Trophy Taker

by Lee Weeks

Father Fong was greedy for his stories. He eagerly awaited each instalment. Has she got the sack yet, the new one who’s related to the chef? Or, Does anyone know who the father of the quiet one’s baby is? But it took Man Po so long to tell his account of other people’s lives that his father became so excited and impatient that he pecked at Man Po – and then and then and then … – until he forced the gossip out of Man Po’s mouth like regurgitated food from a gull.

  Max was still dozing when his brother came in that evening, making the most of his rest before his shift began. The two brothers shared a room. They slept in bunk beds in one of the bedrooms while their father slept alone in the other. But Max was so weary he felt nauseous and too tired to sleep properly. There was a brooding weight in the atmosphere, a heavy charge in the thick air. The summer was hanging on. Max wanted the ‘cool season’ more than most. The summer heat and the incessant rain drove him mad. The thunder and lightning made him agitated.

  Today he felt that breathless claustrophobia as he lay in the heat and dust in an airless flat, trying to breathe in a small space, and he thought his lungs were about to collapse – and, something else – that his world was about to implode.

  The chatter of the two men and the noisy canary, trying to make its small voice heard above everyone else’s, woke Max up from his fruitless, fitful nap. He lay on his bunk for a few minutes, straining to hear what the clamour was about. It would be the usual nonsense, he supposed. Man Po would be talking tittle-tattle, anything to punctuate the old man’s day with a little excitement. But then Max heard the mention of police cars and tape and crowds and commotion.

  He waited by the door, until he heard the sound of Father Fong’s slippered feet shuffling away across the linoleum towards the kitchen to prepare his sons’ dinner. Then he emerged.

  Man Po was sat on the edge of the sofa, his legs apart and his stomach hanging between them like a sumo wrestler’s. In front of him he had a collection of photos. It was Man Po’s hobby, photography. He spread the photos out onto the coffee table, picking them up and rearranging them – placing them in order. Max stood behind him, looking over the top of his brother’s misshapen head.

  Man Po turned and grinned up at his brother as Max placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled forgivingly down at him. Max looked at the line of photos, laid edge to edge so neatly. He thought about the cupboard again and his stepmother’s cruelty and he smiled to himself. He smoothed his brother’s misshapen head. They had certainly made her pay for what she did to him, there was no doubting that.

  34

  Mann called in at the mortuary. He knew it was late but he also knew that Kin Tak would still be there. His finger hadn’t even touched the reception bell when the assistant burst through the plastic curtain to meet him.

  ‘Ah, Inspector! Good news! We have a complete victim. All we’re missing is a finger.’ He ushered Mann forward and through to the autopsy room. ‘There are two new victims,’ he said, while opening one of the heavy fridges, sliding a bag out and unzipping it. ‘This is one: two legs, dismembered at ankle, knee and hip. Been frozen.’

  ‘What does the pathologist think? Caucasian?’

  ‘Forward curve to the femur, length of limb. Yes, Caucasian.’

  ‘Any marks?’

  ‘Around her ankles – at first we thought it was where she was dissected but it isn’t – there’s evidence she was tied tightly at the feet and then dragged and hung, by the ankles, after death. There are abrasions also, on the back of her legs, from where she was dragged.’ He turned the legs over for Mann to see. ‘We have sent the debris off for analysis.’

  Mann looked at the feet. Her toes were beautifully polished. Someone had taken the time to give her a pedicure before killing her, but her legs were thin, the skin slack.

  ‘Now,’ Kin Tak said, moving Mann on, ‘there’s not much to see on this one, but the other … now, that’s very different …’ He zipped the first bag back up and returned it to its slot in the fridge, slid out another, wheeled it further into the room and unzipped it.

  ‘This one’s in good condition.’

  Mann helped him lift the body out, first the legs, arms, torso, and then the head of a Caucasian woman. She was small-boned with curly blonde hair and freckles.

  ‘Not frozen?’

  ‘No.’

  Mann looked at her hands, perfectly manicured like her feet. But the index finger on her right hand had been amputated neatly at the knuckle. The soles of her feet were dirty, and she had scratches on her arms and legs.

