by Lee Weeks
‘Did she have any other family?’
‘Nope.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Gosia Sikorska. I looked in the file. She lived in Lucy’s flat in Wanchai two years ago. She was one of the women Lucy mentioned in her statement – the one with the strong accent – but she never said anything about a tattoo. She worked in Club Mercedes for six months.’
Mann hung up and checked the time before calling Lucy’s mobile. It was six thirty, she wouldn’t be going to work for a couple of hours yet; she’d have time to see him first.
He caught the Star ferry across to Kowloon side. This part of Hong Kong didn’t have the charm of the cobbled ladder streets on the Island, or the colonial mansions, or the Peak, but Kowloon had Tsim Sha Tsui, second only to Central for business, and bird markets, jade markets and night markets. Best of all it had the the New Territories. A precious wilderness with fantastic beaches and glorious picnic spots. Where it was possible to find space and freedom and, in the last month, bags of bodies.
The evening was cool and the ferry was quiet. It had deposited its business-suited customers on to the next stage in their journeys home, and it had taken the tourists back to change for dinner. Now it glided across the water, serene and unhurried, making the most of the respite.
Mann walked briskly up the gangplank and off in the direction of Nathan Road; a road that ran vertical from the harbour, long and straight – the Golden Mile. It was the place to buy watches, perfumes and electricals. It was awash with Indians selling fake anything. Every square inch of Nathan Road screamed something: try me – buy me – you can’t live without me …
The neon made Mann sweat and the thumping bass made him deaf. At every doorway a different song was spat out then batted away and replaced by another at the next step. Every doorway multiplied to five and the pavement disappeared as people fought for every inch of retail territory. He gave up trying to walk down it and took off on a side road, cutting across until he came to the Excalibur Hotel, halfway up Nathan Road, eight hundred metres down a side street. The Excalibur was an ‘old school’ type of hotel whose rooms were slightly shabby but well soundproofed. It had a small pool on the roof and its coffee shop was renowned for the fine pastry chef. It was a hotel that most foreigners were familiar with because it specialised in offering not-too-cheap package holidays to Brits and was always full. Helen had loved going there for a late breakfast. It was nice to walk to it along the harbour.
He was thinking about Helen again. Maybe the thing with Georgina had got him thinking What if? What if he’d tried harder? What if he’d been prepared to give it a chance? What if he’d wanted the things she’d wanted? What fucking if?
ENOUGH!
Mann walked through the lobby and past the lounge bar, where a pianist was tinkling away forgettable tunes for the cocktail lounge clientele of post-shoppers and pre-diners to chat over. He walked down a short flight of stairs to Oliver’s Bar in the basement.
Oliver’s Bar was overdone in ‘Old English Stylee’. It was dark red, oak-panelled and tartan-infested. Straight ahead of the entrance was a hexagonal bar. Tables and chairs fanned out from it on two levels, all in regimented restaurant fashion. Further to the right of the entrance was a lounge area, with a brick fireplace and a living-flame gas fire that gave out no warmth. Above the fire was a decorative arch and an oak bookshelf dotted with mock-leather faux Dickens first editions.
Mann gave an involuntary shiver as he hit the wall of air-conditioning that sat waiting for him just inside the entrance. He scanned the bar. There were just a few customers. It was happy hour, but the lure of cheap drinks had proven easy to resist. It wasn’t the most atmospheric of bars, but the good thing about it was there was usually space to sit and chat and at least you didn’t have to compete with a piano.
A few locals were ensconced around the far end of the bar, obviously hailing from the ‘snifter’ brigade where one drink always turned into seven. There was a young couple at one of the tables, as far away from the bar as they could get, gazing intently into each other’s eyes. And then there was Lucy, sitting sidesaddle on a stool at the bar and wearing her trademark leather trousers, black-ribbed polo neck and gold chain. She was snacking on peanuts and drinking Coke through a straw.
When she saw Mann she slid off her stool, picked up her drink, and followed him over to a table near the fire. Mann signalled to the barman that he would have his usual. As he did so, one of the snifter brigade looked up and held his gaze. Mann stared back. The man was white, early fifties, silver-haired, well-groomed. He looked like he had money and looked after himself. As Lucy left the bar, she nodded to the man.
