Every morning on his way to the Tube station, Gary picked up the FT from the gentle Asian trader who seemed to work his newsagent-cum-supermarket round the clock. Gary often thought the Asian must have a twin brother, surely the man must sleep!
His feet fairly clipped along as he made his way to the store. In his battle with the demons of doubt, he had held a shield; the same newspaper that printed the lies about George would print Gary’s own words today, telling the world the truth about the great man, refuting the unfounded allegations made by the CIA.
This morning, as he did yesterday, Gary planned to pick up his FT along with the tabloid rag that had caused so much distress. He was looking forward to reading the article by that friendly reporter, Gus Valens.
The Asian trader had an even bigger smile on his wrinkled brown face this morning. His customer, the man entering his shop, was front page news.
Gary, money at the ready, stopped dead as he saw the screaming headline above the picture of him on his Sunseeker motor yacht with two semi-naked beauties either side of him, tits out:
SINNFULTRAVEL BOSS. WHAT DOES HE KNOW?
He dropped the coins, picked up the paper and read it as he walked back to his penthouse. By the time he arrived Gary had read the kiss-n-tell story about his girlfriend’s birthday gift to him – A COKE-FUELLED SEX ROMP THREESOME ON SUPER YACHT – along with the damning article that followed, the result of his interview with Gus.
Gary had suffered night terrors the previous eight hours, but this was in broad daylight. It was real.
A technical knockout for the demons.
He took the phone off the hook, went back to bed and did something he had not done since he was eleven years old.
He put the pillow over his head and cried.
***
Sir Benjamin, whose personal stake in SimmpleTravel was worth considerably more than either Sir Jeremy or the acting Managing Director realised, was shaving as he listened to the early morning news on BBC Radio Four. He never bought tabloids – he was an aristocrat.
This morning his maid had brought him the FT, which had a half page analysis of SimmpleTravel and its current plight. In summary, the newspaper was supportive of Simm and felt the current scandal surrounding the dead MD would soon be cleared. The President planned to make a statement regarding his relationship with the alleged paedophile that weekend. The FT even had a picture of Simm and the President dazzling the camera with smiles, shaking hands like the best of friends.
The FT advised its most lion-hearted readers that an investment in the company was a very risky buy. For those of a more timid nature it was a hold as they believed the shares had bottomed out.
Sir Benjamin whistled quietly, pouting to himself as he carefully shaved in the manner of all true aristocrats – he was using a traditional ivory handled cutthroat razor, a blade also much favoured by the gangs of Glasgow.
The Today radio news programme moved on to the business section and the announcer led off with the latest news on SimmpleTravel. Sir Benjamin had followed his own advice and bought heavily the previous day, snapping up shares from ‘investors whose livers floated on ponds painted by Monet’ as he had said to his broker.
Approximately one half of Sir Benjamin’s wealth was now tied up in the company whose acting MD was currently sobbing with a pillow on his head.
What the announcer had to say regarding this morning’s press comment did not reflect the FT’s views, indeed Sir Benjamin’s views, in the least.
The washbasin, with icebergs of shaving foam floating as if in the Arctic, started to resemble the ice floes during a particularly zealous seal cull as Sir Benjamin’s shaking hand slipped and he accidentally did a very minor impression of George Simm’s final moments.
***
Whereas Gary had spent the night battling demons, Sir Jeremy Green had slept almost eleven hours, waking late but refreshed. The heart tablets Doctor Jones prescribed were having a rejuvenating effect on him.
He bounded into the kitchen, with a conscience as clear as it was ever going to be, pecked his wife with a chirpy ‘Good morning!’ and settled down for some breakfast.
‘You seem much better this morning dear!’ Patricia fussed around him, getting eggs and toast ready. ‘Sleep well?’
‘Indeed. Like a baby. I made some serious decisions yesterday.’
Lady Green was preoccupied as she responded. ‘That’s nice dear.’
‘First off – I’m retiring.’