  ‘Was she wearing anything?’

  ‘Just a crucifix. But she did have traces of animal hide on her body, we haven’t identified what yet.’

  ‘How long had she been dead, do you think?’

  ‘Twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Cause of death?’

  ‘Strangulation by ligature. A thick rope, with a knot to the side.’ He illustrated graphically. ‘Possibly killed by hanging. She was almost decapitated by it.’

  ‘Was she moved after death?’

  ‘Yes. Laid out somewhere cold for at least six hours, then moved.’

  ‘What else?’

  They turned her torso over. ‘Extensive bruising and a burn made by a branding iron on her left buttock.’

  Mann examined it. ‘It looks like an F. Anything else?’

  ‘Needle marks.’ Kin Tak turned her arm over to show Mann the puncture marks on the inside of her elbow. ‘We’re waiting for the results from toxicology, but it looks like she’d been taking heroin. And guess what else we found?’

  Mann could see that this was the bit the assistant had been dying to tell him, had been patiently waiting to tell him for the last hour. ‘This killer, this man …’ The assistant’s small hands were shaking and he was showing more gum than teeth as he grinned up at Mann, a happy puppy. ‘He likes his women dead receptive,’ he said, giggling manically. ‘Dead receptive, get it? Get it? He likes his women with a touch of rigor mortis …’

  ‘I get it. DNA?’

  ‘No chance. They were cross-contaminated in the bag. But look, your detectives just faxed this through …’

  He handed Mann a photo. The woman in the picture smiled provocatively out from a poor-quality modelling shot, permed blonde hair and pink pouting lips, hotpants and a crop top, and a big mouth.

  Underneath, Li had written: ‘Roxanne Berger from Orange County, USA. (One of the photos you wanted of the women in Lucy’s flat – the most recent occupant.)’

  Mann glanced back and forth from the dismembered head on the slab in front of him to the photo in his hand. SNAP.

  Mann turned to see Kin Tak was busy taking photographs. ‘Do you need to do that? They’ll have taken a load at the autopsy?’ Mann asked.

  ‘I thought while she was out, I might as well take them. They are before and after shots. I am making a reference book of my own. Building up a portfolio – showing my work.’

  ‘You must have quite a collection of photos by now. How long have you been working here?’

  Kin Tak stopped what he was doing. There was something about Mann’s tone that he didn’t understand – a hint of mistrust tinged with disgust.

  ‘Ten years. I’ve seen all types,’ he said, too excited to be embarrassed for long. ‘Don’t often get Gwaipohs, though.’ He went back to photographing, almost oblivious to Mann’s presence. ‘Mr Saheed says he’s never seen stitching like it – takes me ages. But I like to do a good job. I’m working my way up the ladder. I’ll get there. No one loves the job like me.’ He looked up and grinned. ‘I like to make them look pretty again.’

  35

  Mann headed for the bars and restaurants of Soho. This area catered for every taste. It would be the ideal hunting ground for the Butcher.

  He looked up and down the street. It was time for the Gweilos to come out after work. Their existence in Hong Kong was never lonely – they belonged to an exclusive club of well-paid Caucasians, and, like the Chinese, they tended to stick together in thei
r ethnic groups. Most serial killers killed within their own races – black on black, white on white. That was why, if this was a lone serial killer, he was most likely to be white. But nothing was certain. Rules could always be broken.

  Mann walked into the Havana – a long, thin bar with a raised section to the left dotted with round tables and stools, an intimate section at the back with sofas and cushions, and a rowdy bar at the front. People stopped drinking and stared as he walked in. He was used to it. All his life he’d had to fight the prejudice of being mixed race.

  Most went back to their drinks after a minute, but three white men carried on staring. The tallest one was bald. He had ‘LOVE’ written on one hand, ‘HATE’ tattooed on the other. Should have written ‘UGLY’ and ‘FUCK’ instead, Mann thought. He would present the least problem, he decided. The second man, slightly shorter, also bald, looked like ex-army. He was muscle-bound; obviously still went to the gym every day – didn’t look like he ever got on the running machine, though. The third man, with a grade-two hair cut, was shorter, slighter, meaner, more damaged by life. He had plenty of chips on his shoulders and probably a knife pouch hidden on him somewhere.

