‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ said Hutch.
Jennifer arched an eyebrow. ‘Don’t give me that, Warren, or whatever your name really is. You know exactly what I’m talking about.’ She walked closer to the wire netting and looked at him with pale green eyes that seemed to stare deep inside him. ‘You can trust me,’ she said.
Her voice carried all the sincerity of an undertaker consoling the recently bereaved. Hutch stared back at her. He didn’t believe her for one second. She was a reporter for a Fleet Street newspaper, and jobs like that weren’t given to soft-hearted pushovers. ‘Leave me alone,’ he said. ‘There’s no story here for you.’
She took another pull at the cigarette. The smile vanished but her eyes continued to bore into his. ‘Oh, I think there is. I think that’s why you’re sweating, Mr Whatever-your-real-name-is. I think that look in your eyes tells me that you know that I know. I think you’re clenching your fists because you’re scared shitless.’
She smiled again, and if Hutch didn’t know better he would have been taken in by its warmth and sincerity. Whatever else she was, Jennifer Leigh was a real pro.
He relaxed his hands. ‘What do you know?’ he asked quietly.
Jennifer studied the burning end of her cigarette. ‘I know you’re not Warren Hastings,’ she said.
‘That’s ridiculous.’ Hutch’s heart began to pound. How did she know? And more importantly, how much more did she know?
The journalist shrugged. ‘Yes, well, you would say that, wouldn’t you? Why are you so camera shy?’
The question took Hutch by surprise. ‘What?’ he said.
‘Why are there no photographs of you in your house?’
‘You’ve been to my house?’
‘Why don’t you get any Christmas cards from the UK? Why can’t you remember your own birthday? Why have you turned down the services of one of Bangkok’s top lawyers?’
Hutch’s jaw dropped. ‘You’ve been to my house?’ he repeated.
Jennifer dropped her cigarette on to the floor and ground it out with her left foot. ‘What’s your real name?’
Hutch took a step back from the wire. He looked across at the guard. The guard was looking at the ground, his eyes half-closed as if he was dozing.
‘I can find out, you know.’
Hutch’s head jerked around. ‘Leave me alone,’ he spat.
‘I’m having your passport checked out,’ she said. ‘I’m having your birth certificate pulled. I’m digging, Mr Whatever-your-name-is. How long do you think your new identity is going to stand up to scrutiny?’ She snorted softly. ‘I can see from the look on your face that you don’t think it’ll be too long,’ she said.
Hutch massaged his neck. The tendons there were as taut as steel wires. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing,’ he whispered.
Jennifer’s smile widened. ‘Oh yes I do. I know exactly what I’m doing.’
Hutch closed his eyes and shook his head. He felt as if he was about to pass out. Everything was going wrong. Everything.
‘The best thing you can do is to talk to me,’ said Jennifer, her voice as smooth and slippery as castor oil. ‘I’m going to find out anyway, but if you co-operate, I promise that I’ll at least give you a fair hearing. I’ll put your side of the story. Look, we might even be able to write it from your point of view. I think I can persuade my paper to come up with money. How does that sound?’
Hutch opened his eyes. ‘You don’t have children, do you?’ he asked quietly.
Her lips tightened. ‘No. I don’t have children.’ She frowned quizzically. ‘Do you?’
Hutch turned away. He headed towards the door and the guard hurried to open it.
‘You can’t run away from me,’ said Jennifer. ‘You’re going to have to face me some time.’
Hutch walked through the door and down the corridor, the guard following in his footsteps.
‘You can’t run away from me!’ she shouted after him.
Hutch quickened his pace. ‘Just watch me,’ he muttered through gritted teeth.
SOMCHAI HUMMED TO HIMSELF as he walked towards the payphone. It wasn’t such a bad job, being based at the detention centre. Sure, there wasn’t much action, but action was for heroes and heroes often ended up in hospital, or worse. It was a quiet life, more like being a prison officer than a policeman, but the pay was better. There weren’t as many perks as there were in the traffic division, where unofficial on-the-spot fines could quadruple an officer’s salary, but then Somchai didn’t have to spend all day breathing the filthy polluted air or risk being run over by a bus driver high on amphetamines. Besides, he didn’t have the necessary exam grades or family connections to get into traffic. Traffic was for people with connections, and Somchai’s family were farmers near Ubon, one of the poorest parts of Thailand. He was lucky to have the job he had, and he knew it.
