“You sound as if you’ve got the flu.”
“It’s Sunday morning, for Christ’s sake and I’ve had a number of calls already and my head is thumping like that bloody rabbit.”
“I can’t help you there, David. If you must go out and practice primitive male bonding rituals on a Saturday evening...”
“I was at the football club. We had a bit of a do.”
“Good for you, duckie. Now what about my girl, Louise Walker?”
There was a moment of silence at the other end and Madeleine assumed Murphy was lighting one of his Benson & Hedges.
“You send amateurs out here they’ll get themselves into trouble, ma’am. I was never too impressed by this lady and I never saw the need for her kind to be floating about—”
“Stop the arse-covering, David,” Madeleine snapped down the line. “I put her there, I thought she could do it and she was slowly maturing. Now I want to know what the hell happened.” Her voice had turned hard-edged. There was a long sigh from David Murphy.
“I really don’t have a clue at this moment. She didn’t seem to be working on anything that was leading anywhere. It was all anecdotal stuff I got unless she was filing different reports to you directly…” he let it hang for a while because his biggest gripe about the girl was that she had not come under his command structure but had a straight reporting line to Head of Asia in London as did a number of other “sleepers” whom Rose had began placing around the region in the last year.
“Sleepers” were amateurs willing to moonlight for their country or in some cases simply for money, providing information on aspects of the industries or government bodies where they were employed. They were scattered like little anti-personnel mines on the assumption that whatever intelligence they provided would become part of the whole and that occasionally they might just trip over something vital or major.
The Head of Station ran his own network of informers—the term spy simply could not be used any more these days—and so from Murphy’s perspective the “sleepers” were a nuisance that crossed his patch.
Taking a sip from her cup, Madeleine said, “We are not going to get into any debate as to the merits or dangers of the ‘sleeper’ system. I want to know what happened to my girl, football club hangover or not.” She paused then added, “Now stop being bloody bolshy, David Murphy and get on with it.”
There was a grunt from the Hong Kong end and he replied in the affirmative. Madeleine Rose was his direct boss and she hadn’t got to her position by allowing her subordinates to get away with giving her lip.
She hung up and finished her coffee, made another cup, sliced a grapefruit in half and began eating this while she mulled over matters. The time in Singapore was the same as Hong Kong but she was sure Brigadier Wee would be bright and buzzing, if not in the office then certainly at work on something.
Madeleine left a message at a confidential number he’d once given her. Twenty minutes later as she was munching on a piece of toasted rye bread her phone rang and the old spymaster’s voice greeted her.
“It’s ten past four in London. What’s the crisis, Miss Rose?”
“We’re not at war, but I’ve lost one of my agents and that’s a big crisis for me.”
“Anything we can help you with?”
“Not at the moment. I don’t have much information but I’ll let you know. She was working in a firm called McPherson Ferguson and this figured in one of your briefings.”
There was a grunt from the Brigadier at the other end. He asked her to hang on while he retrieved a file. When he returned he explained to her what he knew:
“This is a trading company shipping regular volumes of consumer products to Europe. We just had a drug courier recently caught at Changi and he wanted to tell us his whole life story in exchange for letting him off the hook. So we listened and evaluated but he had a boring life and we can’t make exceptions so he still had to hang for his crime. Now then, one of the things he told us was that a gang he was part of earlier had been off-loading cartons from containers and replacing them with other cartons that probably held drugs or contraband destined for Britain and other European countries. Most of these shipments were coming from Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia etc. and they’re all loaded onto bigger vessels in Singapore. We did some surveillance but it’s impossible to know if this is happening. Singapore is the busiest container port in the world. Unless we have specific vessels its impossible to control this. So I’ve filed this as an interesting fact. This is more criminal than relevant to state security and unless at your end you can give me something to track back there isn’t much we can do.”
“That’s very interesting, Brigadier. I’m going to have to discuss this with a few people. I think the girl obviously stumbled across something and there’ve been other murders in this company. Sounds like a Triad smuggling ring. You’re right, though, it’s more for the police than for us in Intelligence. Unless…”
“It could be weapons, you know, Miss Rose. Maybe they are selling AK-47’s from Vietnam to the Irish.”
“Yes, then it becomes political and our colleagues at MI5 would be interested.”
* * * *
Prices were ridiculous in Hong Kong, Jim had concluded during his abortive shopping spree. Even Marks & Spencers which had never been his retailer of choice was selling suits and shirts forty per cent more expensive than in London.
So why bother coming to this city? For doing business in China certainly, but not as a tourist.
Jim had walked around Tsim Sha Tsui and ended up in Ocean Terminal by Canton Road, then after a stint in the Polo Ralph Lauren shop that yielded no bargains he’d had some spare ribs in an American restaurant and taken the Star Ferry across the Harbour to Central.
As he got off the boat he was assailed by a cacophony of twittering voices and all around him thousands of Filipina domestic workers were enjoying their day off by having picnics practically on the street and exchanging the latest gossip about employers, neighbours and relatives.
