There were entries and news articles about Peter’s support of the arts and various Hong Kong charities. There were photos of him and his second wife, Sylvia, a strikingly beautiful ex-Cathay Pacific air hostess, attending dinners and openings of boutiques and exhibitions. He had a house on The Peak and a luxury motor yacht moored in the Aberdeen Marina. He liked cars and had a collection the envy of many a businessman. His wife was driven around in an S Class Mercedes, from high tea to nail salon.
John heard the kettle click off and stood to prepare a fresh pot of coffee. He leaned against the kitchen counter and stared thoughtfully out the window. From everything he had read, Peter Croft was the model of a successful businessman. He had either never set a foot wrong or was brilliant at manipulating the media. There was nothing online to suggest why anyone would want him dead, and there was nothing John could find that would even justify killing him. He seemed like such a nice guy. John looked at his watch, it was after midday. He had five and a half days left. What should he do next? He wanted to see the man in the flesh; he didn’t know how it would help, but he had to do something and hoped observing him would give him some ideas. Walking back to the laptop, John googled the company website and found the address and phone number. He dialed, and the phone rang twice before being answered.
“Pegasus Land, how may I direct your call?”
“May I speak to Peter Croft please?” asked John
“One moment, please.”
The phone rang again before an American-accented Chinese lady answered. “Peter Croft’s office.”
“Hello, may I speak to Peter please?” John thought he had better sound on familiar terms.
“I’m afraid he is in a meeting at the moment. Who’s calling?”
John ended the call. At least he knew Peter was in Hong Kong. He then looked up the ferry timetable. There was one leaving in twenty minutes for the Central District where Peter’s office was located. John needed to get moving.
11
John gazed out the window as the high-speed catamaran backed away from the pier and turned, picking up speed as it passed the Disneyland Resort on the left before heading out into Victoria Harbour. He wouldn’t sit around and wait to be killed. He had to figure out a way to get out of this mess but didn't have much time. Killing again was not an option. The events in Bangalore still gave him nightmares, and he didn’t want to add to his tally, but he couldn’t see another way out. The thirty-minute ferry journey wouldn’t be long enough for him to find a solution, but he could at least observe the man, watch his movements while he worked out what to do next.
The ferry reached its cruising speed as it passed between the Tsing Ma Bridge on the left and the small uninhabited island of Kau Yi Chau on the right. Oil tankers and container ships from all over the world filled the channel, and in the distance could be seen the triple smokestacks of the Lamma Island Power Station. The view normally filled John with wonder and awe—not today. He saw nothing, his thoughts racing as the ferry veered slightly to pass an abandoned cruise liner, a former casino ship whose bankrupted owner had left it to rust away in the middle of the harbor. John had no one to confide in and no one he could trust. He certainly didn’t want to end up in prison. Whatever he decided though, he would keep the money. John wouldn’t experience this much stress without making it worthwhile.
John glanced around the cabin as they approached Kennedy Town on the western side of Hong Kong Island, its towering buildings emerging from the shore, the steep forest-clad hills of Pok Fu Lam and The Peak rising even higher behind them. At this time of the day, the ferry wasn’t full, and most of the occupants were dozing or staring at their phones. One passenger averted his gaze as John looked in his direction, and at first, John thought nothing of it, his mind pre-occupied. But an uneasy feeling made him look back. In the same row on the other side of the ferry sat a young man in a tracksuit, reading a newspaper. He sat at an angle, facing John's direction, and each time John had looked his way, the young man's eyes had been on him and not the newspaper. John shrugged. Maybe he was paranoid, but it wouldn't hurt to keep an eye on him, just to be sure.
The boat slowed as it passed the glass and red steel twin towers of the Shun Tak Centre. Some passengers, eager to be among the first to disembark, rose and stood in the aisles. As the boat hit the chop left by the departing Hong Kong to Macau Hydrofoil, the ferry rocked and rolled, causing the standing passengers to grab the chairs and handrails for support. John sat and watched. He didn’t need to be the first one off, and besides, he wanted to keep an eye on the Chinese man. In his peripheral vision, he saw he too remained seated.
The boat docked at Pier Three, and the passengers disembarked. John rose and followed them off the boat, down the ramp, through the ferry terminal, then up the steps onto the overhead walkway that led to the IFC building. Peter Croft’s office was in Queens Road Central, and John knew how to get there on foot, making the maximum use of the pedestrian over-bridges and air-conditioned walkways that linked the buildings in the Central District. The less time he spent outside in the heat and humidity, the better.
He walked through the IFC Mall, past the stores selling fancy designer goods and clothing, and paused outside a menswear store, admiring the clothing in the window display. At least that’s how he wanted it to look. Instead, he examined his reflection to see whether he was being followed. A few shops down stood the Chinese man, peering into the window of a store selling women’s lingerie. All those hours he had spent reading spy thrillers weren’t wasted. At least he had learned how to spot a tail. He didn’t know what to do about it but would have to be careful in the future.
