by P. J. Nash
“Fit” - that's what the young guy had called you in the bar. You'd said you were Czech. But he kept saying Czechoslovakia. These animals came here and didn't even know the name of the country. To them, the city and country were just a theme park for them to visit. They came here to carry out their dirty business like a person takes their dog outside to take a shit. As if their women were some kind of pure driven virgins! You'd seen their women with their oversize clothes to disguise their fat bodies, covered with bad tattoos, and plastered with makeup. As if you put lipstick on a pig, it would make it beautiful.
He must have been drunk if he thought you were interested in him. He was skinny, had spots, greasy hair and smelt like a brewery. Then again, he'd probably heard that Czech women were “easy”. That might have been true a generation ago when girls would drop their knickers for some dollars or the hope of a sham marriage to get a Western passport. But not now. These dumbfucks thought Prague was the capital of a goat country where the countryside was full of toothless women wearing headscarves and riding donkey carts. They are all rapists. Either literally or socially or culturally. Well, he had paid the price. And soon, someone else would.
Sheraton Hotel, Hong Kong
Freshly showered and shaved, Collins and Johnson met Sandersen and James in the grandiosely named 'Business Centre' - a room with two PCs a fax machine and photocopier tucked away on the twelfth floor.
‘Well here's the cavalry,’ exclaimed James, jumping up and shaking their hands.
‘Good flight?’ asked Sandersen, giving each man a peck on the cheek.
‘Cathay Pacific Business Class, bloody awesome,’ replied Johnson.
‘The only downside was we had to lay off the sauce. It was like a bloody speakeasy; they were all but putting a funnel down our mouths and pouring it in,’ said Collins.
‘Well, I'm glad you didn't turn up pissed as a rat,’ joked James.
‘Could do some with coffee, though,’ said Collins.
‘I'll play mother while I fill you in,’ said James, pouring coffee from a percolator jug. ‘I've put all the pertinent information in your individual files. But the upshot is Robbie Simm has been or is in Hong Kong, at the moment. And unless hell has frozen over, that means Bain is somewhere behind it all.’
‘His offender profile suggests he's not a “lone wolf” operator,’ said Sandersen. ‘After he fled the UK, we think he took refuge in Scandinavia with some biker brethren. There was a string of highly organised cash in transit robberies, all of which had striking similarities with Simm's MO. Namely, the heavily armed nature of the robbers and the level of violence used. Most robbers flee the scene once they hear sirens. These guys opened up on the first police units to arrive until they'd emptied the armoured truck entirely. Professionals but violent.’
Johnson and Collins were diligently scribbling down notes.
‘The rest we know. He appeared in Melbourne as muscle for Bain. But the question is whether he's here on a shopping trip or something more sinister?’ posed James.
‘What did the geeks at Fintell come up with?’ asked Sandersen.
Johnson fished a file out of his briefcase. Well, as you know, when Bain went down, he appointed Dave Spinks as his eminence grise. He took over as chief executive of Ultratech, which is the umbrella organisation of all Bain's operations.’
‘And they found that, in essence, that truckloads of cash from meth labs, coke and weed dealing, extortion and gun running and massage parlours go through a series of real estate agents, currency exchanges and grog shops. Basically, the cash goes in through the back door and comes out through the businesses clean. But the cash turnover is way higher than the revenues of normal businesses,’ said Collins.
‘Surely that's pretty bad guy Business 101, though?’ said Sandersen.
‘So it was. Until Ultratech started setting up brass plate shell companies from Singapore to Switzerland. Spreading the risk and having ready cash on hand across the globe,’ added Collins.
‘Including Hong Kong?’ asked James.
‘Elementary, my dear James,’ said Johnson.
‘But the interesting thing is there's no record of electric money transfers. So they were literally were taking money in a bag?’ asked James.
‘So it could be Robbie acting as a courier?’ asked Sandersen, playing with a loose bit of her hair.