Jim had to smile. There was a group of the diminutive people singing religious songs with microphones and a portable amplifier. In another corner of Statue Square a team of synchronised dancers were practicing for a show or a beauty contest. Others had wares for display which they were attempting to sell to their compatriots. It was Sunday in Central.
He found his way to Landmark and browsed for a while in the Gieves & Hawkes shop, then crossed the road to the Brooks Brothers outlet. As he was fingering a long pale-green trench-coat, impressed with the silky finish of the material, his mobile rang.
Doris said, “So I heard you’re in Hong Kong suddenly.”
“How did you know?”
“I just came back from Shanghai where I was visiting relatives.”
“So now you’re in Hong Kong?” he said, hardly trying to suppress his excitement. He wanted to see her for a variety of reasons, the least of which was his current boredom.
“Did you take your lunch already?”
“It’s three o’clock, Doris.”
“I’m free in an hour if you want to meet up with me.”
He laughed, “What the hell do you think?”
She explained to him where to meet.
* * * *
“What are you doing here?” was her first question once she’d arrived and sat down. Jim waved his hands at the surroundings.
“What in the Ritz-Carlton, having afternoon tea?” He grinned and she rolled her eyes. It was like before. As if there had been no problems with her cousin. His former assistant was wearing a pale-grey pair of pants and a dark light-weight sweater in black and her hair had been trimmed since the last time they’d seen each other.
“In Hong Kong. You weren’t scheduled to be here. Isn’t that Mr. Campbell’s job?”
Jim shook his head, his face taking on a grim expression as he slowly explained recent events. Doris kept on interrupting and was insistent about every detail. She began to look more and more troubled.
<
br /> The waitress came to bring them another pot of Earl Grey. Doris had a Samsung mobile phone around her neck and she was playing with it nervously as if mulling something over in her mind, unsure if it were the right thing to mention.
“You know, I have a friend here in Hong Kong who is the niece of some big tycoon guy. She works as one of his private assistants. Last week we met for lunch and she was telling me her uncle has been having many meetings with Chinese officials in Shanghai and Beijing and that they are planning some big activity to enhance China’s image world-wide. When I told her what I was doing in London she was surprised because the name of your company had been mentioned a few times by her uncle during the discussions.”
Doris stopped twiddling with the silver handphone and fixed his eyes anxiously with hers. “I didn’t think very much about it. It’s just politics. But now what you are telling me makes me think perhaps there is something bad going on. Maybe there are some bad people in the Chinese government and they are taking advantage of my friend’s uncle and other businessmen.”
Jim considered her facts carefully. It may just be coincidence and pure conjecture but there was definitely something strange going on. People had been getting killed lately and McPherson Ferguson was not that big a player in the Export business for Chinese government representatives to be aware of its existence. Bob Chen could have used McPherson Ferguson for some big political and criminal scheme. It was a worrying thought. Jim had a strong loyalty to his company and lately this had been more personified through his direct dealings with the Old Man. He dreaded the thought of the company’s name being dragged through the mud.
He’d have to see what his new acquaintance Scrimple thought of the matter. The copper would know if it was a real piece of information and worth passing on to the other investigators. But if politicians were involved it might scare the police away. Hong Kong had to be sensitive to its new Northern masters.
Not long after, Doris said she’d have to meet her auntie for shopping but wanted to get together with Jim later in the evening if he was free.
Chapter 14
Being suspended on full pay, without a job to go to should have been a pleasant break but for Scrimple it was turning into a nightmare. Except for the recent islands of excitement, he was mired in a swamp of boredom. Even if he had some spare cash he wasn’t in the mood for shopping. He’d been to HMV and bought CD’s and DVD’s and that had used up as much as he was prepared to spend until he knew what the future would bring on the employment front. There were no new movies in the cinemas and he’d never been a fan of hill-walking. Hong Kong was not kind to the unemployed. It was a working city.
Finally he decided that the best way to kill an early Sunday afternoon would be to go for a run, followed by a session in the bars of Wanchai. He puffed and panted his way along the running path of Bowen Road, then lay on the sofa in his apartment recovering with a pint glass of ice water pressed against his face.
By three o’clock he managed to struggle into the shower and then returned again for a stint of lying prone. His mind kept returning to the dead body and the scene of Louise Walker’s murder. She hadn’t, curiously, featured in his dreams but now in the glaring daylight, the image of her corpse kept popping up in front of his eyes. It was time for a diversion. Time to draw the hazy curtain of alcohol across the harsh glare of reality.
Between four and eight p.m. the bars of Wanchai became packed with Filipina maids whose only chance to have some real, dubious fun on their day off was at the Sunday Afternoon Tea Dance. The clubs were wall-to-wall with girls. The smattering of men who knew about this event and snuck down there despite the sun still being up, had the pick of the crop. Not all the girls were beautiful but, if one had a taste for dusky skin, black hair, a button-nose, doe-eyes and a warm smile, some of them stood out from the crowd. The atmosphere was cheerful and energetic. The dance floors of the four nightclubs heaved to the thumping bass of the latest Euro-pop parade.
