by Lee Weeks
‘Sometimes you forget why you are with someone and stay for fear of being alone. You don’t have that. I admire that in a way.’
They stared at one another, both aware that they had shared something personal and that now they were no longer work colleagues, they were friends. Becky smiled, a little embarrassed by the fact that they seemed to have moved physically closer during the conversation. Their hands were almost touching. To the relief of them both, the waiter arrived with their food and the closeness was broken.
Becky set about unrolling her napkin and searching for the mustard on the condiment tray.
‘We are checking seat numbers on the plane and passenger lists to see who escorted the trafficked women in,’ she said. Mann’s hand hovered over the tray until it came to rest above the mustard. She nodded and he handed it to her. ‘It will take time to work through everyone. Something else—the house was registered as belonging to a man named Brandon Smith. Guess where he lives?’
‘Angeles?’
‘Good guess.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Ex-military. Honourable discharge, served fifteen years in the marines. Came out, didn’t work much in the next two years. He did a couple of short stints as a bouncer, a security guard. He moved around a lot. He has a record—assault charges in various forms, none of which got him put inside. Mainly drunken and disorderly stuff. He has been living in the Philippines for the last two years.’
‘So he didn’t adjust to life in Civvy Street. Not the kind of man who could afford a property after two years of squandering his pension. Someone else must have put up the money and he agreed to let his name be used. Silly boy. Has he been contacted?’
‘Still trying. The local police are not the most conscientious bunch.’
‘The records show that some of the women have left children back home. I don’t know what would willingly make them leave their families. How can it be worth it?’
‘Poverty makes people do desperate things. It’s become the norm for Filipinas to work in another country to support their own back home. There’s a whole generation of Filipino children growing up without their mothers, who are working overseas to try and give them a better life. The children are looked after by their grandmothers, also being supported by the one overseas. But, I agree. I think, given the choice, those children would rather grow up with a mother and no money.’
‘CK knows who has his daughter. He’s hitting them where it hurts. Are you a fast packer?’
‘What? You don’t think he’s been straight with us? And what do you mean fast packer?’
‘He’s definitely not been straight with us. I am going back to pursue it in Hong Kong. Your boss says you have to come too.’
‘What?’ she beamed.
‘He agrees that we can do more good by chasing the source of all this. I am bringing my colleague Shrimp over to stay this end and liaise with us. He will be on the same wavelength as me, plus he’s been working on this new society for some time—he knows more than anyone about them…Becky?’
She was already on her feet and halfway out of the pub door. He shouted after her:
‘I guess I’ll see you at the airport then.’
26
Becky got back to the flat in a great mood. She couldn’t believe she was flying out the next day—by lunchtime she would be on the way to Hong Kong. And then she remembered she hated flying—shit! The thought of it made her stomach go weak. She was going to have to block it out of her mind till the last minute and she was going to have to have a few drinks to get to sleep tonight. But, hopefully, Alex would be in the mood…
She dialled his number again—it went straight to answer phone. She didn’t look at the clock but she knew it was late. She knew if she glanced that way and saw what time it was that she would instantly feel tired, feel regret. She had to get up at six. She must get to the office by seven and get sorted for her trip. She took another drink and switched the music up a little louder. She looked at her reflection in the kitchen window, moving her hips slowly and sensually. She liked the way she moved in the silk slip and the way the candlelight caught the folds of the fabric. She liked the way it felt against her skin. She ran her fingers down her cleavage—not bad— the push-up bra had worked. It fascinated her to see that she had a sexy body. She didn’t make this kind of an effort to show it off very often. Mann was right. She did look nice.
She sighed, stopped dancing, and took another gulp of her wine ‘ Cheers,’ she said to her reflection. ‘ Here’s to ten fucking years of fucking marriage.’ She lost her balance slightly and banged her hip on the side of the worktop. Should have stayed in the pub with Johnny. Becky giggled drunkenly. ‘Now that would have been a lot more fun,’ she said out loud.
She stopped. Bugger! What the hell was she thinking getting so pissed? Now she was even talking to herself She put the glass down on the kitchen worktop and went upstairs to the bathroom to study herself in the mirror. She stared hard at her face—her eye makeup was heavy, smudged, her eyes looked bloodshot and her face was ashen. She took a deep breath, sighed and turned away. Not quite as sexy or appealing as I thought, then!
She checked her watch: twelve twenty-five. She fumbled in the bathroom drawer and found the paracetamol, swallowed two and drank two glasses of water. She felt the pain in the top of her nose and her eyes began to water. Not when she was pissed as well…why the hell did she have to cry now? She was only crying because she was pissed. She never did it normally. She didn’t dare look into the mirror. She held on to the sink and looked back through the open bathroom door down towards the kitchen. The music was still playing. Bastard…why did he always do it to her? She looked into the mirror. So fucking stupid—stop crying—your eyes will be puffy tomorrow and everyone will know.
