There was a bad taste in her mouth and she tried to clear her throat. Her whole body ached, and she felt a searing pain deep inside her, as if the flesh there had been torn apart. Something warm and liquid dribbled from between her legs and she had no way of telling if it was blood or urine. She began to cry, more from helplessness than from the pain.
Bird shouted and the engine noise reduced to a low throb, then there was a rattle of metal and a two-foot-wide chute appeared above Jennifer’s head. Bird held it steady with one hand as he peered down at her.
‘Please, don’t,’ she begged through her tears. ‘Please.’ The man had drugged her, raped her, done God knows what else to her, but he was the only hope she had. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and fearful. ‘I’ll do anything,’ she said. ‘Anything.’
Bird’s grin widened. ‘You already have done,’ he said. ‘And you weren’t that good. Too old.’
He turned away and waved at someone she couldn’t see. The unseen engine roared and the chute began to tremble in Bird’s hand. Something cold and wet spewed out, spraying over her. She closed her eyes and clamped her mouth shut and tried to breathe through her nose as the gritty cement coated her hair and ran thickly down her neck. She felt it pool around her backside and rise up around her waist. The deluge intensified, and the sheer weight of it forced her head down. It poured into her nostrils and she began to choke. Cement began to seep into her mouth and she coughed and spluttered. Her lungs ached for air but she resisted the urge to breathe, knowing that her next breath would be her last, wanting to cling on to life until the last possible moment. The cement clogged her ears but she could still hear the roar of the engine and Bird’s laughter. Her lungs began to burn, and as she opened her mouth and it filled with cement, the last thought that passed through her mind was that she didn’t even know why she was being killed.
HUTCH SAT ON THE hard wooden bench and stared straight ahead. Through the bars in front of him he could see a raised podium on which were three desks. To his right were the two Nigerians; to his left was a young Thai man in a torn T-shirt and cut-off jeans. Behind him were more benches, with more than twenty prisoners in all, including the American. They’d been handcuffed and herded into a coach by armed police early in the morning and driven out of the city. Hutch had been given his wallet and his watch but they hadn’t allowed him to take his sleeping mat, and when he’d asked what had happened to his other belongings he’d been met with blank faces. The guards hadn’t said where they were going, but Hutch was certain he was in the Criminal Court for his first appearance before a judge.
Hutch looked over his shoulder. There were half a dozen uniformed guards holding shotguns, their fingers on the triggers. There were more guards inside the court itself, their backs against the walls.
There was no air-conditioning and Hutch was drenched with sweat. The mosquito bites on his body now numbered more than twenty and the itching was almost unbearable. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.
‘Warren?’ said a trembling voice.
Hutch looked up sharply. There were two people standing on the other side of the bars: an Oriental girl and a Thai man. For a second he couldn’t place their faces. When he did recognise Chau-ling, he felt suddenly embarrassed by his dishevelled appearance. She was wearing a dark blue two-piece suit and matching high heels, a far cry from the sweatshirts and faded jeans she favoured while working at the kennels, and she wore a thin gold necklace that he’d never seen before.
‘Warren,’ she said. ‘You look terrible.’
She stepped forward and held the bars as if it was she who was the prisoner. Behind her was Khun Kriengsak, the highly paid lawyer employed by her father.
Hutch glared at her through the bars. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he asked.
She was surprised by the intensity of his anger. ‘I’ve come to help you,’ she said, her voice trembling.
‘Chau-ling, if I’d wanted your help, I’d have asked for it.’
‘Warren, you’re in trouble and I want—-’
‘I can take care of it,’ he said. ‘I’d rather you stayed and looked after my business.’
‘The kennels are fine,’ said Chau-ling earnestly. ‘Naomi and Man-ying are there, they can handle it.’
‘I left you in charge,’ said Hutch. He turned on the lawyer. ‘And I already told you that I don’t need a lawyer. Do you have a problem with English?’
Kriengsak’s eyes hardened. ‘No, Mr Hastings, my English is perfectly adequate. Miss Tsang has come a long way to see you, and if I were you I’d be more grateful for her concern. A friendship such as hers does not come along too often. And your attitude so far suggests to me that you are not worthy of it.’
