Chasing the Dragon: a story of love, redemption and the Chinese triads (Opium Book 2)

by Colin Falconer

  “What man?”

  “Man with knife.”

  “Whose name you don't know.”

  “Never see this man before. Attacks this boy.”

  “What boy?”

  “Ricky Lam.”

  “How do you know his name is Ricky Lam?”

  “Comes into my restaurant many times. I know him.”

  “He is a friend?”

  “Yes, a friend. He is eighteen years old. Lives on Kornhill Estate in Taikoo Shing.”

  Lacey turned to the stenographer. “I wonder if he knows the passport number?” she said, in English. The young policewoman smiled.

  “This Ricky Lam waves gun and chases man with the knife out of my restaurant into the plaza. Fires his gun as man runs away, kills lady.”

  “You saw all this, Kam Chun-kwan?”

  “Yes, I am right there. See everything.”

  “But I interviewed you about three hours after this incident in this very room and you told me you were in the kitchen when the shooting took place and you did not see anything. Can you explain why you can remember all this a week later when just three hours afterwards you told me you saw nothing?”

  Kam seemed puzzled by the question. “I do not understand.”

  “No, neither do I.” Lacey made a hole in the bottom of her polystyrene cup with her pen. Kam stared at the wall. He had an eagle tattoo on the back of his hand, and nicotine stains on his fingers. And his teeth were bad. She could smell his breath from the other side of the table.

  “What was this Ricky Lam wearing at the time of the attack?” she said.

  “Not my business.”

  “You don't remember?”

  He shook his head.

  “What a co-incidence. Four other eye witnesses have come forward this morning and none of them can remember what Martin Lam was wearing either. But they all know his name and address.”

  “Not my business,” he repeated.

  Lacey dismissed the stenographer and stood up. “Wait here,” she said to Kam.

  ***

  She went back to her office, collected the other four witness statements she had taken that morning. They were almost identical. By further co-incidence Ricky Lam was at present in custody at Central for the murder of a known triad associate named Peter Man.

  Tyler walked in, leaned his weight against the door jamb. “How goes it, Lace?”

  “Up to my ears in eye witnesses.”

  “Please, no more talk about body parts. I spent the morning at a meat processing plant in Kennedy Town.”

  “That bad? I thought nothing bothered you.”

  “Ever seen a meat grinder Lace?”

  “It wasn't part of the curriculum at the girl's school I went to.”

  “Well, this one still had half a body sticking out of it. Ricky Lam and his friend were turning it into pork balls. The manager was pretty upset that we closed him down for the day. I think if he'd had his way he would have pushed the rest of the torso through first thing this morning and carried on with the day's work.”

  “Stop, you're making me hungry.”

  He slumped into the chair. “He claims he knew nothing about it but my bet is the whole place is a triad operation.”

  “What about this Ricky Lam?”

  “Confessed. Just as well, finger printing him would have been a proper bastard.”

  “He could hardly deny involvement.”

  “True. But get this, Lace. He's also confessed to the murder of Barbara Warhurst. Through his lawyer, who happens to be a Queen's Council by the name of Timothy Wong.”

  “I wonder how he can afford representation like that?” Lacey said.

  “Offer of free pork balls for a whole year, perhaps.”

  “He's confessed?”

  “Not to murder, but to accidental shooting. They're all very happy upstairs. We're feeding it to the press in about half an hour. What do you make of that?”

  Lacey bundled up the four written statements and slid them across the desk to Tyler. “A number of other good citizens also rediscovered their civic duty this morning. Neat, isn't it?”

  “Neat? It's almost symmetrical.”

  “Looks like somebody decided to finger Ricky Lam. So to speak.”

  “Please, no more digit jokes, Lace. I've had them all morning.” He shuffled through the statements. “So, let's see how this flies. Ricky Lam is arrested for murdering Peter Man. He's stone cold on that one. So someone has a quiet word with him, tells him to take the rap for Barbara Warhurst as well. The usual deal; we'll take care of your family, make sure you have an easy time in prison, both prison terms to run concurrent, when you get out in how ever many years less time off for good behavior we'll have your superannuation ready to roll-over. Does this have the ring of plausibility to it, Lace?”