He was even luckier to have met the man called Bird. There weren’t many opportunities to make a bit of extra money in the detention centre. He’d occasionally smuggle out a letter, or take contraband in, but it was for small money, nowhere near as much as a traffic policeman could get for catching a Mercedes making a wrong turn. The big money went to the officers, and there was little chance of Somchai being promoted. The five thousand baht the reporter had paid for the unofficial meeting with the farang called Warren had gone straight to the inspector on duty. Somchai doubted that he’d see more than five hundred baht of the bribe. Maybe not even that. But Bird had promised him the equivalent of more than a month’s salary if he told him about any visitors the farang had. More if he could tell Bird what they spoke about. Bird had been as good as his word when Somchai had told him about the visit from the lawyer. Bird had handed over the cash in a hotel envelope, all new notes as if they’d come fresh from the bank. Somchai hadn’t even told his wife about the money. He was keeping it hidden in his locker, under a pile of old newspapers, until he decided what to do with it. Maybe a gold bracelet for his mistress. He smiled to himself. Maybe another mistress. He fished into his trouser pocket and took out a five-baht coin.
Somchai hadn’t been able to eavesdrop on the conversation the farang had had with the lawyer, but he’d heard every word that had passed between the prisoner and the woman journalist. He hadn’t understood everything, but his English was good enough to allow him to follow the gist of what was said. The woman thought that the prisoner wasn’t who he said he was. She thought he was lying. And she wanted to write a story for her newspaper. Somchai hitched up his belt. Bird would pay a lot for that information. It wasn’t a bad job at all, being in the detention centre.
BILLY WINTER OPENED HIS mouth and the young girl sitting on his left fed him a steamed prawn. He chewed with relish and grinned at Bird. ‘It don’t get much better than this, do it?’ Winter said in his gruff Newcastle accent.
Bird nodded and peered at the laden plates on the table in front of them. Winter had over-ordered madly and there was enough food for a dozen people.
Winter and Bird were in a private room, sitting on cushions, with four girls in white kimonos that opened to reveal that they were naked underneath. They had two girls each, one at either shoulder, feeding them and holding their drinks to their lips whenever they wanted a drink. The restaurant’s gimmick was that the diners never had to use their hands. Not to eat, anyway.
‘I wonder what Hutch’s having for dinner tonight?’ mused Winter. He laughed harshly. ‘Bread and water, you think? Is that what they give them in clink here, bread and water?’ He used a finger to open the kimono of the girl sitting on his right. Her breasts were pert and firm and her skin the colour of light oak. She smiled engagingly, showing small, even teeth. They reminded Winter of baby teeth.
‘Rice,’ said Bird. ‘Rice and soup. Some fish, maybe.’
‘Yeah, well, it’ll give him an incentive to get out, right?’
‘Right,’ agreed Bird.
‘Yeah, he’s always needed an incentive, has Hutch.’ Winter opened the kimono wider.
‘How old is this one, Bird?’ he asked.
Bird spoke to the girl in Thai. ‘Eighteen,’ he said.
‘Eighteen? She looks about twelve.’
‘A lot of them lie about their age,’ said Bird. ‘They have to, to work.’
‘So how old do you think she really is?’
Bird looked at the girl carefully. ‘Fifteen. Maybe sixteen.’
Winter fondled the girl’s breasts. ‘Jailbait,’ he whispered. ‘Anywhere else in the world she’d be jailbait.’ Her smile widened in anticipation of a large tip. ‘I can smell smoke, I think the place is on fire,’ Winter said. He grinned. The girl smiled at him and fluttered her eyelashes. Winter looked at the other girls. ‘Can anyone else smell smoke?’ He met with blank faces.
‘I told you, they don’t speak English,’ said Bird.