  They watched Mann walk up to the bar. He looked at them with a practised stare, then ordered a large vodka on the rocks.

  Chip on his Shoulder stared straight at Mann. ‘Hey, banana boy? Your mama slip on a banana skin? She really got fucked over, didn’t she?’ His friends laughed. ‘Who was your daddy? GI? Squaddy? Who was your mama? Suzie Wong?’

  Mann looked away.

  ‘Hey, banana boy – I’m talking to you.’

  You’re going to be the first. Musclebound second, Ugly Fuck last.

  Mann looked back and smiled. ‘Hello boys. Here on holiday, are we?’ He glanced around the bar. He could take all three out and cause minimum damage. He would do it as a last resort, though.

  He leaned his elbow on the bar. The barman brought him his drink, a look of concern on his face. Mann smiled at him and gave him a reassuring look.

  Mann made sure he stared equally at each man – made sure they all took responsibility for what was about to happen; what they were about to get themselves into.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ Chip on his Shoulder’s eyes were gleaming – he knew he had the two baldies to back him up. He thought he could be as antagonistic as he liked. But then, the one thing he didn’t know – he didn’t know Johnny Mann.

  Mann grinned. ‘Educational trip, is it, boys?’

  ‘Depends what you mean by educational … banana boy.’

  The three men laughed. They didn’t take their eyes from Mann.

  Mann smiled, studied each man, gave them the chance to back down before it was too late.

  ‘I can’t abide rudeness, racism, ignorance or base stupidity. And, guess what, boys? You tick all those boxes. Thought you might be here to learn some manners.’

  The big bald duo shifted their bulk, took a small step towards him and flexed their muscles, ready.

  Mann picked up his drink and walked past them.

  ‘Manners are my speciality. But I’ll have to teach you some other time.’

  Someone had caught his eye, and she was smiling at him.

  The barman leaned across to the three men.

  ‘You were very lucky. Keep out of Johnny Mann’s way for the rest of your holiday, unless you want to go home on a stretcher.’

  ‘’Avin’ fun with your friends, Johnny?’ said Kim, reaching up for a kiss. She was sitting at one of the small tables on the raised section. ‘Thought it was goin’ to kick off. Never was much of a fuckin’ negotiator, was you?’

  Mann laughed. ‘Sorry – bit wired. How’s it going, Pussy – night off?’

  ‘Can’t decide whether to go in tonight. I’m definitely quittin’ the Bond Bar.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. What are you going to do instead?’

  ‘I used to be good with figures – accounts, that type of thing. I could go back to it. I’m always dreamin’ of doin’ somethin’ different.’

  ‘To believe in one’s dreams is to spend all of one’s life asleep, Kim. Make it happen if you want it to.’

  ‘I love it when you get all philosophical on me! Let’s go back to my place and discuss the works of Nietzsche, Plato, and who was that other guy? Aristotle Onassis …?’

  He laughed. ‘Believe me, I’d love to – but I have to take a rain check.’

  She frowned. ‘You look knackered. Ain’t you gettin’ any sleep?’

  ‘Not much. It’s a big case. Do me a favour, Kim. Take a couple of weeks off, at least. Stay home. Don’t work at the bar until we catch this guy. It isn’t safe. If you need money – let me know. Just stay away from the bar.’

  ‘Awww, Johnny – that’s so sweet. But I’m a big gal. I can take care of myself. You know what happens if I have to stay in? I turn into a caged animal!’

  He kissed her cheek. ‘I love it when that happens. Okay, Kim … I’ll leave it to you – just look after your self … call me if you need me.’

  Mann got up to leave. Kim held on to his arm.

  ‘Thanks, Johnny. I miss you. Would be nice to talk more.’

  ‘Sure – call me.’

  As Mann walked out, he couldn’t resist one last grin at the three men.

  36

  The call from Mamasan Rose came as Mann was on his way back to Headquarters. Bernadette hadn’t been seen for three days. He went straight round to her flat.

