The phone rang out, the sudden noise surprising Jill. She uncurled her legs and padded over the parquet floor to the black wooden sideboard. So much for the phone not working, she thought, lifting the receiver. God save me from stupid amahs. It was Simon, inviting her out to lunch at the Excelsior Hotel, and she accepted eagerly. It’d give her the chance to take the new Porsche out for a run; at this time of the day there wouldn’t be much traffic using the cross-harbour tunnel.
She changed quickly, choosing clothes that she knew he’d like, and three-quarters of an hour later she was in the Grill Room. Simon was already seated at the corner table and halfway through his Perrier water when Jill arrived, slightly out of breath, with the head waiter in tow.
He stood and kissed her on the cheek. ‘You look fabulous,’ he said in Cantonese.
‘You flatterer,’ she replied, also in Cantonese. ‘You are twice a liar. I look a mess and you have been waiting for some time. But thank you for lying so beautifully.’
The waiter raised his eyebrows, impressed with her fluency, and held the chair for her as she sat down.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ he said, in English.
‘Campari and soda,’ she said, her eyes on her husband. For the millionth time she marvelled at how goodlooking he was. There really wasn’t anything she didn’t like about him physically. His hair was thick and black and his eyes a deep brown, his teeth strong and white, his shoulders broad and his skin the same light brown colour as a cocker spaniel her parents had owned in her childhood. His hands were squarish and strong; she could always feel their suppressed strength when he touched her, yet he’d never once hurt her, physically or mentally. He was immaculately dressed as usual, a black lightweight wool suit with a faint grey pinstripe running through it and a white shirt with his Hong Kong Club tie. His shoes were shining and she knew he’d gone to his regular shoe-shine boy, a wrinkled old man whose patch was in an alley near the Mandarin Hotel.
She’d learnt a lot from living with Simon Ng, not the least being the way her dress sense had improved. There was no doubt that was partly because as his wife she had a hell of a lot more money at her fingertips and several gold credit cards and charge accounts, but it was also as a result of going shopping with him. He had a good eye for design, always insisted on buying the best, and he knew what suited Jill. It had been hard for her to admit at first, but after a while she came to realize that on the occasions she met people when she was wearing an outfit he’d chosen the compliments came thick and fast. When she dressed in clothes she herself had chosen nothing was said. Under his guidance she’d gradually changed her whole wardrobe, and now it consisted mainly of the sort of names she’d only read about in the fashion magazines before she got married – Chanel, Kenzo, Charles Jourdan. She’d also acquired his love of expensive accessories. She had more than a dozen watches and three times as many rings, though she wore only one chain around her neck, a thick strand of seamless gold that he’d given her when Sophie was born.
Today she was wearing a beige silk two-piece suit that stopped just below her knee; she carried a small matching Gucci bag and had her hair tied back with a small black bow, the way he liked it. She enjoyed dressing up for him. She was even wearing the white suspenders he liked, though he wouldn’t see them. Until later. Her drink arrived and Simon raised his glass to her, the way he always did.
‘To the prettiest girl in Hong Kong,’ he said.
She snorted. ‘I wish,’ she said. ‘I’m way past the age when I can be called a girl.’
‘You’ll have to excuse my lousy English,’ he joked. A waiter handed them menus. ‘What would you like?’ Simon asked.
‘You choose,’ she said. ‘You know what I like.’
He ordered for her and waited until the waiter had left before speaking.
‘I have to go to Beijing next week,’ he said.
‘Again? You were there last week.’
He shrugged. ‘Business,’ he said. ‘You know how it is.’
She knew. Jill knew all too well the business he was in, she’d known about his triad activities long before she married him. She’d known of them and she’d accepted them. She loved the man and so turned a blind eye to the comings and goings at their home, to her husband’s frequent absences, the late-night phone calls, the ever-present bodyguards. The papers were filled with stories about triad killings, drug seizures, raids on underage brothels, the bread and butter of the criminal empires, but even though she knew Simon was head of one of the most successful triads she didn’t believe that he was personally involved in the violence. He was always so gentle and considerate with her, and when she watched him with Sophie her heart ached.
