BLOOD DRAGON

by Freddie P Peters

  He attacked the lamb, cooked pink to perfection. The burgundy, an excellent Romanée-Conti, also hit the spot. Still, despite the quality of the food and drink, Jack’s mind kept returning to Ollie’s papers.

  He interrupted his dinner and returned to the last document. In the methods section as well as in the discussion paragraph, Ollie was making a powerful case for the use of bioinformatics to deliver the rapid solutions needed to combat the problems he perceived … Many people liked talking strategy without knowing what it meant. To Jack, Ollie Wilson had a strategic mind if he knew one.

  Jack returned to his food and wine. He pushed his body into the comfortable back of the seat, moved the small pillow around to help his body relax in the large chair. One thing was now certain, Ollie Wilson had a knack for identifying thorny issues and championing proposed solutions. He would be a controversial employee who would not give up easily if he felt he was doing the right thing.

  * * *

  Pole’s attempt to make light of the forthcoming meeting with Commander Ferguson had fallen flat. Nancy let him return to Scotland Yard with a promise he would explain what was happening as soon as he came back, which she hoped would be that evening.

  Nancy could not help but smile. She enjoyed raising a quizzical eyebrow at Pole when she knew she was in the right, yet a nascent sense of unease had crept into her mind. She knew Ferguson. She had been involved in the terrorism case alongside Pole. There was no reason he couldn’t mention Ferguson’s name to her unless something was amiss.

  She stood in the lounge, still bearing the marks of last night’s visit and this morning’s rush. She started methodically clearing away cups, teapots, plates, rugs and pillows. For a very short moment she remembered an earlier time in which she had welcomed someone else, someone who had propelled her into the world of crime investigation.

  Henry Crowne had entered her life unexpectedly and left it without a word. She understood it had to be that way, but she still often wished he had told her what he had decided to do to redeem his mistakes.

  Nancy inhaled deeply as she loaded the last of the crockery into the dishwasher. Her new role as a Scotland Yard consultant was rewarding. She could finally use her talents as lawyer and renowned Queen’s Counsel to help the Met, rather than defend criminals of dubious character to satisfy her ego.

  Her iPhone rang. Nancy snapped out of her musings.

  Philippe’s voice sounded hollow. “It’s Amy … she’s not responding to her mobile. It’s been more than 24 hours.”

  “I presume you’ve tried her hotel room and the Gallery in Hong Kong?”

  “No sign of her.” Philippe’s voice wobbled.

  “Are you still at the Gallery?” Nancy closed her eyes to steel herself.

  “Yes, I’m still in Islington.”

  “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” She hung up. She ran to the bathroom to check the dressing over her face wound. It had bled a little but not enough to warrant a change. She returned to the lounge, stuffed her yellow ruled pad into a satchel and rang for a cab. Within five minutes she had hopped into it.

  As she pushed the doors of the Gallery open, she found Philippe in the middle of a phone conversation. He was waving one arm in the air and for a moment Nancy hoped he had finally found Amy. The picture changed when he turned around. He looked dishevelled. His eyes were rimmed with red behind his round glasses.

  He dropped into his chair, the phone fell from his hands, hitting the desk with a light thud. Nancy now knew Amy was missing.

  “They found her bag and mobile phone on Victoria Harbour, near one of the ferry terminals from where passengers sail to Kowloon.”

  “Could they have been stolen?” An unlikely explanation. Amy would have called to let them know.

  Philippe simply gazed at her in silence. The realisation of what had happened had just started to sink in. Nancy shivered. She recalled the previous conversation she’d had with him. Amy had found an article about China during the Deng Xio Ping days. But who could be concerned about an article dealing with a bygone era? It had to be an accident … A robbery gone wrong.

  Nancy reached Philippe and dropped into the chair opposite his.

  “I’m going out there,” Philippe mumbled. His body seemed to have lost all its energy. “I’m going out there,” he repeated, hoping to convince himself he could spring into action.

  “Is it safe?” Nancy stretched out her hand to reach his arm.

  “Why should it not be?” He half turned his head towards her. His gaze still looked towards a horizon she could not reach. Nancy’s hand closed on his arm but there was no response.

  “I don’t know yet.” Her thoughts felt disorganised. She tried to focus on that question. Why would it be unsafe?

  “What was Amy working on? Was she meeting any artists … controversial people, dissidents?”

  Philippe nodded. “We are continually meeting artists … and all artists are controversial … what’s different there?”

  “No one new?”

  “No … only the people we have been working with for months.”

  “What else?”

  Philippe’s face went blank for a moment. His eyes widened suddenly. He turned to face Nancy.

  “The only new piece of research she was working on was a piece concerning …” Philippe’s eyes blinked a few times.

  Nancy’s throat tightened. “… my father.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Are you OK?” Her head turned round to the left. Nat had raised the visor of her helmet so that Cora could hear her shout. Cora gave Nat the thumbs up.

