Dragon Breath

by Valerie Goldsilk

  Bob nodded and frowned, affecting sincerity, then said, “You’re absolutely right, Dougie. I want to know who’s been screwing up and then I’ll fire their sorry asses.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say,” Dougie replied trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Bob Chen would try his best to talk his way out of this mess and Dougie had a fair idea that Bob would be extremely convincing. The London GM didn’t know what the outcome of this trip would be. It might just represent a major warning to the Chinese Manager, or Dougie might return to London and recommend that there should be staff changes in Hong Kong at the most senior level. He wanted to keep his options open and he wanted to see Bob Chen sweat a little. So far the Chinese man had not twitched a muscle nor looked in the slightest perturbed by the allegations of incompetence that were floating in his direction. He seemed like a man with a cold who hadn’t noticed the smell of the polluted river in which he was swimming. That bothered the Scotsman quite a bit.

  * * * *

  What day is it?

  Scrimple still had his eyes closed but was awake. He assumed it was the week-end otherwise the alarm would have gone off already. It felt like time to get up. He opened his eyes and took in the semi-darkened room.

  Yes, he was at home. Light filtered in from under the curtains so the sun was already out. Did he have to go to work? He figured it out a few seconds later.

  No, he didn’t have to work. He’d been suspended. And he’d had a few drinks which was why his head hurt. Was it a good thing that he’d been suspended? Probably not, but it was a good thing that he didn’t have to go to work. He leant over and checked his Omega. It was half past nine. He had to get up anyway to have a pee.

  Then he made himself a cup of Nescafe. There were no curtains in the living room and the merciless Hong Kong sun already burnt hard through the glass. He flipped on the air-con switch and sat down on the sofa, gathering his dressing gown around him.

  Perhaps it would be best to crawl back into bed. There wasn’t much to do in Hong Kong when you weren’t working. You could shop if you had money, or watch a movie but the choice was limited: Hollywood blockbusters and Canto-schlock. Or lie in bed, sleeping off a mild hangover.

  Scrimple sipped his coffee, wondering if two spoonfuls of sugar were unhealthy for him. Living in Hong Kong was unhealthy. The pollution index was up at the top end of the scale nearly every day and asthmatics often fainted in the street. Unless there was a typhoon which blew away the smoggy air along with occasional trees, dust bins and foolish pedestrians, the environment was pretty gunky at this time of the year.

  Scrimple contemplated doing what he always did when things got on top of him and when there seemed no sensible solution to a problem except alcohol-induced denial. He thought about vanishing to Thailand where he would cure his soul through his senses and indulge in all the pleasures of the flesh that were available even to a man with a sorry bank balance like his. A week in Pattaya wouldn’t set him back too much. Unless he stayed somewhere expensive and he never did, because those places wouldn’t allow you to bring the bar-girls back to your room.

  He flicked the TV remote and found only Chinese programming on what were supposed to be the two English language channels. Not surprising the standard of English was going down the toilet. But what did he care? It had never been much to write home about anyway. Under its colonial surface Hong Kong had always been a very self-centred Chinese city.

  He gave a long sigh. Maybe this was it. This suspension would lead to him being asked to resign and then he’d get a bit of a pay-off and be free of it all. Although it sounded exciting when he thought it through, a small panic attacked him because he knew he couldn’t easily step into another job. And he didn’t have that much cash to survive. He should have, but two mortgages and the rest were draining him and he might end up losing both places as well as his job. No, probably not. He could go back to UK and live in the place in Hull and get dole money. At least he thought he could, although he hadn’t paid any National Insurance for over fifteen years. He’d have to look into that. If things got really bad. Or he’d move back in with his mum. That would be a real humiliation.

  He rang Kenworthy but only got a lui-ging, a Woman Constable, who said he was out of his office, maybe on patrol. Scrimple put on an old Whitney Houston CD. It was the first one on the stack and Freda had probably played it last. She hadn’t called him since moving out and she’d been damned fast about that. By now the new bloke would be bonking her boring brains out every night, and she’d be getting on his nerves hopefully with her moods and demands for shopping money.

