The Solitary Man (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘So they always protest their innocence, don’t they? They always say they were set up or they were just carrying a package for a friend. This guy didn’t say a dicky bird.’

  ‘Maybe he’s guilty.’

  ‘Maybe he is, but even if you plead guilty here you still get sent down for fifty years.’

  ‘Forget it, Jenn. Your flight’s tomorrow, right?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about that, Gerry.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t even know what I’m going to say.’

  ‘Yes, I do, and the answer’s no.’

  ‘This one’s worth following up, Gerry.’

  ‘What part of no don’t you understand, Jenn?’

  ‘The part that says you don’t trust my news judgement. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, I know there’s something not right here. The guy didn’t want to be photographed, didn’t want to talk to the Press, it’s like he had something to hide.’

  ‘He’d just been caught with a bag full of dope, of course he didn’t want to be photographed.’

  ‘So maybe he’s connected to someone famous. Maybe his father’s a big wheel in the City, a politician maybe.’

  ‘Fantasy Island, Jenn. You’re trying to turn chicken shit into coq au vin and it won’t work.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we won’t know unless I dig a little, will we? Look, what have you got to lose?’

  ‘The services of a features writer who should be back in this office on Wednesday morning.’

  ‘Yeah? Doing what? Another celebrity recipe special, huh? Come on, Gerry, let me run with this. At the very least I’ll give you a feature on drug couriers; there’s more than a dozen Brits in prison here serving long sentences. I’ll go in and get interviews, you know it’ll be a good read.’

  There was a short silence on the line and for a moment Jennifer thought that the connection had been cut.

  ‘Are you sure you can get inside?’ Hunt asked.

  Jennifer could tell that his interest was aroused. ‘Sure, I’ve got a contact here who says he can get me in. Interviews, pictures, the works. It’d be a great spread, Gerry. And I’ll keep on at this Hastings guy.’

  There was another silence on the line for several seconds as Hunt considered what she’d said. Jennifer said a silent prayer.

  ‘You’ve got an open ticket?’ he asked eventually.

  Jennifer’s heart leaped. ‘It’s a freebie, I can go back whenever I want.’

  ‘Two days, Jenn.’

  ‘Thanks, Gerry. Really.’

  ‘Just get me the story. And file your travel stuff by tonight, okay?’

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  ‘And be nice to Morris, will you? You might not be around when he turns thirty, but I plan to be.’

  ‘Sorry, Gerry, the line’s breaking up, I can hardly hear you. Talk to you later.’ Jennifer hung up the phone and punched the air in triumph.

  THEY CAME FOR TOINE and two of the Thais some time in the morning. Hutch had no way of determining the time, all he knew for certain was that it was after the shit bucket had been emptied and before the prisoners had been fed. An elderly policeman in a too-tight uniform had struggled over the pronunciation of a list of names of prisoners who were to be taken to court. Hutch’s heart had sunk when the policeman got to the end of the list without calling his name. Toine had shaken Hutch’s hand and wished him well. Hutch had just shrugged and said that they’d probably meet up again at Klong Prem prison. He was sad to see the Dutchman go; he and the American, Matt, were the only two other English-speakers in the cell and talking was the only way of relieving the monotony. Still, at least it meant that he had more room to stretch out. The stench in the cell didn’t seem to turn his stomach as much as it had done when he’d first been thrown there, though he was still grateful for the chance to move a few feet away from the bucket.

  He lay down on the reed mat that Chau-ling’s lawyer had obtained for him and stared up at the ceiling, trying to make out shapes in the network of hairline cracks that ran through the aged plaster. His body felt restless so he took off his shirt and began to do sit-ups in an attempt to burn off his excess energy. Two young Thais sat with their backs against the bars and watched him with amused grins on their faces. Hutch increased the pace and his stomach muscles began to burn. The exercise helped ease his hunger pains. The food had never varied: a fist-sized ball of rice and fish sauce in newspaper and a plastic bag of water. Hutch’s last rice ball had contained a dead cockroach.

