by Clive Hindle
“Well, interviewing witnesses isn’t his job, is it? He’s the trial lawyer so he’s not going to be doing the interfering.”
“There has to be a brain behind every muscle action,” the moustache replied. “Those pieces don’t move by themselves.” He indicated the board.
"I'm afraid I can't help you," Jack said, "maybe he needed a holiday?"
"Oh bollocks man," Ginger said angrily, "I’m fed up with your skirmishing. You're not seriously asking us to believe that you lent him fifty grand without even a who's your Aunt Fanny?"
“Except for the absence of an aunt Fanny or any other aunt, come to that, that’s exactly what I did do. I trust him. This might be a difficult concept for you to take in.”
"Talking about taking in, he's taken you right in. In fact he’s taken off with your dough, mate," Ginger seemed to enjoy the idea. The moustache pursed his lips again and he studied Jack thoughtfully. Ginger stood behind him, scowling menacingly, clenching and unclenching his fists like a comic book heavy. At length the moustache spoke; he’d been weighing up the pros and cons of taking Jack into his confidence. “We’ve been watching certain police officers for some time. We’ve now got a clear case that these officers have been passing inside information to Gerry. On top of that in the recent trial of a major drug dealer he was party to bribing witnesses, using Triads to threaten others. We believe he’s into all sorts of corruption.”
Jack was sceptical, aware they were watching his reaction. If it was true and Gerry was that far AWOL, Ginger was right, he probably could kiss his money goodbye. Finally he shook his head and replied, "Sorry, I don't buy that. Gerry doesn’t get involved at that level. Like I say, he’s a trial lawyer, not a street lawyer.”
The moustache shook his head, too. “You’d think that, wouldn’t you? But Gerry’s not like an English Q.C.”
Jack laughed. “No, I can credit that. There’s nothing remotely English about Gerry.”
“Which makes you two an odd couple,” Ginger scowled.
“Opposites attract,” the moustache said.
“Okay, but he wasn’t that different. Assuming he was even aware of it, he’d leave any dirty dealing to the solicitors.”
“Like you, eh?” Ginger scowled.
“Sorry but I was Crown Counsel out there.”
“Crown Counsel have been known to throw trials,” the moustache said in his measured tones. “There’s more than one locked up in Stanley.” The fingers formed the same pyramid in front of his lips.
That was true. Crown Counsel had come eventually on to the list of people bribed by Hong Kong criminal gangs; there had been almost a gentleman‘s agreement for a time that they wouldn‘t be targeted but that had changed with some of the high profile trials in the latter years. Government lawyers couldn’t earn anything like their private practice counterparts so they were as vulnerable as anyone else. The ICAC had targeted its corruption drive originally at the police and civil servants in the public works department but they had later started to look closely at the legal system. Anyone doing a risk assessment would see the danger immediately. A lawyer can lose a trial because he doesn’t have the right information, or because something unexpected comes out at trial; or he can lose one by a simple human error falling far short of negligence. It’s almost impossible to detect. That’s why the ICAC has access to all Government servants’ bank accounts. Follow the money.
“I’ve read about some of them over the years.”
“When you worked for the Government,” the moustache said, “you refused to prosecute any cases for the ICAC?” He waited for an answer but none came so he continued: “I was wondering why that was?”
“What were you afraid of?” the blunter Ginger asked, which made Jack laugh.
Why not? he thought. Just tell them like it is, or was. “I just didn’t like the way you guys worked, and I can see that not much has changed.”
If he meant to phase them he didn’t succeed. “Gerry didn’t share your…er… principles,” the moustache said, “he did a lot of cases for us. Maybe that’s the point? Maybe those who have nothing to hide can afford to tell us to piss off but those who are covering things up stay friendly?”
Jack smiled again. The Godfather mentality: keep your friends close and your enemies closer. There had been whispers in the past about Gerry Montrose, long before he packed his bags at Central Government Office and took off to be a Q.C in private practice, earning (and spending) a fortune in the process, but nothing had ever been proved. It was all speculation. Jack shrugged. "If you don't know the answers with the network of informers you've got, how do you expect me to, particularly as I don't believe it? Tell me this? Who is this drug dealer character anyway?"
"K.K. Chow.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. That was the second time he'd heard that name tonight. Some people at the function had discussed the latest revelations from back home about the infamous K.K. Chow. "Oh come on," he said, "you guys know Gerry's success rate goes way back, you can't seriously ask me to accept you don't know the number of enemies he's made, particularly in the RHKP. All this information you've got could be rubbish. You know as well as I do, the guys who ran the squeeze in Hong Kong were the Station Sergeants. That’s where you want to look for any pressure to change evidence."
"Yes, and all the officers and gentlemen did nothing more than find a brown paper envelope in their desks on Friday. Very sanitised. The point is, secrets about police operations were leaked and that led to Gerry Montrose Q.C dismantling a big case."
“Hey, that’s what he does! That’s why he’s in demand.” Their glum faces said they had no answer to that. “It’s all sour grapes because Gerry is too good for them, too light on his feet.” He shrugged. “And now he’s disappeared? I'm surprised you guys can‘t find him. I mean, the world's a small place. People don't just disappear, particularly in Hong Kong. You monitor all movements in and out."