The boiled egg Lady Patricia was transferring to his plate flipped off the spoon and plopped to the floor. ‘What?’ Her husband’s eyes were twinkling and she wondered if perhaps he was, after all, a little mad. Affected by his heart drugs.
‘You never were much good at the egg and spoon race, were you darling!’
For Lady Green the fact that her husband was up to making a joke was enough to settle her suspicions. ‘You really mean it Jeremy? Retire? You’ve always said you’d carry on until you dropped. And what about the House of Lords? The PM promised.’
‘Never mind that, Pat. I’ve changed my mind. There are more important things in life. Leave that!’
Patricia, like most women, was on autopilot when it came to clearing up mess – an inborn instinct preparing them for child rearing, as Sir Jeremy’s friend George had once said.
‘Listen Pat.’ She sat opposite him and he took her hands across the table. ‘I know I’m not a good husband.’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘I said listen! I’ve realised none of us have much time on this planet – and when a man gets to my age he wonders what he has done with his life. Is he a success?’
‘Of course you are! You’re a knight, a judge, you work in the Houses of Parliament. How can you even think like that?’ Patricia had been through menopause herself, but was not sure if that was what had brought about this epiphany for her husband. She thought perhaps the angina was finally convincing him to slow down.
‘You’re right. All these things are true, my love. But in one area I have been a failure – a miserable failure. I can’t change the past but I can change the future. I want to spend my last days with you. Just us two, together.’
‘Jeremy, what are you saying..? We are together.’ Lady Patricia’s eyes watered, tears forming.
‘We live separate lives, Pat. Some days go by and we don’t even speak! That’s not what our marriage should be. I love you.’
Now Patricia was speechless, as she had not heard those words spoken as if he really meant them for years. She nodded silently as he went on.
‘If we sell up here, go to the cottage – we can live the life of Riley, just you and me. I’ll end my days a happy man. It’s not as if we’ve got kids to leave the house to. What do you say?’
Lady Patricia, who rarely spoke her mind to her husband, hated London with a passion, but women of her era, her upbringing, went where their husband’s careers dictated.
‘That’s... That’s absolutely marvellous.’
For Sir Jeremy that settled it. He had many things to sort today.
***
The railings on Simm’s balcony were dappled with phosphorescent powder. A man in a white forensic suit was brushing the areas his chief had directed, while the detective chatted to his friend and colleague, the Indonesian Medical Examiner.
Errnawati had spent the previous evening with his young family, enjoying a video. Apparently the perpetrator of Simm’s murder brought the hero to mind.
‘Well Chief. Before, I say underpants outside trousers like Superman! Now I say Spiderman!’ The ME shook his head and looked at the wall beyond the balcony. ‘You believe the killer, he can walk this wall to here?’ His voice was full of doubt as he peered out at the four storey drop below and the smooth surface of the building, totally bare of any handholds that he could see.
The tip of Lee’s finger tapped his own chin as he considered. ‘I have seen incredible film of men climbing in the mountains, and also climbing buildings like this. Young men make
their way up, without ropes or harnesses, just a bag with chalk powder to keep their fingers dry. It’s called free climbing, Errnawati, an extreme sport undertaken by the very brave, and those addicted to the adrenalin rush of great peril.’
‘I have seen these things too.’
‘Such a man, a free climber, must have incredible strength in his arms and hands. I have seen them, suspended hundreds of feet above the ground, hanging by their fingertips. They swing their bodies, the weight like a pendulum, and bring their feet to new footholds. It is precarious. But quite magic.’ In Lee’s youth he had rock climbed, with ropes, harnesses and pitons. Due to his career and ambition he had lost the skill, given up the hobby.
Lee sighed, finger back to tapping his jaw. ‘A man like this could perhaps kill in the manner we have seen?’
‘It is possible. I say before, this man is incredibly strong. When spurred by adrenalin, yes, I think it so.’