  There were slow footsteps in the corridor and the two Thais scuttled away from the bars like frightened crabs. A guard in a chocolate-brown uniform appeared at the entrance to the cell, looking over his shoulder as if he didn’t want to be seen by his colleagues. He made a shushing sound and waggled his fingers at Hutch. Hutch got to his feet and wiped his hands on his jeans. The guard motioned for Hutch to approach the bars. The guard looked over his shoulder again and then thrust an envelope through the bars. It dropped to the floor and Hutch bent to retrieve it. By the time he was upright again, the guard was already at the other end of the corridor.

  Hutch ripped open the envelope. He expected it to be from Billy, but the letter inside was handwritten on hotel notepaper and he didn’t recognise the name on the bottom: Jennifer Leigh.

  Dear Mr Hastings,

  You don’t know me but my name is Jennifer Leigh and I’m a reporter with the Daily Telegraph. I’ve tried several times to contact you, but the police won’t allow me to see you unless I have your permission in writing. Without seeing you, I can’t ask your permission. It’s a crazy system, I know, but all they’ll let me do is to write a letter to you.

  I’d like to write an article on your predicament. I think publicity at this stage could only help your case. On previous occasions, appeals for clemency from MPs and family back in the UK have resulted in reduced sentences and even early releases for people convicted of drug smuggling. I can guarantee that my article would be sympathetic, and I’d be happy to pay for the interview. I’m sure the money would come in handy to help pay for legal representation.

  If you are agreeable to an interview, please inform the police and I’ll make arrangements to see you as soon as possible.

  The signature at the end of the letter was almost illegible but she’d written her name underneath it. Hutch read the letter again, not because he was interested in what the reporter had to say, but because he was so bored that he just enjoyed the feeling of reading something. The prisoners in the detention centre weren’t allowed any reading material.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Matt, craning his neck to get a better look.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Hutch. Publicity was the last thing he needed, especially back in the United Kingdom. He was pretty sure that even if his picture were published there he wouldn’t be recognised, not even by his former wife. He’d shaved off his beard before leaving England, lost two stone since he’d moved to Hong Kong, and had started wearing glasses, but he didn’t want anyone digging into his past because he wasn’t sure how well his passport would stand up to scrutiny. When Eddie Archer had sold him the passport seven years earlier, it had been with the warning that he shouldn’t try to renew it, or use it to travel to the United States. Archer had never explained why, and Hutch had never had any trouble travelling throughout South-east Asia, but the warning still worried him and he didn’t want a reporter from the Daily Telegraph on his case.

  He folded up the letter and shoved it into his back pocket. There was nothing Jennifer Leigh could do for him.

  THE RECEPTIONIST CALLED TIM Carver’s office and told him that he had a visitor.

  Jennifer Leigh was standing with her back to the elevator, her legs slightly apart, her weight on her right leg. There was something overtly sexual about her stance; it was confident, aggressive almost, and he had the distinct impression that it was a pose for his benefit. She must have heard the elevator doors hiss open, but she didn’t turn around. She was wearing black high heels,
dark tights or stockings and a mauve skirt that only just reached her knees. She had good legs, strong calves and trim ankles. Carver’s eyes travelled upwards to a slim waist and a black jacket. Her hair was blonde and hung down to her shoulders. She turned her head quickly and caught him looking at her.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, smiling easily. ‘I’m Tim Carver.’

  ‘Tim, so good of you to see me,’ she said, turning and extending her hand. She was in her late thirties, he guessed, as he concentrated on her face. There were deep lines at the corners of her eyes and she was wearing a little too much mascara, like a schoolgirl who had yet to learn the value of subtlety when it came to make-up. There were small lines around her lips and again she had a little too much lipstick and it was just a little too red. She was a good-looking woman, though; there was no denying that. Ten years ago she would have been stunning.

