Hungry Ghost

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Thanks, kid.’

  ‘You know what I mean. You’ve been out with some fantastic-looking girls but their IQs are rarely above room temperature. Petal is very sharp, but so gentle with it. Simon is quite taken with her.’

  They stood and watched Petal talking to the triad leader, hanging on his every word as she held her glass with both hands. Dugan fingered his earring. ‘She is different, isn’t she?’ he said quietly. ‘To be honest, I can’t understand why she does go out with me.’

  Jill sighed with exasperation. ‘For God’s sake, stop being so hard on yourself! All I ever hear you do is complain about how you’re getting old and how you’re stuck in a rut. Petal thinks the world of you. All the time she was talking to us she kept looking at you and smiling, but you were so busy playing at being the pirate leader that you didn’t notice. You should take a good look at yourself, brother of mine. You’re tall, goodlooking, and you’re a hell of a lot more fun than those deadhead cops you hang out with. All you need is a woman to show you how to make more of what you’ve got and to get you off junk food.’ She looked him up and down coolly. ‘And, it has to be said, your dress sense is a little suspect.’

  They laughed together and Petal turned and waved to Dugan. She said something to Simon and they came over together. Petal linked her arm through Dugan’s and kissed him on the cheek, then leant up, put her mouth close to his ear and whispered, ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, and he made to go but she pulled him back.

  ‘Promise me one thing,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you’ll wear your eye-patch tonight,’ she giggled. ‘It looks really sinister.’

  Dugan was suddenly overcome with affection for her and he held her close, resting his chin on top of her head as Jill and Simon looked on. ‘We’re going,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ said Simon. ‘And for getting into the spirit of it.’

  They said their goodbyes and left, and as they walked out of the hotel Dugan didn’t care about the looks or the giggles. He was with the prettiest girl in the world and that was all that mattered.

  In the taxi Petal leant against him and sighed. ‘I saw a different side to you tonight, Patrick Dugan,’ she said softly. ‘I didn’t realize you liked children so much. They adored you.’

  Dugan put his arm around her and kissed her forehead. He wanted to tell her that he adored her, but somehow he didn’t think it would sound right coming from a man dressed as a buccaneer so he decided he’d save it until later.

  The following morning the Mercedes arrived at the crossroads and with a sense of relief Howells slipped in behind it. He could see the uniformed chauffeur, the heavily built bodyguard in the front passenger seat, the girl in the back seat.

  Five minutes later the car pulled up in front of a four-storey white-painted stone building surrounded by a tarmac playground. The girl opened the door herself and slipped off the seat, pulling a brown leather satchel after her. She slammed the door shut and ran over to a group of girls in white uniforms and blue belts without even a backward glance. Ng’s daughter walked into the building chattering with her friends and the men in the Mercedes watched her until she was out of sight before driving off.

  There was a large wooden sign fixed to the railings at the entrance to the playground and Howells noted down the name of the school, its headmistress and the telephone number.

  He drove back to the Holiday Inn and ate eggs and bacon in the coffee shop before going up to his room. He sat on the bed with the phone, and placed two pieces of paper in front of him; one bore the name and number of the girl’s school, the other the number of Ng’s home. In between them he put Holt’s warrant card.

  He went to the wardrobe and took out his one suit. It was still a little rumpled after the trip from Bali, and he was surprised at how well it still fitted, considering the amount of weight he’d lost. He wore it with a light blue shirt and a navy blue tie with a yellow crest on it, and with his short hair and cold eyes he knew he’d have no trouble passing for a cop. He combed his hair in the bathroom and checked himself over again.

  He had his wallet and he had the car keys. Everything else was on the junk. He sat down on the bed again and dialled the first number, the school. He asked the switchboard girl for the headmistress and was put through to her secretary. He told her he was Chief Inspector Caine and that he had to speak to the headmistress immediately. He was put on hold and then a crisp female voice came on the line.

  ‘Good morning, Chief Inspector. How can I help you?’