  “I hope you're not suggesting this has anything to do with our conversation with Sir Gordon Wu.”

  “You can think it,” Tyler said. “Just don’t ever say it in front of witnesses. I’m going to lunch.” He stood up.

  “Pork balls?”

  “Actually Lace, I’m thinking of going vegetarian today.”

  Chapter 43

  The morning view from the Peak was obliterated by mist. Everything dripped with damp, butterflies skittered between the hibiscus and jasmine, long tailed magpies swooped among the trees. Tyler's brown Toyota struggled up Old Peak Road. He had to change down into second gear.

  “You may have to get out and push,” Tyler said.

  “Sorry. That's not in my job description,” Lacey told him.

  An elderly Chinese appeared out of the mist, poised in balletic posture in a park, practising tai ji quan. Then he was gone.

  ***

  Sir Gordon Wu's villa was on Bluff Path. The gateway was guarded by red dragons and a security camera. Tyler announced his presence to the loudspeaker mounted in the gatepost and the portals swung open.

  The villa nestled at the end of the driveway, glazed green tiles slick with dew, upturned eaves supported on gilded pillars. A man in a dark blue uniform was polishing a black Mercedes 380 SE and a grey Rolls Royce Phantom Saloon. The Rolls Royce's registration was GW-782.

  “782. Always prosperous in business,” Lacey translated.

  “I'd rather be lucky in love.”

  “Either would do me,” she said.

  There was a croquet lawn in front of the house, grass tennis courts almost hidden by the shrubbery. A fat golden carp flicked its tail idly in an ornamental pond. A boy in white coat and trousers met them at the front doors and escorted them inside.

  “Hope you remembered to wipe your feet,” Lacey whispered.

  “As long as he doesn't ask me to take my shoes off,” Tyler whispered back. “I've got holes in my socks.”

  “Me too,” Lacey said.

  Sir Gordon Wu greeted them in a burgundy silk dressing gown with a paisley pattern over a pair of grey trousers and velvet pigeon grey slippers. Lacey was not sure if he was being informal, or if they had disturbed him halfway through a nap.

  He stood by the window in his study, looking over the high rises of Victoria, his back towards them. Lacey took in the room; a massive chinoise blackwood desk with ball and claw feet, an elephant hide chair, a tiger skin in the middle of the floor. The curtains were raw silk, and the desk lamp had a Lalique shade. The walnut paneling was crowded with photographs of the great man himself, posing with various dignitaries, including Deng Xiaoping and the Queen.

  Two carp gawped at them behind the glass wall of their aquarium.

  Sir Gordon offered them a rare smile. “Ah. The upholders of justice. Perhaps I can offer you tea?” He nodded to the houseboy, who hurried off to the kitchen. He indicated the two antique chairs in front of his desk. “Please.”

  They sat down. Sir Gordon remained standing, studying the view. A weak yellow sun peeled back the haze, revealing the morning traffic on the harbor.

  “I read in the newspaper that you have apprehended the persons respon
sible for the murder of that unfortunate tourist.”

  “Some community minded citizens stepped forward to help us with our enquiries,” Tyler said.

  “So now my associates in Wanchai can carry on with business without police harassment?”

  “Upholding the law is not police harassment, Sir Gordon.”

  “Yet it is good to know that their children will have food on the table tonight. Hate to think about little babies starving.”

  The tea arrived: White Peony. The servant lifted the lid from the brew pot and passed it to Sir Gordon, who closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, as if it was a cigar or a fine wine. He nodded and the man poured the tea into three small hand-painted china cups.

  Tyler, more accustomed to polystyrene and poisonous coffee, looked ill at ease. “Hope you will not ask me for milk and sugar,” Sir Gordon said, pleasantly. There was a Tang figurine on his desk. He picked it up, held it in the palm of his hand. “Kuan Ti,” he said.