  Carver shook her hand. It was a good firm grip, the sort he’d expect from a man with something to prove, and as she took it away he saw that the nails were a dark red, the colour of a day-old scab. ‘Let’s go up to my office,’ he said, and stepped to the side to allow her to go into the elevator first. As she walked by he couldn’t stop himself looking down at her breasts. The top two buttons of her mauve shirt were open and he could see a good two inches of cleavage. A gold crucifix nestled between her breasts. He didn’t think she’d seen the surreptitious glance, but then he saw that she was smiling and he realised that she must have done. ‘So, Richard Kay gave you my name?’ he said, to cover his embarrassment.

  ‘Yeah, he said you knew what was going on here,’ she said. Her eyes crinkled at the corners and he had the impression that she was secretly pleased that he’d stolen a look at her breasts. ‘You gave him a lot of help with his drugs feature, he said.’

  Carver raised an eyebrow. ‘He didn’t quote me, I hope.’

  Jennifer smiled reassuringly. ‘The only direct quote was attributed to a drugs investigation official. He didn’t even say it was from the DEA.’

  The elevator arrived at Carver’s floor and he took her along to his office. There was a water cooler in one corner and he filled two paper cups. He put one down in front of Jennifer and went behind his desk.

  ‘Thank God,’ said Jennifer, indicating the ashtray that nestled between the files that covered most of his desk area. ‘Another smoker.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m afraid so,’ said Carver, pushing it towards her as she took a pack of Rothmans from her brown leather handbag.

  ‘Hey, don’t apologise,’ she said. ‘We’re a dying breed.’ She offered him a cigarette.

  ‘Literally,’ said Carver ruefully. He flipped the top of his Zippo and lit her cigarette, then his own. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve tried to quit.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ she said, leaning back in her chair. ‘Just enjoy it.’ She exhaled and sighed with pleasure.

  Carver risked another look at her breasts. They rippled under the shirt as she leaned back in the chair. He pulled his eyes away and tried to keep them on her face. ‘So, what is it you want to know?’ he said.

  Jennifer reached into her handbag again and took out a notepad and pen. ‘Okay if I take notes?’ she asked.

  Carver held up his hands as if warding off an attack. ‘Only if it’s off the record,’ he said. ‘An unattributable briefing, no quotes, no names.’

  ‘No problem,’ she said. ‘I’m putting together a feature on drug smugglers. Who they are, how they operate, what happens to them when they’re caught. It’s background I’m after, that’s all.’

  Carver nodded and sipped his cup of water. ‘Okay, fire away.’

  ‘I’m tying it in to this guy Warren Hastings that was arrested at the airport.’

  ‘Yeah, I read about it in the papers.’

  Jennifer put her head on one side and narrowed her eyes. ‘You mean the DEA wasn’t involved?’

  ‘It was a kilo, right? That’s a drop in the ocean, Jennifer. We’re after bigger fish.’

  ‘So Hastings is a minnow?’

  ‘He’s either a low-ranking courier, or a freelance doing it for himself. Might even have been a decoy.’

  ‘A decoy?’ said Jennifer. She drew on her cigarette, emphasising the lines around her mouth.

  ‘Yeah, that’s how it goes sometimes. Say you’re trying to move a hundred kilos and it’s a rush order so you can’t put it on a freighter. You split the consignment into ten, and recruit ten couriers. The stuff goes into their suitcases, electrical equipment, wooden statues, the usual sort of places. Then you give a one-kilo package to the decoy, except of course he doesn’t know he’s the decoy. An hour before the flight, you ring the cops and tip them off about the decoy. The cops pull him off the plane, they find the drugs, it’s medals and pats on the back all round. Especially if it’s a farang.’

  ‘Meanwhile, the rest of the couriers get through?’

  ‘Exactly. The cops don’t care, they’ve got a high-profile bust: another farang they can put on trial to show the world they mean business. The man setting up the deal is happy – he’s only lost one per cent of his consignment. It’s cheap insurance.’

  ‘Everyone wins but the decoy?’

  Carver nodded. ‘That’s the way it goes. Sometimes a 747 to Hong Kong can have as many as a dozen couriers on board.’

  ‘And you think Hastings was set up?’

  ‘Like I said, I haven’t seen the file, but it sounds like it.’