A forensic officer appeared at Lee’s elbow. ‘I’m ninety-nine percent certain the footprint on the window frame at the end of the corridor is the same as the one on the railing here, sir.’ The man indicated the point at which someone had clambered on to the terrace. ‘I also think, when we analyse the residue, we’ll find the scuff here,’ he pointed to the wall and a skid mark of rubber smeared below one of the mortar joints, ‘is the same material as the other footmarks. He sure is Spiderman, boss.’
So Lee’s supersense was right. The man had risked his own life to get to Simm. An incredibly strong agile man. A man with rare skills.
Lee turned to his ME. ‘What about Moo and the others? Was it the same killer?’
‘Chief. To say definitely as Medical Examiner I must perform tests. Take vertebra from each victim where knife blade carved into bone. I should boil bones clean. Compare scoring under electron microscope. But, like our forensics friend with footprints, I am already ninety-nine percent certain. The killer is the same.’
‘So, it looks like I really do have a serial killer on the loose.’
‘His violence is increasing, Chief. He wrenched Moo by forehead. Hard. Like so.’ The ME placed his left hand to his own forehead and yanked his head back. ‘Broke the spine at base of skull. Then cut throat.’ The ME’s right hand flashed across his own neck. ‘Just so. One clean, incredible deep cut.’ The ME crinkled a smile at his boss. ‘It is the same man. Unless both of them, Spiderman and Superman, have decided to vacation here!’
‘Sir?’ Lee’s driver appeared. ‘The station called. You have an appointment with a lady journalist from England.’
Lee rubbed the back of his neck, sweaty and grimy from the humid city atmosphere despite the sea breeze. He had considered cancelling this meeting, but his boss had given him a strong warning to heed the politicians, and the Minister for Tourism had called personally to arrange things, had told him: ‘Spend all day with her if that’s what she wants.’
Lee decided to do exactly as he was told.
***
Kate looked around the Police Chief’s office – so different from Charles Tandy’s, she thought. Whereas Charles surrounded himself with photos, certificates and articles that highlighted the achievements of his life, Chief Lee had nothing personal on his walls. A picture of His Majesty, the King of Thailand, was the only adornment there.
The room was light but stuffy, the ceiling fan struggling to cool Kate in the humidity of midday in Thailand.
She glanced around and sat waiting in front of Lee’s desk. The only personal item on display was a picture of a woman with a small child in her arms, the framed print propped on the desk by the Chief’s computer screen. Kate wondered about the story behind the photo, and hoped she might get some good copy on this enigmatic man.
She had read everything she could find in the Bangkok Post online archives in preparation for the meeting. Tandy’s secretary, Tina, had arranged for any articles mentioning the man that had been printed in other local papers to be couriered to the hotel, and a bulky envelope had awaited Kate’s arrival. The thick bundle, which would normally take several hours to read thoroughly, was analysed swiftly by Kate as she read at lightning speed and tapped key points into her iPad.
Nowhere was there mention of a wife and child. In fact, there was precious little about the man, just a great deal about the cases he had solved.
Lee was late. Kate was wondering if he would cancel just as the Chief walked in. With her tablet balanced on her thighs, Kate stood, clutching it awkwardly as it threatened to fall to the floor. Great start she thought, flustered as she shook hands and introduced herself.
‘Kate O’Sullivan, London Crusader. Thank you for making time for me, Chief Lee.’
She could see he was surprised when she spoke, bristled even. Not a good start at all. Shit.
‘I thought you were British, Miss O’Sullivan. You sound American.’
Kate could feel the hostility, and then remembered Johnny’s words – he was pissed at the two CIA agents at the hotel and had slung them out.
She turned on the charm, smiled, tossed her hair and said, ‘Don’t worry, Chief Lee, I’m not some CIA arsehole in disguise!’ – the English form of the word emphasising her Britishness. ‘My father was English. I inherited his brain and my American mother’s looks.’
The words did the trick. The policeman smiled as he sat. Kate went on, ‘I’ve had first-hand experience of the CIA. They arrested a member of my family some years ago. I really don’t like them.’
‘Then we have something in common, Miss O’Sullivan.’
‘Please. Kate. Call me Kate. I hope you don’t object.’ Kate placed a mini recorder on the desk as Lee shook his head.
