18
In a low voice, John explained what had happened in the last two days. Thapa listened without saying a word, and when John finished, he sat back in his chair and studied the wall behind John’s head. After a few minutes, he leaned forward.
“I think you need to be careful about David Yu. Something doesn’t sound right. I’ll ask around and see if anyone knows more about him.” He turned to the counter. “Celia, you can take a break now. I’ll look after everything. Come back in an hour.”
“M goi sai, Thapa, thank you.” She smiled, removed the apron from her waist, and grabbed her purse and phone from beneath the counter before walking out the door.
Thapa walked to the door and locked it, smiling apologetically at a customer about to enter, then flipped the open sign to closed. He fixed a fresh coffee for John, then removed his phone from the back pocket of his jeans and dialed.
For the next thirty minutes, Thapa worked the phone, asking question after question, switching effortlessly from Cantonese to Nepalese to Hindi and back again while John drank his coffee. John couldn’t follow the conversation, his knowledge of Cantonese limited to giving directions to a taxi driver, and he didn’t remember much Hindi from his time in India. Instead, he used the time to clear his head. He realized there wasn’t much he could do until he had gathered more information. He had to trust his subconscious to come up with a solution, and it couldn’t do that unless he gave it time. He sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and let the sound of Thapa’s conversation wash over him. After thirty minutes, Thapa ended the call he was on and moved back to the table, sitting down again in front of John. John opened his eyes and looked at Thapa’s face. He had a thoughtful expression on his face and a glint in his eye.
“Well?”
“The rumor is your friend David is having some money problems.”
“Really, I thought he was supposed to be super rich?”
“Well, yes, but he has some naughty habits. Apparently, he has a taste for baccarat and expensive ladies from Central Europe. According to my sources, he has dropped large sums at the tables in Macau and has borrowed money from some nasty people.”
“What kind of sums are we talking about?”
“Apparently millions.”
“Hmmm, okay.” John leaned back and gazed out the window. “But why would a successful businessman do something so stupid? He has all the money he needs, a beautiful house on the Peak, a stable of expensive cars. Why blow it all gambling?”
Thapa nodded. “It makes little sense to you or me, John, but gambling is a disease. Hong Kong people are always gambling. Look how the stock market goes up and down. Half the people have no idea what they are buying. They see the shares go up, and they jump in. David Yu is no different.” Thapa gave a wry smile. “But perhaps if he stuck to shares, he wouldn’t be in such a mess.”
“His father has more than enough money to bail him out, surely?”
“John, David Yu’s father is old school. He is a self-made man who built himself up from nothing. The story goes that at the age of fifteen he swam for two days across the water from China to Hong Kong in search of a better life. He is a tough, hard man who has been very successful and rules his company with an iron fist. David, on the other hand, has never known hardship, was born into luxury, and hasn’t proven himself in business. Most of the businesses he has started have failed, or his father has bailed him out. Compared to his father, he is a failure. Do you think he would run to him to tell him he has lost millions in Macau?”
“No, I suppose you’re right,” John pursed his lips and nodded. “But if it is him behind the murder threat, why does he want to have Peter killed?”
“I have no idea, John. Absolutely no idea. But you need to find a way to get out of it.”
19
After sitting with Thapa, John went for a walk to clear his head. Movement always helped him think more clearly, especially running, but he was in the middle of the city so a walk would have to suffice. He headed downhill toward Queen’s Road, then turned and climbed the steep hill toward the Foreign Correspondents Club before turning right along Wyndham Street. The lunch rush was starting, and the bars and restaurants along Wyndham Street were filling up. But John wasn’t hungry, his mind on more important things than food. He couldn’t fit the pieces of the puzzle together. Nothing made any sense.
