“Sorry,” Smith said, “I hate flying.”
He sat forward in his seat and looked out of the window. The wheels of the plane had left the tarmac of Heathrow airport far behind and they were ascending to cruising altitude.
“I thought you were this big tough police detective,” Lucy said with a wry smile, “is there anything else you have issues with that I should know about?”
“I’m not too keen on the ocean but you already know about that don’t you?”
“Don’t worry,” Lucy assured him, “flying is quite safe.”
“Somebody else told me that,” Smith said, “he died three days later.”
The seat belt signs were no longer lit up.
“You can take your safety belt off now if you like,” Lucy said.
“I never quite understood what seat belts on a plane were for,” Smith mused, “I mean, if you plummet to the ground at two hundred miles an hour what the hell is a seat belt going to do apart from keep your dead body in its seat?”
Lucy laughed.
“I’ve never flown first class before,” Smith said, “these seats are huge.”
“When you fly all the time like I do, flying first class is the only way to do it.”
“How long is the flight?” Smith asked.
“Twelve hours but with the time difference you can add on another eight. We should land at roughly four in the morning Singapore time.”
Smith looked at his watch.
“So right now,” he said, “it’s four in the afternoon Singapore time?”
“You’re sharp Jason Smith,” Lucy said.
“Four in the afternoon is quite an acceptable time for a beer then. Do you want anything?”
Lucy shook her head.
“You’re mad Jason,” she said.
“It’ll help me to sleep,” Smith insisted, “I think I’m going to need it.”
He stopped a flight attendant in the aisle.
“Could I have a beer please?” he asked.
The man cast him a disapproving look.
“Better make that two,” he said, “save you the hassle next time.”
The man walked away shaking his head.
“What do you need to do in Singapore?” Smith asked Lucy.
“David ran his export business out of there,” she replied, “Singapore is a major transport hub for Asia and Australia. I just need to finalise a few things; sign a few papers. That sort of thing.”
The flight attendant placed two cold Fosters on the table in front of Smith.
“Thanks,” Smith said. He opened one of the beers and took a long swig.
“This stuff tastes like shit,” he said, “give me a Theakstons any day.”
“You’ve been in the UK too long Jason,” Lucy laughed, “I may as well join you.”
She opened the other Fosters and took a sip.
“It’s not that bad,” she said.
The descent into Singapore’s Changi airport was one of the most spectacular in the world. Lucy had neglected to warn Smith about it. Even in the pre-dusk half light, the lights of the island lit up the approach. Smith was woken from a dream he instantly forgot by a light tap on the shoulder.
“We’re here,” Lucy said, “you don’t want to miss this. It’s probably the scariest landing you’ll ever see.”
Smith rubbed his eyes, sat up and looked out of the window. He gasped as the aeroplane descended over the Straits of Singapore. It hovered and then turned sharply towards the island.
“Shit,” Smith gasped, “we’re going to land in the bloody sea.”
He grabbed Lucy’s hand.
“Not again,” she said, “you’re crushing my bones.”
Smith watched as the plane missed the sea and landed on the runway at Changi airport. He let go of Lucy’s hand. The lights of the runway and the city behind it were blinding. The plane slowed down and taxied along the runway. It took a sharp right turn and came to a halt not far away from a terminal building. Shortly afterwards, the doors to the plane opened and a warm breeze seeped in. Smith noticed the sign on the terminal building. It said it was three forty five in the morning and twenty eight degrees Celsius.
“We’re early,” he said, “and it’s bloody warm out there.”
Lucy laughed.
“You’ve definitely been in the UK too long,” she said, “let’s get our stuff and get out of this thing. One of the perks of flying first class and paying five times as much as they do in peasant class is we get to disembark first.”
With only hand luggage, Smith and Lucy headed directly for customs. A middle aged woman with a stern face scrutinised Smith’s passport for longer than Smith deemed necessary. She looked at his face and then at the photograph on his passport.
“Mr Smith,” she said eventually, “welcome to Singapore. You’re a detective in York.”
Smith was astonished.
“How come you know that?” he asked, “it doesn’t say so on my passport.”
“Internet,” the woman smiled, “you catch the hotel psycho serial killer man ok?”
“I hope so,” Smith said and quickly walked through to the other side of passport control.
Lucy followed closely behind.
“You never cease to amaze me Jason Smith,” she said as she led him to the exit.
“Where to now?” Smith asked
“I have a small place about fifteen minutes from here,” Lucy replied, “you can get some sleep there if you want.”
“Sleep?” Smith said, “I’ve just slept for almost six thousand miles. I want to see this place. We only have a few hours here. Show me around.”
THIRTY
RESPECT
Wednesday 10 March 2010
The three young men in The Hog’s Head were becoming louder and louder. It was four in the afternoon and they were already drunk when they came in two hours earlier.
“Three pints of lager,” the tallest of the three shouted to Marge.