‘Well, it's one lead we can pursue. Let's start with the passenger lists on flights from Melbourne to here and the taxis who might have taken him to banks, etc. Then try the banks. Spread some cash and Simm's picture around and see what comes up. But first, hit the pubs and massage parlours. I suggest you start at…’
‘… Ned Kelly's! " Collins said, cutting James off. The men all laughed.
‘Let's go for a cold one then,’ said Collins looking at Johnson. They got up and left the room.
‘Fancy a swim and sauna?’ said Sandersen to James with a wink.
‘Sure, why not?’ said James.
Old Town, Prague
It was early afternoon in the historic heart of the city. Crowds of Japanese and Chinese tourists followed their umbrella-wielding guides like ducklings after their mother. Indian families, laden with expensive cameras, snapped away. Crowds surged around Orloi, better known as the Astronomical Clock, awaiting the hourly striking and the procession of saints.
Amongst the swarming crowds in the Old Town Square and on the Charles Bridge, the pimps and pickpockets were also at work in earnest. Steve Monkton veered across the cobbles and into the alley. He was wrecked. They'd been drinking Guinness since ten that morning, having only crawled in from a techno club at some time in the early hours of the morning. It was the absinthe that had done for him. He'd gone into the bogs to barf, come out, and the guys were gone. They were always doing this to him. He got his phone out and saw he’d got a text message
@ the George & Dragon
He’d heard of it. It was a proper English pub with proper beer, none of this Eurofizz brought to you by some queer in a girlie apron. No, you went to the bar like a proper geezer and got a pint glass. He wavered out of the door and straight into a policewoman.
‘Er, scuse me, he said followed by a beery burp. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘Of course, sir,’ she replied. She was medium height, brunette, though most of hair was covered by her hat. She wore a heavy belt with a baton, handcuffs and pepper spray.
‘D’ya know where the George and Dragon is?’ “
‘Yes, I will show you. Follow me.’ She walked off a small distance. He hesitated, but then she beckoned to him, and he followed her into the maze of dark, narrow streets.
Ned Kelly’s Last Stand, Kowloon
The bar was heaving as Collins and Johnson arrived. Smokey Pete and the Bandits Jazz Band were crammed onto the stage, belting out a high tempo tune. Most of the crowd was standing looking towards the stage, the snare drummer thrashing the skins in a solo. Johnson got to the bar and grabbed them a handful of cold bottles. He was on bar duty, having lost a bet on the Melbourne Gold Cup with Collins. He plonked them down. Collins nodded his appreciation, clinked the first bottle and took a long pull of the beer. He picked the second up and held it across his forehead.
‘Bet the old place hasn’t changed since my old man came here on the way back from Nam,’ said Johnson.
‘I bet so, By the look of those old geezers on the stage, I reckon they were here when the Japanese came in the ’40s.’
Both men laughed and took swigs of their beers. While they chatted and appeared to be just a couple of tourists swigging beer, the men underneath were trained cops, scanning the room for anyone they recognised or who looked out of place, but they weren’t the only ones keeping an eye out. A lean looking barman left his colleagues serving beer and, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his coat, slipped outside. He lit up, took a quick look around to ensure no one was in earshot and punched a number into his phone. In Repulse Bay, a phone rang on the ornate desk of a luxurious room in a large
condo.
Geologicka Tram Stop, Hlubocepy, Prague
It was just after dark and the tower blocks or panelaks of the high-rise suburb of Barrandov were lighting up as workers traversed the elevated causeway and alighted from trams to return to their flats and families. Named after Joachim Barrande, the exiled French geologist who had explored the surrounding limestone crags rich in fossils, the area was now more famous for the Barrandov Studios. A selection of high rise tower blocks bisected by squares and shops, tourist Prague it was not. However, it was not the sink estate ubiquitous of tower blocks in Britain. People led their lives in neat, well maintained flats, and the public spaces were clean and safe. Crime was almost non-existent.
