The Solitary Man (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Come with us,’ said the officer, his hand sliding over the butt of his gun. He thrust his square jaw forward as if daring Hutch to argue.

  Hutch’s arms were seized just above the elbows.

  ‘Okay, okay, there’s no need to grab me,’ said Hutch. He tried to shrug off the hands but they gripped tighter. People were openly staring and a sudden hush fell over the cafeteria.

  The two policemen who were holding Hutch twisted him around and marched him away from the table. ‘Look, there’s been some mistake,’ Hutch protested.

  They took him out of the cafeteria, up an escalator and along a corridor. At the far end of the corridor was a door with a small glass window at head height. One of the policemen opened the door and went in first. Hutch felt a hand push him in the small of the back and he stumbled across the threshold. A man in a white coat moved nimbly to the side to avoid Hutch and said something to the policemen. All the Thais laughed, and Hutch knew it was at his expense.

  In one corner of the room was an X-ray machine, as tall as Hutch, with a control panel on one side. One of the uniformed policemen positioned Hutch by the machine and stood by him while the man in the white coat fussed over the controls.

  ‘This is a waste of time,’ said Hutch, but nobody was listening.

  The man in the white coat nodded and the policemen moved away. Hutch smiled grimly. They were obviously afraid of the damage the radiation would do to their private parts. He stopped smiling as he realised that he’d be receiving a much bigger dose than them.

  ‘No move, please,’ said the man in the white coat. There was a click and a buzzing noise. ‘Okay.’

  Hutch’s arms were grabbed once more and he was manhandled out of the room and along the corridor again. He was taken into a second, smaller office, this one with two metal tables which had been pushed together to form a right angle. Three brown-uniformed policemen were sitting at the tables. There was nowhere for Hutch to sit and he stood in front of them, his hands at his side. His palms were sweating and he wiped them on his jeans. ‘It’s only talcum powder,’ he kept repeating in his mind. ‘Seven days. Seven days then it’ll all be over.’

  The policeman in the middle was the oldest of the three, with metallic-grey hair and a scar on his upper lip as if he’d had surgery there many years earlier. He had a sheet of paper in front of him and was scrutinising Hutch’s passport. He meticulously looked at every page in the passport, even those which were blank. He looked up at Hutch and studied him with impassive, almost bored, eyes.

  ‘You are Warren Hastings?’

  Hutch nodded.

  The policeman tapped a silver ballpoint pen on the table. ‘You are Warren Hastings?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hutch.

  The policeman nodded and began writing. The door opened behind Hutch and the man who’d picked up Hutch’s bag walked over to the tables. He had an identification badge clipped to his shirt. He put the bag on the table and unzipped it, then took out the contents, piece by piece, holding each one out so that the grey-haired policeman could get a good look at it. The first item was Hutch’s wash-kit and there was a long discussion in Thai as the two men obviously tried to work out how to describe it. Eventually they reached a conclusion and the policeman wrote something down on the form. The man in the polo shirt pulled out the polythene-wrapped parcel, using both hands. He wasn’t wearing gloves. The three seated policemen all nodded and the grey-haired one continued to fill out the form.

  When the entire contents of the holdall were spread out across the tables, the form was pushed in front of Hutch and he was handed the pen. The grey-haired policeman tapped a space at the bottom of the sheet of paper. ‘Sign,’ he said, brusquely.

  Hutch attempted to pick up the piece of paper, but the uniformed policeman standing to Hutch’s right grabbed his arm. ‘I just want to read it,’ said Hutch.

  The grey-haired policeman tapped the form with his finger. ‘Sign,’ he repeated.

  Hutch leaned forward and looked at the form. It was all in Thai and totally incomprehensible. He had no way of knowing if he was signing to acknowledge that the bag and its contents were his, or if he was putting his name to a confession. He shook his head. ‘I can’t sign this.’

  ‘Sign,’ said the policeman, and this time there was a hard edge to his voice.

  ‘I can’t read it,’ said Hutch. ‘I can’t sign something that I can’t read. Get someone to read it to me in English, then I’ll sign it.’ He folded his arms across his chest.

