Take A Thousand Cuts

by TERESA HUNTER

  She opened her mouth to respond, when commotion erupted at the far end of the room below. What looked like a dozen students, armed only with banners and ribbons, ran in from a side entrance and headed straight for the Ambassador.

  It was hard to see exactly what was happening, because a storm of Chinese muscle fell upon the protesters and bundled them out as quickly as they arrived. An Aide of the Ambassador rose and clapped his hands. Dancers returned in joyful colour. Musicians struck up a lively traditional Chinese melody.

  Andrew and Julia's gaze met, troubled. Neither spoke, their eyes said it all.

  “When are you planning to leave?” he asked her calmly.

  “In a few days. There’s a flight late Monday arriving Tuesday.”

  “OK but keep the trip short. File while you’re away. I'll have a piece a day. Leave this story to me...”

  CHAPTER 16

  Saturday August 7

  Southwark

  A TIGHT STORY about a kerfuffle in the Chinese Embassy during the Dragon Boat celebrations appeared below the fold on page nine the following morning, describing the event in muted tones, and noting a couple of intruders were intercepted. It said nothing about what happened to them. Technically, an embassy was foreign soil, so not subject to British justice.

  Julia waited for Sunday morning's edition for further information. Propped up in bed enjoying her first coffee of the day, her eye caught a short piece buried down-page, some way back in the book. Four students were taken to St Thomas's hospital with injuries after a fracas in Marylebone on Friday night. She didn't need any help joining the dots.

  Poor kids, Julia thought, pushing the newspaper to one side and getting out of bed.

  She packed a small suitcase, and began counting down the hours before her trip East on Monday evening. With the time difference, she would arrive Tuesday evening Hong Kong time.

  The sun streamed in through the window so she decided to go for a walk. She hadn’t gone far when a Toyota Corolla shot like a rocket out of Pilgrimage Street, followed by a black Mercedes. Tyres screeched as they chased up the A2. Julia, trained to run towards danger, broke into a trot.

  They must be doing over 80, she thought, as the two cars tore towards Bricklayers Arms roundabout.

  Next, she heard a God Almighty bang. They must have crashed, she thought, as the blast of what sounded like gunshot blistered the air.

  She ran now towards the roundabout. When she got there, the Toyota was a crumpled wreck, and smoking. The driver slumped over the wheel with a bullet in his head. From a distance, he looked Chinese. The Mercedes gone.

  A police car pulled up and started to block the traffic. An ambulance followed quickly.

  Julia moved to speak to the police officer, but realised she would learn little this early and could be a hindrance. She went home and tuned into the television, for news of what had happened. Nothing. An hour later she walked down to the local police station in Borough High Street and asked the Duty Officer for news of the incident.

  “Looks like some sort of chase down Great Dover Street. Toyota rammed on the roundabout. Driver shot dead,” he said.

  “Gang related?” she asked.

  “Almost certainly.”

  She wrote a short story of yet another young life lost to gang violence in the heart of London, which she filed for the morning’s edition.

  “NICE STORY,” Cody said, as he arrived for work the next morning, carrying two coffees.

  “Good weekend?” Julia said, head down scouring the online editions of the Hong Kong newspapers – the South China Morning News, the Standard, the Hong Kong Economic Journal.

  She looked up and smiled.

  “Can't complain,” he placed a coffee on her desk, before putting the other down on his own. He hung his coat on the back of his chair. “How was the embassy?”

  “Entertaining is probably the best way to describe the evening. Let me finish this and I'll bring you up to speed. Getting anywhere with those accounts?”

  “Still struggling.”

  “Here,” Julia threw him a business card. “Old friend of mine – forensic accountant. Get him to take a look. By the way, could you apply for a full Chinese visa for me while I’m away?”

  “Tad late isn’t it? You’re leaving tonight.”

  “Apparently, you’re allowed three days without Visa. If I need to go back, I’ll need a full Visa. Agencies sort it for you. Here. Could you give them a call?”