She reached over and stroked his hand on the table. ‘Must you go?’
He nodded.
‘Why Beijing?’ she asked. ‘Surely there’s no business to be done there, not now.’
He pulled his hand away and there was a coldness in his eyes. ‘It’s business, Jill. Just leave it at that.’
It was always this way, Jill thought. He gave her everything she could want, he protected her and took care of her and he loved her, but there was a part of him that would be always unattainable and sometimes that frightened her. Her link with Simon Ng went back less than a decade, but the Ng family had ruled the traid for centuries. Jill often wondered what would happen if she pushed him to make a choice – her or the triad? She’d never put it to the test, because in her heart of hearts she knew which he would choose – and she could not bear to lose him.
She smiled and stroked his cheek. ‘I just miss you so much when you’re away,’ she said, ‘that’s all.’
He took her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing it softly. His eyes warmed and he squeezed her. ‘I won’t be long. And I’ll bring you back a present,’ he said.
The room was just as he’d left it when Howells returned. He replaced the receiver and put the tape recorder in the drawer of the bedside table. He stripped off his clothes, dropped them on to the bed and walked naked to the shower.
Later, as he sat on the bed wrapped in one of the hotel’s thick white bathrobes, he dialled the number of Ng’s house. It was answered on the third ring and a female Filipina voice recited the number in a sing-song voice. Howells asked to speak to Simon Ng and was told he wasn’t at home.
‘Is Mrs Ng there?’ asked Howells.
Again he was told no. When would they be back? She didn’t know. Howells hung up and lay back on the bed, fingers intertwined behind his neck, legs crossed at the ankles.
He waited a full two hours before calling the Ng house again. The Filipina girl answered again, and this time she said that yes, Mrs Ng was at home. She asked who was calling and he said Inspector Holt. He waited while the amah relayed the message to her mistress and handed her the receiver.
‘Nick,’ she said. ‘How are you feeling?’
Howells was caught off guard. The last thing he’d expected was for the woman to know the copper he’d taken the ID from. He sat bolt upright on the bed, his mouth open and his mind racing.
‘Nick, are you there?’
Part of Howells wanted to slam the phone down while he got his act together, but he realized that wouldn’t solve anything, he’d only have to call back. All that mattered was that he spoke to Simon Ng; it didn’t matter who he said he was or whether or not the stupid cow knew the copper or not.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Ng, I think you’ve got the wrong person. I’m trying to get hold of your husband.’
‘He’s not here at the moment. Didn’t you say your name was Holt? Inspector Holt?’
‘When will he be back?’
‘I really can’t say. Look, who is calling?’
‘It is important that I get in touch with him, Mrs Ng. Does he have a mobile phone or a pager, or do you know where he is?’
‘Is something wrong?’
Everything was going wrong, thought Howells. She was suspicious, Simon Ng wasn’t there and in all probability she’d be on the
phone to the real Inspector Holt as soon as he was off the line.
‘No, nothing is wrong. But this is urgent, Mrs Ng.’
‘Well, if you leave your number I’ll ask him to phone you when he gets in.’
‘Actually, I’m just about to leave the office – better I call him. What time do you think he’ll be back?’
‘I don’t know,’ snapped Jill, and she slammed the receiver down.
All Howells heard was the click of the line going dead; he had no idea of the venom with which the woman had cut short the conversation or the way she cursed him afterwards, but he knew that she hadn’t been fooled.
Dugan winced as his phone rang. It was Petal. She wanted to see a movie and was Dugan free? Of course, he said, and they arranged to meet outside the cinema later on.
‘How’s your day?’ he asked. That morning she had left without waking him, leaving only an indentation in the pillow and her signature flower.
‘Busy,’ she said. ‘I’ve been tied up all day, that’s why I’m so late calling you.’
‘What is it you do for the Bank of China?’
