. He told me he disliked people who sold meth or heroin because of the damage they caused to people’s lives. He also believed that marijuana should be legalized because the drug could help people both physically and mentally.

The police came knocking on Mullets with a search warrant door one day and he happened to be sitting in a bar in Bali drinking beer with me. He never went back home and he slowly sold everything he owned through a network of friends. He managed to fund a lifestyle in Bali and Thailand for years, but nothing lasts forever and now the money has been spent. That’s also what I will say if I’m ever asked by anyone wearing a uniform, so please don’t bother knocking on my door if you happen to work in law enforcement.

Mullet was an inexperienced traveller who had only been outside Australia a couple of times. When he found out he was trapped in an Asian country he was a little uncertain who to trust and how to get things done. I had lived in Bali for years so I gave him advice on how to survive being an expat. He’s street smart, and he was flush with cash, so he found his feet before too long. By the time we shared a house he was coming home most early mornings with different Indonesian women under his arm.  He had a lot of money to throw around, so some of the women were probably working girls, but the lines can become blurred in Bali nightclubs. Still, a few these women were able to retire to their villages in Java after meeting Mullet. He was too kind, and he had a tendency to believe their stories about needing money for sick relatives. I know that in those first few months he spent thousands on women that desperately needed his help and then suddenly disappeared.

Mullet was a heavy weed smoker in Australia but marijuana is highly illegal and not readily available in Bali. He wasn’t a drinker, but he was forced to replace his weed addiction with an alcohol habit because he has always been plagued by insomnia and nightmares. The alcohol had the usual bad effects on a first-time drinker and I witnessed him learn the hard way on many occasions. Mullet always treats ladies with respect, and the kinder Indonesian women in the clubs looked after him if he became too drunk. More than once I received a phone call to tell me he was asleep outside a nightclub and vulnerable to being robbed. I was generally able to pick him up and get him home on these occasions. But he was also notorious for losing phones, his wallet, and his motorbike every now and again.

When we shared the house I’d wake up around four in the morning and I’d write until about midday seven days a week. I was desperately trying to finish my first manuscript because I was broke and in need of an income. I would have continued writing into the afternoon but the house was sweltering and we had no air-conditioner. I also didn’t like to work in my bedroom because any time I was able to spend away from the black mould was a bonus. I didn’t have any other private space so I did most of my writing on the bench in our kitchen or on the dining table in the lounge room.

Whenever Mullet arrived home from a nightclub, I was forced to stop what I was doing so I could meet one of his new girlfriends. He likes to chat, and he has boundless energy, so his company would often go to bed before him. He also had a tendency to relieve himself on the T.V. or the sofa if he is too drunk or left alone too long. I had to watch him like a hawk and I often had to steer him towards the bathroom with his pants around his knees. Mullet’s early morning conversations would generally eat into my work time. But eventually, I’d convince him to go to bed by reminding him that he had a guest.

You know what happens to Indonesian girls if the sun comes up Mullet? I’d ask.

They burst into flames like vampires?

Nope, well maybe some of them do.

They turn into pumpkins?

No, and that’s definitely the wrong kind of story.

They go home?

They go home.

Okay, bye.

Goodbye, have fun and make sure you're nice to her.

Mullet would then trundle off happy in the knowledge that the sun hadn’t yet risen and I’d go back to typing on my battered and coffee stained keyboard.

Mullet and I met through a mutual friend and we had only known each other a few weeks when I invited him on a sailing adventure that almost cost our lives. Although I had no sailing experience, I’d been asked to help sail a fifty-foot catamaran from Semarang in Java Indonesia down the coast to Bali.  I promised him it would be the journey of a lifetime and he told me he would come along if he could bring a friend. I didn’t know him well enough to be concerned, so I agreed without giving it much thought. When I arrived at the airport, I discovered the friend he’d mentioned was a high-heeled Indonesian woman with an attitude. I didn’t complain because I needed Mullet’s help to get the boat back, but I did have my misgivings.

The journey didn’t start well, and thirty minutes after the plane had landed in Surabaya Java, we were standing outside a transport rental office on the side of the freeway. Mullet’s girlfriend Ketty spoke the language so she had organized the transportation and paid over our cash in advance. I soon discovered she’d arranged for us to travel in a battered old minibus with no air-conditioner and seven locals.

When I checked out the group we were travelling with I knew there was going to be a problem. One of the locals was carrying a rooster in a cage, another was holding an infant sucking on a bottle, and one old man was hawking up mucus and spitting regularly. I had no problems riding in a bus with Indonesian’s but the group didn’t feel like a good fit.  I also had a suspicion Ketty was skimming off the top because we had paid over an excessive amount of money for budget transport.

You’re kidding right, I said to her, and this cost us how much?

Expensive, but Mullet gave me the cash, and I’ve already paid. She replied.

I then looked at Mullet hoping for support but he shrugged and said he was new to the country and that I was supposed to be the expert. I turned back Ketty and as politely as I could manage, I asked her to get our money back. I suggested she inform the tout that there had been a mistake and that we were going to travel by private taxi. When she refused, I knew she had pocketed some of the money and she was afraid of being caught. I didn’t mention this to Mullet, but I decided to get our money back myself and deal with her later.

I marched into the office but the guy who sold us the bus trip obviously understood what was about to happen. He stood up from behind his desk and then he managed to slip by me and run outside. Mullet and I were only two westerners in the middle of nowhere and he must have decided he didn’t need to give us a refund. I couldn’t afford the loss because I was on a budget, and I couldn’t write-off the money then pay for a more transport. I chased him, and we ended up in the middle of a busy freeway jumping back and forth over the road barrier as I tried to get the money back.

The tout and I put on quite the show and I pursued him while dodging speeding cars and trucks, for about five minutes.  Eventually, I managed to corner the highwayman against the road barrier and I was able to snatch half the cash back. Mullet and Ketty then flagged down a taxi and we made our getaway as quickly as possible. The tout began making phone calls and Ketty informed us that he was calling in reinforcements. We made good on our escape, but we spent the next eight hours travelling 310 km across Java in a taxi.  I learned to my dismay, and to Mullet’s mirth, that I had stupidly messed up the distance between both cities. Luckily Mullet accepted some responsibility for Ketty’s original mistake, and he covered a large part of the fair.

Neither Mullet nor I had been to Java before and we were disappointed to discover, that because they were Muslim, no one sold beer in the rural