  She threw a second card onto his desk. He put it to one side, and dialled the number of the forensic accountant, his face brightening at a voice at the other end.

  Julia turned back to the Hong Kong press. She knew some of the content would be censored, but business journalism generally managed to fly under the radar.

  The Economic Journal should be reliable, she thought.

  Reading between the lines, all was far from well in the People's Republic of China. A so-called anti-corruption drive was underway on the mainland. Anyone the Party leaders felt threatened by were “disappeared”. The Party Discipline Commission, behind the clampdown, acted outside the law and could seize individuals and hold them in secret locations, without charge. When they were ready to confess, they were handed over to the courts where the conviction rate was 100 per cent. Human rights activists were imprisoned. There were reports of torture. The Economic Journal had a story about the disappearance of the boss of a Hong Kong cotton trading company.

  Her thoughts were distracted as Cody punched the air.

  “Brilliant. He said he could meet for lunch.”

  “OK, but don't get excited. You’ll be paying – or rather I will, so go easy.”

  Julia's phone rang. It was Chief Inspector Pitcher. How was her trip out West, and did she fancy a whirl on the river? He was going out on patrol with the River Police; would she like to join him? Might make a colour piece for her tatty rag?

  Julia froze at his words. The Metropolitan Marine Unit had many functions, but was big in fishing bodies out of the murky water of the Thames.

  Dear God, surely they aren't dredging for Chandler?

  “There's been some suspicious traffic on the water,” he said, as if reading her mind. “I want to take a look at some warehouses down by the sewerage pumping station. See you at the London Bridge jetty in fifteen minutes.”

  I can make it in ten, she thought, grabbing her coat.

  A speed boat was waiting at the jetty. Pitcher greeted her with a wave, but kept his distance. She recognised most of the crew from Wapping Marine Station. They had helped her before with colour backgrounders.

  A young officer she had never met walked towards her and handed her a life jacket. “You’ll need this. You’re the journalist aren't you? I'm PC Day from Soho.”

  Long way off your patch, Julia thought as she wriggled into a life vest. When it came to stepping into the high speed police craft, her legs froze. It was only a year since she had lost her lover Sandy to a tragedy on the seas. His body had been brought home in just such a police boat. Memories of what happened that dreadful night paralysed her.

  “Come on, step lively,” Pitcher grabbed her arm and propelled her into the vessel. As they both landed with a jump, he gave her an understanding smile, before resuming his normal devil-may-care persona. She knew he understood. He was with her, when she lost the man she loved to a watery grave.

  The launch took off with a kick. Silverman’s face rose before her – risking his life to save those in peril on the sea. What a mystery that man is, she thought as the wind lashed her face. Its icy bite dulled the pain of memory. They moved fast, the fastest shark on the river, whipping along the tide, dodging pleasure boats, and other traffic. They slowed as they approached the Night Rider steps leading to China Wharf, creating a powerful wash lashing the ancient stone walls. A crumpled skeleton of a once magnificent pier poked out of the water by the steps, which though narrow, steep, and open on one side, looked sturdy enough.

  Pitcher was first to the top, hi
s team hard on his heels. Julia followed, determined not to be left behind. Their target was a large Victorian warehouse, built like a prison in London brick. It stood proud and magnificent, four storeys high – five barred, braced, windows wide. It was a building she knew.

  “It’s the old print works, isn’t it? Visited it years ago,” Julia said to PC Day. For most of the last century it was owned by a consortium of newspapers and printed most of London’s daily titles. When the industry modernised, and it was surplus to requirement, no one knew who owned it. A battle dragged on for years in the courts. With property prices along the river on a steep upward trajectory, no one was in any hurry to resolve the matter.

  “If you say so,” PC Day charged ahead.

  Two officers carried bolt clippers. They snapped the lock and pulled the giant double-doors open wide, exposing a massive loading void, leading through to derelict machinery. A pack of rats scuttled in the dark. Julia choked on the stench of decay as she watched officers ducking and diving between the redundant printing presses, a sense of loss overwhelming her.

