“Why are you in Hong Kong then?”
She smiled and gave a little lift of her shoulders, “For my future, for money, of course.”
“Still plenty of that in Hong Kong,” Dougie remarked reaching for his cognac. Not future but certainly money. He glanced up to see Bob smiling at him and they raised their glasses. Today’s business was forgotten in the timeless rituals of alcohol and the diffusing charms of the opposite sex.
Dougie felt that he’d done his bit and put Bob on notice and perhaps the Hong Kong MD felt that he’d parried the criticisms well and now they were even. By now the Scotsman’s mind was addled with the booze and he didn’t give a damn. He wanted to bring this young oriental lady back to his room and pound away on her lean nubile body. It was one of the perks of the job and tomorrow, perhaps with a bit of a hangover, he’d go into the office and give Bob one more tongue-lashing and then climb onto a plane back home.
“Do you like me, Dougie?” the Shanghai girl asked.
“Oh, surely, yes,” he said.
“Will you like to spend the evening with me?”
“Are we not spending the evening together?”
She looked confused. “You want me for your bed tonight?”
“Why,” Dougie patted her pretty face, “surely I’d like you in my bed, once we’ve finished this fine bottle of brandy.”
“Can you still be strong?”
“Och, lassie. I’m a Scotsman and I may be a bit bald, fat and long in the tooth but there’s never been a time when a bit of alcohol has stopped me from performing with the fairer sex.”
Ming giggled, not following all the words again, because his accent was strange but she realised that this old man meant business.
The Mama-san returned to inquire if all was well and both men agreed they were pleased with her choice of companions. Bob whispered into Joey’s ear that he wanted the bill and slipped two yellow notes into her palm which she should give to Ming so that Dougie would not have to pay afterwards.
* * * *
It had turned out to be a busy afternoon because once Scrimple had identified the dead Filipina bar-girl he was obliged to give a number of statements.
They’d gone down to the morgue in Hung Hom and as many times as he’d been there it was still a chilling experience to see a warm, passionate human being turned into a hunk of decaying flesh and bones by the vicissitudes of life. This time it was infinitely worse because he’d known her—not well but intimately. Gwailo Pete had bought him three cans of San Miguel from a street vendor as they came out.
He’d told the two policemen from the Regional Crime Unit all that he remembered about what the girl had said and that he believed there might be some link between the conversation she’d overheard and her sudden death. What they’d all learnt in their jobs was that more often than not there was clear cause and effect that resulted in murder or manslaughter. A man argued with his room-mate about a television program, his room-mate taunts him and a knife is produced. A husband catches his wife with another man and waits for the lover outside his work place with a bottle of acid.
Hong Kong had experienced very few cases of serial killers who practiced homicide on strangers. There had been a taxi driver who robbed, raped and murdered his victims. There had been a man who dismembered bodies and turned their meat into dimsum dishes. But generally manslaughter fell into two main categories: acts of passion and triad-related deaths. This looked like one of the latter now that Scrimple had provided some background evidence.
On the slim chance that something might happen outside the nightclub Gwailo Pete had decided to put two men on watch. He didn’t want to waste any of his Detective Constables so his boss had called the Assistant Divisional Commander Operations of Tsim Sha Tsui and they’d agreed to borrow two uniformed constables from Task Force to hang about observing in plain clothes.
It wasn’t hard for Scrimple to work out who they were. He didn’t have anything else to do so he’d decided, after a few beers in Delaney’s, to loiter once again outside the Marseilles Nightclub. He immediately noticed the two young men, their short, military style hair and strained, alert attitude giving them away.
They were sitting on a bench, one reading the Apple Daily but glancing up and around frequently, the other listening on an ear piece that he probably hoped would be mistaken for a Walkman.
Scrimple saw the usual smattering of working girls hanging about but they were keeping a distance from this particular bench. These policemen were not very convincing in their plainclothes.