‘Good evening, Inspector,’ she said, setting her drink down and positioning herself in the armchair oppos ite. Then, as she smiled at him, Mann saw the only similarity between her and Georgina – a mouth that formed an almost perfect circle, topped with a cupid’s bow. Hers was painted deep red to match her nails.
‘Do you know that man?’ He nodded in the direction of the bar.
‘I met him once. He’s a surgeon.’ She giggled softly, looking Mann over. ‘Lives in a nice apartment. Loves his clothes. Smart dresser, like you.’
Mann looked over. The surgeon was once again talking to his colleagues.
‘Do you always wear Armani? You look very handsome.’ She tipped her head to one side, picked up her Coke, searched for the straw with her tongue, and flicked it into her mouth.
The barman arrived and set down his drink. Mann looked hard at Lucy. She was full of games. She certainly had balls.
‘No, I don’t always wear Armani.’
‘Always wear designer, though? Not fake, made in Hong Kong. You wear genuine Paris, Milan. Am I right? Last time I saw you, you were in Valentino – very expensive – very nice.’
Mann smiled. She was definitely bold. This woman could handle herself and just about anybody else. She was one of Hong Kong’s survivors. You never got to see the ones who didn’t make it. There was no place for them in Hong Kong.
He picked up his attaché case and unzipped it. ‘You have a good memory, Lucy – impressive. Strange you didn’t remember this then …’ He threw the blow-up photo of Gosia’s tattoo in front of her. ‘Do you recognise it?’
Lucy glanced at the photo casually. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘You never saw Gosia Sikorska’s tattoo?’
‘This is Gosia?’ Lucy’s jaw dropped.
‘What’s left of her … yes. And you never saw the tattoo before?’
‘I knew she had a tattoo but I never saw it. She was very modest.’
Yeah, right …
‘… And you gave descriptions of other girls who lived in your apartment. Thanks for that. But they weren’t terribly detailed, were they, Lucy? I expected you to remember something about the women you lived with. You could be describing any foreign women, any place, anywhere. You lived with these women. You must have known them better than this?’ He rattled her statement.
Lucy shrugged. ‘You know how it is. When I first started to take in the Gwaipohs, I got to know them, made friends. But, after the first few, when they came and went so fast, I couldn’t be bothered any more. Mostly they kept themselves to themselves. They preferred it. I didn’t like to pry.’
You have to be kidding – you’re a woman – you never get tired of finding out about other people’s lives. That’s what made the female detectives so good at their job.
‘Well, if any more tattoos, birthmarks, glass eyes or wooden legs come to mind, you’ll let me know?’
‘Of course, Inspector. Immediately.’
‘And Lucy …’ Mann leaned forward and tilted Lucy’s chin upwards. ‘If you are hiding something, protecting someone, in the hope of getting something out of it, I should warn you, you may get more than you bargained for.’
Lucy called his bluff and raised him some.
‘I completely understand, Inspector.’ She pursed her lips around the straw and sucked.
Mann looked back at the bar – the surgeon had gone.
46
Mann took the MTR back to the Island. It was quicker than the ferry and there was something refreshing about it. So different from London or Paris, where you descended into darkness and depression that made so many want to finally seek that last resort and jump under an approaching train. In Hong Kong, after descending from the infernal noise, heat and crowds above, you found bliss: cool, air-conditioned, clean, white-walled, wide passageways, and hardly any people. Bliss …
He got out at Wanchai and cut across Johnson Road to the Bond Bar.
‘All right, Sam? How’s business? Plenty of punters?’ he asked as he came down the steps.
‘Very good, sir, and yours? Plenty of bodies?’ Sam grinned.
‘Word’s out, huh? Thought it wouldn’t take long. Enough bodies to keep me busy, thanks, Sam. Is Kim working tonight?’ he asked as he stepped inside.
‘Kim’s gone, Inspector.’
‘Gone where?’
‘She said she’d found a better job. Left today. She brought me this. Look …’ He extended his arm, and beneath the red satin sleeve was a diamond-encrusted fake Rolex. ‘It’s a really good one – keeps perfect time.’