  How I loved the thunderous rumble of those old presses, she thought.

  “Nothing 'ere Gov,” shouted one of the officers. Shrugs of shoulders and shakes of heads confirmed there was nothing significant to report.

  “OK, you guys better get back.” Pitcher disguised his disappointment. “Send someone down to make good the lock.”

  “Hang on,” shouted PC Day. He raced up dilapidated rat-eaten stairs, shoes clattering on each step. “Mezzanine floor up here. Nothing though.”

  He waved down to them, then ran on. More echoing steps.

  “You be careful up there,” Pitcher bellowed.

  “No, not here either,” clatter clatter clatter. “No,” he shouted again, his steps rattling around the derelict void as he race upwards. “Wait a minute there are boxes up here.”

  A pause. “Yep, it's all up here. Quite an arsenal. Two cases of machetes. Another of meat cleavers and a couple dozen hand guns.”

  “Good work PC Day,” Pitcher shouted up to the top of the building, before turning to one of the senior officers. “Get forensics down here.”

  “What d’you know about the building?” Julia asked Pitcher, as she headed for the stairs

  “No, you don’t. It's not safe.” He pulled her back. “And this is a scene of crime – out of bounds.”

  He looked at his watch. “Fancy a quick bite in the Mayflower? I missed breakfast.”

  “Don't you have things to do here?”

  Pitcher shook his head. “Not right now. All as expected. Plans in place before we left.” He spoke loudly for his men to hear. “My crack team will be able to manage fine.”

  “Will the Mayflower be open?” It was hardly gone 10am.

  Pitcher threw her a quizzical look.

  “I know, don't tell me,” she said. “Everywhere in London is open to cook breakfast for the Metropolitan Police. Well, bully for you.”

  It turned out he was right. The landlord of the Mayflower was delighted to serve him. They chatted at the bar about coppers they both knew, now long retired, and crimes in which the river had played a central and dramatic role.

  “What a chase your guys gave the IRA after they tried to bomb Battersea Bridge...” said the landlord.

  “Remember when we caught the Romanians people-trafficking three wharfs up.” Pitcher winked at Julia.

  The landlord pulled a half and took a sip.

  “Wouldn't it be lovely to go back to the quiet old days of the Krays? At least you knew where you were with them.”

  “And they were very good to their mothers,” Julia couldn't resist. This was as much as she could bear, so she took her coffee to a table overlooking the river.

  What’s happening in London? she thought looking out across the water. She bit her lip. She was still shaken by the horrendous scene she had witnessed less than 24 hours ago. The landlord's voice dropped. She could no longer hear what they were discussing.

  “What was that all about?” she asked, when Pitcher finally joined her, carrying his breakfast.

  “Don't you worry your pretty little head.”

  “God you can be so patronising.”

  “Sun too strong? You must be burning here in the window, because you’re so hot today.”

  “And you’re so not,” she slapped him down. “I hate you when you're like this.”

  He looked up and grinned. “You make a magnificent job of hiding it. Come on, cut me some slack. We’ve scored this morning.”

  He dipped white bread into his runny egg yolk. “Why didn’t you call me yesterday?” he said, putting it into his mouth.

  “Honestly? I think I was in a state of shock.”

  “You witnessed a murder.”

  “Pains me to say it though it does, gang violence and murder is something we have to live with in that post code. I left a full statement at Borough Station.”

  “Have it your own way. So tell me what you know about that warehouse?”

  “Not too much. It was the old printing works for most of London. I used to be sent down here to deliver pages and changes as a rookie. That’s over a decade ago now. Very valuable piece of land. The newspaper barons can’t agree on how much their companies each invested back in the 1930s, so have argued in court for years. That’s why it’s one of the few warehouses not converted into flats.”

  “It’s rented out today for storage.”

  “Sensible while they’re trying to resolve the issue. Who’s the tenant?”

  “We’ve got the name of a company, but we can’t get behind it.”

  “I can take a look if you like, but I’m guessing you have more powers of discovery than me.”