  The traffic light turned green and she throttled up the motorbike. They had passed King’s Cross Station and the British Library on Euston Road. In a few minutes they would arrive at University College Hospital. DS Branning, the arty gang’s new hero, was following in his unmarked car. He had grumbled but reluctantly agreed she could ride with her friend when she had threatened to evade his protection if he did not let her.

  She felt a little silly now, but it was so much nicer to ride on the back of Nat’s bike than to share a car smelling of stale cigarettes. Nat had paid attention though, making sure she did not leave him behind, stuck at the traffic light. They reached their destination and Nat dropped Cora at the entrance to UCH. She walked the bike along the wide pavement to find the bike rack at the side of the building.

  Cora quickly climbed the short flight of stairs that led to the large revolving doors. She walked in and turned around to wait for Branning. Now that she was on her own, she felt more exposed than she’d like to admit. But her protection officer appeared after a couple of minutes.

  He was walking up the same stairs as she had, body bent forward, pushing against the cold wind that was suddenly blowing from the North East. Cora shook her head. So British … only a flimsy jacket but a thick woollen scarf to fend off the elements.

  They walked together to the lifts, heading for the floor where Ollie was being kept alive.

  “You don’t mind if I join you?” Nat had just managed to catch up with them as the lift doors were closing.

  Cora shook her head. It felt comforting that a friend wanted to visit, giving her hope that Ollie might yet recover. Perhaps it would do him good to hear a familiar voices apart from her own. She had read this online the day before as she was researching the impact of regular interactions on coma patients.

  The PC that was watching Ollie’s room stood up to let them in. Cora stopped at the door. She could hear the clicks and the rushing sounds of the monitors that had been plugged into her boyfriend’s body. She turned towards her friend, no longer certain she wanted her to see him looking so vulnerable. But it was too late. Nat had already moved into the room. Her gaze ran over Ollie’s white shape underneath the bed covers, but Cora could not make out her expression … fascination, remote interest … Wha
tever it was, it was not what Cora had expected.

  Cora walked in, ignoring Nat and her strange attitude. She moved slowly as though she was approaching someone asleep. She stopped when she reached the side of his bed. Her stomach tightened. She took her time to sit down and place her hand into Ollie’s.

  Nat walked over and put her hands on the bars at the foot of the medical bed. “He looks so peaceful.”

  “Ollie can probably hear us.”

  “Really? That’s incredible.” She kept gazing at Ollie as she responded.

  Cora adjusted her fingers around his, finding room amongst the various tubes and attachments. She wanted to talk to him, to tell him that she didn’t care what had happened. That she would understand if he explained why he had got involved with drugs again.

  But it was no use, the words didn’t come, and Nat’s presence made it impossible.

  “Had he been using a lot?” Nat’s voice sounded grating in the near silence of the room.

  “I told you, Ollie can hear us.”

  “Sorry … though I can’t imagine Ollie being disturbed by an honest conversation.”

  She was right. Ollie liked honest conversations. He made a point of it. Still, Cora gave Nat a look that asked her to stop. But her friend did not seem to notice.

  Cora squeezed Ollie’s fingers gently and raised them to her lips. She half stood up, bent towards his face and kissed his cheek.

  “We should be going.” She would return later, on her own.

  Nat’s fingers slowly slid from the metal bars. She moved backwards without taking her eyes away from Ollie. Cora stayed bending over him for a moment, replaced his hand gently on the sheets and turned around to leave. Her eyes were wet with tears.

  “That was quick.” Branning turned from talking to the other officer.

  “Could you give me a lift back home … please?” Cora made an effort to control her voice.

  “Did he say anything?” Branning asked almost mechanically.

  Cora nodded. “He did.”

  * * *

  It was not the cold, harsh wind that pushed against her that made her eyes water. Nancy had done her best to keep a clear mind and help Philippe. She wanted to tell him that there might be hope of finding Amy alive, but she didn’t believe it herself. It would have been too easy to play the hopeful card.

  Philippe’s accusations, although he had not spoken them aloud, shook her because they were so true. She had asked the people she knew for help - Philippe, Amy, Pole – with her quest.

  Her father had disappeared over 30 years ago. She was only a teenager when he had left the safety of Paris and his family for China. At the time she had moved from hope to grief and finally to rage. She had buried his image for years until now.

  She had lived with false assumptions for far too long.

  She had to know.

  She had to know what the true story was.

  But it was she who needed to do the finding out. Shame slapped her in the face. She needed help … that much was certain, but she also needed to be the one taking the risks associated with unearthing the past.

  Her father had been an artist and an activist. He had always been proud about his search for truth, whatever that might reveal. He had been a fierce supporter of Mao Zedong until he became a fierce critic, causing him and his family to escape the Cultural Revolution reprisals.

  A car horn startled Nancy. She had started crossing the road that led to her apartment, ignoring the traffic. The woman driver at the wheel looked shaken. She pulled her window down, asking Nancy whether she was alright.

  She was, thank you.

  “Idiot.” Nancy muttered and the insult was not directed at the driver. She pushed open the heavy doors of the entrance to her building. The glass doors that came after opened automatically.

