The Solitary Man (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Breakfast,’ explained one of the Hong Kong Chinese prisoners. ‘Kao is Thai for rice.’

  Two trustys appeared at the door to the cell. They passed eggs through the bars of the cell, one for each man, and then slid a tray of plastic bowls through a narrow gap at the bottom of the bars. Hutch picked up a bowl and sat down with it. It was greenish water with a spoonful of rice in it. ‘This is it?’ he asked Joshua.

  Joshua spoke to the other Nigerian in his own language. ‘We get this or something like this twice a day. That’s why they said we should buy our own.’

  Hutch sipped the soup. It was lukewarm and tasted of nothing. The egg was raw. He cracked it open on the side of the bowl and tipped it in, then stirred the mixture with his finger. The broth wasn’t hot enough to cook the egg and the semi-congealed mixture made his stomach heave. He put the bowl on the floor. One of the Hong Kong Chinese pointed at it eagerly. ‘Okay?’ he asked, nodding furiously.

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Hutch.

  The Chinese grabbed the bowl and bolted the soup down as if afraid that Hutch would change his mind.

  Matt woke up and rubbed his eyes. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Six o’clock. Breakfast.’

  Matt stood up and walked painfully over to the bars. There was one bowl left on the tray, but it was empty, and there was no sign of his egg. He cursed and kicked at the tray, forgetting that his legs were chained. He stumbled and grabbed at the bars to keep from falling. Tears welled up in his eyes and he began to sob. Hutch looked away, embarrassed.

  A brown-uniformed guard walked along the catwalk, swinging his key chain. Pipop followed him. Hutch made his way over to the bars and leaned against them. He kept his eyes down and stared at the key as the guard inserted it into the lock. Pipop shouted in Thai and the prisoners began to gather up the empty bowls and stack them on the tray. All around the catwalk prisoners were spilling out of their cells, carrying towels and soap. Hutch and the rest of the prisoners were counted out by Pipop, and they joined the rush down the stairs and out of the building, hurrying as fast as they could in their chains.

  The bathing area was behind the building, and prisoners were already sluicing themselves down with water from large tubs. Hutch found a plastic bowl which he used to throw water over his arms and legs. He took off his glasses and put them in his shirt pocket, then sloshed water over his face. The sun was already burning hot and he was soon dry. He still felt dirty, though. The water had washed away the sweat but not the grime that he’d picked up from the cell floor. Joshua came over to him, taking small, mincing steps. The chain linking his ankles appeared to be several inches shorter than Hutch’s. Joshua handed him a bar of white soap with a grin. Hutch was impressed with how quickly the Nigerian had got to grips with the system. He even had a threadbare towel slung around his massive shoulders.

  Hutch washed again, gave the soap back to Joshua, and rinsed himself. A trusty with gold braid on one arm of his T-shirt appeared and barked commands. The prisoners began to stream back into the building. Hutch was one of the last to get back to the cell. Matt was still standing by the bars in exactly the same position as when Hutch had left. Hutch patted him on the back, but couldn’t think of anything to say to the man.

  The prisoners put away their washing gear and squatted down by the cell door. Pipop and another trusty arrived and took a head count, then led them back down the stairs and out of the building. Hutch kept stopping to pull up his socks so that they would provide some relief from the rough manacles. Each time he did one of the trustys would scream at him in Thai.

  The prisoners were shepherded into another building. Inside the factory, stacks of timber were piled up next to rows of ancient wood-turning machines, lathes and saws. To the right were semi-finished articles of furniture: desks, chairs, dining tables and bookcases. The floor was covered with a thick layer of sawdust. Most of the prisoners went immediately to their assigned places but Hutch and the rest of the new arrivals stood around, not sure what to do. Pipop came over and brusquely ordered them to different parts of the factory. This time he spoke only in Thai.

  Hutch’s assigned job was with a group of mainly Thai men who were rubbing chairs smooth with pieces of sandpaper rolled around blocks of wood. A balding man of indeterminate age, whose skin was as brown and hard as the wood they were working on, handed a sanding block to Hutch and mimed working on one of the chairs. ‘Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work we go,’ said Hutch. The Thais smiled uncomprehendingly. Hutch took the block and set to work.