If David Yu was the man behind the messages, why would he want Peter Croft killed? What did he stand to gain? John remembered reading in some mystery novel or other you should “follow the money.” If what Thapa’s contacts said were true, David had a gambling problem and was heavily in debt. Therefore, would he gain financially by Peter’s death? Would his death give him control of the company? There had to be some major benefit, otherwise he wouldn’t waste a million dollars on it, especially if he was already in debt. John shook his head in frustration. He didn't know enough about company law to understand the implications, and even if he figured that out, why had David Yu chosen him? He paused at the Mid-Levels escalator, unsure which way to go. The streets were becoming increasingly crowded as workers poured out of their offices in search of a bite to eat, so he headed against the pedestrian flow and went downhill, taking the path through the lanes that ran under the overhead walkway and escalator. John reached Queen’s Road again and turned right, heading back toward Pedder Street. He had no idea where he was going, just wandered aimlessly, filling in time while his subconscious did the work. His progress was much slower now, the footpaths packed with people. Spotting a gap in the traffic, he jogged across the road to the marginally less crowded northern side, grimacing as the movement reminded him of his beating. As he weaved his way through the oncoming pedestrians, he thought he heard his name being called. He looked around but couldn’t see who was calling him and assumed he had misheard.
“John.”
A waving hand caught his eye, and he spotted Peter climbing out of his Mercedes parked at the curb.
John pushed his way through the crowds toward Peter and held out his hand. With both hands, Peter grasped his and greeted him warmly.
“We meet again. How are you?”
“Good thanks, Peter, and yourself?”
“Excellent. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.” Peter looked him up and down, noticing his casual dress. “Day off today?”
“Yes, it’s a quiet week, and I had a few errands to run.”
“What happened to your face?”
John’s hand went to his cut lip. “Oh, I ah… walked into a door at home.”
“Ouch. Sounds painful. Hey, do you have any plans this evening? My wife is out of town, we can meet up for a drink and a bite to eat.”
John couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough, and besides, the more he got to know Peter, the easier he might get himself out of this mess.
“Yeah, sure, I’m free. What time?”
“I’ve got a couple of late meetings, but why don’t you pop by my office at seven, and we can leave from here.” He pointed at the building behind John. John turned and realized he was outside Peter’s office.
He turned back and smiled, “Sure, see you at seven.”
Peter patted him on the shoulder and headed through the crowds toward his office while John looked at his watch. Plenty of time for him to go home, freshen up, and change.
20
At seven o’clock on the dot, John walked into the building that housed the offices of Pegasus Land.
He waited for the lift, and when it arrived, stepped aside as it disgorged its load of office workers heading home after a hard day’s work.
Once empty, he stepped inside, pressed the button for the thirtieth floor, and stood back, watching the numbers on the screen above the keypad as the lift ascended. He felt nervous and checked his reflection in the lift’s shiny steel doors. He had put on his best casual shirt and pants in a vain attempt to match Peter’s sartorial style. He didn’t have the same budget as Peter, but it would have to do.
&nb
sp; The lift doors opened on the thirtieth floor, and John walked out into a spacious, wood-paneled lobby. Directly in front of him, a Nepalese security guard sat behind a polished wooden counter. Behind him on the wall hung a large abstract canvas. John didn’t recognize the work or the artist, but he was sure it was expensive. He walked toward the counter, and the guard looked up and got to his feet.
He smiled, “Can I help you, sir?”
“Ah yes, I’m here to see Peter Croft. My name is John.”
“Certainly, sir, just one moment.”
John looked him over as he picked up the phone and dialed an internal number. He was a smart man maybe in his early fifties and looked like he was an ex-Gurkha, still fit with a military-style haircut.
Replacing the phone, he looked up at John. “Please follow me, sir.”
He led John to a door to the right of the counter and punched in a code on a keypad. The keypad beeped, and the ex-Gurkha pushed open the door and stepped inside, waiting for John to follow him. He pointed down the corridor.
“The office at the end there, sir.”