“I’m Inspector Scrimple, how are things going?” he said flashing his warrant card at them.
They both sat up instantly, not sure who he was but aware that this was a senior officer, possibly from the CID unit who was handling the case.
“Very quiet, sir,” the PC with the paper said as he folded it away hastily.
“Had your dinner yet?”
“No, sir.” The other PC hadn’t said anything so far and Scrimple assumed he might not understand much English.
“I work on Hong Kong side. We’ve got an interest in this case,” Scrimple said by way of explanation. He doubted that the PC’s would question his presence but wanted them to feel at ease that he was on the level. He looked around the square again, then checked his watch. It was half past eleven.
“If you want to go and get some noodles, I can stay here and keep an eye on the club for you.”
The two constables exchanged words and agreed that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to go over to the noodle shop. They’d been told to keep a general eye out on the square and from the noodle shop they could still see most of what was going on.
“Maybe we just go over there, Ah-sir,” said the PC who could speak English, pointing at a place that was located on the corner of an alleyway that led towards the Royal Garden Hotel and the famous China City Night Club, a bigger and more expensive establishment than the Marseilles.
“I’ll stay here until you’re back. Mo mantai. No problem,” Scrimple said. They got up and he took their place on the bench. It was better than sitting at home watching a crappy video. Nothing would happen. It was Sod’s Law. It would only get exciting after he left on holiday for Thailand. He took out a packet of Marlboro Lights and busied himself lighting one.
He thought about the poor little girl. She’d been so bubbly and alive when they’d done it. He shuddered, trying to lose the image of her dead body at the morgue.
For twenty minutes he sat there smoking and then got up and bought a can of San Miguel beer from the corner shop that was still open. The PC’s would be back once a full hour had passed. He could see them in the noodle shop, slurping their food probably and talking about television, girls and their chances of getting into CID.
Minutes passed and the cigarette died. He lit another one.
He watched the movement around the square. Couples and groups of locals. Single girls hurrying home because they had been late in the office. There were many trading companies in this area and merchandisers worked late because their customers were on different time zones in Europe and America. A group of guys lounging around caught Scrimple’s attention but they appeared to be Indians. Born in Hong Kong to parents who worked and owned a myriad of tailor shops or import/export companies. Scrimple thought about Thailand and what he would do the first night he got there.
First he’d go down the ’Pong. They said it wasn’t as good as it used to be. That the girls were aggressive and hard nowadays, but they’d always been saying that. So perhaps he’d go up to Nana where the girls were younger and the local expats drank and whored. He’d play some pool in Woodstock maybe and see if the girl he liked in Rainbow II was still there. Chances were she’d gone back to her village or shacked up with a middle-aged man from Switzerland.
He smoked another cigarette and watched five Chinese men go up the steps into the Marseilles Club. They had terrible haircuts and carried small leather handbags that contained their mobile phones and wallets. He’d
bet money on them being mainland men, in town for a business convention. It was much easier to pass across the Lo Wu border these days. One country, two systems, after all.
Some time later he noticed a well-dressed Hong Kong man and a fat, short Westerner descend the steps of the nightclub. The Westerner was being supported by a statuesque Asian girl who wore a skin-tight pair of pale blue pants, high heels and a little halter top in orange colour. The Chinese man had another, less impressive girl in tow who had trouble keeping up in her pink platform shoes.
Scrimple watched with interest. The lucky old bugger. Playing away from home. Probably some big buyer who was going to sign a big order once he’d got his rocks off with that stunner.
He lit another cigarette and noticed that the two constables were coming back in his direction.
He sat and watched the quartet. They crossed paths with the PC’s and walked by the Meridian Hotel in the direction of Mody Road. Scrimple noticed a few taxis parked there but also a white van. That made him alert.
It was nothing of course but white vans often meant Triads. He should have noticed it earlier.