  The grey-haired policeman stood up slowly, as if it were an effort. He stared at Hutch for several seconds. The slap, when it came, was all the more shocking because it was totally unexpected. Hutch took a step backwards and was immediately restrained by the uniformed men on either side of him. Hutch opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. He felt his left cheek redden.

  ‘Sign,’ said the policeman, raising his hand again.

  Hutch looked around the men in the room. They were all looking at him with emotionless stares, like shop-window mannequins. It was the first time he’d ever seen so many unsmiling Thai faces. The Land of Smiles was how the travel agents described Thailand, and generally it was true that most of its people did seem to go about their everyday lives smiling, but the men in the room were showing Hutch a different side to Thai culture; a cruel, violent side that few tourists ever saw. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that if he didn’t sign the piece of paper they would beat him to a pulp, or worse. He reached for the pen and signed it: Warren Hastings.

  The grey-haired policeman took the form away from Hutch, scrutinised it, then spoke to the uniforms. Hutch’s arms were forced behind his back and he felt handcuffs being snapped around his wrists. He was taken out of the office and led down the corridor to another door. This one was locked and one of the policemen had to fish a key out of his pocket before they could open it. Hutch was pushed inside without a word and the door closed behind him.

  It was hot and airless and in total darkness; the only light in the room came through a narrow gap at the bottom of the door. Hutch couldn’t even tell how large the room was, or if there was anyone else there. He felt his heart begin to race and he struggled to stay calm. He edged towards the door, then put his forehead against the plaster wall and felt around until he found a light switch. It took several attempts before he could press the switch with his nose, but he managed it and an overhead fluorescent light flickered into life. Hutch sighed with relief as he turned around and leaned against the wall. The room was about three paces wide and four paces long with pale green walls and a bare tiled floor. There was no furniture, no sign that the room was ever used.

  The handcuffs were hurting his wrists: they’d been put on too tight. From the treatment he’d received so far, he suspected that the police had done it deliberately. He slid down the wall and sat on the floor. There had been no interrogation, no questions; it was as if he was part of a bureaucratic process that had no interest in his guilt or innocence. He banged the back of his head against the wall. A week. A week and it would be all over.

  The fact that the policeman who took the drugs out of his holdall hadn’t been wearing gloves worried Hutch. It was as if they didn’t care about forensic evidence. They had their tip-off and they had the drugs and that was all they needed. Hutch smiled to himself. They’d get a shock when the results came back from the laboratory and they realised that it wasn’t heroin in his bag.

  Hutch couldn’t see his wristwatch so he had no idea how long the police left him alone in the room, but eventually the door was thrown open and Hutch looked up expectantly. There were half a dozen uniformed policemen there, including two who’d taken him to be X-rayed. They pushed two large black men in flowered shirts and cut-off denim shorts into the tiny room.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Hutch asked the police. The one who’d opened the door shrugged and started to close it again. Hutch struggled to get to his feet, pushing himself up against the wall. ‘Hey, come on, you c
an’t leave three of us in here,’ pleaded Hutch.

  The policeman either didn’t speak English or didn’t care what Hutch had to say. He closed the door in Hutch’s face.

  ‘At least take my handcuffs off!’ Hutch shouted, ‘I can hardly feel my fingers.’ The door remained resolutely closed.

  Hutch turned around to face the two new arrivals. They were big men, fleshy rather than muscular, with jet-black skin. Their faces were fearful and they were sweating. Hutch realised they were probably as uncomfortable as he was.

  ‘So what are you guys in for?’ Hutch asked.

  The two men looked at each other. The bigger of the two was sweating profusely, and as he wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his multi-coloured shirt Hutch realised that neither man was handcuffed. The two men spoke to each other in a language Hutch didn’t recognise.

  The smaller man grinned at Hutch, revealing a gold incisor. ‘Heroin,’ he said. He pointed to his ample stomach. ‘Condoms.’

  Hutch couldn’t help smiling. They’d obviously been caught with the evidence inside their stomachs and the police were waiting for nature to run its course. He just hoped they’d let the men out to use the toilet when necessary.