  Howells spoke slowly and with a voice deeper than normal, phrasing each word carefully and precisely. ‘Good morning, Miss Quinlan. I am sorry to bother you but I am calling in connection with one of your pupils, Sophie Ng.’

  ‘Yes, she is one of my pupils. Is she in some sort of trouble?’

  ‘No, no, she isn’t in trouble, Miss Quinlan. But I am afraid there has been an accident involving her parents, a car crash.’

  ‘Oh my Lord, no,’ said the headmistress. ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘Yes, I am rather afraid that it is. They are both in intensive care and we are in the process of contacting the members of the family. Mr Ng’s father is on the way to the hospital now. My reason for ringing you is to let you know that we have been asked to get Sophie to the hospital as quickly as possible. One of my men, an Inspector Holt, has already left and he should be with you shortly. Could you please arrange to have Sophie ready?’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ she said. ‘Oh dear Lord. The poor girl.’

  ‘And Miss Quinlan?’

  ‘Yes, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘I’d be grateful if you said as little as possible to the girl at this stage. It would be best not to upset her. Better to allow her grandfather to explain.’

  ‘I quite understand.’

  ‘Thank you for your help. Inspector Holt should be there soon. Goodbye.’

  Howells replaced the receiver then immediately picked it up again and dialled Ng’s home. It rang three times and then a guttural Chinese voice answered.

  ‘Wei. Wan binwai?’

  ‘Mary had a little lamb, its fleece as white as snow,’ said Howells.

  ‘Wan binwai?’

  ‘And everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go.’

  ‘Neih daapcho sin la,’ said the voice and hung up. Howells switched the tape recorder on to play and left the receiver next to the speaker. On the way out he put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door handle. Miss Quinlan probably wouldn’t bother to call the house to check, and if she did she’d find the phone engaged. Hardly surprising, what with the accident and all. And if the hotel switchboard should listen in to the call she’d just hear a crazy gweilo dictating a list of names and addresses. He retrieved his car from the hotel car park and drove to the school.

  Miss Quinlan looked pretty much as Howells had expected from her voice: prim and proper, greying hair and horn-rimmed spectacles. Her features were sharp and pointed and she had a slight moustache of straggly black hairs. Howells didn’t have to look to know that there wasn’t a wedding ring on her finger. Miss Quinlan was the sort of woman who preferred to be married to her work and God help any of her little charges if they ever let her down. Howells didn’t know if corporal punishment was allowed in Hong Kong, but he was sure that Miss Quinlan would be more than happy to administer a few strokes of the cane across bare buttocks.

  ‘Inspector Holt,’ he said, and offered his hand. She took it and shook it firmly. He could feel the bones under papery skin.

  ‘I’ve been expecting you,’ she said. ‘Sophie is next door with my secretary.’

  She walked back behind her large oak desk, seeking the reassurance it offered, something to hide behind. It was a masculine desk and on it there were no feminine touches to indicate that it was used by a woman. There was a brown leather-bound diary, a heavy crystal paperweight, a brass paperknife and two paper-filled wire trays, a black telephone and a grey p
lastic intercom. No flowers, no family photographs.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ she asked, tilting her head down so that she could look at him over the top of her glasses.

  ‘No, everything is being looked after,’ said Howells. ‘The important thing now is to get Sophie to the hospital.’

  The headmistress nodded. She pressed a button on the intercom and bobbed her head down like a pecking bird to talk into it. ‘Can you bring Sophie Ng in, please.’

  There was a double knock on the door and it opened to reveal a young Chinese girl in a charcoal-grey suit who was holding the hand of the little blonde schoolgirl. Miss Quinlan came out from behind her desk and smiled at the girl.

  ‘Sophie,’ she said, ‘this gentleman is Inspector Holt. He’s a policeman. He’s come to take you to see your grandfather.’

  The girl’s eyes widened. ‘Is something wrong?’ she said.

  Miss Quinlan turned to look at Howells and he knew she was going to suggest they tell the girl there and then so he quickly shook his head.