He got up and stretched his legs. He puffed on the fag and moved towards the two plainclothes policemen. He looked past them to see how the two men and their girls were doing. The fat, old gwailo was obviously worse for wear and probably there wouldn’t be much rumpy-pumpy once he managed to get back to his hotel. Not that it mattered. He’d still pay the girl out of polite embarrassment.
“Enjoy your food?” Scrimple said to the guys.
“Ah, yes-sir,” they replied in unison.
“Cigarette?” Scrimple offered. They both took one from the packet, hesitating first but then remembering that they were under-cover and it was part of the act.
Scrimple lit them both. As he brought his hand down he saw, peripherally, a sudden flicker of fast movement. The white van had its doors flung open and four men jumped out only yards away from the two couples Scrimple had just been observing. It was the violence that alerted him. The sudden aggressive movements which were the hallmark of a chopping attack.
“Shit,” he said to himself and the constables, “it’s happening. Over there.” He dropped the cigarette while the PC’s were still wondering what the strange inspector was going on about. Then they realised.
Scrimple was jogging, his fat stomach bouncing about as his lungs laboured for breath. He didn’t know what he was doing because the beers he’d drunk had taken the edge off his instincts, but he knew he had to get there. He had to interfere. Although he had no weapons to interfere with.
One of the men from the mini-van had grabbed the Chinese guy from the nightclub by the throat and was stabbing him repeatedly in the stomach. Two other men restrained the fat gwailo while one of the girls was running away and the other one was being dragged down to the pavement by her hair.
It was forty yards and Scrimple couldn’t cover them fast enough. He watched as the fat, old Westerner put up valiant resistance, lashing out with a foot that doubled up one of his attackers, then turning and nutting the other in the face with his forehead. The man had learnt to fight in his youth. But it didn’t end the fight. The attacker who’d been kicked in the balls struggled back up and catching the white man by his coat-tails plunged a six-inch knife into his right kidney.
Scrimple was nearly there. Yelling at the top of his voice, fuelled by a fury born of frustration. The attackers heard him, surprised at this charging policemen, concerned that hot on his heels were two younger, fitter-looking men both brandishing police issue revolvers that they’d produced from concealed holsters.
The leader of the attackers stabbed three more times into his target’s stomach, then announced the retreat. His men dropped what they were doing and turned instantly to get back into the mini-van. The driver had been revving the engine and as Scrimple reached the victims the van was already pulling away from the curb.
One of the constables raised his gun, paused for a second, unsure that he was within his rights, then loosened off a shot at the vehicle’s rear tire. The bullet didn’t find its target. The van never slowed. It disappeared down the road and around the corner by the Shangri-La Hotel.
Scrimple flopped to his knees by the large Westerner who was lying on his front. Blood was dribbling from the man’s mouth and the knife he’d been stabbed with was still protruding from his back.
“Jesus, are you alive? We’ll get the ambulance here in a second,” he said, knowing that it never happened that fast in Hong Kong although one of the PC’s was already on the radio calling for back-up and medical help.
A rattling noise came from the man’s mouth and his eyes caught Scrimple’s for a second before they suddenly glazed over. A look of astonishment came over the man’s face, he grabbed Scrimple’s arm, fingernails digging hard into the flesh. His lips moved soundlessly.
“Hang on there, sir. Hang on,” the policeman said, staring at the handle of the knife unsure if he should remove it. He looked about him and found one of the constables trying to give mouth to mouth resuscitation to the Chinese guy whose shirt was crimson with blood from collar to waist. There didn’t seem much hope for him, in fact he was probably already dead.
The fingers that grabbed Scrimple’s arm eased off and as he shifted his eyes back he knew that the Western man had gone. In the distance multi-tonal sirens began wailing. It sounded like a whole convoy of emergency vehicles.
* * * *
McHardy was on the driving range slicing white balls into the floodlit night. He was the only Caucasian there, the rest were Japanese or wealthy Thai businessmen. It was crowded, as always on a Thursday evening. Every player focused on their swing, ignoring the others as they worked their way through the big buckets of golf balls.