‘That’s nice. Where did she go?’
‘Sorry, Inspector, she wouldn’t say.’
Mann went inside. There was a new girl at Kim’s station. She was auburn-haired, pretty, with a small muscular frame, pert breasts and nipples like pencil tips. She was dressed in lace knickers. Mann was just about to go over for a chat when he caught Honey Ryder looking at him from across the room. She was entertaining a couple of Chinese middle management who were escorting some visiting Americans and showing them a good time on the company account.
He made his way across to her. She looked up and beamed her beguiling gap-toothed smile at him as he approached. She’d exchanged the French knickers for a black thong and a laced red and black corset that ended beneath her small round breasts, pushing them up and emphasising them perfectly – like pink tennis balls. The corset would have looked tacky on anyone else, but on Honey it just looked like she’d been rifling through her mum’s ‘Saturday night’ drawer and was about to get found out any minute. There was always something about Honey that begged to be spanked.
‘Good evening, Johnny. The usual?’ she asked, wiggling like a child wanting the toilet.
‘Thanks, Honey. How’s things? I see you’ve got your convent outfit on.’ He perched on the suede-covered stool.
She giggled shrilly and spun away to make his drink. She dropped the ice noisily into his glass and overfilled it before spinning back round to face him.
‘Everything’s super, thanks, Johnny,’ she said, flicking her long fringe away from her eyes with a shake of the head.
He had forgotten how pretty Honey was: her green eyes and a sprinkling of freckles over her nose. She looked and was still a little girl, not woman enough for Mann. Whenever possible he tried to avoid the ‘fuckedup little girl’ ruined by some man or other – probably her father – who was still trying to make herself into a beguiling child to get love, even from strangers.
She leaned towards him and Mann wondered if she had freckles everywhere.
‘But I’m sure you want to know something else,’ she said, setting his drink down.
‘You’re right, Honey.’ Mann glanced towards Kim’s station. ‘Just curious. Where did she go? Did she say?’
Honey tilted her head to one side and twiddled with her hair, rocking back and forth on her heels. ‘She said you wouldn’t like it if you knew, Johnny. She said I wasn’t to tell you. But …’ She stopped rocking and sat up straight. ‘She’s not here and I am.’ She giggled, then looked up at him from beneath her fringe. ‘Remember that, Johnny. When you get lonely, you can always give me a call. I’ll bring my teddy bear and we can sleep over.’
‘That’s very sweet of you, Honey. I will certainly do that, and tell Teddy to wear stockings.’
She giggled again.
‘Where did she go, Honey?’
Honey rolled her eyes. ‘All right, you win. She went to work for some bloke – I don’t know who. She was offered a lucrative job, in-house somewhere.’
‘Where?’
‘All she said was that she didn’t actually know where it was going to be, that it might not even be in Hong Kong. She said she’d call as soon as she could. But she hasn’t.’ Honey pursed her lips into a tight, small smile and cocked her head to one side. ‘And you know how it is, Johnny …’ She wiggled again – playful and eager. ‘Out of sight, out of mind. Here’s my number in case you’ve lost it. And remember – any time, don’t hesitate, Teddy and I will be waiting.’
Mann walked back up to join Johnson Road, one of the main roads leading down to Causeway Bay. It was heaving. Every square inch was in motion. Intrusive neon flooded the street with false light and created day when it was night … Sam was having his usual banter with a few loud-mouthed tourists. Around the corner a scuffle was breaking out. Mann almost ignored it. There were plenty of coppers around patrolling the streets, they would deal with it in a minute. He almost turned and walked away, until he heard a familiar sound:
‘Hey, banana boy?’
The three men from the Havana Bar were walking his way. Mann turned and smiled. ‘Come for your lesson, boys?’
‘We heard you were some martial arts expert. We were in the Marines. We reckon we’re a match for you, banana boy …’
They fanned out – the two baldies to Mann’s right, the small one to his left.