‘Marketing,’ she said. ‘Promoting their financial services. Nothing exciting. I’m sure my work isn’t anywhere near as fun as yours. What case are you on today? That woman with the cheques?’
He was pleased and flattered that she took an interest in his work and that she’d bothered to remember what he was working on, but all the same he was aware that once again she’d given him the brush-off as soon as he’d asked about what she did. She’d done it pleasantly enough, but he still got the feeling that she was being evasive, that there was something she didn’t want him to know.
‘Yeah, but it’s an uphill struggle.’
‘Think of me and smile a bit,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’
After they’d said their goodbyes, Dugan sat with his head down over Lee Lingling’s file and rubbed his forehead with the palms of his hands. His headache was worse. He drained his fifth paper cup of coffee and was just getting to his feet for another visit to the vending machine when his phone rang again.
‘Pat?’ It was his sister.
‘Jill, how are you?’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘How about you?’
‘Lousy headache, lousy job, and I think the airconditioner in my bedroom is about to pack up. Nothing changes.’
‘Pat,’ she said, and Dugan could tell by the change in her tone that she was serious. ‘Pat, do you know an Inspector Holt?’
‘Only Nick, Nick with the wounded pride and the surgical collar.’
‘No, I don’t mean Nick. Another Inspector Holt. Is there anyone else on the force called Holt?’
‘Not that I know of. Why?’
‘I’ve just had a phone call from someone calling himself Holt, wanting to speak to Simon. He was very evasive when I asked him what he wanted.’
‘Are you sure he said he was a cop?’
‘He called himself Inspector Holt. But he wouldn’t give me his phone number.’
‘Let me check it out, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’ It wasn’t like Jill to get upset at something like that. Dugan was the worrier of the family, and over the years since Jill had married Simon Ng she’d grown increasingly more confident, so much so that occasionally the confidence crossed over to arrogance.
‘OK, Pat. Thanks. It’d put my mind at rest. It’s probably nothing.’
As soon as she hung up Dugan called Personnel and asked them to check their files. There was no Inspector Holt, other than Nick. He called the ICAC and they said they’d check and get back to him.
Jill Ng was sitting on her white leather sofa with the phone next to her, and even though she was waiting for her brother to call her she still jumped when it rang.
‘Pat?’ she said. It wasn’t, it was Miss Quinlan, the headmistress of Sophie’s school.
‘That’s not Mrs Ng, is it?’ asked the old woman, obviously confused.
‘Of course,’ said Jill, equally surprised. ‘Who did you expect?’
The headmistress stuttered and stumbled for words and for a fleeting moment Jill wondered if she’d been drinking.
‘To be honest, Mrs Ng, I’d heard that you and your husband had been involved in an accident. I was calling to see if there was anything I could do. I am rather surprised to find you at home. Inspector Holt said you were in the hospital.’
Jill’s heart froze at the name. She gripped the phone tightly. ‘Inspector Holt?’ she said. ‘He called you?’
‘No, Mrs Ng. He came round. To pick up Sophie.’
Jill sagged back into the leather sofa, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
The headmistress realized that something was badly wrong. Her voice began to tremble. ‘He showed me his identification, he was definitely a policeman, I know he was, I had no reason to …’ Her voice tailed off.
Jill’s voice was flat and emotionless when she spoke again. ‘Why didn’t you call me first, before you let him take my daughter?’
‘Mrs Ng, I tried to call, but the phone was engaged. I did try.’ The pleading whine annoyed Jill and she felt a red wave of anger.
‘You’re not fit to be in charge of children,’ she hissed. ‘You let a complete stranger take my child. Oh God, what have you done? What have you done, you old bitch?’
Miss Quinlan began to cry as she felt her world collapse around her. The sound of her tears made Jill hate the old woman even more, but she was so consumed with anger that words failed her. She quietly replaced the receiver, tears welling up in her eyes. She rose unsteadily to her feet and tottered over to a chrome and glass drinks trolley where, with shaking hands, she poured herself a tumbler full of brandy. She gulped it down, the alcohol making her eyes sting, and then refilled it.