The old lady was smoking a late-night cigarette and taking her little dog for a last walk when she passed the tram stop. Her dog got the scent of something and pulled keenly on his lead, disappearing into the bushes that skirted the tram stop. The dog was a little white Bichon Frise. It snuffled and burrowed in the darkness. She pulled it out on its lead. It was licking its lips. She wondered what the dog had been sniffing, hoping to get rid of whatever crud it was. She picked the dog up and got a tissue from her pocket. Taking the dog under a street lamp, she wiped its snout and looked at the tissue. It was dark red and smelled peculiar. She looked at the dog again.
‘Jesus and Mary!’ she screamed. The dog was soaking in partially dried blood, its white fur turned crimson. As she tried to regain her composure a tram came clanking up the steep incline. She ran across to it and beckoned to the driver.
Ten minutes later, Jiri’s desk phone rang. It was Jezek.
‘Looks like we found the murder scene, boss.’ Jiri grabbed his coat and car keys.
He’d followed you like a stupid little puppy. All the way into the dark alley. Surely, he’d worked out something was up. But you were a woman, a helpless little woman. What could you do? The look when he saw the harpy knife glinting in your hand was priceless. He knew he was dead. But his drunken brain couldn’t compute the hard fact. He went to run. Concentrating on the knife, he’d missed the spray canister. You squirted it in his face, and he screamed as it hit his eyes. He collapsed to his knees in agony. You drew the baton and gave him a series of heavy blows on his upper body. Bones in his hands cracked as he drew them up to protect himself. He was a bloody heap when you stopped. Finally, he lay still. Then, you slashed him in the crotch, knowing full well he’d bleed out before anyone found him. The pathetic fuck lying there with his stupid T-shirt with the word “Muppet” on it.
Ned Kelly’s Last Stand, Kowloon
Johnson and Collins were a bit tipsy as they made their way out. As they were supposed to be convincingly undercover, they’d knocked back a few beers to blend in. The sweltering heat hit them as they left the air-conditioned bar. Apart from a couple of hours of pleasant boozing they hadn’t seen any “faces” or even any low-level dealing. The clientele seemed to stick to booze as their weapon of choice. The two men walked out into the sweltering heat. Both had taken their usual precautions to check they weren’t being followed. But they hadn’t checked up in front. As they stepped through a load of boxes being unloaded on the kerb, two men jumped them. ‘Give me your wallet and watch,’ the first guy said, wielding a huge knife. Collins stood there slightly befuddled. ‘Now motherfucker!’
Johnson was quicker off the mark. He punched the guy in front him with an uppercut and then smashed him in the stomach. The man fell into a box, and Johnson caught him with a kick in the ribs. Meanwhile, Collins finally snapped out of it and swung for the guy with the knife. He missed, overbalanced, and fell forwards, straight into a thrust from the knife. He collapsed onto the floor. The man with the knife slashed him a couple of times and turned towards Johnson, who was still kicking the second guy. He hit Johnson in the shoulder with the knife. Screaming in pain, Johnson turned and head-butted the man to the floor, knocking him out cold. The second guy took advantage of the distraction and fled.
Johnson turned to Collins. He was lying prone on the pavement. A huge slick of blood pumped from his leg. The knifeman had severed his femoral artery. Collins had gone white and lost consciousness. Johnson knew his friend was dead. He was just considering his options when a Mercedes SUV drew up. Out got three Chinese men, all of them holding guns.
Geologicka Tram Stop, Hlubocepy, Prague
Jiri was smoking a cigarette as he leant against the ticket machine. Under some hastily assembled arc lights, the forensic teams were making a sweep of the area.
‘Ha, the Davidoff lifestyle!’ said Jezek, sarcastically. The two men had a standing joke about a playboy lifestyle that came with buying the premium brand cigarettes. A life of playboy ease, yachts, bikini clad women and the easy swagger of those who didn’t have to work for a living.
‘So, what do you think?’ asked Jezek.
‘Well, from the amount of disturbance and the level of blood found, I’d say he was killed here. Why here, I’m not sure. Maybe the lure of sex?’
‘A quickie in the bushes?’ pondered Jezek.
‘Probably not the most convivial of spots, but if the guy was thinking with his little head instead of his big one, I suppose so,’ replied Jiri.