  It was nice to have the place to himself again but he’d have to get the maid to come more often now to take care of the domestic stuff. That wasn’t his forte. That would cost him, but not as much as Freda had cost him in dinners and gifts and other contributions to her family.

  Thinking of her and of the maid, got him thinking about what he’d do for a woman now. That little Filipina from Firehouse seemed pretty keen. Nothing to stop him from seeing her again. She might have to be the regular for a while. Marie-Tess, wasn’t it? Then it came back to him that she’d disappeared the night before. She’d turn up again. They always did. But first he’d have to take a few days off in Thailand. He still had his passport. Amelia, his boss, had said nothing about reporting to the office on a regular basis. He’d leave his mobile number with the Sergeant and then they could reach him. It was a bit naughty but better than officially applying for leave because she’d definitely refuse him just to be catty.

  He’d call up his travel agent later and see if he could get a cheap flight on Gulf or China Air. No point in paying the extra thousand HK Dollars when that could buy him three girls for a night. Or one girl for three nights. Just thinking about Thailand was already making him excited. Something to look forward to. There was no way he could ever go back to England. He’d shrivel up and die in the cold, miserable climate where he’d been born.

  Scrimple turned off the TV and opened the front door where he found the South China Morning Post stuffed between the door and the grille. He retrieved it and began reading from the back pages forwards. The sport news wasn’t exciting although more stimulating than all the government rubbish on the front pages. The paper had been around for ever but was now owned by a tycoon with connections in Beijing so the cynical sometimes referred to it as the “Pro China Morning Post.” One would never find anything positive written about an independent Taiwan but, to be fair, those Western editors who’d been kept on staff were succeeding nowadays in balancing some of the stories so the absurd kowtowing to the mainland had been noticeably toned down. It amused Scrimple that stories about Taiwan were always on the China page, lending a tentative fiction to the idea that these two countries were in fact one, along with the recently assimilated Macau and Hong Kong.

  It was a small article on the fourth page that caught his attention. He’d skimmed over it then, registered it vaguely and had to read it again carefully. The body of a Filipina woman had been found in a love hotel in Kowloon Tong. It was assumed she was a prostitute who’d been strangled by her punter.

  There were only five lines but they made Scrimple wonder and worry a little.

  * * * *

  From where she was sitting, through the glass window in front of her office, Louise Walker could see Dougie Campbell and Bob Chen in the conference room. They were having what looked like a stern conversation. The GM from London was stabbing the air with his fingers, his mouth moving with great rapidity. The Hong Kong MD was replying with long sentences from time to time while the Shipping Manager, Frankie, sat between them like some goggle-eyed Wimbledon umpire. Files were spread across the conference table making it look like the auditors had come.

  “What’s going on?” Louise had asked Madeleine earlier but her colleague just shrugged and said it was obviously company politics and probably best not to know too much.

  Louise didn’t appreciate that reply. Although she didn’t thin
k she was aggressive enough, being inquisitive had always been one of her character traits. Which was partially one of the reasons she’d ended up in Hong Kong doing what she was doing. Not the fashion bit, that was nice but it wasn’t for real. But the other bit. The other part of her life that sent her across to an office on Hong Kong side for clandestine meetings with a good-looking Englishman who obviously did not respect her talents nor her function.

  There had always been something fishy about Bob Chen and Louise would have given a month’s wages to be a fly on the wall in the conference room. Perhaps she could accost Dougie and on the pretence of being a fellow country-person get him out for a drink. He might let some information slip after a few whiskeys especially if he thought he could trust Louise or even make her an ally in whatever issue he was attempting to sort out by being out here.

  She doodled on her pink filofax page and thought about reporting what she knew so far. It wasn’t much and she might make herself look stupid. And the Englishman always enjoyed pointing out when her intelligence was hardly worth the word.