‘Kate. I am very, very busy, as you can imagine. When Mr Simm died we put every effort into finding the killer, but it seems your mother’s countrymen believe we are inefficient and incompetent here in Thailand. Today, several CIA agents arrived to assist me. This morning I found two of them in the hotel room where Mr Simm died. They destroyed vital evidence, rendering fingerprints unusable. Perhaps your readers would be interested in that!’
‘I certainly would like to know more about what the CIA are expecting to achieve here. But first, would it be possible to start with a little background on you, Chief Lee?’
Kate listened as the policeman outlined his career, Hong Kong to Thailand. He was done in a few minutes. No ego, no embellishment. So straight and efficient he might have been in court reporting on a crime. Nothing that could be considered personal. The man was a cold fish, she decided, and then she pushed him.
‘I couldn’t help but notice the photograph.’ Here goes, she thought as she added, ‘Is that your wife and child? Can you tell me something about your family?’
Lee’s face turned to stone, he put his elbows on his desk and drummed his fingers.
Oh shit. I’ve screwed up already.
‘Miss O’Sullivan, I have explained I am an anglophile, I enjoy the British and appreciate their manners as well as their sense of humour. In Thailand we prize politeness, although I will admit times have changed for the worse, particularly in resorts such as this. However, I consider your question rude. Something more likely from a CIA arsehole.’
Kate dipped her head to acknowledge the rebuke and apologised. ‘I’m sorry. I wanted some background on Police Chief Lee, the man. Please forgive me.’
‘If we can stick to business... I have six murders to investigate. Five more men were found dead this morning. I believe the same killer murdered these locals, as well as the American, Mr Simm. Right now, while talking to you, I have a serial killer on the loose.’
Jesus!
Chief Lee slapped a chunky file on the desk between them. ‘To save time I will brief you now. The confidential police report will be translated and made available to you this evening. Normally I would not release such sensitive information to the press, but I am prepared to tell you everything. The Minister of Tourism insisted that I fully co-operate with you. I’m sure a detailed report on this matter will e
ncourage many more of your readers to come to my beautiful country!’
You devious bastard, she thought. ‘I take it you aren’t keen on tourism.’
‘Oh but I am. I love my country. I love our traditions. I love the beauty of our land. I would be delighted to share these things with people who appreciate them.’
Kate was trying to understand, there was something of the man here. ‘So, it is only a certain type of tourist you don’t like?’
‘Exactly. I believe the innocent, loving nature of my people is being corrupted, perverted and commercialised. It started with the Americans arriving here when they were fighting in Vietnam, our land a convenient place for their soldiers to rest and recuperate. They ruined my country, encouraging the worst forms of sexual deviance to blossom. And now I have to ask, what sort of tourist will pay to see a woman suck petrol into her vagina with her stomach muscles and then breathe fire with her genitals?’
Kate’s rising colour had nothing to do with the vivid image the Chief of Police was conjuring for her. She could see in her mind’s eye her little brother pantomiming ping-pong balls.
Chief Lee went on, ‘I’m sorry if my description is offensive to you. Believe me, the reality is offensive to me.’
The door burst open and Lee’s sergeant hurried in, jabbering in Thai.
Lee listened then stood and scowled at Kate as he said, ‘There’s been another one. Another murder – probably the same killer.’
***
Doug Brown dangled, one handed, just four fingertips holding him above the gorge eight hundred feet below. Sweat trickled from his cropped hair, patterning the grime on his neck and on his bare back as it joined other tributaries, rivulets saturating the material of his pants at his waist.
His left hand reached behind him to a pouch swinging just below the waistband. A coating of white powder dried his fingertips and his hand, reading rock like Braille, found another half-inch ledge above. Doug’s feet cycled in the air – no purchase near.
He let go his right hand, chalked the fingers, and repeated the movement of his left. His frame was neither big nor small but his musculature was exceptional. The skin rippled as if snakes writhed beneath.
The Hack Page 17