‘Some guys get off on the outside sex thing. Like that Czech Streets guy who fucks girls in weird places. We’ve never caught him yet,’ said Jezek.
‘Which probably makes him one of us, or someone who works for the transport company,’ said Jiri, throwing down his cigarette butt and grinding it under his heel. ‘You wouldn’t get me fucking in the bushes,’ he added.
‘I know Marketa says that after you’ve done your thirty seconds of conjugal duty, you roll off and snore like a boar. That’s why she came to me looking for a real man!’ snorted Jezek.
‘Your breath smells of your brother’s cock!’ retorted Jiri.
‘I don’t have a brother,’ Jezek replied. Both men laughed.
‘But aside from your family perversions, if we assume he was killed here, how does she get him onto a metro and leave him like a side of dressed beef without any noticing?’ pondered Jiri. ‘It’s a good question, but with hardly any CCTV coverage and no ticket barriers, unless we get a witness, it’s impossible to keep tabs on the network,’ replied Jezek.
‘Perhaps we can put some undercover guys on the Metro?’ Jiri suggested.
‘Yeah, maybe, but without a definite MO and profile we’d leave them with their dicks swinging in the breeze,’ Jezek said.
‘What is it with you and cocks? But, yes, you’re right. We need to get to know our killer. We need a headshrinker who’s worked on a case with a woman killer.’
‘Do you know one?’
‘I just might …’
His train of thought was cut short as his phone trilled.
‘Sir, we’ve got another body, At IP Pavlova,’ a voice said.
‘Holy fuck! We’ve got another body!’ exclaimed Jiri.
‘Looks like you better make that call,’ replied Jezek.
Unknown Location, Kowloon, Hong Kong
It had all been a blur for Johnson in the aftermath of the killing of Collins. One minute, he’d been holding the dying man, and then, some Chinese guys had scooped them up in a big car and driven them off.
Shortly afterwards, someone had stuck him with a syringe, and he’d blacked out. He awoke in a kind of jazzed-up warehouse on a sofa. He felt groggy, his tongue was swollen, and he had a raging thirst. He saw a bottle of water on the table in front of him, opened it and took a long swig. Looking up, he saw a stocky Chinese man in a well-cut suit. He was flanked by two massive minders. They both had bulges under their arms telling him they had guns stashed there.
‘I must apologise for the rough treatment from my men. We thought it was pertinent to get you away from the attention of the police,’ he said in impeccable English.
‘We have the other killer in the room next door. He will be dealt with,’ he added.
‘Well, thanks a lot, I suppose,’ said Johnson. There was
a commotion at the front and in stomped a sweating, dishevelled James.
‘Thank Christ you’re ok!’ he said. ‘Mr Chan, thanks for what you’ve done.’ The man nodded his recognition. ‘So, where’s this bastard?’
One of the minders beckoned James and Johnson into the small, hot room. Handcuffed to a chair was the first attacker. His legs were also shackled to the chair, which was bolted to the floor.
‘Does he speak English?’ asked James.
‘Yes, but we left it for you to speak to him,’ said Mr Chan.
‘Ok, that’s appreciated,’ said James. He walked across to the man who sat up proudly and looked James in the eye.
‘He says he’s just a street criminal who decided to rob two drunken tourists,’ said Chan.
‘That’s bollocks, they went straight with us and he stabbed to kill,’ said Johnson.
‘For sure,’ said James. ‘So, mister, you better start talking, and maybe we’ll let you go.’
He knew this was a lie. Chan and his Triad associates policed the crime in Hong Kong ruthlessly. They looked down sternly on any attacks on tourists that attracted the attention of the police. The best the guy could wish for was a quick and painless bullet in the back of the head and being dumped in Victoria Harbour.
‘So, you better start talking,’ said James.
‘Fuck you!’ said the guy.
James exploded. He punched the man on the chair in the face and rained a volley of punches on him. Finally, he kicked him in the balls, causing the man to scream in pain. The man was a bloody mess, and James was sweating and out of breath. The man slumped, but, still defiant, spat out some broken teeth and blood.
