The Fireman

by Stephen Leather

  They started on the bed then, slashing the mattress with a wicked-looking carving knife from the kitchen. The air was soon filled with white fibres that made them cough and wheeze. I closed the bedroom door and left them to it.

  I found the briefcase under a small bed in the second bedroom. I carried it into the lounge and showed it to Rotten Teeth, who smiled, nodded and dropped an ornate glass vase onto the floor with a crash. He kicked over the television set and overturned a large fish tank that was standing in a corner by the window. Ho’s colourful collection of exotic fish flopped around on the floor and then lay still among the bits of broken glass and plastic castles. The bedroom door opened and the two cops came out like a couple of asthmatic snowmen, trying in vain to brush the white stuff off their clothes. They helped Rotten Teeth turn over the rest of the flat, not because they were looking for anything, just for the malicious fun of it. I helped smash up the stereo.

  By the time we’d finished Ho’s shoulders had slumped forward and he was holding his head in his hands and moaning. The cops picked him up and took him back down to the car while I followed with the briefcase. We parted company then, I caught a taxi to the Excelsior while they drove off with Ho. I guess they were taking him to see Lai. I didn’t care. The briefcase was empty.

  She looked good enough to eat in a black sleeveless dress with a thick brown belt that sat on her hips. She was carrying a black briefcase.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, and kissed me on the right cheek, close to my lips.

  ‘Hi yourself,’ I said. She smelt fresh and clean, no trace of perfume.

  ‘You look shattered,’ said Jenny, climbing onto the stool next to mine.

  ‘Vodka and tonic,’ I told the barman.

  ‘You remembered,’ she teased, pushing her hair behind her ears. She looked suddenly serious, I guess the look on my face showed that something was wrong. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I have to go back to London.’

  ‘You what?’ she said, flustered. ‘Why?’ she put both her hands on my knee, obviously worried. My heart lifted, despite the fact that I was going to have to leave her.

  ‘I’m being run out of town,’ I said, with a grin.

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘The sheriff,’ I said.

  ‘Be serious.’

  ‘I am. Inspector Hall.’

  ‘Why?’

  I told her about Seligman, and as I did she sagged on the stool, hunched up like an old woman. ‘God, I knew him,’ she said in a whisper. ‘I heard about the explosion on the radio. I never dreamed it …’ She mumbled the rest and so I missed it. I put my arm around her and held her close.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘We used to work together, he was a sweet, sweet guy.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ I said. Part of me wanted to ask if she knew about Sally and Seligman, but I didn’t think it would serve any purpose. Another part of me wanted to ask her how well she’d known the American, but I killed that thought, too.

  ‘Tell me the rest,’ she said, and I did. I told her about going to the mine, the chase, the shitty hotel. I told her about arranging to meet Seligman to collect the briefcase, about the bomb, and being hauled in by the police. And I told her about meeting Lai, and finding the empty briefcase. I didn’t mention Lai’s torture chamber, I didn’t think she could handle that, not after she’d just heard about Seligman’s death. I’d leave that part of it for later, and maybe I’d never tell her.

  When I’d finished she took some notes out of her case, along with a handful of photocopies of newspaper cuttings. There were tears in her eyes.

  ‘This is the stuff on the diamond bourse you wanted,’ she said. She sniffed and reached into a side pocket and pulled out a small packet of paper handkerchiefs, and used one to blow her nose.

  She looked down and shuffled the papers with unsteady hands. She wiped her eyes with the tissue.

  ‘Do you think they killed Tod because you went to see the mine, or because he was going to give you the briefcase?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. It was no secret that we were going to China. And I know now what a small place this is and how quickly news gets around.’

  ‘But they took the briefcase from Tod’s car, you said.’

  ‘Yes, that was strange. How did they know about it? Seligman said it was under the front seat, they couldn’t have come across it by mistake. Unless they put the bomb there. But why take the case?’

  ‘Well, suppose it was the case they wanted. Who could have tipped them off?’

  ‘That’s the crazy thing. Seligman himself only mentioned it in China. He’d forgotten all about it. I suppose he could have told somebody when he got back to Hong Kong, but I don’t see that he would have had the time.’