He had a neck like a giraffe. She was washing glasses behind the bar. Marge sighed, put down her cloth and poured a pint of lager from the tap. An elderly man was reading a newspaper at the bar. He looked over to where the youths were sitting and shook his head. The man with the giraffe neck approached the bar.
“You should get a jukebox in here Missus,” he said.
He was obviously very drunk.
“It’s shit in a pub without any music to listen to.”
He picked up the three pints of lager and was about to return to his table when he saw that the old man staring at him. He had unnerving black eyes.
“What are you looking at Granddad?” he said in a mocking tone.
“What am I looking at?” the old man said. He had a strange accent. “What I’m looking at is the sorry state of the youth of today.”
“What did you say?” the youth slurred.
“You heard me. It’s four in the afternoon in the middle of the week and you have nothing better to do than drink yourself silly. Haven’t you got a job to go to?”
“I’m on the dole, not that it’s any of your fucking business you old fart.”
The old man stood up.
“There’s nothing that irritates me more than people swearing in the company of a lady,” he said.
“It’s alright,” Marge said, “I’m used to it.”
“It’s not alright,” the old man insisted.
He looked into the tall youth’s eyes.
“I suggest you either watch your mouth or go somewhere else.”
Giraffe neck was about to say something but changed his mind. He took the drinks to the table.
“Thank you,” Marge said, “It’s nice to see there’s still such a thing as chivalry left in the world.”
“We were kids once,” the man said, “but we had respect. Respect is all gone nowadays.”
“You’re Australian aren’t you?” Marge asked.
“James Fulton.” He held out his hand. “I’m here visiting family.”
&
nbsp; “You can call me Marge.” She shook his hand.
“I have a friend that’s Australian.”
“Oh yes?” The man seemed very interested.
“He’s a policeman,” Marge added, “he comes in here quite often when he’s not working.”
The man suddenly looked anxious.
“Will he be in today?” he asked.
“I doubt it,” Marge smiled, “he’s gone home for a while.”
“Home?”
“Australia. Perth, I think. Would you like another drink?”
“I’ll try a pint of that please.” He pointed at the Theakstons. “I always like to try something new.”
“This is on the house then,” Marge said as she poured the beer, “for sticking up for me back there. How long are you here for?”
“That depends.”
He looked over at the three youths. They were engaged in a crude drinking game.
“I have a few loose ends to tie up and then I’ll be off home. What is this friend of yours doing in Australia?”
“Something to do with a case he’s working on,” Marge replied, “I don’t tend to ask him about his work much; he must see some awful things. You must have read about the serial killer?”
“Terrible business,” the man sighed.
He took a long sip of the beer.
“Very nice. A lot different to the lager we get at home.”
One of the youths staggered over to the bar. He was short and stocky with close set eyes and a huge nose. He looked very much like a rhinoceros and he smelled of cheap aftershave.
“Three more lagers Missus,” he said.
He scowled at the old man.
“I think you three have had enough,” Fulton said.
“Piss off Granddad,” Rhino nose snarled.
Fulton stood up.
“What did I just say to your friend about swearing in front of a lady,” he said, “I think its time you and your mates vacated the premises.”
“Ugh?” Rhino nose grunted.
“I said get out.”
Fulton’s body language changed. Every gesture suggested violence. The youth seemed to think hard for a moment. He looked at Fulton, shrugged and walked back to his table. Marge’s heart started to beat faster as she saw that all three youths had stood up and were now walking towards the bar. They walked past Fulton and left the pub.
“Get yourselves a job,” Fulton shouted after them.
“Weren’t you scared?” Marge asked. She was shaking. “They could have hurt you. These youngsters today are quite nasty some of them.”
“There’s no need for violence,” Fulton smiled, “I’ve found that the mere threat of violence is enough to scare most of these cowards away.”
He finished the rest of his drink.
“Anyway,” he said, “I must be off. It was a pleasure to meet you Marge. Give my regards to your policeman friend. It’s always nice to hear about fellow Australians.”
He picked up his newspaper and walked outside.
It was starting to get dark as Fulton walked away from The Hog’s Head. He spotted the three youths from the pub just ahead of him. They were sitting on a wall drinking cans of lager. Fulton’s muscles tensed as he approached them.
“You should watch your mouth Granddad,” giraffe neck snarled, “you could get hurt. Do you know who I am?”
Fulton stopped. He looked at the youth with the long neck. He could not have been more than twenty years old.
“I don’t know who you are, “he said, “but I know what you are. I suggest you clear off before you get hurt.”
He emphasised the word ‘you’.
Rhino nose laughed. He had a very high pitched laugh.
“What are you going to do Gramps?” he said, “beat us to death with your flat cap?”
“No.” Fulton stared him directly in the eyes. “With my bare hands.”
The tall youth threw a punch. It landed on the tip of Fulton’s nose. It was not a hard punch but it stunned him for a moment. He dropped his newspaper.
With surprising speed, Fulton grabbed giraffe neck’s arm and twisted it round. There was a loud cracking noise and the man screamed.