Hutch felt his cheeks redden as he realised that the lawyer was right. ‘I’m sorry, Chau-ling,’ he said. ‘I just want to take care of this myself.’
‘Warren, to be honest you don’t seem to be doing too good a job right now.’
Hutch stood up and went over to the bars. She saw him glance down at his chained hands and his shame deepened. ‘It’s going to be all right,’ he said. ‘The best thing you can do is to go back to Hong Kong. Look, this has all been a terrible mistake, and once the police realise that, I’ll be on the next plane home. How are Mickey and Minnie?’
‘Pining,’ she said. ‘They send their love.’
Hutch smiled. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘You look great, by the way.’
She returned his smile, albeit hesitantly. She reached up to brush a strand of hair from her eyes. There was a gold Cartier watch on her wrist. Chau-ling had been working at the kennels for almost a year before Hutch had discovered who her father was and that she was sole heir to one of the biggest fortunes in Hong Kong. She drove a six-year-old Suzuki Jeep and the only jewellery he’d ever seen her wearing was a Swatch wristwatch. Hutch was genuinely surprised by her sudden exhibition of wealth and good taste.
‘Is it bad, where they’re holding you?’ asked Chau-ling.
‘It’s not exactly a four-star hotel,’ Hutch replied. He looked at Kriengsak. ‘I go from here to the prison, right?’
‘Yes. They will hold you there until the trial.’
Hutch shook his head emphatically. ‘There isn’t going to be a trial,’ he said.
Kriengsak and Chau-ling exchanged looks. Something unspoken passed between them. Kriengsak narrowed his eyes and stared at Hutch. ‘Mr Hastings, is there something you want to tell me?’
‘You sound more like a psychiatrist than a lawyer,’ said Hutch.
‘Warren, we’re only trying to help,’ said Chau-ling. ‘We have to prepare your case before you go to trial.’
Hutch gripped the bars, his eyes intense. ‘Chau-ling, this isn’t going to go to trial. It’s all been a mistake and when the police realise that, I’ll be out of here.’
Kriengsak frowned. ‘In what way has there been a mistake?’ he asked.
Hutch sighed in exasperation. ‘The drugs they found. They’re not drugs. Once they’ve been tested, they’ll have to let me go.’
The lawyer and Chau-ling exchanged glances again.
Hutch realised there was something they weren’t telling him. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’
The confusion was obvious in Chau-ling’s eyes. ‘Warren, the results of the tests came back this morning. You were carrying ninety-eight per cent pure Number Four heroin.’
Hutch’s jaw dropped and he felt suddenly weak at the knees. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the bars tighter. The room seemed to spin and he closed his eyes.
‘According to a friend of mine in the prosecutor’s office, they will be looking for a speedy trial,’ he heard Kriengsak say. ‘And the prosecution will be pressing for the death penalty.’
Hutch’s shoulders sagged. He let go of the bars and massaged his temples with the palms of his hands. ‘What? What are you talking about?’ He found it difficult to talk and the strength had drained from his legs.
The lawy
er repeated himself, but Hutch barely heard the words. He sat down heavily. His head felt as if it was about to explode. It didn’t make any sense. None of it made any sense. Pure heroin? How in God’s name had the laboratory come to that conclusion? Something had gone wrong, badly wrong. Maybe the Thai police had set him up. Maybe when the lab had shown that the white powder wasn’t heroin, the police had decided to take matters into their own hands and had substituted the real thing.
‘Warren, it’s okay,’ said Chau-ling. ‘They don’t execute foreigners here. The King always commutes the sentence to life imprisonment. Not that . . . I mean . . . you know . . . it’s not going to come to that.’
Hutch wasn’t listening. It had all gone wrong from the start. According to Billy, Hutch should have been sent to the main prison straight away, he shouldn’t have been locked up in a police cell for three days. How had Billy managed to be so wrong? Hutch realised he was panting: his breath was coming in short, ragged gasps like a heart attack victim. He held his breath for several seconds and fought to stay calm. Panic wouldn’t serve any purpose. He forced himself to breathe slowly and he clenched and unclenched his hands.