John smiled his thanks and walked along the corridor. Modern art, similar to the one hanging in the reception area, lined the wall to his left, and to his right, glass partitions gave a view of rows of cubicles, most of the desks empty, the computers shut down. A window on the far side looked out across the skyline of the Central District, the towering buildings lit up like fairy lights.
As John reached the full-height glass wall at the end of the corridor, he could see Peter sitting inside, on the phone, deep in conversation. He noticed John approaching and waved him inside. John walked in, closing the door behind him. Peter smiled and pointed toward the leather couch near the window. He mouthed “Sorry” and continued with his conversation. John looked around. The view through the floor to ceiling windows was sensational, the office having clear lines of sight across Victoria Harbour toward Kowloon. The highest building, the ICC on the Kowloon side, took center stage, its top shrouded in clouds while the light show on its facade portrayed eagles and rabbits, clouds and thunderstorms. John could watch it for hours and marveled at the technology that created such an effect. He doubted he would get any work done if the office had been his, preferring to gaze out the window all day at the ever-changing view. He switched his attention down toward the harbor where sampans jostled for space with inter-island ferries and fishing boats, the harbor full of activity whatever the time of day.
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
John turned toward Peter, a big grin on his face. “Yeah, I never tire of the Hong Kong skyline. It’s like Bladerunner meets Gotham City.”
“Ha, you’re right,” Peter grinned. “Sometimes, it’s a little too distracting.” He picked up the phone again, “I’ve just got to make one more call, I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
Peter wedged the phone between his shoulder and his chin as he shuffled through a pile of files on his desk. He spoke into the phone, “One moment please,” then covered the mouthpiece with his spare hand and looked up at John.
“Could you do me a favor? I need a file, and I think it's in the next office.” Peter gestured to the wall behind John. “Can you please grab it for me? It should be on the desk and will be labeled ‘Central Reclamation.’ I would have asked my assistant, but she already left for the day.”
“Sure.” John got to his feet and opened the door, turned right and walked to the other office. It was a similar size and layout to Peter’s. A full-height glass wall separated it from the corridor, and expansive windows looked west toward the skyline of Sheung Wan and Kennedy Town. Apart from the view, it was almost a carbon copy of Peter’s office with the same padded leather sofa, coffee table, and large abstract canvas on the rear wall. John opened the door and walked over to the desk. On the top was a phone and a pile of files, but it was a photo in a silver frame that caught his eye. Two Chinese men in suits smiled back at the camera. One he recognized from the photo he had seen online as Ronald Yu. The other was his son David.
He put the frame down and took another look at the room. Behind the desk was a cabinet with a large-scale model of a Ferrari FXX in a glass case. Beside it were more photos of David Yu, shaking hands with Hong Kong politicians, and a couple with him and Peter together, cutting ribbons or looking at plans. He looked back at the files on the desk. A large manila folder sat on top, and he looked at the tab to check it was the one Peter wanted. As he picked it up, loose papers fell to the floor.
John bent down and gathered them up and was about to place them back on the desk when he realized what they were—deposit slips. He looked closer—deposit slips for Oriental Banking Corporation. He started to get a bad feeling. He checked the amount—fifty thousand dollars. He checked the one underneath—fifty thousand dollars. The next one was the same. He checked the dates. All of them had the same date—Saturday's date. He looked at the account number. It looked like his, but he wasn’t sure. It couldn’t be a coincidence but he had to check. Placing the file back on the desk, he pulled out his phone. He scrolled across the screen until he found his banking app and logged in. He crosschecked his bank account number with the account number on the deposit slips… It was the same.
“Found it?” he heard Peter call from the neighboring office.
“Got it,” he replied and put his phone back in his pocket, replaced the deposit slips, and picked up the file. He looked around the room once more, then walked out the door and back to Peter’s office. Peter was still on the phone and smiled as John handed over the file. He held up two fingers and leafed through the file before continuing his conversation, something about plot ratios.
John sat back down and zoned out, his mind working overtime, thinking over what he had just seen. David Yu was definitely the man behind it all. But why would he want Peter killed?
