Take A Thousand Cuts

by TERESA HUNTER

“I'm off duty until this evening. I was planning to take a walk in the Botanical Gardens. Would you care to join me? You should see them while you’re here. Where are you staying?”

  “I'm at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club right now.”

  “The gardens are nearby – a short walk. Shall we say 11am, by the King George the Sixth statue? You’ll find it easily.”

  Julia collected her things and set off. The gardens may be a short walk, indeed she could see them towering above from the door of the club, but the climb up, in the humid, blistering heat, was exhausting. She reached the outer rim soon enough, but this jungle in the sky just kept soaring.

  What a crazy weird city, she thought as a heady aroma of exotic plants, palms and shrubs burst all around. Then a screwball cacophony of chattering, laughing and screaming tumbled down towards her. Huckleberry Finn, what in heaven’s name is that noise? she wondered. Gorillas in a city centre garden?

  She passed a map which highlighted directions to King George.

  “And there he is,” she spoke out loud. “Bizarre.” She gazed mystified at this quintessentially English King, complete with crown, dressed in all his coronation regalia, amid a jungle of exotic Asian foliage. In all this tropical heat too.

  “At least it isn't Queen Victoria,” she said to herself, swallowing a chuckle.

  “Oh, we have one of those too.”

  Julia jumped slightly and turned to see a beautiful Chinese woman, probably in her 30s. “Hello, I'm Kathy. Hope I didn't startle you,” she held out a friendly hand. Julia noticed how delicate it looked, and perfectly manicured.

  “No, no, absolutely not. I'm so pleased to meet you Dr...”

  “Call me Kathy.” She was tall by Chinese standards, slim, and extremely elegant, with startling dark eyes. A warm smile lit up her face. “Shall we walk for a while? Did you know Laura in London?”

  They headed in the direction of the chattering gorillas.

  “No, I didn't. I'm writing about the financial crisis in general. Some of the people I’m interested in worked with her.”

  “Ah – her time at Peak.”

  Julia nodded. “Maybe I'm barking up the wrong tree, but I’ve been told she could be a useful source. Maybe she has nothing to tell me. If I could just locate her I could extinguish her from my research.”

  They had reached the zoological section of the park. Julia was able to admire what turned out not to be gorillas, but De Brazza’s monkeys. Up close, they were noisy, mischievous devils, swinging powerfully around large cages like athletes or male dancers. Their random dynamic moves created a breath-taking ballet – a joy to watch.

  “Just like the alpha beasts of the financial jungle,” Julia couldn’t resist.

  “If you say so.” Kathy smiled.

  They stood watching, then walked on, past long-tailed lemurs, sloths with hideous faces, meercats. They exchanged smiles as a toddler tried to squeeze her hand, unsuccessfully, through a cage to pat a turtle.

  Eventually they came to an elegant fountain, spraying cooling jets. “Let's sit for a bit,” Kathy said.

  “I needed this,” Julia tilted her face into the chilling mist.

  “It's a long way to come for a chat about finance.”

  “You’re not the first person to say that.”

  Kathy twisted nervously scouring the other visitors. No one was close – too early in the day. A mother with two small children paddled in the fountain. An elderly woman several benches away fed some birds. A park keeper was clearing leaves. Julia thought of Silverman, and the cave. What is everyone so afraid of?

  Happy no one was close enough to hear, Kathy continued, “Julia I am so sorry to have to tell you, I’ve no idea where Laura is. Some of us are very worried about her.”

  This is not what I want to hear, Julia swallowed.

  “What do you know about bird flu?” Kathy asked.

  “There are reports from time to time. We live in terror of a killer epidemic for a couple of weeks, but nothing happens, so we move on.”

  “We're not so lucky here. In poor rural communities on the mainland, they are very unlucky. Regular outbreaks. Children account for about half of all reported cases and a third of deaths. They often care for their families’ domestic animals – feeding them, cleaning pens, gathering eggs. That's their role in life.”

  “And Laura?”