  ‘No, everything is all right,’ he said, reaching forward and patting her on the head.

  The headmistress followed his example and nodded reassuringly. ‘Your grandfather will explain,’ she said.

  The girl still looked worried, so Howells took her hand and led her to the door. He stepped to one side to let her through first, and as he did so he mouthed ‘thank you’ to the headmistress.

  As the door closed behind them Miss Quinlan sat down and picked up the telephone. She tapped out the number of the Ng house, but it was still engaged.

  Howells took Sophie to the car and made sure she’d fastened her seat belt before starting the engine.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘To see your grandfather,’ he replied.

  ‘Why?’ She was polite but insistent, her head tilted side-on, resting against the back of the car seat as she watched him and waited for an answer.

  ‘He wants to see you.’

  ‘Why couldn’t Daddy or Mummy come?’

  ‘They’re busy,’ he said.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’

  ‘No, of course not. Look, your grandfather will explain everything.’

  ‘But why did they send you to get me?’

  ‘What do you mean, Sophie?’

  ‘You’re a policeman.’

  ‘Yes. You know I am. Miss Quinlan told you so.’

  ‘So why did they have to send a policeman to get me?’

  ‘Because it was quicker to send me.’

  ‘Why don’t you have a uniform?’

  ‘I’m a plain clothes policeman,’ he said. ‘Not all policemen wear uniforms.’

  She thought about that for a while, then she spoke to him in rapid Cantonese.

  Howells grinned. ‘And not all policemen speak Cantonese, Sophie,’ he said.

  ‘I thought they did,’ she said. ‘And this isn’t a police car.’

  Howells hadn’t banked on this, interrogation from an eight-year-old girl. They were still driving through crowded city centre streets so there was no way he could use force to shut her up. He’d just have to keep talking until they were on their own.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Sophie asked, running her fingers along the dashboard and checking them for dust, the way she’d seen her mother do after the amahs had finished cleaning. ‘To a police station?’

  ‘No,’ said Howells softly, ‘to a boat. Your grandfather is waiting for you there.’

  ‘Daddy’s boat, you mean?’

  ‘No, another one.’

  There was less traffic about now; the nearest car was about a hundred yards behind.

  ‘What sort of boat is it?’

  ‘A junk. Like one of the old-fashioned ones.’

  ‘How big is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Thirty feet or so, I suppose.’

  ‘Ha! My daddy’s boat is forty-five feet long. It’s an ocean-going cruiser.’ She was obviously pleased by this show of one-upmanship and sat back in her seat, arms folded across her chest with a ‘so there’ look on her face. At least it stopped the torrent of questions.

  ‘Mrs Ng?’ Jill would never, ever, get used to the surname. The sound had no real equivalent in English, a sort of nasal grunt that Westerners just couldn’t cope with. On the occasions she’d been to America or back home to Britain she’d switched to her maiden name when Simon hadn’t been around. It solved a lot of problems.

  ‘Mrs Ng?’ repeated the amah.

  ‘Yes, Rose, what is it?’ Rose was one of two Filipina maids who lived in the house, cooking and cleaning and looking after Sophie.

  ‘The phone isn’t working. There is somebody talking on the line.’

  ‘A crossed line?’ said Jill. ‘Leave it for a while, Rose, it might sort itself out.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Ng. Do you have the shopping list for me?’

  ‘It’s in the kitchen, Rose. On the table. Is Manny back with the car yet?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rose.

  ‘You might as well go with him, then. And can you buy some more gin, please.’ Rose nodded and left Jill alone in the lounge, curled up on the white leather sofa with the Hong Kong Standard.

  In Howells’ bedroom in the Holiday Inn the tape reached the end and the recorder automatically clicked off.

  After a few minutes the switchboard girl came on the line. ‘Excuse me, Mr Donaldson, are you still using the phone?’ she asked. There was no reply, yet the receiver was definitely off the hook. Probably didn’t want to be disturbed, the girl thought. Strange that it was still connected to an outside line, though. She disconnected it without a second thought.