  Kuan Ti; the Chinese God of War; the embodiment of right action, loyalty and integrity; the patron saint of pawnbrokers, the Royal Hong Kong Police and the triad societies.

  “Much skill and beauty in such work of art,” Sir Gordon said, turning the figurine to the light, “beauty is a great treasure in this ugly world.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Tyler said.

  “We must all do our best to fight this ugliness,” he said.

  Tyler fidgeted in his chair. “You have something for us?”

  Sir Gordon reached into a drawer and took out a brown manila envelope. He slid it across the desk. Tyler opened it, slid out a thick sheaf of documents. He flicked through them, then passed them to Lacey.

  There were bank statements, credit transfers, bills of lading and company records, as well as several link analyses showing the relationships between dozens of shelf and trust companies, none of them familiar to Lacey.

  Sir Gordon Wu smiled. “These are details of the financial affairs of two men you may know by the names of Edward Lau and Vincent Tse. All in relation to the purchase of illegal narcotics.”

  Tyler looked at Lacey. She tried not to show her excitement. Instead she raised an eyebrow.

  Tyler turned back to Sir Gordon. “May I ask how these came to be in your possession?”

  “Cannot tell you this. I pull strings, as the English say. A quaint expression. If anyone asks about these documents after you leave here, I will say I have never seen them before. You understand?”

  “All right,” Tyler said.

  “One other item for you,” Sir Gordon said. He took a notebook cassette recorder from his pocket, of a type often used by journalists. He pressed the play button. Lacey heard voices speaking in Cantonese.

  “You owe me three million, little brother.”

  “I never received my powder.”

  “What powder?”

  “The number four I buy from Bangkok. It is stolen from trawler off Fat Chui island.”

  “You used my three million dollars to buy white powder?”

  “Two hundred kilos. Make us all rich.”

  “What you do with the money is no concern to me, though I do not approve of this drug business. But you ask me for loan, I give it to you. Now I want my money back.”

  He ejected the tape from the cassette and passed it across the desk to Lacey, who stared at him, astonished. “Is helpful for you?” Sir Gordon said.

  Lacey took a few moments to recover from the shock. “Who are the voices on that tape?”

  “One is a gentleman known to you as Eddie Lau. The other voice belongs to me.”

  “You loaned him three million Hong Kong dollars?”

  “Not a crime, I believe. Make this loan in good faith.”

  She leaned forward. “Sir Gordon, is there any connection between the murder of Barbara Warhurst and Eddie Lau?”

  He looked at her the same way her mathematics teacher used to look at her in school; with a kind of exasperated forbearance. “How can I know that?”

  Lacey and Tyler exchanged glances. Once again, a deal had been done, and they had been thrown the crumbs. But this time it was a very large crumb; this time they had Eddie Lau.

  “More tea?” Sir Gordon said with a soft smile.

  Chapter 44

  Sir Gordon's private box at Happy Valley was crowded, three dozen guests eating a buffet lunch of lobster, chicken and smoked salmon. The platters were laid out on a table covered with a snow white Irish linen tablecloth. The centerpiece was an ice sculpture of Sir Gordon's prize racehorse, Lucky Gem. The women were furred and diamonded, the men sleek in Italian suits and silk ties.

  A waiter brought a tray of Buck's Fizz. Eddie Lau took two, passed one to Vincent, and turned back to the window. The runners were still on the far side of the course but the huge infield video screen relayed close-up images of the horses at the turn.

  If the race ended now he had a quinella.

  The cellular phone in his jacket pocket rang. Without taking his eyes from the track he flicked up the aerial and answered.

  A woman's voice. “Where are you?”

  “Ruby-ah. I am getting lucky at the races.”

  “Not got much luck left now.”

  He heard it in her voice, something had gone badly wrong. “Problem?”

  “Got a whisper from the yellow air. They got a warrant for you.”

  He smiled, in case anyone was watching. Could never let anyone know you had bad news in Hong Kong, it was like putting blood in the water. “Warrant, Ruby-ah?”