  “Word came of a particularly nasty outbreak, in the countryside around Guangzhou, not far from here. Health care is not so freely available to the rural poor as it is in Hong Kong, or the wealthy in the Chinese cities. We started to see cases. Laura volunteered to cross the border to help out for a while. She wanted to gather data to help us better understand the disease. The Government...”

  “Covers up outbreaks?”

  “We don't know. It's possible. So she offered her services to the local Communists.”

  “How long’s she been gone? Guangzhou, as you say, is not so far,” Julia mimicked Kathy’s pronunciation of Guangzhou, saying “gwanjo”.

  “She left a year ago. Nothing’s been heard since. We don't know if she's dead or alive.”

  “Surely if she's working for the Communists there must be some record.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn't you? We have tried. They say they have no knowledge of any such individual. You see...”

  Kathy bit her lip.

  “Yes,” Julia willed her to continue.

  “It’s easy to fall foul of the Authorities. Laura’s not always circumspect. I don't know what I'm afraid of.

  “But I am afraid −”

  CHAPTER 22

  JULIA CLASPED her hands in her lap and squeezed until her fingers hurt. This is shocking news, she thought. What can I say? This poor woman looks distraught. She thought back to the look on Rebecca Withers’ face when she confided her husband had disappeared.

  They lingered a while longer, exchanging pleasantries, before Kathy stood and said goodbye. Julia watched her walk away but remained sitting, soaking up the cool spray from the fountain, while contemplating the very dead end frustrating her. Her thoughts were interrupted by the buzzing of her phone in her pocket.

  It was Ludgate. “What the hell are you playing at?” The line crackled but she could still hear he was shouting at her.

  “London's burning while you sun yourself on a holiday island.”

  “I realise things have moved quickly back home,” she said calmly, trying to placate him.

  “Not as fast as you’re going to move. Get the next plane home, hear me? And straight into the office, I've had enough of your lone-ranger shenanigans.” He sounded like he was hyperventilating at the other end of the line.

  Phew, fur flying back at the ranch. She agreed to fly back immediately. Ignoring him would be the kiss of death to their relationship not to mention her career, so with a slightly heavy heart, she decided to return to the Foreign Correspondents’ Club – the nearest place she could access the internet, and book a flight.

  Still it hurt. I’ve come so far, discovered so little, and am returning before I’ve begun. She stood to make a move when the phone rang again.

  It was Pitcher. What on earth’s he calling for?

  “Why didn't you tell me to take my money out, Lightweight?” He might be at the opposite end of the world, but his voice could still pack a punch. “Am I going to lose all my savings?”

  The question millions would be asking this morning, Julia thought.

  “I very much doubt that,” she said. “Anyway, what are you worried about with your fat inspector's pension?”

  “That's years away.”

  “It may be closer than you think, given your recent record of solving crimes.”

  “Excuse me, I must have misheard. Is the line poor your end? Or has your story just fallen through?”

  Ouch, closer than you know.

  “My job's in no danger,” he continued. “It's your job I'd worry about. I see your friend Matthew Hopkins has his name all over the front page this morni
ng. How's the holiday?”

  That hurt. Julia could feel her blood pressure rising.

  “And if your friends in the City have fouled up,” he was in full swing. “The party's over. You’ll all be out of a job. There'll be riots.”

  “Well, go home and dream about all that overtime. I’m busy and you’re wasting my time,” she cut the call dead.

  Julia left the park and descended to Albany in the direction of the Foreign Correspondents’ Club. Her phone rang for the third time – a number she didn't recognise.

  “Chen, here,” came an unfamiliar voice. Then a light switched on. Chen was Crisp’s contact at the fraud squad.

  “Mr Chen, my name's Julia Lighthorn. I'm a London journalist. I was hoping we could perhaps meet up. Sadly, I’ve to cut my trip short. I'm leaving later today.”

  “Anything in particular?”

  “I'm interested in First State Bank.”