Mann moved towards the passageway at the side of the Bond Bar, where the rubbish was dumped from the restaurants that backed onto it. He held up both his hands in a peace gesture then he stepped forward and put his arm around the shoulder of Ugly Fuck.
‘I can see you just want to have a good time: get drunk, get laid. Let me tell you where’s the best place to go for that.’
The big guy grunted his agreement. He was the most used to fighting and the most keen to avoid it when he could. Mann looked past him to the other two and saw Chip on his Shoulder nod, roll his eyes Mann’s way, and reach for a knife pouch he had hidden in his waistband.
Mann gripped Ugly Fuck hard and swung him round. The man took a heavy blow to the side of his head, delivered by Musclebound and meant for Mann. Ugly Fuck staggered back, hit the wall behind and sank into the piles of rotting veg waiting for collection. The punch had off-balanced Musclebound and Mann was right in thinking he didn’t have the speed in his feet to get out of trouble. While Mann’s left hand delivered a punch to Musclebound’s throat, his right hand snapped Chip on his Shoulder’s wrist. There was a sickening crack and a bestial scream as the smaller man dropped the knife and staggered off clutching his arm.
Mann walked away. ‘Hope you enjoyed your lesson, boys,’ he said over his shoulder.
47
Chan sat in the back of his car. He was early. He wanted to be there first. He had set up the meeting on mutual territory. It was in a small restaurant in Kowloon. It would be easy to guard. Privacy was paramount.
His driver drove past once. Chan peered inside. It looked dead. He had instructed the owner to shut it for the evening.
He drove past the restaurant again. The owner had closed it, as instructed. The place looked empty – dark. He saw the owner come nervously to the door of his restaurant and make last-minute checks to ensure all was as it should be. This was a big moment for him. It was a big moment for all of them. Chan was about to carve his own name in the triad world. He knew he wasn’t going to get promotion from his role of legal advisor, Paper Fan, to Incense Master and Deputy Mountain Master. They were dead men’s shoes and he couldn’t wait for that. So, if he couldn’t kill them off, he would spread sideways within the Wo Shing Shing and create his own society. He would use the cloak of the Wo Shing Shing to hold the men’s allegiance to him. CK would know nothing about it. Their loyalty would be to Chan. When he had collected enough powe
rful allies he would be in a position to oust his father-in-law. The promises of wealth and power would be enough to convert several prominent Chinese officials.
Chan parked up. He left the driver in the car and took three men with him. One of them was his secondin-command – Stevie Ho. Stevie held the rank of Grass Sandal. His role was one of collector of debts, organiser of meetings. He was a stocky man, taller than average, with a goatee beard and a bald head. He had sustained an injury across the right eye, and one side of his face didn’t match the other. He was an ex-policeman.
Stevie had joined the force at the same time as Johnny Mann. They were cadets together. After he graduated, Stevie was given the opportunity to go undercover and infiltrate the triad gangs. He’d accepted it gladly, and before three years was up Stevie was a fully fledged member of the Wo Shing Shing. The temptations proved too much. It was a common problem with undercover work. There was no middle road to walk. The other two men with them, Chan’s bodyguards, were ordinary members, the lowest ranking in the triad world.
The restaurant owner met them at the door. Bowing continuously, he stood back to let them pass.
‘Show us the room where it is to take place,’ said Stevie, and shook his hand with the secret handshake.
The owner led them through to the back room. It was barely lit and clouded with the pungent smell of incense. In the centre of the room an altar was laid out, with two brass single-stemmed candlesticks, three red stones, a brass bowl for burning paper, a jug of wine and five wine cups, a pot of tea and three tea bowls, and a small thin-bladed knife. To the right of the room, on the wall, was a mock gateway, above which was a piece of yellow paper.
‘Good,’ said Stevie, and nodded his approval in the direction of the owner, who bowed repeatedly and wiped the sweat from his head with his apron.
Stevie and the others were all dressed in simple cotton suits. He handed Chan his robes – a red Buddhist-style monk’s garment. The restaurant owner announced the arrival of the new recruit. Stevie went out to meet him and led him in. He was a short man, in his late sixties, wearing glasses. He had thinning hair and a large round head. He was an important minister in the Fujian Province in China.