  Louise drew squares and circles on the paper, becoming more irritated at her inability to lip read and her desire to know what the men were talking about in the Conference Room.

  * * * *

  “Got a minute?” Scrimple said once he’d had Gwailo Pete on the line and identified himself. It had been easy to get the number because Scrimple had the latest version of the Government phone book at home and he knew exactly what post the other Inspector was in.

  “Yeah, what’s up?” It would have been hard to identify the voice as belonging to a Chinese man.

  “You know the murder case from this morning?”

  “The dead Flipper or the Man without Hands?”

  “The Flipper. Any idea who she is?”

  “No, nothing so far. We’re waiting for the fingerprints to be processed. There was no handbag. Could have been robbery.”

  “Does she have any identifying marks on her?”

  Gwailo Pete laughed at the other end of the phone. “D’you think you might know her?” he said somewhat incredulously.

  “Are you handling the case?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “So you’ve got the file with you?”

  “Identifying marks?”

  “Does she have a small butterfly tattooed on her left shoulder?” Scrimple asked.

  There was a pause at the other end while the Regional Crime inspector shuffled the photos that had been taken of the scene. Scrimple heard a sharp intake of breath and a sickening feeling began developing in his stomach. It had just been a long-shot, he’d thought, totally unlikely. How many Filipinas were there in Hong Kong—a hundred and seventy thousand or more…

  “The unidentified female has a butterfly tattoo,” Gwailo Peter confirmed.

  Scrimple heard himself making a gagging noise, then he said, “Ah, fuck.”

  “You want to tell me who she might be?”

  “I think it’s a girl called Marie-Tess who worked at the Firehouse as a dancer.”

  “It would fit the profile,” Gwailo Pete commented, “you’d better come out here and identify the body.”

  Scrimple agreed and put the phone down. He sighed and shook his head to clear it. That kind of tattoo wasn’t uncommon. There was still a chance it was some other girl. Not the one he’d been with. But knowing his luck these days, things would turn out bad.

  Chapter 9

  There are thousands of great restaurants in Hong Kong. Eating and making money had always been the great pleasures of life in this venal city.

  Bob Chen knew all the Managers at the Hok Yuen restaurant in the Intercontinental Plaza because he came regularly and was given the best Shark Fin soup and the finest private room.

  “You want some more Tsing Tao beer, Dougie?” he was saying, a Dunhill cigarette clamped between his teeth, two waiters hovering over his shoulder.

  The Scotsman nodded because he liked his drink and it went well with the Chinese food. The day had neither gone well nor badly. He’d given Bob Chen the third degree and the slippery Chinaman had dodged most of the issues, blamed others or simply apologised for his lack of oversight. Now the tension had dissipated because it was evening time and the Peking Duck and Sweet and Sour pork were lying mellow in his stomach.

  Tomorrow he’d have another go but Dougie had spent most of his ammunition and if Bob Chen didn’t realise by now that he was a marked man and would have to hop and skip sharpish in order to keep his position, then he was either damned stupid or fatally arrogant.

  The GM had called back to London to check on things in the office and young Beauregard seemed to be holding the fort although Dougie’s secretary had murmured something about the police having come up to the office making enquiries about an incident that may have involved Sawyers. He’d have to be given the boot when Dougie was back.

  “How’s your wife anyway, Bob?” the Scotsman asked.

  “She’s okay, you know. She likes to stay in the US. Most of her friends are there.”

  “So you don’t see much of each other?”

  “Not so often. Maybe once every two months.”

  “Not much of a marriage then?”

  “For us Chinese people that’s fine.”

  Dougie nodded and winked at Bob. “Gives you a lot of freedom, that kind of arrangement?”

  “You could call it that. But I’m so busy at work that it makes no difference where she is, Hong Kong or the United States.” He shrugged indifferently. His wife was just a person who took care of his children and used his gold Amex card. It wasn’t unusual in their society, Dougie assumed.