‘Warren? Warren, are you all right?’
Hutch ignored her. Maybe Billy had set him up? But that didn’t make any sense because if Billy wanted to cause him grief, all he had to do was to make one telephone call to the police in the UK. And if Billy wanted Hutch dead, then Billy knew people, very heavy people, people who’d quite happily pull the trigger on a sawn-off shotgun without the need for laboratory analysis or a trial. But that didn’t make any sense either, because Hutch had never crossed Billy. In fact, in Parkhurst they’d been friends. And Hutch had agreed to help him get his colleague out of prison, albeit reluctantly. Why would Billy then go and double-cross him? Whichever way he looked at it, it didn’t make any sense.
Perhaps it wasn’t Billy who’d set him up; perhaps Bird had substituted the drugs. Maybe Bird was working against Billy and this was some sort of plot to destroy Billy’s operation. But if Bird had betrayed Billy, then why hadn’t Billy been in touch? And what about the man who’d delivered the drugs, the man who was supposed to step forward and take the blame so that Hutch could be released? Maybe he’d had a change of heart; maybe he’d set Hutch up so that he wouldn’t have to go to prison.
Hutch put his hands up to his face and covered his eyes with his palms. Bird. Billy. The police. Bird’s contact. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to set him up. There had to be a way out. There had to be something he could do to get out of his predicament.
‘Warren. Pull yourself together.’ Chau-ling spoke urgently and Hutch snapped out of his reverie.
‘I’ll be okay, Chau-ling,’ he said. He looked up but he had trouble focusing. He shook his head and blinked several times.
She stared at him, her concern obvious in her eyes. ‘Let Khun Kriengsak help you,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘Let him at least present your case.’
Hutch stood up again and walked hesitantly towards her. He felt suddenly faint and put his forehead against the bars. Chau-ling reached out to touch him but an armed policeman barked at her and she pulled her hand back as if she’d been stung. ‘Chau-ling, you have to listen to me,’ he said. ‘You have to listen to me, and you have to do what I say.’
‘Anything, Warren.’
‘Go home. Forget about me. Forget everything.’
She shook her head quickly. ‘No. You can’t make me go.’
Behind her, a black-robed judge and three women carrying files entered the courtroom and took their places. Clerks scurried about and several uniformed policemen walked in, carrying more files and talking in hushed voices.
‘It is about to start,’ said Khun Kriengsak. ‘The proceedings will all be in Thai, so I shall have to translate for you.’
‘Okay,’ said Hutch. ‘But I don’t want to say anything.’
‘You won’t be asked to say anything,’ said the lawyer. ‘At this stage, all the judge wants to know is that the police have a case against you. It’s nothing more than a formality.’
A gavel banged and the lawyer jerked as if he’d been pinched. He nodded curtly at Hutch, signalling that they’d have to be quiet. He went over to the sparsely filled public benches with Chau-ling and they sat down together. Chau-ling kept looking over at Hutch with anxious eyes but he ignored her and stared straight ahead.
TIM CARVER WAS STANDING by the water cooler when he heard his name being called. It was Ed Harris, a young agent on attachment from the DEA’s New York office. ‘Tim, call for you. London.’
Carver drained his paper cup, crumpled it and bounced it off the wall into a wastepaper basket. ‘Yeah, two points, the crowd goes wild,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Okay, Ed,’ he called down the corridor. ‘I’ll take it in my office.’
His phone was already ringing when he pushed open his office door. He sat down and picked up the receiver. It was Richard Kay, a British journalist he’d met only once but with whom he’d struck up an immediate rapport. They chatted for a while, reminiscing about Kay’s recent fact-finding trip to the Far East, then the journalist came to the point.
‘Tim, have you seen Jennifer Leigh recently?’
‘A few days ago.’
‘But not within the last forty-eight hours?’
‘No. Why?’
‘She’s gone AWOL and the feature editor’s doing his nut.’