  “Ah! So is everyone,” he sighed gently. “If you can get here now, I'm free for the next hour. After that my day’s committed. We're in the International Finance Building by the harbour. Know the Maritime Museum?”

  “I'll find it,” Julia responded, pulling Richard’s map from her pocket.

  Traffic was gridlocked, the atmosphere stifling, as the midday sun baked down from an unforgiving sky. She pushed her way through crowds, then climbed several flights of stairs leading to a web of walkways. These straddled city centre highways, vibrating under the force of fast-moving traffic below.

  Once across, a maze of further steel skyways stretched ahead. Pedestrians raced along, like worker ants, eyes pinned to the ground.

  Creepy, she thought, walking swiftly past tacky shop fronts. I’ll be glad to get out of here.

  She froze at a crash of glass shattering, which sounded as though it was coming from round the corner. She took a left and the first thing she saw was a policeman standing guard outside a shop. Three yobs with baseball bats were smashing up the display windows. All other pedestrians had disappeared. Seeing her, the policeman blew his whistle and waved her on. Eyes fixed to the steel walkway, she scuttled past as fast as she could. A quick glance from the side of her eyes told her all she needed to know. It was a bookshop.

  She was shaking by the time she reached Chen’s office, where she was shown in straight away.

  “Sit down, Ms Lighthorn,” Michael Chen pointed to a seat opposite his at the desk. “I trust you’re having a good trip. How do you find our magnificent city?”

  For a moment she was tongue-tied. “Actually, I’ve just seen something very strange.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said in perfect English. “We are a city of surprises. Enjoy those you can.”

  And turn a blind eye to the rest, she thought, deciding against confiding in him further.

  “So you’re interested in First State,” he said.

  “Partly,” come on Julia focus, a voice inside said. “Its boss Adam Lee was murdered recently in Soho's Chinatown in London. Our police’ve hit a brick wall. I'm trying to find out anything I can, while I'm here.”

  “I'm not sure how I can help.”

  “Scofield Crisp suggested I should have a word with you.”

  “Ah! Mr Crisp,” said Chen.

  Obviously a name, which unlocks doors.

  “Yes, we have the bank on our radar. Off the record – not for publication, we're only days from arrests.”

  “Thank you Mr Chen, for the tip. I confess I wasn’t expecting such frankness.”

  That said, Julia thought, this is hardly the “hold the front page” story it once was. With almost every major institution in the West rocked or crumbling, will anyone care about an obscure Hong Kong bank?

  “We're examining the books now,” Chen continued. “It’s likely some executives will be taken into protective custody.”

  “Protective custody?” Julia raised questioning eyebrows.

  “Mr Lee might have been glad of some.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Accidents can happen anywhere, especially if your customers are gangsters.”

  “What makes you think...”

  His face darkened. “Money laundering, loans to terrorists, drug cartels, arms dealing, and that's all before simply atrocious management.”

  “You can see all this in the accounts?”

  “We're working on it,” he ticked a page lying on his desk. “First State won't be in business much longer.”

  Chen got to his feet, indicating the interview was over.

  “When I have something more, you’ll be the first to know,” he promised.

  “You have my details. Please let me know when the story's about to break. Anything early, ahead of the game’s always extremely useful.”

  “I'll see what I can do,” Chen nodded.

  CHAPTER 23

  WHEN SHE LEFT Chen, Julia was still shaken by the attack on the bookshop. It looked like a crime, but a policeman was standing watching. She shuddered. What a strange land, she thought. She took a different route back to the Foreign Correspondents’ Club, crossing three inter-connected shopping malls, then descending to ground level. She wended her way past traditional workshops. Tailors were lighting up their windows ready for afternoon and evening business. Made-to-measure could be bought for a fraction of the price in London. Brilliant greens flashed from jewellers’ windows crammed full of jade.

  Everywhere clamour and hubbub. Bustling back-streets a universe away from the modern high-rise city - a world of their own. Smells of street food marinated nostrils. Julia swallowed deeply as she passed Dai Pai Dongs, traditional fast-food hawkers. The noise was deafening, orders shrieked above clattering plates. Exotic shell fish, live eels, ugly swimming sea food, grisly crabs and lobsters, bright red, unlike anything she had seen before.