  “Got everything on you, no shit. You and Vincent. They got accountants and auditors working on you now, got the scent of your money.”

  Eddie kept his eyes on the track. One of his horses slipped back to third as they came around the final bend and into the straight. The groundswell of noise from the crowd rose to a roar, the jockeys leaned forward in their saddles, whips raised, reins tight. A European woman next to him slapped her race program against her thigh in excitement.

  “How?” he said.

  “Ah Kung,” Ruby said into the phone.

  Gordon Wu.

  They were in the straight. Lucky Gem came down the outside to challenge the leader. Eddie looked at Sir Gordon, sipping Bucks Fizz, and looking like a mandarin.

  Lucky Gem thundered home. Everyone was shouting with excitement and pumping his hand. Eddie fixed his smile in place.

  “Must get out of Hong Kong, Eddie-ah,” Ruby said.

  “Thanks Ruby,” he said, and ended the call, folding down the aerial. Gordon Wu! Rump-sniffing son of a leper! May all his family's property be ruined and may his ancestor's bones be eaten by wild pigs!

  “What is it?” Vincent whispered.

  “Cannot stay for the next race,” Eddie answered.

  Sir Gordon Wu came over. His mood was expansive. “How is your luck?” he said.

  “I think this is a bad luck day for me. More better we go, I think.”

  “Tell you to put your money on Lucky Gem, never mind. But there are still many races on the card. Maybe your luck will change.”

  “Luck always changes. Luck is a butterfly.”

  “You have the mind of a poet, Ah Shui.”

  “And the claws of a tiger.” Eddie looked at Vincent and nodded. “Thank you for your hospitality, tai lo. Sorry we must leave so soon.”

  ***

  Eddie and Vincent left the Happy Valley racetrack in Eddie's Porsche. Eddie drove carefully through the afternoon traffic, reigning in his impatience. Must not attract the attention of the yellow air now!

  He reached inside the console, took out a sealed brown manila envelope. He handed it to Vincent. “Two passport,” he said. “Always keep them for emergency, like now. Also fifty thousand cash. We buy two ticket on the first flight from Kai tak.”

  “Do not trust, Ruby-ah. Ah Kung will never betray us to the yellow air.”

  “Gordon Wu is the rotting stalk of a leper. I will gouge out his eyes with a spoon and jump on his secret sack until his seed squirt o
ut of his ears!”

  “With respect. Ruby Wen is wrong!”

  “What if she is right? We will be entered in the register and never see the sun again!” He fumbled in his jacket pocket for his cigarettes and lit it from the lighter on the dashboard. His hands were shaking.

  “Still have accounts in Taipei. Maybe five million.”

  “Dew neh loh moh! We will lose everything in Hong Kong, all our property, all our cash! If Gordon Wu has betrayed me, I will wash him!”

  ***

  Lacey stared at the stack of paperwork on her desk, and gave in to despair. It was like trying to stick an octopus into a string bag; there was never enough hours in the day and the more work she did the more paper she created. She put her head on her arms, exhausted.

  “Shouldn't you be out catching criminals?”

  She looked up. Keelan. “Not funny. I need a secretary. What are you doing here?”

  “Came over to pass my congratulations. Heard you and Tyler had a big win today.”

  “We haven't got them yet.”

  “Still, you did some good work.” He sat down, uninvited. “Look, I'm going to say this, and I don't know how it's going to sound, but I just want to get it off my chest.”

  “If it's about the other night I really don't want to talk about it anymore.”

  “Nothing to do with the other night. It goes like this: I once got to a point in my life, in my career, where I was about ready to give up. It all seemed futile. I took this job with the DEA because I couldn't stand the thought of being a cop anymore. But watching you, listening to you, I got some of my old belief back. You may not always get the guys in the black hats, but just standing up to them, well that's something. It matters. It makes a difference.”

  “Are you fucking with me?”

  “I'm serious.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “It's all right. Just felt it had to be said.” He got up to go.

  “Keelan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know I said I didn't want to talk about the other night but there's something I want to ask you.”

  “Shoot.”