  ‘You are English?’ said the man.

  Hutch nodded. ‘You?’

  ‘Nigerian. What happens to people they catch? Do you know?’

  ‘With drugs?’

  The Nigerian nodded. His sweating friend dropped down on to the floor and sat with his back against the wall, his head in his hands. He was totally bald and his entire scalp glistened with moisture.

  ‘Don’t you know?’ asked Hutch.

  The Nigerian shook his head.

  ‘Prison,’ said Hutch.

  ‘How long?’

  Hutch was astounded at the Nigerian’s ignorance. ‘Twenty-five years,’ he said. ‘Maybe longer.’

  The Nigerian’s jaw dropped. He spoke to his companion and the bald man groaned.

  Sweat was dripping from Hutch’s brow and he tried to wipe it on his shoulder but he couldn’t reach. The Nigerian realised what Hutch was trying to do and he used his own shirt sleeve to mop Hutch’s forehead. Hutch smiled his thanks. The room wasn’t big enough for three people; there was no air-conditioning and no window. He could feel another panic attack building and he took deep breaths. The feeling of claustrophobia intensified and he closed his eyes. He tried to imagine that he was back home in Hong Kong, sitting in his study, Mickey and Minnie at his feet. He tried to picture the furniture, the overhead fan, the window and its view of the garden, but even with his imagination working overtime he could still smell the sweat and the fear of the two Nigerians.

  JENNIFER LEIGH SWIRLED THE ice around her gin and tonic with her finger, then licked her red-painted fingernail. ‘It’s the best drink in the world,’ she said to her companion. His name was Rick Millett and he was an American journalist who was stringing for several US papers and magazines and, unless he did something incredibly stupid, was the man she’d probably end up bedding before the night was out.

  ‘Yeah?’ said Millett. ‘I’ve always been a whisky drinker myself.’

  ‘No comparison,’ said Jennifer, lifting her glass. ‘It’s refreshing, doesn’t give you a hangover, doesn’t make your breath smell, and its packed with vitamin C. Plus, you can always count the slices of lemon to find out how many you’ve drunk.’ She raised the glass to him and then drank deeply. Millet watched her, an amused smile on his lips.

  It was Jennifer’s third night in Bangkok, and she was determined to enjoy herself. The days had been filled with trips up the river to floating markets, seemingly endless visits to temples, and on the first two evenings she’d been forced to endure interminable exhibitions of traditional Thai dancing and handicrafts, and meals with boring hotel executives and airline officials. That was the downside of accepting a free trip, but she’d managed to escape for her third and last night in Bangkok and had found her way to the Foreign Correspondents’ Club. Millett was the best-looking guy in the club, and she’d sat herself down on the bar stool next to his and introduced herself. At thirty-eight years old and with two broken marriages behind her, Jennifer Leigh didn’t believe in wasting time.

  Millett was about six years younger than she was, and about half as bright, but he had a good body and delicate hands and while he took himself a little too seriously, Jennifer figured he’d be enthusiastic enough between the sheets. She was wearing a loose white shirt, open to halfway down her not inconsiderable cleavage, and black ski pants, and within twenty seconds of striking up a conversation she’d seen his glance drop down to take in her breasts, which was always a good sign. In her experience, once a guy had looked down her cleavage, he was lost.

  He’d asked her about her journalistic experience in the United Kingdom and had been impressed by the papers she’d worked for. Jennifer knew that she had an impressive CV, almost as impressive as her breasts, and she used both to her advantage as they drank and talked. She’d glossed over the fact that it had been some time since she’d covered hard news and that she now worked for the features department. She told him stories about covering the Falklands conflict and the Gulf War, and neglected to tell him about her most recent piece: a feature on snooker players’ favourite recipes. His eyes kept dropping to her chest and she knew he was hers.

  ‘So, I suppose you’ve got a Thai girlfriend?’ Jennifer asked after he ordered the fifth round of drinks.

  Millett shrugged. ‘One or two.’

  ‘Yellow fever?’