  TIM CARVER SPREAD THE photocopies of the Thai arrest sheets out and studied them. They were written in Thai but Carver could read and write the language almost as well as he could speak it and he had no problem understanding the contents. There was nothing to suggest that Warren Hastings was anything other than a low-level courier who’d taken one chance too many. Carver tapped the photocopied sheets with his cigarette lighter. He wondered if it was worth going to see the Brit, to see if he knew where the heroin had come from, but Carver decided that he’d be wasting his time. As he’d told Jennifer Leigh, one kilo wasn’t even a drop in the ocean. Hastings had probably never even heard of Zhou Yuanyi.

  Carver lit a cigarette and smoked it thoughtfully. It might be worth keeping an eye on Hastings, though, just in case he had any visitors. He wondered if there was any connection between Hastings and the men who’d been arrested up in Chiang Mai. That had been a dead end, too. Park and the rest of the Thais had refused to co-operate, understandably in view of Zhou Yuanyi’s reputation, and the Irishman Ray Harrigan hadn’t said a word since he’d been arrested. According to the file on the Chiang Mai bust, Harrigan was smallfry, too. He’d deteriorated in prison and probably couldn’t talk sense now even if he wanted to.

  Carver leaned back in his chair and blew an almost perfect smoke ring towards the ceiling. Time was running out. Jake Gregory had stressed the importance of finding a direct link to Zhou Yuanyi, and soon. Carver was determined not to let him down.

  HUTCH SHUFFLED OUT INTO the sunlight and shaded his eyes from the blinding sun. It was just after midday and work had stopped. He wasn’t sure how long the break would be, or even if they’d finished for the day. He looked around the courtyard. Joshua was sitting in the shade of one of the cell buildings with Baz, his Nigerian cellmate, so Hutch shuffled over to join him. He dropped down beside Joshua and stretched out his legs.

  ‘How are they?’ Joshua asked, indicating the manacles.

  ‘Painful.’

  ‘Yeah. Mine too.’

  ‘Do you reckon they just do it to torture us?’ asked Hutch.

  ‘Probably. What have they got you doing?’

  ‘Sanding,’ said Hutch. He held out his hands. They were red raw from the work. ‘You?’

  ‘Labouring. Moving the wood stocks around.’

  They were joined by Matt, who sat down next to Hutch. ‘I’m sure this is against the Geneva Convention or whatever law it is that governs prisons,’ he said. ‘It’s slave labour, and we haven’t even been tried yet.’

  ‘You can’t argue with them,’ said Joshua. ‘They’ll just gang up on you and give you a kicking. The only way to get out of it is to bribe them.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I would if I had any money.’

  ‘What about you?’ Joshua asked Hutch.

  Hutch shrugged. ‘Some’s been paid into my account, I think. How do I get at it?’

  ‘You can get vouchers from the block office, just to the right of the entrance. You have to go at shower time. They allow you so much a day to buy meals. If you want to buy stuff from outside, you have to do as Pipop said and do it through the trustys.’

  ‘What about the manacles? How much to get them off?’

  Joshua whistled softly. ‘A lot. Ten thousand baht maybe. Have you got that much?’

  Hutch pulled a face. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. If I get the money, what happens then?’

  ‘You speak to the block boss. The big guard in t
he office.’

  Matt had stripped off his training shoes and socks and was examining his feet. ‘Athlete’s foot,’ he said. ‘How do I get to see a doctor?’

  Joshua’s companion burst into deep-throated laughter. ‘A doctor? For foot rot?’

  Matt scowled at the Nigerian. ‘It spreads if you don’t treat it.’

  Baz continued to chuckle. ‘Foot rot, groin rot, armpit rot, we’ve got it everywhere. They’ll only let you see a doc for really serious stuff. TB. AIDS. Cholera.’ As the American put his socks back on the Nigerian stopped laughing. He could see that Matt was close to tears again. ‘You can buy talcum powder from the trustys,’ said the Nigerian.

  ‘I haven’t got any money,’ said Matt.

  ‘I can lend you some powder,’ said Baz.

  The American smiled gratefully but he still looked upset.