  ‘Did you mention it to anyone?’

  ‘Of course not. I went straight to bed.’ Alarm bells went off in my head. It must have shown on my face because she leant forward.

  ‘What?’ she gasped. ‘What’s wrong?’

  I told her about the early morning phone call from Bill Hardwicke. I’d told him about the briefcase, but I couldn’t remember whether or not I’d told him that Seligman had it.

  ‘Do you think this Bill might have told someone else?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Not intentionally anyway. But the line was really strange and there were lots of strange clicking noises. I assumed it was the satellite link, but it could just as easily have been a tap on the line. Somebody listening in. And if that someone also knew I’d been to China with Seligman it wouldn’t have been too hard to put two and two together.’

  ‘What time did he phone you?’

  ‘Early, very early. Four o’clock I think. Plenty of time for someone to go round to his flat and put a bomb in the car. They could have planned to search his flat later and get the case. Probably came as a surprise when they found it in the car. A bonus.’

  Her drink arrived and she clasped it with both hands. ‘If they killed Tod because of what he knew, or what they thought he knew, then they might try to kill you.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘But as I’ll be leaving first thing tomorrow morning, that won’t be a problem.’

  Jenny began tracing patterns in the condensation that had collected on the outside of her ice-filled glass. ‘I’m so frightened,’ she said, looking down into her drink.

  ‘It’ll be OK. Tomorrow I’ll be back in England.’

  She tilted her head to look at me. ‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ she said.

  I smiled, and it was a real smile, not the boyish version that I used on secretaries or the confident one I used when I was interviewing, I just smiled at her because she made me feel warm inside.

  She pointed at the papers lying on the bar in front of me. ‘They’ll explain how the Hong Kong Diamond Bourse works, but I can give you a quick rundown.’ She was very businesslike now, I guess that was her way of dealing with Seligman’s death, so I let her talk.

  ‘The bourse is in the Hong Kong Diamond Exchange Building and is now the fourth largest trading centre for diamonds in the world, after the US, Tel Aviv and Bombay. More than $6 billion of diamonds are bought and sold in Hong Kong each year, three-quarters of them weighing less than one carat.’ She was warming to the subject now, confidently reeling off the facts and figures.

  ‘Where do the big stones come from?’

  ‘Mostly from New York, and they’re usually cut and polished there. The smaller stones are cut in Israel.’

  ‘And they all go through the Diamond Exchange?’

  ‘No, a lot come into Hong Kong in the form of jewellery. The bourse handles only the stones.’

  ‘You have done your homework,’ I said, and stroked the back of her head. The hair was smooth and soft, like a cat’s. ‘What about uncut stones?’

  ‘Mostly from South Africa, they produce about fifteen per cent of the world’s output. But they’re found all over Africa, plus Australia and Russia. The amount of uncut stones going through Hong Kong i
s usually quite small, probably not much more than one per cent of the total. Most of the stones in Hong Kong have been cut and polished somewhere else.’

  ‘What about prices?’

  ‘That I couldn’t get.’ She handed me a handful of photocopied cuttings. ‘But prices have been going up because of a miners’ strike in South Africa. It’s been going on for several months, and although De Beers and Russia have big stockpiles, supplies have been falling.’

  I studied the cuttings, most of them from the Post’s foreign pages.

  ‘And the British company?’

  ‘I’ve sort of got something. Although it’s supposed to be a British firm that linked with the Chinese authorities, in fact the deal was done through a Hong Kong shelf company which is in turn owned by a British company. But that British company’s sole assets are the shares of the Hong Kong company.’

  ‘What about the directors?’

  ‘They’re all solicitors based in Jersey, obviously just token directors acting for the real owners.’

  ‘And who owns the British company?’

  ‘That’s where the trail stops cold. All the shares in the British company are owned by another company in Panama, so there’s nothing you can do to find out who is behind it, you can’t get through their secrecy laws. And even if you went over to Panama yourself you’d probably just find a plaque on the wall of a barber’s shop.

  ‘So that’s that,’ I said gloomily.

  ‘Not necessarily, let me keep working on it. I have some contacts in Beijing, let me ask around.’