‘Just checking,’ said Winter. He opened his mouth and accepted a piece of beef and a sliver of ginger. ‘So what did you want to talk about?’
Bird stroked the thigh of the girl on his right. She opened her legs invitingly and held his glass to his lips. Bird sipped his beer. ‘There’s a woman journalist who has been asking questions about Hutch.’
Winter’s eyes narrowed. ‘About Hutch or about Warren Hastings?’
‘Hastings,’ said Bird, realising his mistake. ‘She’s been in Hong Kong, to his kennels. She’s been to the detention centre twice. And I’m told that she’s been talking to the DEA.’
‘Shit,’ said Winter. ‘Does she know anything?’
‘I don’t think so, nothing definite anyway. Just suspicions. But if she keeps interfering . . .’
‘Yeah, I get the picture.’ He stroked the girl’s soft, glossy hair. It reached her waist, jet black and perfectly straight. ‘How much for the two of them?’ he asked.
‘A thousand baht each should do it. Unless you want to get rough.’
Winter laughed. ‘Not me, Bird. I never went for the rough stuff. A thousand baht each, huh? That’s about the price of a bottle of Johnnie Walker, right?’
Bird nodded. ‘Red Label. Black’s a bit more expensive.’
‘What about you, Bird? Fancy giving them one? My treat.’
Bird shook his head. ‘No thanks, Billy.’ One of the girls wiped his chin with a napkin while the other delicately shelled a cooked prawn.
Winter bit into a chunk of crab proffered by the girl on his left. ‘What’s this one called again?’ he said.
‘Nood,’ said Bird. ‘The other one’s Need.’
‘Nood and Need. Love it. This journo, what’s her name?’
‘Leigh. Jennifer Leigh.’
‘Chinese?’
Bird shook his head. ‘A farang.’
‘We can’t have her making waves.’
‘Making waves?’ Bird repeated, not understanding.
‘Rocking the boat. Screwing things up. If she keeps asking questions, she might find that Warren Hastings isn’t what he claims to be. You’re going to have to take care of her, Bird. And quickly.’
Bird grinned. ‘Is it all right with you if I have a little fun with her first?’
Winter opened his mouth and the girl on his right popped in a morsel of chicken. ‘So long as you take care of the bitch, you can do what the fuck you want, Bird,’ he said.
JENNIFER LEIGH WAS SITTING on her hotel bed in bra and pants going through her notes when the telephone rang. She picked up the receiver.
‘Miss Jennifer?’ The voice was Thai, male.
‘Yes,’ she said, hesitantly.
‘You have been asking about Warren Hastings.’
‘Yes. Who’s speaking?’
‘I have some information for you.’
‘About Warren Hastings?’
‘Yes. But I want money.’
‘How much?’
The man was silent for a few seconds. ‘Perhaps a lot.’
Jennifer picked up her notebook, her heart racing as she realised that this could be the break she was looking for. ‘What is the information?’
The man chuckled. ‘If I tell you, Miss Jennifer, the information has no value.’
‘But my newspaper won’t pay unless we know what we’re buying.’
There was a longer silence. Jennifer could hear a Thai pop song in the background, and the sound of glasses clinking, as if the man was calling from a bar.
‘I must talk to you,’ said the man eventually. ‘Face to face.’
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ said Jennifer. ‘Why don’t you come to my hotel?’
‘No. I must not be seen with you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it is dangerous. For me. No one must know I have talked to you.’
‘Okay, okay,’ said Jennifer eagerly. The man sounded genuinely frightened and she feared that he might change his mind and hang up. ‘I’ll come to you. Anywhere you want.’
‘I will send a taxi for you.’
‘Give me your address and I’ll get a hotel car.’
‘The address is difficult. Better I send a taxi. Wait outside the hotel in one hour.’
‘But . . .’ Before she could finish, the line went dead.
Jennifer stripped and showered and watched CNN while she blow-dried her hair. She envied the on-camera reporters, flying around the world covering the big stories, reporting from the trouble spots. If she could just break the Warren Hastings story, if she could find out what the hell it was all about, it might be the ticket that would get her back on the road again. She’d do anything to get off the features desk and back to real reporting. Hell, if the guy’s information was good, she’d damn well pay him out of her own pocket.