This was where Scrimple planned to head for with the clear intention of getting drunk and a vague hope of getting laid. He hadn’t been paralytic for a while and felt, after recent events, that he deserved a brief vacation from sobriety.
He was just puffing on another cigarette when his mobile began chirping.
It was Jim Beauregard. “Where are you?” Scrimple asked. “Got anything planned?”
Jim told him what a boring day he’d had except for the unexpected encounter with Doris.
“Do you know what the Tea Dance is?”
“The what?” the man from London asked.
“It’s like the discos are open in the afternoon and full of single girls looking for blokes.”
“Sounds a bit unreal. Who’d go clubbing on a Sunday afternoon?”
“The maids.”
There was a pause at the other end. “Oh, yes, that makes sense.”
“I’m off to have a few beers and see what’s going on. Fancy meeting up?”
“Well, I’ve got fuck-all else to do until Doris calls me again.”
“So come along. Wanchai MTR station in twenty minutes. By the Hang Seng Bank. There’s only one in the station.”
Half an hour later they were leaning against the bar in New Makati and Jim was marvelling at the strange scene around him. There could not have been more than ten men in the place while the dance floor was undulating like a frenzied ant-heap. Not less than a hundred girls, many of them no more than five foot tall but what they lacked in height they made up in enthusiasm, were giving themselves over to the beat. It was like some tribal mating call from the deepest of Africa: all these native maidens, rolling their eyes at the men, a good proportion of whom were fat, old, balding and sipping their beers on the perimeter and enjoying the near innocent sexuality of the dancers. There wasn’t one Filipina who didn’t have a feel for the rhythm. It was the Hispanic heritage of their country.
The girls came to let their hair down and get lost in the music but many of them also came to find a boyfriend. Most of the men could have told them that this was a bad place to start a good relationship but the girls were romantic and all they wished for was a man who could love and take care of them. If he was handsome that was a bonus.
Scrimple studied the scene intently. Apart from the flashing lights, it was dark and it felt like midnight. It was a comforting illusion. He took periodic sips from the pint glass of San Miguel and craned forward when he spotted a girl that torched his testosterone.
Meanwhile Jim Beauregard was in mild culture shock. He’d never seen anything like this in his life and felt out of place. There was no desire to actually put down his gin and tonic and walk out but it was all very odd. It was fascinating in an underground way. It was like stepping into the imaginary after-life of a Filipino or Indonesian tribal chieftain.
There was acrid smoke and the smell of cheap perfume and smiling faces and bodies that never stopped moving and a band that thumped out the latest caramel hits and men who talked about football and their latest sexual encounters in Bangkok or Manila and girls who giggled and pushed up against you as they bustled about, cheerful because they were free for twelve hours from their chores and their strict employers.
There was an exuberance about the place. It was like having walked into an orchard and every apple was ready for plucking but there was no need to rush because they all looked sweet and nobody else was going to come and steal them from you. As long as you liked apples. Jim could tell from Scrimple’s face that the policeman enjoyed his fruit.
“Don’t have this back in England, do you?” said Scrimple leaning back towards Jim who was slouching against the bar counter resting his chin in the palm of his hand. The expression on Scrimple’s sweaty face was lascivious.
“I’m sure they have something like it somewhere. You get all sorts in London.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. Every time I’ve gone back it’s been boring as hell.”
“Depends what excites you,” Jim suggested mildly. In a way he fel
t sorry for the Hong Kong man. This didn’t seem to be the right way to get one’s kicks. It felt slightly perverse. It was like being at a fourth form dance and letching at under-age girls.
“Well, this little honey over here excites me. She makes me shiver all over. Look at that arse in those jeans.”
Jim did as he was told and smiled politely to indicate that Scrimple’s taste was acceptable to him.
“And this one, ooh, ooh” Scrimple sighed while pointing with his beer glass, “And that and that and that.”
Jim laughed. “You’ve made your point. Have another pint.” It was Scrimple’s third and seemed to be having more effect on him than what Jim was drinking.
“Hello, Scrimple,” a girl said as she pulled up a chair next to the policeman. She ordered three fruit punches from the barman and Scrimple asked her how she’d been and what she was up to. Jim tuned out of the conversation and his eyes focused on a tall, thin girl who was dancing by herself in the middle of the floor. Her skin tone was a dark mahogany, so black in fact, that she could have been one of the girls in the club he’d visited with Sawyers in London. Her facial features were different, slightly simian but with an Asian slant in her eyes. Probably an Indonesian he surmised although he was no expert on the differences. He watched as a young guy in his twenties tried to approach her on the dance floor. Every time the guy stood in front of her and began dancing with a vacant smile on his face, she’d turn 180 degrees and carry on moving by herself, lost in the music. After three attempts the fellow gave up and returned to his mates who were clustered by a pillar, scoffing into their beer glasses.
Scrimple’s girl hopped off her stool after a while and went back to her friends with their drinks. It wasn’t easy carrying all those glasses through the buzzing crowd. She managed somehow.
“You do this every Sunday?” Jim asked.
“No, I had a girlfriend up until a few days ago but…”
Jim nodded because Scrimple’s gaze had strayed again.
Dragon Breath Page 20