  “Don’t you have a little regular girl here or on the mainland?” Dougie asked.

  Bob shrugged again, a casual expression on his face, as he said, “Many men do. It’s very normal to have a ‘Little Wife’ across the border. Not me. If I need a woman, I’ll just go to the nightclub. Why buy when you can rent, eh?”

  “Very enlightened. And does your wife agree with that?”

  “She doesn’t know. Maybe she suspects. But she’s a traditional Chinese wife and she’s the mother of our daughters so she will not object. Unless I throw her out and bring in a new woman.”

  “Which you won’t do.”

  “Of course not. I’m happy with my wife and she is happy with me. She can shop and play mahjong. I can stay here and make money for her to spend.”

  “I don’t think my wife would see it quite like that.”

  “Western woman are different.” The Chinese man made it sound as if medication might help that condition.

  “You can say that again.” Dougie waved at a waiter and asked for another can of beer. He was feeling curiously energetic as a result of the jetlag and he was ready to be taken to a nightclub where he might indulge himself briefly in the sort of lifestyle that most Asian men enjoyed permanently.

  “Enough food, Dougie?” Bob asked solicitously.

  “More than enough.”

  “Ready for some desert?”

  “As long as her name is unpronounceable and her breasts are enormous,” the Scotsman said.

  Fifteen minutes later they were seated in a private room at the Marseilles nightclub and Bob had ordered a bottle of Martell Cognac. When it came they toasted to “improvements in the office and a better, more open work relationship between Hong Kong and London.”

  Bob asked for a Mama-san called Joey who greeted him as if he were the Chief Executive Tung Chi Wa himself. She was a lean, bird-like creature and her hard eyes twinkled as she ingratiated herself with her valued customer. She and Bob discussed which girls were available and which one of the English speaking girls might be willing to go with a Westerner. Joey suggested one of the Filipinas whom they’d recently started hiring for their foreigner clientele but Bob shook his head saying that his boss from London should have a real Chinese girl.

  Finally, while Dougie had another glass of cognac, they settled on a girl from Shanghai called Ming and
Joey promised Bob somebody he’d never seen before.

  Minutes later the Mama-san returned, her chiffon skirt rustling as she sat down again next to Bob and introduced her two protégés.

  Ming turned out to be tall and with a pleasing figure, curves in all the right places, and a little mole on her right cheek. Dougie began nodding with approval. She shook his hand and coo’d into his ear, telling him he looked like a fatter Sean Connery. Joey had briefed her well. Bob’s girl was small and busty but obviously still in her teens. She appeared shy and could only speak Mandarin, brushing back her short black hair nervously every time he asked her a question. He also nodded his approval at Joey who promised to come back in quarter of an hour to check if the girls were suitable or if she should exchange them.

  “You ever been to Shanghai?” Ming asked Dougie as she played with the fingers of his hand.

  “Never, lassie. But if all the wenches are half as good-looking as you, I might have to put it on my next itinery.”

  The hostess girl nodded not sure of all the words he’d used. She sipped on a glass of sherry while Dougie tried to look down her cleavage. As they attempted to make small talk she leant forward a lot, reaching for the fruits so he’d find it easier to get the tantalising glimpses that would ensure he’d ask her back to his hotel room for some extra-mural profit making.

  “And how does Hong Kong compare to Shanghai then, Ming, my lovely?” Dougie asked.

  “Cannot compare, Hong Kong is an old lady who still looks beautiful with make-up. Shanghai is now young and energetic and wants to be famous and successful.”

  “But Shanghai was the place to be in the 1920’s.”

  “Yes,” the hostess girl nodded. “Now Shanghai is the daughter of the old Shanghai. The same but different.”

  “Has much changed in the last few years?”

  “Oh,” the girl’s eyes showed that she loved her home town, “so much, many things have now better.”