“Broken arm,” Fulton said matter-of-factly.
He put one arm around the unusually long neck and the other around the youth’s head. He twisted with all his strength. There was another loud crack and the youth collapsed on the ground.
“Broken neck,” Fulton smiled. He was barely out of breath.
The other two youths stood and stared at their friend on the ground. Without warning, Fulton struck Rhino nose in the throat with such force that the stocky man fell backwards. He fell next to his tall friend.
“His trachea has collapsed,” Fulton said, “and he can no longer breathe. In other words, he will be dead soon.”
The remaining youth urinated in his pants.
“Do you have any last requests?” Fulton asked.
The man knew he should run but he was glued to the spot.
“Don’t you think you should try and make a run for it?” Fulton asked him as if he could read the young man’s mind.”
He took the knife from his pocket and in one swift movement he had flicked out the blade and swept it over the man’s leg. He gasped as the blood spurted out of his thigh.
“Femoral artery,” Fulton smiled, “don’t you think it’s amazing how quickly the blood leaves the body? Bad design flaw isn’t it?”
The man pressed his hands over the wound to try and stem the bleeding.
“That won’t help,” Fulton said, “you need urgent medical attention. You’ll be dead in less than five minutes without it. Feels strange doesn’t it? You can virtually feel your life seeping out.”
Fulton wiped the handle of the blade, bent down and placed it in Rhino nose’s hand. The man whose leg he had slashed was now unconscious. His face was white and the pool of blood had reached giraffe nose. The old man put a hand on his brow. He was barely sweating.
“That’s the trouble with the youth of today,” he said to the man with the slashed thigh, “no bloody respect.”
The youth could no longer hear him. Fulton picked up his newspaper and walked back to where he had parked his car.
THIRTY ONE
BAK CHANG
Friday 9 September 1966. Singapore.
“Let’s get married,” John Fulton said to Sophie. He took her hand and kissed it.
“You really are crazy,” she said, “we’re in the middle of a war. This isn’t real. We still have to go back to all that.”
“I’m serious,” he insisted, “after the war we can go back to Perth, have a million kids and live happily ever after. Like they do in the movies.”
“This isn’t like the movies,” Sophie sighed, “and nobody in their right mind is ever going to make a movie about this war.”
“I suppose you’re right,” he said, “What do you want to do?”
“I’m starving,” Sophie replied, “let’s find somewhere to get something to eat.”
Sophie had met Fulton at the Peya Lebar air base. He had changed into his civvies ands after a spell at the R and R centre in Singapore; he was free to go anywhere he wanted.
“Let’s find out where the locals eat,” Fulton said.
He took Sophie’s hand and led her off down a side street.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“No idea,” he sang, “let’s get lost. Maybe they won’t find us ever again. This place looks promising.”
They stopped outside an establishment with tables and chairs outside. Fulton found two chairs that did not have bicycles chained to them and pulled one out.
“After you madam,” he said.
“You’re crazy,” Sophie laughed.
A Chinese man walked out from the building and smiled. He could not have been more than five feet tall.
“Good Day,” he said, “What can I help you with?”
“Food and beer please,” Fulton replied.
The man looked at Fulton and then at Sophie.
“Americans?” he asked.
“Christ no,” Fulton replied, “Australian.”
“That’s good then. What would you like to eat?”
“What do you like to eat?” Fulton asked him, “Whatever it is we’ll have two of em. And bring two beers too please.”
“Very good,” the Chinese man said.
“What’s your name?” Fulton asked as the man was about to go back inside.
“John,” he replied, “like John Wayne.”
“Me too,” Fulton said but the man had turned round and gone back inside.
Moments later John returned with two bottles of Qing dao beer and two glasses. Fulton opened one and poured it in a glass. He handed the glass to Sophie and poured one for himself.
“Here’s to us and Singapore,” he raised his glass, “can’t be any worse than Vietnam.”
Sophie smiled and raised her own glass. She took a long sip of the beer and winced.
“Takes a bit of getting used to I suppose,” she said.
John placed two bowls on the table in front of them. Inside the bowls was what looked like dumplings in a strange sauce.
“Bak Chang,” John said, “very delicious. You asked what I like to eat.”
“Thanks John,” Fulton said, “could we get two more beers too please?”
“I can tell you’re not American,” John said with a smile, “Americans never say please or thank you.”
“Thank you John,” Fulton smiled.
Sophie shook her head.
“This is good,” she took a mouthful of the food, “it’s really spicy.”
“I’m serious about getting married,” Fulton said, “You could do a lot worse.”
Sophie laughed. She had not stopped laughing since they had got here.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
“Promise?”
“Promise. Come on, eat your food. I want to explore a bit.”
When they were finished Fulton waited for John to come out so he could pay the bill. “That was the best food I’ve eaten in ages John,” he said, “we’ll definitely come back here again.”
He placed the money on the table.
“I can see you and the lady having a very long nice life together Mr Australia,” John said.
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 40