  We’d both finished our drinks and I asked if she wanted another. She said no, she was tired.

  ‘Do you have to go?’ I said, trying to make it sound like a joke in case she took offence.

  ‘You hardly know me,’ she said, and my heart sank. She smiled at my obvious discomfort.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking about. Forget it. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Hey, I was only teasing. Can I stay?’

  ‘But you hardly know me.’

  ‘But I want to,’ she said. ‘I mean, I want to know you. Don’t give me a hard time, boy. Just say yes.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Thank God we’ve got that out of the way,’ she said.

  ‘I thought you Chinese were supposed to be more inscrutable,’ I said.

  She laughed. ‘I’ve already told you. I’m not Chinese. I’m American.’

  It had been some time since I’d been in bed with a girl. Months rather than weeks. Not so long that I’d forgotten what she looked like, but long enough so that I couldn’t remember her name.

  I was nervous with Jenny, lying next to her on the double bed and trying to work out whether I should take my shirt off first and then attack the brown belt around her waist, or if that would be too presumptious. And at what point was I expected to remove my shoes and socks? God, I hadn’t been like this since I was in my teens.

  Her lips were soft and warm and I let the kiss go on and on while I tried to get my act together. I really, sincerely, did not want to spoil this by rushing it, though the fact that she was there in the first place, on my bed with her shoes off and the curtains drawn, did suggest that I didn’t have much to worry about.

  I’d just plucked up the courage to slide my hand from behind her neck and begun undoing the buttons down the front of her dress when the phone rang. I flinched with shock and she giggled. ‘You’d better answer it,’ she whispered, pressing her fingers to my lips. ‘It might be the office.’ She rolled off the bed and skipped to the bathroom.

  It was Lai. No introduction, he got straight to the point. ‘Mr Ho was a little more forthcoming,’ he said. I just bet he was.

  ‘The briefcase contained a roll of undeveloped film, a cassette tape and numerous papers. Unfortunately the papers were in English, a language which the late Mr Ho was not particularly familiar with.’ Subtle chap Mr Lai. The late Mr Ho. ‘But he did recall that there were pictures of diamonds, and some literature from the diamond bourse. Bearing in mind your earlier indication that Sally might have been interested in diamonds I would suggest that you appear to be on the right track.’

  The taps in the bathroom started to run and I heard the swish of the shower curtain being pulled back.

  ‘Where are the papers now? And the film and cassette. Do you have them?’

  ‘That, I am afraid, is the bad news. Mr Ho followed his instructions and destroyed them.’

  ‘Damn. Damn and blast.’

  ‘Quite. And according to Mr Ho those instructions came from Europe. But he knew no more than that. What are you planning to do now?’

  I told him that I was leaving, and why. He said that he would do what he could in Hong Kong and that he would be in England for Sally’s funeral. The line clicked twice and he’d gone. Only then did I remember my previous fears that the line might be tapped, but Lai hadn’t identified himself so I didn’t think there would be any problems.

  I replaced the receiver as Jenny came out of the bathroom. She’d solved the problem of who was to get undressed first. All I had to do was to remove the white towel she was wearing, and it wasn’t difficult.

  She took me to the airport the following afternoon.

  ‘You don’t have to go,’ she said. ‘You’re a Brit, Hall can’t have you thrown out.’

  ‘He could make life very difficult for me, though. And I think he’d put a lot of pressure on if I didn’t go now. There was something in the way he said it. I don’t know, just a feeling that he’d been told to get me out. I think someone else is pulling his strings.’

  We were standing outside the entrance to the departure lounge, surrounded by clusters of Chinese families saying their farewells and taking group photographs.

  ‘Besides,’ I said, ‘you’ll find it easier to keep digging if I’m not around. And there’s a lot I can do from Britain.’

  ‘I want to come over for the funeral,’ she said, slipping her arm through mine. Jenny had already made the arrangements, or rather had put it all in the hands of a local funeral firm who were experts in sending corpses around the world. It seemed there were very few expats who wanted to be buried in Hong Kong and there was quite an industry devoted to making the transfer as smooth as possible. They’d collect the body from the mortuary, fly it to London and then the undertakers in London would do the rest, they’d handle everything from the coffin to the paperwork, all I’d have to do was sign the cheque. I was relieved, because I’d had visions of having to check the coffin at the baggage department or clear it through customs. I couldn’t have taken that.