Right now, he was only visiting Peter Croft’s office, something whoever was threatening him would expect him to do so there was little point in hiding. John walked on and cut through Exchange Square, then took the walkway that crossed Connaught Road before entering the air-conditioned route that led through Alexandra House and into The Landmark. He rode the escalator down to the ground floor and stepped out onto Pedder Street. He waited for the lights to change, then crossed with the crowd of office workers onto Queens Road. About a hundred meters further along, he reached the headquarters of Pegasus Land, Peter’s property company. John walked inside and studied the office directory on the wall in the building’s lobby. It was a thirty-story building, but Peter’s company appeared to only occupy the top three floors.
John walked back out onto the street and looked around. His Chinese follower stood across the road, staring into a jeweler’s window. Based on his choice of shops, the guy was either following him or looking for a present for a girlfriend. John thought for a moment, unsure of the next step. He contemplated going up to the office but had no idea what he would do when he got there. Spotting a cafe across the road, he decided to base himself there while he thought of a plan. There was a space by the window which he reserved using a magazine from the rack by the door and ordered a coffee from the counter. He rarely drank coffee in the afternoons, it kept him hyper for too long into the night, but he figured today he might need it. Anyway, there were lots of things he was doing now he wouldn’t normally do.
Sitting down by the window, he scanned the street outside, but he had lost sight of his Chinese watcher. He hoped the people he was up against were as amateurish as the guy following him. At least then, he might have a chance of outwitting them. He looked at his watch—two-thirty p.m. He settled in for a long wait.
12
Two and a half hours and three black coffees later, John watched as a black S Class Mercedes pulled up to the curb across the street. Two minutes later, he saw a man fitting Peter Croft’s description exit the building and climb into the back seat.
Shit! He was going to lose him. John jumped up and left the cafe, running to the curb as the Mercedes pulled out and merged with the evening traffic. John looked around frantically and spotted a taxi pulling up on his side of the road. He ran toward it as the passenger got out. John pushed past the couple about to get i
n and jumped into the back seat. He pulled the door shut as they cursed him in Cantonese and told the driver to follow the Mercedes.
The driver looked at him in the mirror and raised his hands, “Bingo ah? What are you saying?”
John wracked his brain for the little Cantonese he could remember, conscious the Mercedes was getting away.
“Tsek hoi, tsek hoi. Faidi la. Go straight, go straight. Quickly”
The driver shrugged and muttered something under his breath, then pulled out into the traffic.
John peered through the windscreen, straining to see where the Mercedes had gone. He could just make out the corner of the car about six cars ahead, paused at a red light, fortunately. He was lucky it was rush hour, and the traffic was heavy. The light ahead changed, and the traffic moved again. The Mercedes indicated and turned right, headed down the hill, then turned right again onto Des Voeux Road.
“Jun yao, turn right,” John told the taxi driver. The Mercedes made its way east along Des Voeux Road, weaving between the double-decker buses and trams. It crossed over Pedder Street and headed down Chater Road before pulling to the curb next to the back entrance of the Mandarin Hotel.
John told the taxi driver to stop, “Lido yau lok.” He watched as Peter climbed out of the Mercedes, straightened his jacket, and walked into the hotel.
John thrust a fifty dollar note, double the meter rate, over the front seat and climbed out, ignoring the barrage of thank yous from the previously grumpy driver.
The hotel was close to Peter’s office, it would have been quicker to walk, but what was the point of being a millionaire if you can’t be driven everywhere?
John crossed the footpath, pushed open the glass double doors, and entered the corridor that led from the street toward the hotel lobby. He could just see Peter turning left after the reception and entering the doorway that led to the Captain’s Bar. John followed.
13
A short flight of steps led down from the lobby into the Captain’s Bar. John paused at the top of the steps as his eyes adjusted to the subdued lighting and surveyed the bar. He hadn’t been there in a long time and wanted to familiarize himself with the layout again before finding a spot to observe Peter Croft.
Two elderly Chinese barmen in white shirts and black ties were busy preparing drinks behind a bar running the length of the left side of the room. In front of the bar was a row of high-backed leather stools, some of them occupied, the rest of the bar filled with comfortable, red leather easy chairs and sofas arranged around tables. With its wood-paneled ceiling and framed black and white prints on the walls, the bar had the aura of a luxurious gentlemen’s club.
Peter sat by himself in a booth in the far corner, staring at his phone and absentmindedly popping peanuts into his mouth from the small silver bowl in front of him. John sat on a barstool and positioned himself where he could observe Peter’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He watched as a Filipina waitress delivered a drink to Peter’s table, then realizing he needed to blend in, scanned the selection of bottles behind the bar, signaling one of the barmen.
“Yes, sir?”
“I’ll have a Botanist and tonic, lots of ice, slice of orange, please.”
“Excellent choice, sir.”
John grinned, convinced the barman would say that to everyone. The waitress appeared at his side with two small silver bowls, one with peanuts, the other with potato chips and slid them across the bar top in front of him.
“Here you go, sir.”
John turned to thank her, and she gave him a big smile. She was pretty with big eyes and caramel skin and held his gaze for a moment longer than was necessary. He looked away, feeling uncomfortable.
Since Charlotte died, he hadn’t allowed himself to think about having a relationship again. The pain was still raw, keeping him awake at nights. He knew no-one could ever replace her.