‘Sorry I can’t help,’ said the DEA agent. ‘I gave her some background on a Brit who got caught with a kilo of heroin, but I haven’t seen her since.’
‘Warren Hastings?’
‘That’s the guy. She had some conspiracy theory, a hunch that something wasn’t kosher.’
‘Yeah, it turns out that she might be right.’
Carver tensed and reached for a pen. ‘What makes you say that, Richard?’
There was a moment’s hesitation as if the journalist was considering how much to tell Carver. ‘I checked out the passport number she gave me. It’s genuine. Issued just over seven years ago. So far so good. But then I went to look up his birth certificate. There isn’t one.’
‘You mean it’s missing?’
‘I mean that no one called Warren Hastings was born on the date in the passport. Nor during the months either side.’
Carver doodled on his notepad. ‘How can that be?’ he asked. ‘It’s the same procedure in the UK as in the States, right? You have to produce a birth certificate to get a passport.’
‘That’s right. The usual way of setting up a false identity is to use the birth certificate of someone who died without ever getting a passport, ideally an infant.’
‘Same in the States,’ said Carver. ‘So you’re saying that this Hastings guy got a passport without a birth certificate?’
‘Uh-huh. There’ve been a couple of bad apples in the Home Office over the past few years, selling passports for cash to rich Chinese and Nigerians and the like. Two rings were busted and some of the passport numbers they sold are known, but most aren’t. I’m assuming that Hastings or whatever his real name is bought one of them.’
‘Have you told the Home Office yet?’
‘Bit of a sticky wicket, there,’ said Kay. ‘There’s a guy I pay for information, and I can’t tell them officially without tipping them off that I’ve got an inside source. So mum’s the word.’
Carver wrote the name Warren Hastings on his notepad and underlined it three times.
‘Also, Jenn told me that Hastings avoided having his photograph taken,’ continued Kay. ‘And he had no relatives, none that he talked about, anyway.’
Carver put down his pen and pulled a half-empty pack of Marlboro from his shirt pocket. He tapped a cigarette out and lit it. ‘So her hunch was right,’ he said. ‘Hastings isn’t his real name, he’s hiding from something. Or somebody.’
‘Yeah, that’s the way it looks. Jenn went to Hong Kong to sniff around, and then she was on her way back to Bangkok. But since her last
phone call from Hong Kong, we haven’t heard from her.’
‘Does she always keep in touch with the office? I got the feeling she was a bit of a maverick.’
‘She’s a bit headstrong, but she’s always professional,’ said Kay. ‘And she wanted the information I’ve got, so she’d call for that if nothing else.’
‘Where was she staying the last time she was here?’
‘The Shangri-La. And she was flying Thai. She might have spoken to them about reconfirming her ticket.’
Carver wrote the name of the hotel and the airline on his notepad. ‘I’ll check around, Richard. Give me your number and I’ll get back to you.’
Kay gave him the office telephone number. ‘Hey, by the way,’ said the journalist. ‘What’s this about you telling her you were gay?’
Carver chuckled. ‘She told you that, huh?’
‘Could have knocked me down with a feather. Didn’t seem to gel with what the two of us got up to in that massage parlour you took me to, but I didn’t put her right. Did she hit on you?’
‘Like a ten-ton truck. Suggesting that women didn’t turn me on seemed to be the most diplomatic way out. She’s dangerous, that one.’
‘A maneater,’ agreed Kay. ‘But I hope she’s okay.’
THE JUDGE SAID NOTHING for almost an hour. One by one files were handed to him and he read them silently, occasionally making notes on a pad. He was middle aged and overweight with a high forehead, bulging eyes behind thick lenses and jowls under his chin that wobbled as he turned his head. He looked for all the world like a brown-skinned frog contemplating his next meal. Eventually he looked up, put his pen down on his pad, and interlinked his fingers. One of the female officials, the eldest and clearly the most senior, called out a name. One of the Thais stood up. The judge asked a policeman several questions and then said something to the prisoner. He began to reply but the judge silenced him with an impatient wave of his hand. Two guards took the prisoner away and led him through a back door.
The Solitary Man (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 23