"But you’re wrong about your friend! He is a street monkey!" Ginger cut in, "He had it all planned to disappear. He spent a lot of time in Macao. He gambled heavily at the tables.”
“He always did!” Jack protested. “Even when he was on Government salary, that’s where it went, that and the sherbet!”
“And women!” Ginger looked as if the idea of congress between a male and female filled him with disgust.
“Oh no! He never paid for it!” Jack couldn’t help smirking. It was so easy to wind Ginger up. The veins stood out on his neck now.
Ginger controlled his instincts to lash out and persisted. “He usually went over on the jetfoil but then he changed and took the ferry. Every weekend without fail. Then, bang, suddenly he's not there. He’s disappeared into the China Sea." He looked puzzled and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.
“Yes,” the moustache took up the story, “and the RHKP alerted the Coastguard but nothing was found. Even the Chinese Coastguard out of Hainan took part in the operation.” Jack had visions of Gerry falling overboard in shark-infested waters. It brought back a vivid but distant memory of an occasion when the two of them had overturned a racing yacht in a squall in the Gulf of Siam. He grinned as that memory reminded him that they didn’t get rid of Gerry Montrose that easily. No, they could be right about one thing, it sounded like his old mate had intended to disappear. He was jolted out of his reverie when the moustache added, “other elements had access to his bank account. We’ve discovered that since.”
“Other elements?”
"Triads," the moustache said. "Mr. Lauder, if we don't find Gerry Montrose soon there’s no guarantee of his safety. You do of course appreciate they will know of your transaction with him?" There was a pregnant pause. "Well, if I was looking for him...." The moustache left the thought unfinished but Jack could have saved him the trouble. Gerry’s pursuers would assume that anyone who had lent him fifty k would know where he was.
"So," the non-p.c Ginger added, his face twisted in malice, "if I was you, I’d watch out for little yellow bastards w
ith meat choppers.”
Jack ignored Ginger’s racist remark except to say to his colleague, "I think I've already had that visit.” The moustache leaned forward as he recounted the incident after he had left the charity function and again that night in Stowell Street.
“That certainly sounds like a Triad Red Pole,” he mused, “he’ll have a network of prepared contacts over here. He’ll disappear back into the brotherhood, wait to be reprogrammed.” He made it sound like a weird computer game.
"So you think I'm in some danger? You think this is a hit man?" The moustache’s silent shrug spoke volumes. "But presumably," Jack went on, "they want to know where Gerry is? There's not much point in killing the golden goose, is there, if they think I'm the only one who knows?"
"Mr. Lauder," Moustache said, standing up, "whether you know or you don't, your life is not worth one Hong Kong dollar if those guys decide to take you out. If you know nothing they will kill you without a second thought. If you have what they want, they will take it and then kill you anyway. You’ll beg them to kill you." Ginger looked fairly happy about that, almost as if he’d placed some wager on the minus side of Jack’s survival prospects.
“I thought you might say that.” Jack stood up, too, assuming the interview was over.
“Show me those moves?” the moustache asked.
“Sure.” He moved round the table. “So one, white rook to c5, black bishop takes the knight on g3. Two, the bishop is taken in turn by the pawn from g2 and now the black queen side rook moves to d8. That’s where we left it?” The moustache shook his head at his memory for the moves and when Jack rearranged the board accordingly, he leaned over and made the next white move rook to b5 to threaten the black queen so the response was to reverse the effect by moving the queen to c6. White brought its king side rook to c1 and the black queen went to d7. With no coherence now and looking like he was ready to be beheaded moustache moved the white bishop from d3 to c4 and Jack responded with the black knight to b6. White moved its pawn from b2 to b3, still tentative, and Jack’s bishop on g7 swooped on the d4 pawn.
Moustache’s face sank into his hands as he saw his back line ripped open by the removal of that isolated pawn. “I should have gone with the retreat at the beginning,” he said soberly.
“Yes, the bishop retreating to e2 would have supported both your knight and the pawn on d4. Probably a draw then.”
Moustache stood up and nodded his head in appreciation. “I obviously don’t have a reverse gear,” he said. “But a word of warning!” He wagged a finger at Jack. “It will be just as well you don’t rule one out of your arsenal because I feel you will be doing some retreating in the future.”
“Oh well, maybe’s there’s another way?”
Moustache looked at him quizzically, wondering what he’d do next, and quite liking the man, despite seeing himself as on a different side. This reference back to the problem facing Jack meant he was even more surprised at the coolness with which the lawyer shook his hand. His wasn’t at all clammy; he didn’t exhibit any sign of fear. Somehow Jack brought himself to clasp Ginger’s hand also.
On that note the ICAC men left. Jack pulled himself together and put out of his mind the threat to his own life. Peter’s case needed all his concentration. This was the way he had learned to deal with emotion: consign it to the sub-conscious and let it work itself out. Since his early years he had known how to retain the grasp of a problem whilst consigning its sibling, the worry, to the obsolete parts shelf in the warehouse. There was both a treasure trove and a minefield in that warehouse, waiting to be brought out and dusted down. If they were all to come out together he’d disintegrate beneath their combined force. Bad memories are like nuclear energy. You keep them banged up and you police them through the generations.