  Hutch stiffened. Two men were walking across the far side of the courtyard. One of them was Ray Harrigan.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Joshua.

  ‘I think I know that guy. The one with the beard.’

  ‘British guy,’ said Baz. ‘He’s in our block.’

  ‘British or Irish?’ asked Hutch.

  Baz sniffed. ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘Ray, I think. He’s in a private cell on our level. The other guy’s his cellmate. A Canadian.’

  Hutch watched the two men sit down in the shade of one of the buildings on the far side of the courtyard, then got to his feet, grunting as the scabs on his ankles opened again. He hobbled across the courtyard. A guard on the compound wall watched him uninterestedly. The wall was no barrier to escape: Hutch could climb it with a rope and hook or a piece of timber from the factory, but not with his legs chained. He hoped that Chau-ling had put enough money into his account to pay for their removal.

  Harrigan had his eyes closed by the time Hutch reached the two men. The Canadian looked up and frowned.

  ‘Hi, how are you doing?’ asked Hutch.

  ‘Not bad,’ said the Canadian.

  ‘Just arrived,’ said Hutch. He bent down closer to Harrigan. ‘Are you Ray Harrigan?’ he asked.

  Harrigan opened his eyes sleepily. He squinted at Hutch. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘We’ve a mutual friend.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Billy Winter.’

  Harrigan’s eyes widened. ‘How do you know Winter? Did he fuck you over, too?’ He sniggered. ‘I suppose he must have done, huh? Why else would you be in here?’

  ‘Just lucky, I guess.’

  Harrigan closed his eyes again. He didn’t appear to care one way or the other who Hutch was or why he was standing in front of him.

  Hutch bent down and touched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Can I have a word, Ray?’

  Harrigan’s eyes remained firmly closed. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.

  Hutch turned to look at the Canadian. ‘Can you give us a few minutes, in private?’ The Canadian grinned good naturedly, then stood up and walked away. Hutch waited until he was out of earshot before sitting down next to Harrigan. Harrigan still refused to open his eyes.

  ‘Ray, I’m here to get you out,’ said Hutch.

  Harrigan said nothing.

  ‘Did you hear me?’

  ‘Billy Winter sent you?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘And you’re going to help me escape?’

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  ‘You’re out of your mind,’ said the Irishman.

  ‘I’m serious.’

  Harrigan opened his eyes sleepily. ‘And who the fuck are you?’

  Hutch decided that it would be safer not to tell Harrigan who he really was. There was something wrong with the Irishman. He seemed to be having trouble focusing his eyes and his mind appeared to be elsewhere. ‘Hastings. Warren Hastings.’

  ‘Well, Warren Hastings, the way I see it, you’re the one with his legs chained. How the hell do you plan to get me out of here?’ Harrigan scratched his left arm. There was a line of bites close to his wrist as if a mosquito had had several attempts at tapping a vein.

  ‘I haven’t worked that out yet,’ Hutch admitted.

  Harrigan closed his eyes again. ‘Well, Warren, when you have worked it out, come back and we’ll talk.’

  Hutch was about to ask Harrigan what his problem was when the Canadian ambled back. ‘All done?’ he asked.

  ‘I guess so,’ said Hutch. He struggled to his feet. ‘I’ll talk to you later, Ray,’ he said. Harrigan didn’t reply but the Canadian gave him a friendly wave. As Hutch hobbled across the courtyard, a trusty blew a whistle and the men began to pour back into the factory.

  THE MAN CALLED WONLOP studied the menu. He was sitting in the business-class section of a Cathay Pacific 747. Basically the choice came down to beef or chicken. Wonlop was a vegetarian, and had been ever since he’d become a monk at the age of fifteen. He’d given up the saffron robes and life of chastity when he’d turned eighteen, but had never again eaten meat. He slipped the menu into the pocket in the seat in front of him, and closed his eyes. He could eat afterwards. There would be plenty of time.

  Twelve rows behind Wonlop in the economy section sat his assistant, Polcharn. They had checked in separately and had studiously ignored each other. Polcharn was in his late thirties, a decade younger than Wonlop. They had worked together on a number of jobs over the years, and functioned well as a team. Polcharn had been Wonlop’s first choice when Bird had given him the contract on the Chinese girl, not least because he spoke fluent Cantonese.