  Fascinating but definitely alien. She picked up her pace to the Foreign Correspondents’ Club, went straight to the workroom, logged onto her laptop and booked a flight home that evening. Next, she ordered two large cool drinks.

  “Boy, do I need this,” she said to the barman who laughed. She retreated to an armchair in a corner and called Richard about her change of plans.

  “Hardly a surprise,” he said. “I'll finish up and join you shortly.”

  Flight booked, she had to face the reality of her return. Ludgate would vent his anger by relegating her to the most demeaning stories. Hopkins will love it, she thought. She could fight back. A woman in a man's world, she had been forced to learn early how to battle her corner and when necessary draw blood. She could destroy competitors – but mainly she chose not to.

  Pointless destructive games, she sighed. They never interested her. They sucked energy and oxygen, leaving the players too exhausted to pursue the most crucial job in hand – collecting facts and presenting them accurately. Imaginations become distorted, if the main task each day is grabbing headlines and top slots. She hated all that, but it went with the territory. Sadly, there was little point being sweet and kind, if few with ethics sat at the table when big decisions were made.

  She turned her mind back to the disturbing scene at the bookshop. Police openly hand-in-glove with bully-boy thugs. Cast it any way you wanted, something had to be wrong. If this was an unsolicited attack, who could you report it to with the police involved?

  Her eyes scanned the walls hung with framed newspaper pages. Nothing excited her like spectacularly-constructed newsprint, and these were all award-winners, forged in blood, sweat and tears. For her, they symbolised humanity at its finest. She understood, as few do, the enormous achievement of taking something as ordinary as a blank piece of fairly cheap, scrappy paper, and transforming it into the first, often bloody draft of history.

  Academics could debate for years, indeed centuries, what particular calamities meant. But there would be nothing to discuss without that first draft, created by teams of dedicated wordsmiths, with the power to change the very path of events. Their words could protect the vulnerable, check the powerful an
d punish.

  She liked to think she followed in their footsteps, but self-deception was not one of her short-comings. Sufficiently rehydrated, she stood to read them. They told a similar story of war, violence, oppressive regimes and corruption. The earliest dated from the Japanese occupation when the club was set up in Chongqing, a city controlled by nationalist leader, Chiang Kai-shek. After Hiroshima, the club moved with the action first to Nanjing and then Shanghai as the struggle between the Nationalists and Mao Zedong's Communists intensified. It finally retreated to Hong Kong in 1949 when Mao's victory was complete.

  The bulk of the framed pages related to the Vietnamese War, in which the club played a vital role as a haven of R&R for the often exhausted international press corp. Pictures and stories relating to Charlie Company and its role in the My Lai massacre, which the US army tried to cover up, took centre stage.

  The death of dissident and Nobel peace prizewinner Liu Xiaobo, the rights campaigner, imprisoned several times by the People's Republic of China, was among the roll call of honour.

  There were other stories. She blushed with shame when she reached the five booksellers abducted when crossing into mainland China. They sold books in Hong Kong critical of the Communist regime.

  A very frightening world, she thought, and one far from the security of her desk in Southwark. Is this why I write about money, because I’m too big a coward to take the risks these front-line journalists take? She usually answered her life wasn’t a cop out, because in the end everything was about money.

  Who’re you kidding? Nothing’s more terrifying than raw violence. The scenes she witnessed that afternoon spoke volumes about her courage, or rather lack of it.

  She returned to the armchair and fired her laptop to catch up with the latest headlines. No reprieve. The financial storm raged on.

  Richard arrived a bit after three, with two fellow hacks in tow.

  “Mark Holloway, a colleague from the Journal,” he said introducing one of them. Hmm, he reminds me of a handsome greyhound, Julia thought.

  “And Ken Woo. He looks after crime for the South Morning China Post.”