  Jennifer made notes in her pad as she smoked. Her hair fell over her eyes and she flicked it away. ‘How do they recruit these couriers?’

  ‘The farangs they usually pick up at cheap guest houses or hostels. Word spreads on the backpacker grapevine. There’s always someone who’s run out of money and who thinks it’s worth taking the risk. The Thai and Chinese couriers are a different breed – they’re well organised, they travel on false papers and usually make several trips a month. The going rate is about two thousand bucks a kilo. And if they get caught their families are taken care of. It’s like a pension scheme.’

  ‘But they execute the ones they catch, don’t they?’

  Carver shook his head. ‘They get a death sentence for large amounts, but the King invariably commutes it to a life sentence.’

  ‘And they risk that for a couple of thousand bucks?’

  Carver shrugged and tapped the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray. ‘They know that the odds are on their side. The chances are that they won’t get caught. There are about a thousand foreigners in Thai prisons for drug offences, but for every one in jail, there’s probably twenty that get away with it.’

  ‘Other than the decoys being thrown to the wolves, how else do they get caught? Do they use dogs or X-ray machines or what?’

  ‘Intelligence, mainly,’ said Carver. ‘The Thai police keep known suppliers under surveillance and they have a network of informers. At the airport it’s usually a matter of searching those travellers who fit the profile of a typical courier.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Usually male, usually in their twenties or thirties, often travelling alone with hand luggage and a stack of visas in their passport. From what I saw of the Press conference on television, your guy seems to fit the profile. That might be why they pulled him in.’

  Jennifer made notes in her scratchy shorthand, then looked up at the DEA agent. ‘There is one thing that worries me,’ she said. ‘At the Press conference, he didn’t say a word.’

  ‘A lot of them don’t. The amateurs are usually in shock, the professionals are paid to keep their mouths shut. Besides, there’s nothing they can say that’ll have any effect on the Thais.’

  ‘Sure, but they usually protest their innocence, don’t they? Even the guilty ones.’

  Carver shrugged. ‘It didn’t strike me as unusual.’

  ‘And he didn’t have a lawyer.’

  ‘Early days.’

  ‘What, they can put him on show like that, with the drugs and everything, and he doesn’t have the r
ight to legal representation? It prejudices the trial, doesn’t it? Everyone who saw him on TV is going to assume he’s guilty.’

  Carver smiled thinly. ‘This is Thailand. The Thais have their own way of doing things, and you just have to go with the flow. You can’t fight it. Thailand is the one country in South-east Asia that’s never been colonised, did you know that?’

  ‘Which says what about the place?’

  ‘That it can’t be changed by Western ways or attitudes. They invite you to their country, they want you to spend your money here, they’ll even allow McDonald’s and Pizza Hut to set up shop here, but at the end of the day, this will always be Thailand and they’ll carry on doing things their own sweet way. Hastings will get a lawyer, and a trial. And probably a fifty-year prison sentence, unless he co-operates. Then you and the rest of the media will forget all about him.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Jennifer. ‘But I still think there’s a good story to be done on this guy. I’m going to try to get an interview with him.’ She leaned forward showing another inch of cleavage. ‘Can you do me a favour? Can you find out for me how he was caught?’

  ‘No problem.’ He tried to keep his eyes from wandering down to her cleavage and concentrated on the bridge of her nose.

  Jennifer scrawled the telephone number of her hotel on a blank page of her notebook, ripped it out and handed it to him.

  ‘Good hotel,’ said Carver, recognising the number.

  ‘It’s a freebie,’ said Jennifer. ‘You should come over and check it out.’

  Jennifer extinguished her cigarette. ‘The heroin that Hastings had, where would it have come from?’

  ‘Probably the Golden Triangle. That’s the major source. It produces something like two and a half thousand tonnes of raw opium each year, equivalent to about one hundred and ninety tonnes of heroin.’

  ‘Which would be worth how much?’

  Carver leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. He pursed his lips and sighed. ‘Hell of a question, Jennifer. It depends at what stage you’re looking at it.’