  She lived in a prestigious complex in the Mid-levels, which she shared with a load of bankers. It was the sort of accommodation that most of the foreigners on contracts lived in. The flats were spacious, had communal swimming pools, a live-in maid, and afforded a standard of living that none of the occupants had ever seen before – nor would again. The experience might be short-lived, but the imbued arrogance would stay with them forever.

  Mann stood in the lounge, watching the maid clear up the previous night’s revelry. A half-dressed Filipina came out of one of the rooms, saw Mann, giggled and darted straight back inside.

  He stopped the maid as she passed him with another tray of empty beer bottles.

  ‘Tell them if they’re not out here in three minutes, they’ll spend three days in the cells.’

  That did the trick. Three men stumbled out, blinking away the beery blur, and told him what they knew. They all had the same story – they had known Bernadette for a couple of months and they regretted giving her a room. She had proved a belligerent house guest – antisocial towards them most of the time and a huge party girl who had a temper when drunk. They had been drawing lots as to which one would tell her she had to go, when she’d disappeared and saved them the job.

  Mann had a look at her room. Despite the attempts by the maid to keep up with it, it was a mess. It didn’t look as if she spent much time in there.

  He rummaged through her belongings and quickly found her passport. Within five minutes of Mann phoning in the information, Ng had found a match. Bernadette was the wayward daughter of an Irish MP. She had gone AWOL shortly after her father had been elected. This time the killer had chosen the wrong woman to kidnap. This woman would bring them all a heap of trouble.

  Mann headed back to Club Mercedes. It was early evening and the club was just warming up. The band were playing ‘Hotel California’. There was a group of mamasans giggling at the bar. A few of the larger tables in the centre were occupied by several groups of Koreans on a works bonding outing. It looked like they were forming a kitty to get one of them laid.

  Mamasan Rose escorted Mann to a booth. She ordered a Diet Coke. Mann accepted the offer of a double espresso. He needed all the help he could get. He was surviving on a few snatched hours of sleep.

  They went over the particulars of Bernadette’s working life. Mamasan Rose told him what she knew. Bernadette was a good girl. She always came to work. It was unlike her to miss even one night at the club. She loved it: the sex. Yes, she could be difficult when drunk. Yes, she had a short temper,
but she had a kind heart and was well-liked by everyone. She didn’t really have any special clients, and, so far as Mamasan Rose knew, she had not been invited to go on holiday with anyone. Apart from that there was little else she could tell him. Bernadette didn’t mix with anyone except the foreign girls, and none of them seemed to have socialised with her outside work. On her rare night off she frequented the foreign bars, especially the Irish ones, but she worked most nights anyway. She loved it. He got the point.

  ‘Anyone see her leave that last evening?’

  ‘The doormen. They saw her. She left alone. One of the men left at the same time, went down to the taxi rank with her. He saw her get into a cab.’

  37

  He arrived and slid clumsily into the circular seat, the way that overly big men do. He was a former Taiwanese wrestler of some television notoriety. He was as wide as he was tall. His neck, which spilled over his collar, was bigger than his head. His hands were like shovels. The wrinkled skin on his bald head reminded Mann of a Ferengi.

  Christ! Was everything in life going to come back to Star Trek?

  The wrestler sat there uncomfortably and recounted the last time he had seen Bernadette. From what Mann could gather, the wrestler was quite partial to her.

  ‘I saw her get into a cab.’

  ‘Why? Were you leaving at the same time?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t feel well – gut rot.’ He clutched his stomach – although the pain had long since gone, the memory was obviously lasting.

  ‘So you decided to leave at the same time?’

  ‘The boss told me to go. Just happened to be when Bernie was walking past. We went down in the elevator together, that’s all.’

  ‘Then she got in the cab … alone? You didn’t offer to see her home?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that. Anyway … the gut rot …’ He screwed up his face, which transformed him from ‘hard man’ to ‘baby’ in one frown. ‘Not that she would have wanted me to … Well, maybe she might … I don’t know …’ He blushed like a teenager.