  Howells stopped the car and walked round to open the door for the girl. There was one road that led from the Clearwater Bay Road to Hebe Haven pier. It ended at a row of metal bollards so that cars couldn’t drive on to the pier, but just before were parking bays. His was the only car there. Sophie ran through the bollards, past a long-abandoned canoe that seemed long enough to seat twenty people in single file, propped against a wall.

  ‘Where is it?’ she asked, squinting out across the shimmering blue sea at the forest of yacht masts. ‘There are so many.’

  ‘Over there.’ Howells pointed to the left of the pier.

  ‘Is that it, the wooden one?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Howells, ‘that’s it. Come on.’

  ‘It’s small,’ she said. ‘Where is Grandfather?’

  ‘He’s there. Maybe he’s down below.’

  Sophie cupped her hands round her mouth and yelled at the top of her voice. ‘Grandfather … we’re here.’ Then she called again in Cantonese, her shrill child’s voice echoing around the beach.

  ‘Sophie, no,’ said Howells, and grabbed her by the shoulder tightly.

  ‘Ouch,’ she squealed, ‘you’re hurting me. Let go.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But you mustn’t shout.’

  ‘But I wanted to let Grandfather know we’d arrived.’

  She was quiet now, and there was suspicion in her eyes, the mistrust of a hurt child. An old, balding man was sitting on the edge of the pier on a bleached wooden stool, threading earthworms on to a hook. By his side was a small wooden birdcage and as he impaled the worms he was talking to a small brown bird with a bright red beak.

  Howells smiled at the girl. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘that’s our dinghy there.’

  He pointed to the jetty nearest the pier, where the little boat bobbed up and down where he’d left it. She looked as if she was going to argue so Howells forced a beaming smile and held her tightly by the hand. He took her back down the pier and along the shore, through a boatyard where large gleaming white cruisers lay cheek by jowl with battered old fishing boats that had seen better days. He let her go first along the wooden planks. From a distance they looked spindly and positively unsafe, a ragbag collection of pieces of wood that had been haphazardly nailed together, but close up he could see that the wood was sound and the nails unrus
ted, and there was very little give as they walked along.

  They reached the dinghy and Howells lifted her in. As he pushed it away from the jetty his arm slipped into the water and his jacket sleeve was soaked. Sophie laughed at his discomfort, her fear forgotten, for a moment at least. He tilted the outboard motor into the surf and tugged at the starter until it kicked into life. Sophie sat at the prow, head over the edge, and trailed her hand in the water as Howells guided the boat towards the junk.

  When they got close he cut the engine. He tied the boat up and held it steady while Sophie made her way up the wooden ladder, and quickly followed as she ran down the deck shouting for her grandfather. She went down below, past the galley, through the main cabin and into the bedroom, where Howells caught up with her. She turned round and ran into him, then stepped back, a look of panic on her face.

  ‘Where is he? Where is my grandfather?’ she screamed, tears brimming in her eyes.

  Howells pressed his forefinger against his lips. ‘Shh,’ he said softly. ‘There’s nothing to cry about.’

  Sophie began sobbing and backed away from Howells until she was up against the bed.

  ‘Who are you?’ she said haltingly between sobs. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘You have to stay with me for a while,’ he said. ‘Not for long, but you have to stay on the boat.’

  He stepped forward and stroked the top of her head. Sophie flinched. She was suddenly furious with herself. Her mother had told her time and time again never to go with strangers, and once a policeman had come to the school and given a talk about what to do if someone tried to make you go with them. There were bad men who wanted to hurt children, he had said, but he’d never said why or what it was that they did. Neither had her mother. They’d never said why, only that she was never to trust strangers – but Miss Quinlan had said it was all right. Sophie began to shake uncontrollably.

  She couldn’t look up at Howells; she didn’t want to see his face. In a quiet, trembling voice she said: ‘Please don’t hurt me.’

  Howells smiled down at her and ran his hand down her soft, blonde hair to the nape of her neck. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he soothed. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’