CHAPTER 5
A few days later, evening found him driving out to Cullernose Point at the eastern end of the Whin Sill, a ridge of volcanic rock, which rips Britain in half across the line of the Roman Wall. The cliffs mark the point where the ridge disappears into the North Sea. A South-Easterly wind was blowing in from the Low Countries past the ruins of Dunstanburgh Castle as Jack climbed out of the car, shouldered his pack and made his way down towards the top of the cliff. He was soon walking out along the promontory towards the ranks of white horses charging up against the red cliffs. The constant erosion from these cavalry charges meant that anything loose had long since crumbled and had been washed into the sea, which was just as well as Jack intended climbing on it. The cliff posed a couple of neat but relatively safe climbing puzzles. The bigger hazard came from the fulmars, which nest on the Point all year round. These uncompromising birds spit out a foul, regurgitated brew if you threaten their nesting grounds. Climbing is, therefore, forbidden during the nesting season.
It was a wild, sunny Northumbrian evening: the Farnes were visible to the East; the squadrons of white horses roared into the square cut bay; a group of Japanese tourists stood on the cliff top, clicking furiously with the latest in digital camera technology. Jack clung to the smooth face. The photographers couldn’t tell he was on a top rope, secured a few feet below the summit until he sprinted horizontally across the smooth rock and leapt off the end of the cliff, penduluming back over the crashing waves. That had the flash bulbs going until the sun dipped over the western horizon in a furnace of light. Then it was time for them to go.
Soaked in spray and starting to feel the cold, he heaved himself back over the summit rocks. He was alone finally. Coiling the rope and bagging his equipment, he put on his thermal and settled down on the cliff top to drink tea from his thermos. As still as the Buddha, he stared out to sea, where a yacht out of Amble Marina took him to the edge of the earth. Lost so long in thought he didn't notice night descend. His return walk would be in pitch darkness - except that Orion came out, then the Heavenly Twins of Gemini, the bears with Polaris at the nose of the Minor, Jupiter, many times brighter than any star, and the legendary beauty of the Pleiades. The Milky Way, a great river of light, wound across the firmament. What did anything matter? Everyone was covered by this great pavillion, playing parts in a design none could comprehend. Was it more frightening that this might be the creation of some vast but incomprehensible intelligence or that it might be purely random, a trick of the atoms?
Stepping off the rocks where the finger of the cliff joined the hand of the earth, he began his descent towards the beach, having determined to go back that way rather than retrace his footsteps across the promontory. He soon regretted the decision because he had forgotten how tricky it was in the dark, clambering over the monstrous rocks, which looked as if they had been abandoned randomly, the granite marbles of giant players.
Then in in the shadow of the cliff face he heard a noise to his right. He focused and saw a human figure approaching across the terrain at an unearthly pace. Had this guy followed him here and waited patiently for this moment? He remembered those oriental faces on the cliff top watching his exercises. Had he hidden among them? The stars seemed visible through the figure’s flowing robes; something astral in its movement made the nape of his neck turn suddenly wet as if he was staring at a being from another plane of existence. A lurch of fear turned his stomach; his tongue cleaved to the roof of his palate. There was no one here to interfere this time. He watched mesmerised as this shadow flew over the boulders until it hit him with the force of an express train. He went over backwards on to hard rock. Struggling to right himself a powerful hand telescoped from behind enfolding robes and grasped his neck. He gagged and felt himself passing out. Despite the power of the grip the man seemed to be standing yards away. He could only just discern his head, covered by a dark hood. Dimly he heard a voice asking the same question again. “Show what Monro give you!" it hissed in imperfect English.
He relaxed his grip as Jack tried to croak a reply. "Nothing," he said hoarsely, "I don't know what you mean. It was me that gave him." It was the wrong answer. He felt his senses slipping again and saw the blood red tria
ngle of livid Chinese characters on the black headband.
"Fool!" the figure hissed, "you pay Monro big money for what is ours, you speak or die!" Jack racked his fading brains to think of something to tell his persecutor, anything that would make him relax this pressure. The grip on his throat forced him back; his spine felt as though it would snap.
But he was wrong that nothing or no one would interrupt here. He was almost beyond salvation when a blinding flash made his attacker let go. Another flash of light was followed by a loud report. Jack could no longer pick out the assassin’s black garb against the sea. Frenzied shouting told him there was more than one person out there. Heart pounding, scarcely caring now about the rocks as he leapt across them like a figure from a martial arts extravaganza, he pumped his legs until he reached the comparative safety of the shingle. He raced up the path past the ruins of Dunstanburgh towards the farm track where he’d left the car. Panting with exhaustion, he staggered into the vehicle, locked the doors and inserted the key in the ignition. It didn't start first time. In the darkness he saw weird shapes and his heart pounded as he turned the key again. Not a flicker. He’d left the vehicle turned towards the sea and the points were soaked. Suddenly, there in the headlights the black-clad figure came running up the bank.