  Millett flashed an embarrassed smile. ‘It’s more that they outnumber the farang women.’

  ‘Farang?’

  ‘It means foreigner. We’re all farangs.’

  ‘Is it derogatory?’

  ‘It depends on who you ask. It comes from the Thai word for Frenchman, but it does carry connotations of inferiority.’

  ‘So it’s just a question of numbers, then? You’ve nothing against farang women?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ said Millett, taking another furtive look at her breasts. Jennifer smiled. She might not have the perfect skin or lustrous hair that the Thai women all seemed to have, but she had other attributes, and she could see that he was eager to get his hands on them. She’d show him what a farang woman could do, and God help him if he didn’t return the favour.

  She reached over and put her hand on his arm, and was just about to suggest that they go back to her hotel room for a nightcap when his pager began bleeping. She had a sudden urge to tell him not to answer it, but that would have been over-keen. As he went over to a telephone she lit a cigarette and studied herself in the mirrored gantry behind the bar. Jennifer had a journalist’s eye for detail and she could be uncompromisingly harsh on herself when it came to assessing her looks. She tilted her head up a fraction so that it tightened the muscles of her neck. That was her worst feature, she knew, and recently she’d begun to wonder if cosmetic surgery might be the answer to the folds and wrinkles. Her skin was generally good, though she knew it would look a great deal better if she hadn’t drunk and smoked so much, but around her neck it hung in unsightly folds if she lowered her chin. She smiled at her reflection. Her teeth were gleaming white, despite all her smoking and coffee-drinking, and her eyes were clear and blue, though her eyelashes had always needed mascara to look halfway decent. Her hair was as blonde as when she’d been a teenager, though these days it needed the help of chemicals. It wasn’t as glossy as it had been, either, though the Thai humidity had definitely softened it. It hung in slight waves down to her shoulders and she moved her head from side to side to see how it swung. She blew her reflection a kiss. ‘Rick, boy, you don’t stand a chance,’ she whispered to herself.

  ‘Say what?’ said Millett, behind her.

  ‘Just wondering what to do with the rest of the night,’ she said, turning to face him. She smiled and took a long pull on her cigarette, watching him through slightly narrowed eyes but making sure that she kept her chin up.

  ‘
Yeah, well, I know what I’m going to do,’ he said. ‘I’ve gotta go,’ he said. ‘The cops have called a Press conference to show off a drug courier they’ve just arrested. You might be interested, he’s a Brit.’

  Jennifer exhaled. ‘Sure,’ she said, keeping her eyes on him. ‘I’ll come along for the ride.’

  He held her look for several seconds, then grinned like a child who’d been promised a bicycle for Christmas. She followed him out of the club and stood by his side as he flagged down a taxi. One stopped within a minute and Millett opened the front passenger door and spoke to the driver in Thai. After a few words he opened the rear door for Jennifer.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘The Narcotics Suppression Division. It’s in the old Chinatown, not far from the river.’

  The roads were still busy but nowhere near as packed as they’d been during the day. She lit a cigarette. She’d been meaning to give up for years but figured there was no point in even trying in Bangkok – tobacco smoke paled into insignificance compared with the traffic fumes and industrial waste that she was already drawing into her lungs with every breath. She offered the pack to Millett but he shook his head. ‘Don’t smoke, huh?’ she asked.

  ‘My mother died of lung cancer,’ he said.

  Jennifer exhaled, wondering if the American was being sarcastic but decided that he was just being honest. ‘Would you rather I . . . ?’ she said, holding out the cigarette, but Millett shook his head.

  ‘They’re your lungs,’ he said.

  Jennifer smiled tightly and put out the cigarette in the ashtray set into the taxi door. Millett stared out of the window, his thoughts elsewhere.

  ‘This guy, do you know his name?’ Jennifer asked.

  ‘Nah. He’s a Brit, from Hong Kong. That’s all I was told.’

  A motorcycle swerved in front of the taxi and the driver braked sharply. Millett instinctively reached over to hold Jennifer back in the seat and his arm brushed her breasts. ‘Sorry,’ he said, blushing.