A sob broke the silence. It was a horrible guttural sound. Becky hated the sound of it, What was she getting in such a state about? She didn’t know why it hurt tonight more than any other. It didn’t just hurt it make her fucking angry. She took a deep breath and splashed water on her face. He was working late. He was ambitious. She had known he was when she married him, she said to herself as she furiously brushed her teeth. She’d also known he didn’t want kids, but she’d thought he would change his mind about that. It had begun to irritate her when he called her ‘baby’. She wasn’t a baby; she was a grown woman who should have her own baby by now. But she certainly didn’t want a child with someone who didn’t want one with her. After years of badgering him she had finally realised he was never going to change his mind, so now she had her career and Alex had his, and they saw even less of each other. She couldn’t say she hadn’t seen it coming. But here she was on their tenth wedding anniversary, getting pissed in her best frock, on her own. She looked at her reflection and shook her head sadly. Yep—definitely should have stayed in the pub with Johnny. Her smile briefly returned, then she heard the sound of a key in the front door.
27
Mann arrived at Terminal Three at Heathrow airport. He was early. He wandered around the departure lounge thinking how much better it was in the Philippines where you could sit and get a relaxing massage whilst you waited and didn’t have to be subjected to slot machines and perfume counters. He restored his sanity by browsing books in Smiths, and now, with the latest Lee Child paperback in hand, he was looking over a black Ferrari 360 Modena that he could win if he wanted to part with twenty pounds for the ticket, but Mann wasn’t that kind of a gambler. He preferred to make his own luck.
He looked up and saw her striding purposefully towards him. She was wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt that had a picture of a cowgirl lassoing a calf on the front. She was pink-cheeked and breathless. Her messed-up hair shone flaxen. She grinned at him but she looked slightly anxious. She has no idea how attractive she is, thought Mann, as he watched heads turn and she passed oblivious.
‘It’s all right, you’re not late,’ he said as she reached him, out of breath. ‘You don’t need to hurry.’
‘It’s not that…it’s just I wanted to ask you if you mind if…’
Alex came from behind the other side of the car with a lottery ticket in his hand.
‘Did Becky tell you? I’m coming too…’ He grinned—there was the challenge in his eyes again as he waited for Mann’s reaction. ‘Just so happens I have business in Hong Kong—I was about to fly out anyway. So I thought I’d tag along. That’s okay I presume?’
‘Of course.’ Mann glanced fleetingly at Becky. She smiled back but she didn’t look too sure. ‘Do you want me to organise somewhere for you to stay?’ Mann asked her.
‘Thanks,’ replied Becky, ‘that’s kind but we are booked into a hotel called the Metro—in Causeway Bay.’
‘It’s a good hotel. Close to the underground. Good choice.’ Alex wandered away from them. He looked like he had been seriously overdoing it, thought Mann. His face was sweaty and rubbery looking. He was too coked-up to maintain eye contact for long and he sniffed incessantly. He was back looking over the Ferrari and flirting with the promotions girl.
‘I’ll leave you to it then. See you in Hong Kong. I’ll ring you later, see how you’re settling in, okay?’
Mann walked away and resisted the temptation to glance back. He knew she’d be watching.
He slept most of the way back. When they landed he kept a discreet eye on them at Lantau Airport but basically he left them to it. They’d find their way perfectly well by themselves. But, hours later, back at his apartment he phoned Becky to make sure.
‘You okay? Is the hotel all right?’
‘Everything’s great, thanks, but I am ready for work whenever you say. Do you want me to meet you somewhere now?’
‘No, you’re all right, enjoy your evening. I have some personal stuff to do tonight; I’ll send a car for you in the morning.’
Mann put down his phone, poured himself a vodka and watched the sunset. He had a couple of hours to wait before he had to go to his appointment and he was restless. His flat always did that to him. It made him want to leave it. Not its fault—it was full of memories and a good few regrets. He looked around him at the sparsely furnished lounge—just one armchair, the telly and a small table. ‘Minimalist’ it had been called by someone—but it wasn’t minimalist it was minus its heart. It had been womanless since Helen had left. He rummaged through the pile of newly laundered clothes and found a fresh pair of jeans and a blue Armani shirt, then he headed into town, to Central district, to SoHo, the cobbled streets of the area south of Hollywood Road.
It was a lively area with a diversity of chic bars and restaurants all crammed together. In a world where he was neither Chinese nor English he fitted in Soho—Italians, Swedish, Spanish—foreigners of every description came there to find a little bit of home. It was a place of refuge for Mann. He always returned there when his spirits were low.
He sat in the supernatural, filmic surroundings of the Cantina, a bar dedicated to the whims of sci-fi buffs. The waitress brought him a large Zubrowka vodka on the rocks, with a dried seahorse wedged on the rim of the glass. He looked at the seahorse and frowned at her. She shrugged and walked off. Was he getting old or was the world just becoming a little too disrespectful of its living creatures?
He took the seahorse from its perch and placed it on the bar, next to the bowl of peanuts and his phone, which he had set to vibrate. He was one of a dozen others dotted around the Cantina, which had alcoves around its perimeter and a starry floor in its middle. As you walked across it, the stars twinkled brighter for a few seconds as if suspending you in space, then they disappeared and dropped you straight down a black hole—it was the perfect way to disorientate you when you’d had a few too many seahorses.