She opened her suitcase and wondered what to wear. Trousers or a dress? Skirt and top? A dress would be best, she decided. She’d seen Thai men in the streets staring at her breasts and knew that she had a better figure than most Thai women. They might have great skin and glossy black hair, but there was no way they could compete with good old British breasts. She picked up a blue linen dress and held it against herself, then dismissed it for being too wrinkled. It made her look good but she didn’t have time to get it pressed. She took out a yellow cotton dress, cut to just above her knees. Perfect, she decided. Demure enough at the top so that it only suggested what lay beneath, but short enough to show off her legs, her second-best feature. She slipped on the dress and admired herself in the mirror. She had no doubt that between her legs and her breasts, she’d beat the guy down to a sensible price for whatever information he had.
She turned her back on the mirror and looked over her shoulder. ‘Not bad for a thirty-eight-year-old,’ she said to herself, then grinned at her reflection. She put her notebook and pen in her handbag and went downstairs.
A bellboy in a red jacket and white pants and wearing a peaked cap held the door open for her. In front of the glass doors was a blue taxi.
The driver, a middle-aged man with a large black mole on his chin, looked at her expectantly. She raised her eyebrows and he nodded. ‘Miss Jennifer?’ he said.
‘That’s me,’ she said. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked the driver as he put the car in gear.
‘No English,’ he said gruffly as he joined the traffic which was crawling along outside the hotel.
The air-conditioner was on its lowest setting and the atmosphere was stifling. She pointed over the driver’s shoulder at the air-conditioner control. ‘Colder,’ she pleaded. The driver nodded and increased the setting.
They turned left at a main intersection and drove for thirty minutes, during which time Jennifer estimated they covered perhaps two miles. The whole city appeared to be gridlocked. The only vehicles that made any progress were the motorcycles that weaved in and out of the cars. Virtually without exception the drivers of the cars left enough room for the motorcycles to pass by, and the thoughtfulness was frequently acknowledged with nods and smiles.
They turned off the main road into a single-lane street, devoid of traffic, and then turned again and rattled along a narrow alleyway.
Suddenly the taxi stopped. Jennifer looked around anxiously. The alley was gloomy and strewn with rubbish. There was nobody around.
‘Are we here?’ Jennifer asked. The driver shook his head. Jennifer couldn’t tell whether or not he understood her. ‘Is this it?’ she asked. Before the driver could reply the passenger door opened. ‘I’m still using this cab,’ she protested, but a large Thai man slipped in to sit beside her.
‘I am the man you have come to see,’ said the man. ‘My name is Bird.’
He was broad shouldered and had thick forearms as if he lifted weights a lot. Most of the Thais Jennifer had seen were short and slight; this man wouldn’t have looked out of place in a London gym. He had a thick neck around which he wore a gold chain that appeared to be almost tight enough to choke him, as though he’d been wearing it since he was a child.
Jennifer held out her hand. ‘Jennifer Leigh,’ she said. ‘But you know that already.’ They shook. His hand was huge and engulfed hers entirely, but his grip was surprisingly gentle. He wore several large gold rings, and a diamond-studded gold Rolex. He was, Jennifer realised with an electric jolt, very attractive. As he turned his head she saw that he had a thin scar that ran from his left ear to the side of his nose.
Bird spoke to the driver in Thai and the car drove off. ‘I am sorry to be so secretive,’ said Bird. ‘You will understand later. When I’ve told you what I know.’
‘And what do you know?’ Jennifer asked.
‘Not here,’ said Bird.
The taxi drove along to the end of the alley and turned on to a street. By now Jennifer was totally disorientated. ‘How did you know where to find me? How did you know who I was?’
‘I heard that you were asking questions about Warren Hastings.’
‘But so are the police. Why did you come to me?’
‘The police don’t pay as much as newspapers. Certainly not as much as British newspapers. But please, can we talk later?’ He folded his arms across his chest.
The Solitary Man (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 21