21
Peter ended his call and looked over at John. “Thank you, John. My partner and I are working on a proposal for the Central Reclamation at the moment, and it’s keeping us very busy. A lot of regulations to satisfy.”
“Who’s your partner?” He knew the answer, just wanted to hear it from Peter.
“David Yu. Do you know him?”
John shook his head.
“His photo is always in the magazines. He likes his Ferraris,” Peter grinned. “Let’s get out of here. Come back to my place, Sylvia is out of town. I’ll get my staff to prepare dinner for us, and we’ll have a couple of drinks.”
“Sounds good.”
They walked out the door, John following Peter down the corridor to the reception. He opened the door, waited until John walked through, then followed him out.
He spoke to the guard, “Rai, have Samuel bring the car around.”
“Yes, sir. Good night, sir.”
They rode the lift down in silence while Peter scrolled through his phone, then walked out onto the street. The S Class Mercedes was waiting at the curb, a stocky Chinese man standing beside it. He opened the door, and John climbed in while Peter walked around to the other side. John stretched out his legs and settled back in the soft leather seat. In front of him was a touch screen, and to his left, a wide armrest separated his seat from Peter’s. He could get used to this, it was like sitting in a business class seat on a plane. The driver climbed in and started the engine.
“Home please, Samuel.”
“Yes, sir.”
Peter and John busied themselves with small talk as the car left the Central District, turned right past the Lippo Centre, and headed uphill along Cotton Tree Drive before turning onto Magazine Gap Road and climbing higher. The traffic thinned out as they climbed, and the cars became more expensive—Bentleys, Mercedes and BMWs, and John spotted a Ferrari and a McLaren racing into town for a night out.
The Mercedes pulled up outside a large gate and waited as it rolled open before driving inside. The car pulled up in front of the entrance door, and Peter got out. John opened his door, climbed out, and looked around as
the gate rolled silently to a close behind them. The driveway was small, just enough for a couple of cars and led off to a triple garage on the right. The garage doors opened as the Mercedes moved toward it, and John’s jaw dropped as he saw the cars parked inside. On the right was a bright yellow Porsche 964 RSR, one John had lusted after since he was a teenager. In the center garage was a forest green Porsche 959. Both were rare cars and worth millions of dollars. Peter saw John staring and smiled.
“My babies. Do you want to take a look?”
John didn’t wait, he was already walking toward them.
“My partner likes his Ferraris, but I’m a Porsche man myself. You can’t beat German engineering.”
John walked around the RSR, his eyes running admiringly over the curved wheel arches and the large rear wing.
“1993 964 RSR, 350 horsepower. Only 51 ever built.”
John couldn’t believe it. He looked up at Peter. “She’s beautiful.” He walked over to the 959. “I saw one of these years ago in England. A silver one. I never thought I would see one in Hong Kong. The color is beautiful.”
“This one has had a bit done to it. There’s a company in the U.S. that updates them. I had it stripped down to bare metal and restored. It now puts out over 760 horsepower.”
“You’re kidding! What did it have when it was new? 400?”
“450. You know your Porsches, John.”
“I’ve been a fan since I was a kid.”
“We’ll go for a drive one weekend, but now I’m parched.” Peter patted him on the shoulder. “Let’s go inside.”
John dragged himself away from the cars and followed Peter to the front door.
Peter pushed open the oversized, wooden entrance door and walked inside. John followed him and stopped, the view in front of him taking his breath away. The view from Peter’s office had been impressive, but the view from his home was something else. The full-height picture windows opened out onto the full expanse of the Hong Kong skyline and Victoria Harbour. Spread out below were the skyscrapers of Central and Wanchai, glistening and twinkling. Beyond them, Victoria Harbour curved away in a semi-circle, and across the harbor lay the expanse of Tsim Sha Tsui and Kowloon with the darkened peaks of Lion Rock and the New Territories beyond.
A Million Reasons Page 6