Mann looked over and raised his glass to the R2-D2 model robot who winked and chirruped back from the corner of the bar. ‘Cheers.’
A woman’s rich, deep laughter came from behind him.
‘You do know he’s not a real person?’
Mann smiled to himself and turned round.
‘He’s more real than a lot of people I deal with. How’s it going, Miriam?’
He kissed her cheek. Miriam was an Englishwoman in her late forties but she had a face that belonged in the nineteen forties: dark eyes, deep red lipstick and full mouth. There was a touch of Ava Gardner about her. She wore a tight-fitting sheath dress, belted in the middle—it showed off her great figure.
She rested her elbow on the bar beside him.
‘Hello Johnny. Where were you last week? You missed our Star Wars fancy dress party. I reserved you a costume and everything.’
‘Damn! Lost my chance to be Darth Vader then?’
‘No, had you down as Chewy.’ She winked at him.
That was one of the many things Mann liked about Miriam—she made him laugh. He had known her for ten years. He had first met her when he was investigating her husband’s death. He had been Japanese with Yakuza connections. The Yakuza often worked with the triads to achieve a common goal. Her husband had died during a bungled drug-smuggling deal. Miriam bought the Cantina with the money she got. She also inherited Yakuza protection that kept the local gangs at bay. She and Mann had been intermittent lovers for the last two years. An occasional lover was all Miriam needed or wanted. Both knew where they stood. But, in the last few weeks he had sought out her company often and she had gotten a bit too used to having him around.
‘Where did you go?’
She had that look on her face that said she was asking one question but really wanted the answer to another—was there another woman involved? Yet she knew she didn’t have the right to an honest answer. They had never laid claims on one another. She only wanted appeasing.
‘UK—on business.’
Happy, she ordered a drink and pulled up a stool next to him.
‘Some of my husband’s old friends came by whilst you were away. They wanted to warn me. They said there would be a turf war that would involve all the triad societies. They came to say that they would not be able to protect me if it happened. They were leaving it to a new society to sort out. Is it true, Mann? What’s going on?’
Mann’s phoned buzzed before he could answer. He excused himself and checked the screen. Then he slid off the stool and slipped on his jacket.
‘Sorry, Miriam, got to go. I’ll tell you all about it later.’
‘You only just got here and now you’re leaving me?’
‘I’ll pick you up on my way back though—about twelve.’
‘You’re a cocky sod!’
He leaned towards her and breathed in her ear.
‘And you are a beautiful, irresistibly sexy woman. And I aim to show you just how much I’ve missed you—later.’
Mann waved and set off, checking his phone again on the way out. CK was waiting for him.
28
The traditional dark wood and red leather dining room in the private club in Kowloon had plenty of tables set with crystal and silver ready for the dinner service. It was 9 p.m. and the place should have been packed, but there was only one diner. Two of CK’s bodyguards met Mann at the door and escorted him to his seat. CK was sitting with his elbows on the table, fingertips pressed together, a man in careful deliberation. As slight as CK Leung was, he had the presence of a powerful man. Like Mann, he was an immaculate dresser, although he favoured the traditional Mandarin-collared suit.
CK had been the Dragon Head of the Wo Shing Shing for as long as Mann could remember. He had already been in his mid forties when Mann joined the police force. Then, he was a freshly hatched Dragon Head—building up his empire. Now, at sixty-two, due to his business expertise, his foresight and his total lack of ethics, he headed the largest triad society in Hong Kong, with ambitions to take over the triad world. Mann hated CK and all he stood for, but the animosity between them was more complicated than that. Someone within the Wo Shing Shing had been responsible for ordering the death of Mann’s father. Mann believed that CK knew who it was.
Mann walked across the empty din
ing room and sat opposite CK, who handed him the menu.
‘I recommend the Japanese dishes—the fugu is a personal favourite.’
Mann snapped the menu shut.
‘The fugu it is.’
It took seven years of training for a chef to hold an official licence to be able to prepare the deadly paralysing puffer fish for the table. One fish could kill thirty people—it was a thousand times stronger than cyanide. It poisoned at least six diners a year by paralysing the nervous system. The victim could neither move nor breathe, but remained fully conscious till death.
‘Why have you returned without my daughter?’
‘I don’t mind playing a game when I know the rules. You sent me halfway across the world when you knew the dice were thrown here. The only thing we both know for certain is that the stakes are high. All leads come back to you. It seems you hold your daughter’s fate in your own hands. What is it they want from you, CK?’
‘I have told you all I know.’
‘That’s not entirely the truth, is it? There is a lot of talk around town. There’s a new society stepping on toes, not least yours—if they are responsible for the kidnap of your daughter, we need to know what they want.’
CK sat back in his chair and waited whilst the waiter unfolded the thick starched napkin, flicked it out, laid it neatly across CK’s lap and stepped back.
‘I have heard of this new society, the White Circle. Yes, I believe that they are responsible for the kidnap of my daughter, but I do not know what they hope to gain from it and I do not know anything about them. I have not been crossed in this way before. It is…new territory for me. You are the detective, you find out.’
The fugu arrived; the fillets of white fish were still twitching. They were arranged in the shape of a chrysanthemum—the funeral flower.