  Pitcher shrugged. “Powers yes. But resources?”

  “Where did you get your tip? By the way, who was that young PC Day. He's not part of the usual Marine crew, is he?”

  “Works in Soho. He’s been helping me out with some inquiries.”

  “Is this to do with Adam Lee? I think the victim yesterday was Chinese. Where are you getting with Lee – and Chandler?”

  He ignored her and concentrated on his breakfast.

  “Isn't it time you started sharing?” she asked softly.

  “What d’ you think this is all about, if not sharing? If it's sharing you want, you go first. Adam Lee was a banker. You’re the banking expert. What have you found out about his customers and clients?”

  “I'm going to Hong Kong.”

  Pitcher dropped his knife and fork. They clattered on the white plate. He looked up. His face deadly serious.

  “When?”

  “Later tonight. Flying Heathrow at 10pm. Cathay Pacific.”

  “You be careful out there. It's a dangerous world, I can't protect you.”

  “Protect me? When have I ever needed your protection?”

  “I'll remember that the next time you...”

  “OK, OK.” She raised both hands in surrender. He had a fair point. More than once he had saved her from mistakes.

  “So you want to know what I know,” he was serious now. “I know he came to London for some meetings in the City.”

  “Looking for money?”

  “If you say so. He had other meetings and lunched in Soho, where sometime later he was brutally murdered.”

  “Do we know where he lunched or who with?”

  “Not quite, or rather not entirely. We're working on it.”

  “We?”

  “Like you, I have my contacts.”

  “Snouts, don't you call them?”

  “I usually call them Sir or Madam and say please and thank you.”

  “Came across one of Chang’s grandsons the other evening at the Chinese Embassy.”

  “Which one?”

  “The IT one. The other’s in banking, isn’t he?”

  “What was he like?”

  “Didn’t meet him. Looked OK. He had a blazing row with another character. Looked ugly.”

  “What ar
e you doing in Hong Kong?”

  “Tying up some loose ends. It's a big financial centre.”

  They both knew neither was being entirely honest with the other.

  “I repeat. Be careful. These people are dangerous. Remember what they did to Lee.”

  “The people I’ll be interviewing are respectable bankers, not criminals. Certainly not violent thugs.”

  “Come on Julia, wake up. Why d’you think Lee was murdered? Where’s the easy money made these days? The big easy money? You of all people should know.”

  “Financial crime,” she said, the awkward truth dawning.

  “Money laundering, VAT fraud, internet, banking, benefit fraud. It's a multi-billion business. These are clever skilled operators.”

  “In London, or in Hong Kong?”

  “Take your pick, but London’s my only concern. Something big’s stirring. Someone’s angry.”

  “You think Lee was somehow involved in this?”

  “His murder was more than a ritual killing. It was a warning.”

  “To a rival gang?”

  “Perhaps. And now we have another Chinese body. We need to stop this before a wholescale war breaks out on the streets of London.”

  “Yesterday? You think that was connected?”

  “Tit for tat,” he tapped his nose.

  “Revenge for Lee. I still don't see how reputable bankers can be involved with criminal thugs.”

  Pitcher raised his eyebrows.

  “Maybe they're not. Maybe Lee just invested a lot of money on someone's behalf, who’s down in the mouth about where the markets moved. Some of these guys are seriously wealthy. A 30 or 40 per cent hit on their portfolios will amount to the loss of a great deal of money. Someone might be taking this all very personally.”

  “Scary stuff.”

  “And right out of your league. Have a good trip. By all means nose round. But for once listen to your friendly Inspector. Be careful.”

  CHAPTER 17

  A year earlier - August 6 2006

  Hong Kong

  LAURA WAN SUN scrubbed and scrubbed her hands with anti-bacterial hand wash and water for a full four minutes, rubbing palm against palm, left palm against the back of her right hand and vice versa. She interlaced her fingers and kept on rubbing. When there was nothing left to rub, she rinsed and dried using a paper towel.