  Wonlop was travelling on one of several passports he owned, all of them containing different names, dates of birth and professions, and he had other documentation to back it up. He wore a grey suit with a blue and grey striped tie and highly polished black shoes, and in the overhead locker was a briefcase which contained nothing more innocuous than a few files, a clean shirt and a copy of the Bangkok Post. He would collect the weapons in Hong Kong from a contact who’d never let him down before. Wonlop would have to pay a premium because of the short notice, but the money Bird was paying would more than cover the cost.

  HUTCH’S ARMS ACHED, HIS fingers ached, practically every muscle in his body ached. The sanding team had finished the chairs and moved on to a set of bedside cabinets. The air was thick with dust and Hutch had managed to find a piece of cloth to tie over his face. He could only imagine the damage the dust was doing to his lungs. The Thais he was working with were friendly enough. One of them spoke a little English and Hutch tried to learn a few Thai words as they worked. Once an hour a prisoner took around a bucket of water and they were allowed to help themselves with a plastic cup.

  There were a dozen or so trustys lounging around the factory, and two guards. No one in authority inspected their work, but the sanding team worked slowly and methodically and took a pride in its work. The old man who’d given Hutch his sanding block was Thep, the leader of the team. He checked each piece before it was taken over to the varnishing department, and refused to approve any work which was below his exacting standards. Hutch wiped his cabinet with a cloth and nodded to Thep that he was ready for inspection. Thep came over and peered at the cabinet, running his fingers along the side, pulling open its single drawer and examining it carefully. Eventually he nodded his approval. Hutch felt a surge of pride that his work had been given a seal of approval, even if that approval came from a convicted drug dealer who had spent most of his adult life behind bars.

  He shuffled over to the varnishing area and placed the cabinet on the ground beside a dining table. Thais with strips of cloth tied across their mouths and noses were applying varnish with small brushes. They worked as carefully as the sanders.

  Hutch took a quick look around. The guards were talking by the doorway and there were no trustys close by. Instead of going back to the sanding area, Hutch hobbled towards the wood-turning machines. The noise was deafening but the men operating the lathes had been given no ear protectio
n. Several of the prisoners had stuffed pieces of cloth into their ears in an attempt to protect their hearing, but most of them hadn’t bothered. The air was thick with dust and Hutch coughed as he threaded his way through the machines.

  Once the wood was cut and shaped it was carried over to the carpenters, the most highly skilled of the factory workers. Hutch had asked Matt to find out from the Thais how the carpenters were selected, and according to the American they were prisoners who had worked as carpenters outside or who were serving long sentences. They assembled the furniture and had access to various tools, which were stored on racks. Hutch walked slowly by the racks, looking for what he needed. The Thai carpenters looked up from their work as he passed. Hutch saw what he was looking for, but before he could reach it, Pipop came over. He shouted at Hutch in Thai, and pointed back to the sanding area. Hutch turned away, and as he did, Pipop punched him in the small of the back. Hutch pitched forward and sprawled on the floor. Before he could get to his feet, the trusty stepped forward and kicked Hutch in the ribs. Hutch rolled over and glared at Pipop.

  ‘Okay, okay!’ Hutch shouted. He shuffled backwards, using his hands and feet. The trusty pointed at Hutch and continued to scream. Once he was out of range of Pipop’s feet, Hutch stood up and hobbled back to the sanding team.

  WONLOP ADJUSTED HIS TIE. The briefcase lay flat on his knees and he put his hands on it like a pianist preparing to play. He sat in the back of the rented Toyota while Polcharn drove. Polcharn was a careless driver who rarely used his mirrors and consistently left braking until the last possible moment. Wonlop was reluctant to criticise his associate. Besides, Polcharn hadn’t been hired for his driving skills.

  The traffic was heavy but it was moving smoothly, unlike Bangkok where two-hour traffic jams were common and traffic lights sometimes stayed red for as long as fifteen minutes. Polcharn stamped on the accelerator and the car leaped past a minibus. They were driving through the tower blocks of the Central business district on Hong Kong Island, edifices of glass and steel so close together that Wonlop couldn’t see the sky.