She was finding it hard to breathe, as if there were steel bands around her chest and neck that were being slowly tightened. A thousand images of Sophie flashed through her mind: Sophie on Christmas Eve opening her presents, building sandcastles on the beach, riding piggy-back on Simon, playing pirates with Patrick.
She practically ran back to the phone and tapped out the number of her husband’s portable phone, tears streaming from her eyes.
Simon Ng was standing stock-still with his arms outstretched like a man crucified. Before him a small, portly old man with skin like an old chamois leather ran a tape measure around his waist.
‘Same as always,’ he nodded approvingly at his teenage assistant. He measured the length of the arms, the shoulders, and then he knelt down in front of Ng and ran the tape up his inside leg, calling out the measurements to the boy, who wrote them down in a small notebook.
They were in a poky room on the second floor of an ageing building in Tsim Sha Tsui, the walls lined with shelves piled with rolls of cloth. Ng was facing a large oak desk on which were stacks of cloth sample books and to his left was a tall, thin free-standing mirror in which he’d be able to examine the finished product. It took Mr Cheung five days to complete a made-to-measure suit, three days for favoured customers. Simon Ng had been taken to Mr Cheung by his father for his first suit the day before his fourteenth birthday. Mr Cheung never took longer than forty-eight hours with his order.
There were two men sitting on high-backed chairs, one by the door and one by the desk, solid-looking men with calloused hands and hard eyes, bodyguards who’d both been with him for many years. They held the rank of Red Pole in the triad, fighters who had proved their worth. Both had killed for Simon Ng.
The one by the door in a brown suit and wearing brown brogues that wouldn’t have been out of place on the feet of a Scottish landowner was Ricky Lam, forty-eight years old but with not a single wrinkle on his face. Lam had served Ng’s father for more than two decades and still paid regular visits to the old man on the Peak where they would relive old times over a pot of jasmine tea. In the inside pocket of his jacket he carried an ivory-handled stiletto and he had a throwing knife strapped to each arm. Lam could use all three with dea
dly accuracy, but he could just as easily kill with his bare hands and feet.
The man in the other chair was Lam’s cousin, on his mother’s side, a twenty-nine-year-old kung fu master called Franc Tse. If Ricky Lam represented the traditional triad way of life, then Franc Tse was positively New Wave. He wore pristine white Nike training shoes, skin-tight Levi jeans and an expensive dark brown Italian leather jacket, the sleeves pulled up almost to his elbows and the collar turned up. Whereas Lam’s hair was in the traditional mainland ‘pudding basin’ style, Tse’s was lightly permed and swept back off his forehead. Tucked into the back of his belt was a nunchakyu, two lengths of hard wood separated by a short piece of chain, a martial arts weapon derived from a rice flail. At night, when he couldn’t sleep, Tse would stand in the middle of his room and practise using the flail with his eyes closed, enjoying the hard slap of the wood against his hands and hearing it whistle through the air. He was an expert with the spear, the long knife, the three-section staff and the throwing stars, but the nunchakyu was his favourite.
Both men were fiercely loyal to Simon Ng, and would have had no hesitation in giving up their lives for him, or for his family. Ng in turn trusted them completely. It was a relationship that went far beyond employer–employee, or master and servant; it was bound up with the oaths each had sworn to the triad, the triad that existed before them and would exist long after they were gone from the world. Each had sworn a blood oath to put the triad and its members before family, before friends, before life itself, and each knew they had a part to play in the triad. Lam’s and Tse’s role was to protect the Dragon Head, Simon Ng. And they would – to the death.
Ng had left his portable phone on the desk and he stepped around Mr Cheung to pick it up when it warbled. It was Jill.
‘Simon?’
He wanted to chide her for asking the obvious, but he could tell from the tone that something was wrong. Badly wrong. He listened intently as she told him about the phone calls from the gweilo and the schoolteacher.
Hungry Ghost Page 13