His drink arrived, and he took a sip, savoring the refreshing taste of the gin, the orange slice highlighting the drink’s botanicals. He nodded his approval to the barman and pulled out his phone, pretending to study it while watching Peter in the mirror.
After a couple of minutes, an overweight Chinese man in a grey suit and blue silk tie joined Peter. The suit was well cut, his shoes expensive looking and highly polished. They shook hands, and Peter beckoned to the waitress to order a drink. Once the drink arrived, they huddled together, deep in conversation. The Chinese man looked familiar to John, but he couldn’t place him. He was in early middle age but balding prematurely, his hair combed over from one side in a vain attempt to hide the baldness. His short, fat fingers rapidly emptied the bowl of peanuts as his eyes darted nervously around the room.
After a while, Peter rose and walked toward the men’s toilet near the back of the bar. His companion sat back in the booth and waved to the waitress, asking for more peanuts. John watched him in the mirror and couldn’t shake off the feeling he had seen this man before, he just couldn’t remember where or when.
The man’s phone buzzed on the table, and he picked it up and answered. He frowned, and scanned the room, looking at everyone in the bar. His eyes met John’s in the mirror, and he quickly looked away and ended the call. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and stood up just as Peter returned from the toilet. He whispered something to Peter before turning and hurrying to the door, leaving a puzzled-looking Peter sitting alone. Whoever it was on the call, John suspected it had something to do with him. As he sipped his drink and pondered his next move, he felt someone standing beside him. Looking up, in the mirror he saw Peter standing beside him, signaling to the barman for a drink. He caught John’s eye and smiled.
“I feel I know you. Have we met?”
“I don’t think so.”
Peter nodded slowly, studying his face, then proffered his hand. “I’m Peter”
John hesitated, unsure about giving his real name, then rolled with it, and shook his hand.
“John.”
“Hi, John. You looked familiar, and I thought our paths may have crossed. Hong Kong can be a small city,” Peter grinned. “Do you mind if I join you?” He didn’t wait for an answer, pulling up a bar stool and sitting down.
John eyed him warily, wondering what he should do. Here was the man someone had instructed him to kill sitting beside him. Not at all how he had expected the evening to pan out.
“Can I buy you a drink? What are you drinking?”
“Ah, thanks. Botanist and tonic.”
Peter pointed at John’s glass, “One of these, thanks, Alvin. In fact, make it two, it looks good.”
“Certainly, Mr. Croft.”
Peter turned back to John. “So, what do you do, John?”
John wasn’t sure how much to tell him, so he decided on the bare minimum. “I work for a financial services company here in Central. How about you?”
“I’m in real estate,” Peter replied modestly, giving no clue to his wealth and the size of the company he ran.
The drinks arrived, and Peter held his glass up. “Cheers.”
John clinked his glass against his and took a sip.
“Wow, that’s good,” exclaimed Peter. “I’ve never had Botanist with an orange garnish before. It’s fantastic.”
John smiled. It was easy to see why Peter was a popular member of Hong Kong’s social scene. He had a natural, easy-going charm, the conversation flowed, and John forgot his earlier inhibitions. Peter seemed genuinely interested in John’s life, asking questions and paying attention to his answers even though John was reluctant to give too much away. It was hard for John to see why anyone would want to kill the man. The time passed quickly, John relaxing more and more as the conversation flowed, the first drink soon followed by another. Before long, Peter pulled back the cuff of his shirt and looked at the time on his gold Patek Phillipe.
“I have to go, John. I have a dinner reservation. It’s been a pleasure talking to you.” He stood and waved to the barman. “Alvin, please get my friend here another drink
and put it on my account.”
John protested, pushing his stool back to stand up.
“No, not at all, John. It’s my pleasure. I’ve enjoyed our chat.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a silver card case. Opening it, he took out a business card and handed it over to John. “If you ever need anything, please feel free to give me a call. My private number is on the back.”
He shook John’s hand, patted him on the shoulder with his free hand, then turned and headed out of the bar.
John watched him leave and sat back down as his fresh drink arrived. He stared at the business card in his hand. He was no closer to resolving his problem, and to make matters worse, he now actually liked his target.
On the bar top, his phone buzzed. He picked it up and looked at the screen.
Enjoy your drink. You have five days left.
14
John glanced around the room, the buzz from the gin and tonics erased by the arrival of the text message. A young couple sat close together in one of the darker corners, whispering in each other’s ears. Two Japanese businessmen in grey suits discussed some documents laid out on their table. To John’s right, at the end of the bar, an elderly expat, his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up, sat nodding off into his whiskey. The waitress caught his eye as he looked around and winked at him. He looked away. The two barmen busied themselves, polishing glasses and wiping down the bar top. There was no sign who had sent the text or who was watching him.
As he sat there, sipping his drink, he thought about what to do next. He was actually no further forward than yesterday, had no idea who was threatening him, and had no desire to kill Peter. He had killed before, but that was justice. Even so, it hadn’t made it any easier, and the memory still kept him awake at night. There had to be another way.
A Million Reasons Page 4