  “Good evening.” Nancy waved to the new security guard. The property had recently been equipped with enhanced security so that someone monitored the entrance and the gardens 24/7. Nancy did not like it much, but it had proved useful after the Henry Crowne affair had reached the papers.

  George waved back a friendly good evening.

  The lift took her directly to the top floor. She entered and dumped her coat onto the sofa. She stood in the middle of the room torn between sadness and helplessness, and an overwhelming feeling of anger.

  She had been a fierce lawyer, the youngest QC ever to take silk at the age of 35. She had defended war criminals and international fraudsters as well as victims of international crimes.

  But the review of her illustrious career did not help her. Her link to China was of a different quality, personal, intimate … scary.

  Nancy pushed her coat away and sank onto the couch. She lowered her head into her hands and sat there for a while.

  A text pinged on her iPhone. Pole was letting her know he was on his way …

  A très vite. She replied and dropped the phone into her lap. The room was in almost complete darkness. She had not turned on the light when she’d arrived and had barely noticed the twilight gloom deepen.

  Nancy stood up heavily, walked to the wall and switched on a few lamps scattered around the room. … she moved slowly back to her seat.

  She had absentmindedly dropped the morning mail onto a coffee table. She started opening a large envelope and a document slid out of it.

  The title page read:

  Contemporary Art in China under Deng Xiao Ping. Amy’s covering note simply said:

  Amazing.

  * * *

  “He has, Sir.” The voice of DS Branning sounded muffled.

  “Are you free to speak?” Pole stopped his bike to listen to what his officer had to say.

  Branning described the hospital visit. He had tried to prise a few words out of Cora, but her answers to all his questions had been monosyllabic at best.

  Pole toyed with the idea of patching in Nancy, but if she became involved it would have tobe official. The consultancy contract she had with the Met made provision for her to be called upon by a number of DCIs.

  Pole would have to notify Marsh. There was little doubt Marsh would not object. If anything, he would be enthusiastic … even ecstatic.

  Pole frowned. He would wait until tomorrow to make a decision on Nancy’s involvement, torn between the desire to avail himself of her exceptional skills and the annoyance of having The Super trying to woo his girlfriend.

  Branning had finished his report and was waiting on the other end of the phone.

  “Who is on night shift?”

  “Helen McAdam, Sir.”

  “Fine … brief her about what you know. She may get something out of Cora.”

  Branning grumbled an answer. Did he have to be a girly to get Cora to speak? “I’m not unsubtle, Sir.”

  “I never said that, Mike.” Pole smiled. “Since the SOCO team incident at Cora’s flat, you’re the arty gang’s hero anyway.”

  “Maybe …” Branning grumbled back.

  Pole finished his journey back to Nancy’s. He slowed down in front of the drive entrance, flashed his fob at the electronic eye and parked his bike in the garage for the night. All was quiet down there. The parking slots were all occupied apart from one.

  Pole secured his bike and walked slowly towards the lift. He stopped for a moment in front of the empty parking space. Henry Crowne’s car was no longer there and his apartment on Nancy’s floor had been left unoccupied since he had left to serve his prison sentence at HMP Belmarsh.

  He had been condemned for financial terrorism as an IRA member, having worked in some of the largest financial institutions in the City of London. He had spent barely three years at the high security unit in Belmarsh before achieving a feat no one had ever managed before … escape. Pole knew why and how that had happened, knowledge which made him vulnerable.

  Pole shook
his head to chase away the memory. Nancy knew little of this and he intended to keep it that way.

  Pole let himself into Nancy’s flat with his key. The lights were low and she was huddled on her sofa, a document resting on the seat next to her. Something was wrong and he wondered whether Cora had called with some bad news.

  “Comment vas-tu?” French had always been the language of choice that brought them closer.

  “Une autre mauvaise nouvelle …” Nancy raised her head and stretched a hand towards Pole.

  “Is it Ollie?”

  “No … Although I really should catch up with Cora.” Nancy wanted Pole to put down his bike jacket and helmet and come to sit next to her. “It’s Amy … I’m not sure you remember her?”

  “You mean Philippe’s assistant?”

  Nancy nodded. She squeezed his hand, hard. “She is missing …” Nancy gave a short exhale. “No … I should say it as it is. She is almost certainly dead. Her bag and mobile phone have been found on Victoria Wharf in Hong Kong, near one of the ferry lines that goes to Kowloon.”

  Pole frowned. “Was it an accident?”

  “I don’t know, Jonathan. It might be, but I can’t help thinking that her asking questions about my father might have something to do with it.”

  “You don’t know that.” Pole shot back and Nancy gave him a sad smile.

  “As much as I would so very much like to think that way … it’s unlikely.”

  “People do get murdered for no apparent reason, or even have unforeseen accidents. It does happen.” Pole’s calm voice almost seemed to reassure her.

  But after hesitating Nancy shook her head.

  “She managed to unearth a very interesting and important document that creates a link to my father. He is mentioned in it under his artist’s name.”

  She showed Pole the document that she had just moved so he could sit next to her. Contemporary China Art under Deng Xiao Ping. The title looked innocuous. Pole started flicking through the pages.