The mobile phone, which sat on his bag, rang. He stared at it irritably, then dropped his nine iron and walked over to the Nokia.
“Yes?”
“We can give you a date,” a nameless voice that he recognised said at the other end of the line.
“A date for what?”
“For the particular shipment that you have been discussing with your Hong Kong customer.”
“Okay, I know what you mean. Is there a vessel name?”
“No, usual shipping line and the date is next Tuesday. You know how to take care of this?”
“Of course,” McHardy said impatiently to the Asian voice. They loved their posing. A cellular phone was not a secure way of communicating. It would have been better to have received an encoded email to a confidential address but this is the way they liked it. Cryptic phone calls at unusual times of the day. The hint of mystery and violence. It was better than life imitating art. It was more like self-parody.
“Can I get back to my golf-game now?” he asked impatiently.
“Make sure everything is going well,” the voice threatened.
“Listen, go back to your noodles and your mahjong game. I know what I’m doing.”
“Be sure, sir, Be sure,” the voice warned. “All the other problem have been sorted out now. No more loose end, so you can be comfortable.”
McHardy dropped the phone back on top of his bag, cursed under his breath and sent two white balls flying into a darkness where they should not have gone.
* * * *
His Mandarin was not as good as he would have liked. For a businessman who was feted in the press for his mainland Chinese connections it was a shame, but it didn’t stop him from getting and completing the deals he wanted.
“The Plan of Harmonious Righteousness,” toasted the mainland politician who sat opposite, as he twirled a balloon glass of Martell then downed it in a single, quick un-appreciative swallow.
Henry Chan raised his glass in reply but only took a sip. He wasn’t a big drinker. He looked out of the window at the mists which shrouded Shanghai. They were on the fifty-eighth floor of the Grand Hyatt Hotel and on any given day it could have yielded a magnificent view if it wasn’t for the weather conditions.
&
nbsp; “This building is a good example of what Chinese man can do,” the politician said, beginning one of his lectures. It was the tallest hotel in the world, impressive from the outside and excellent on the inside and although mainly financed by a mainland consortium and designed by a local architect there had been some foreign engineering help that he tactically chose to ignore.
Their party was made up of six men: Henry and his assistants and Zhu Tsu, a powerful man from Beijing with his aides. One never knew for certain from week by week who was strong enough to make decisions, and it was hard to tell from the Communist party titles who really had influence but there was no doubt that this politician was very close to the top. Henry Chan had his people monitor Zhu Tsu closely for many months and he appeared regularly at Politburo meetings and in any photo ops standing close to Jiang Zemin, the supreme leader of China. For the last three years Zhu Tsu had been one of the men carefully courted by Henry Chan and so far they had exchanged a series of mutually beneficial favours. This was the biggest pact yet. Even thinking about it made Henry Chan sweat. But once you have done a deal with the devil you cannot back down. The Chinese government was the devil. A greedy rapacious devil who demanded blood and your immortal soul for the price of doing business in a big way in the world’s fastest growing economy.
Henry Chan was one of a number of tycoons who had the ear of Beijing, as the press enjoyed reporting, but besides getting advantages from his relationships he also had obligations. Nothing is ever for free and his recent commercial successes with real estate projects and investment vehicles did not come without a rat’s tail. He thought briefly about his new Internet venture which would bring e-commerce to households that had only just heard about television, let alone personal computers and Windows 97. His new cyber-company would go public in a few weeks and all forecasts were that the stock would be over-subscribed simply because of his reputation as a man who got things done. With the money from this public offering they’d hire a hundred programmers and sell all sorts of tangible and intangible products to a billion people simply by creating a vision of the future. There may not be running water in many villages of Hunan province but if they had electricity every family would want to be part of the Internet revolution. It was the Asian equivalent of keeping up with the Joneses.
Dragon Breath Page 14