  ‘I want you to come over anyway,’ I said. ‘But I would like you to be there.’ I kissed her on the forehead and walked away. I hate long goodbyes.

  I arrived back in the office to find Simon Kaufman tearing a strip off Bill for missing deadlines. Bill was blaming the computers and young Kaufman wasn’t having any of it. Bill was on a losing streak because the guy spoke with the authority of his father, Warren Kaufman, and we all knew it. Warren Kaufman got a kick out of owning a newspaper, but the day-to-day running, the hiring and firing, he left to his son. And recently Simon Kaufman, he of the pinstripe suits, blue shirts with white collars and cuffs and the ever-present calculator wristwatch, had been doing more firing than hiring.

  Warren Kaufman was the boss of Kaufman Industries, the firm that was the eventual owner of our paper. Son of a refugee couple who’d fled from Hungary during the ’56 revolution, he’d inherited a small chain of newsagents’ shops when he was nineteen years old and through sheer hard work and greed he’d built them up into a worldwide group of interests in oil, mining, trading and publishing. The original chain of five shops now numbered one hundred and thirty two and he’d recently announced it was expanding into the east coast of America. Warren Kaufman was big, big money. He’d made no secret of the fact that he had political ambitions, too, and held select dinner parties every Friday night where he bored the pants off peers of the realm and top in
dustrialists with his views of what was wrong with Britain and how he’d go about putting it right, given the chance.

  As a way of giving himself a higher profile he acquired an ailing London evening newspaper and revamped it into the capital’s first twenty-four-hour paper. Then he began printing it in Glasgow and Birmingham and to his great surprise it made money. That wasn’t his original intention, mind you, he just wanted to see his face, and his views, in print. I met him once as he toured the offices, shadowed by a photographer as if it was a Royal visit. Kaufman sitting at a terminal, Kaufman in the caseroom with a scalpel in his hand, Kaufman watching the presses roll. I didn’t get to speak to him, though Roger did. Rank has its privileges, though I don’t suppose meeting your boss’s boss’s boss actually counts as a privilege. I’d rather have had the car.

  I remembered Kaufman as a greying, charismatic, snappy dresser who always talked as if he had a Cup Final ticket and it was five minutes before kick-off. I doubt he would remember me. His son did, though, and he scowled at me as I walked past. He had obviously told Bill to give me a hard time because I was immediately sent out to cover a tedious fraud trial that stood no chance of getting into the paper. Or maybe Bill had just decided that it would be better to keep me out of the office while young Kaufman was on the warpath.

  As I sat on the press bench, doodling in my notebook, I tried to make sense of what had happened in Hong Kong, but I kept coming back to the shadowy figure who was controlling it all, the person who had killed Sally and Seligman, who’d sent triads to beat me up and who’d put pressure on Hall to get me out of Hong Kong. I had almost all the information that she’d had, but I couldn’t make the final jump, I couldn’t find the missing piece that would complete the picture. I was so close I could taste it.

  The case dragged on and on and when it was obvious that it was going over to the next day I left and phoned Bill. He said I might as well call it a day and go home.

  Home is a two-bedroomed house on the Isle of Dogs that I’d bought four years ago before the developers had laid the first brick. It had trebled in value, and I hated it, but it was within walking distance of the office and that was a big plus at the time because they’d taken my driving licence away. The door opened straight into the sitting room and the front window looked out over a scrap of garden about the size of a boy scout’s groundsheet on which grass stubbornly refused to grow. The area around our enclave of brick-built houses was still very seedy, decaying tower blocks of council flats, abused and neglected and a far cry from the towering homes of Hong Kong, where I’d never seen any graffiti or vandalism. On the Isle of Dogs our fences and walls were regularly spray painted with ‘Build homes for the people, not for the City’ and all that rubbish. The locals were still sour about what the eastward expanding City had done to property values here, but what the hell, the locals weren’t the sort who’d ever want, or be able, to buy their own homes whatever the price.