He shifted position again. Sleep wouldn’t come, and the more he tried to force it, the less sleepy he became. He put a hand over his eyes, trying to blot out the light. He pictured the prison, starting from the outside. He imagined himself walking under the arched entrance, through the main gates and into the garden courtyard. He pictured the walls, and the guard towers, and then he imagined himself going through the second set of gates, and into the compound containing the cell blocks and the factory. In his mind he walked into the cell block, up the metal stairway and along the catwalk until he was standing at the door to the cell, looking in at his own body, lying on the floor like an animal in a cage. At some point during the imaginary journey, he fell asleep, and was unable to tell which was the real man: the one in the floor or the one outside the cell door, looking in.
CHAU-LING SAT IN THE back of the limousine, her arms folded across her chest. The tears had stopped but she was still in a state of shock and had no idea where they were going other than that she was away from the house and the men with the guns. Minnie was on the seat with her. Her father had wanted to leave the dog behind but Chau-ling had insisted. Just then it seemed terribly important that Minnie stayed close by. Minnie had saved her life. Mickey, too, but Mickey had died. There had been no room on the back seat for Chau-ling’s father so he’d ridden in the front, next to the driver. From time to time he turned around to see how she was but she avoided eye contact with him.
Minnie sniffed and nuzzled Chau-ling’s leg. She reached over and stroked her absentmindedly. There was something wet on the dog’s head and she looked down. It was blood. The man’s blood. She took her hand away and wiped it on the seat. Her father twisted around in his seat to see what she was doing.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I’ve got blood on the seat.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated, then the tears started again.
The limousine was following a white van with the name of one of her father’s companies on the side. There were two big men in the front of the van, men that Chau-ling had never seen before but whom her father seemed to know well. There were two more men in the back of the van, one barely alive with a hastily applied bandage to his neck, the other dead.
TSANG CHAI-HIN SWITCHED OFF his mobile phone and handed it to Ricky Lim. ‘Wake him up,’ said Tsang. Lim slid the telephone into the leather holster on his belt. Tsang stood with his arms folded as Ricky went over to the man who was tied to the wooden chair in the centre of the office. Blood was seeping through the bandage on the man’s neck and it occasionally dripped on to newspapers that had been placed on top of the sheet of thick polythene spread over and around the chair. Tsang was using his own office and he had no wish to stain the carpet.
Ricky Lim was a big man for a Chinese: he stood well over six feet and had the broad shoulders and well-muscled arms of an American football linebacker. Lim had been born in Chicago and had benefited from an American diet and health system before moving back to Hong Kong with his parents in the early 1980s. He had strong white teeth, a wide jaw with a dimple in the centre and spiky black hair cut close to his scalp.
Tsang in contrast had spent his early years in the north of China and was barely five feet seven inches tall and beanpole thin. He had a receding hairline and most of his teeth had long ago been crowned, porcelain at the front of his mouth, gold at the rear. Every year one of the local Chinese newspapers printed a list of the top one hundred richest men in Hong Kong. It had been more than twenty years since Tsang Chai-hin had not been in the top half of the list, but the one thing his wealth could not buy him was a new body. To compensate, he surrounded himself with men like Ricky Lim. Not that Tsang Chai-hin needed to use their muscle to get what he wanted: his money and reputation were enough for that.
Lim slapped the man across the face, quite gently considering the size of his shovel-like hands.
Another big man, Terry Hui, stood with his back to the door. Not that Tsang expected to be disturbed. It was just after midnight and the building was deserted. They had come up in the private elevator that led up from the underground car park. Only Tsang had access to the elevator, and it was not connected to the closed-circuit television system that enabled the building’s security staff to monitor the rest of the building. Tsang was not an infrequent nocturnal visitor and he had no wish to have his comings and goings monitored. Nor did he have to, not when he owned the thirty-storey tower block along with several acres of prime Kowloon real estate around it.
Tsang went over to the massive rosewood desk that dominated the far end of the office. All of the ornate Chinese-style furniture in the office was made from the same dark reddish-brown wood, including the chair behind the desk. There was no cushion on the chair – Tsang believed that sitting comfortably was not conducive to thinking. On the desk were two Thai passports and two wallets, the contents of which were spread out on the blotter: some banknotes, Hong Kong and Thai, return tickets to Bangkok, a receipt for the rental car. Nothing personal, no family photographs, no scribbled addresses or telephone numbers. Not that Tsang expected to find anything: the men were clearly professionals.
Tsang put his hands on the desk and leaned forward. Through the floor-to-ceiling window he could see hundreds of navigation lights in the harbour below, and beyond the inky blackness of the water were the tower blocks of the Central business district, most of them topped with bright neon advertising slogans. Toshiba. Canon. Fosters. Tsang was angry, angrier than he’d ever been in his life, but outwardly there was no sign of the emotion that raged within. He had long ago learned to control his feelings. It had been a necessary survival tool during the years of the Cultural Revolution and one of the keys to his success upon his arrival in Hong Kong. He turned to face the man tied in the chair, his face impassive.
The man’s eyes were flickering and he didn’t appear to be able to focus. Lim went over to a sideboard on which there stood a crystal decanter filled with water and several glasses. He took the decanter to the bound man and slowly poured the water over him. It cascaded over his shoulders and soaked into the newsprint. The man shook his head and winced as the wound in his neck pained him.
Tsang walked over and stood in front of the man, his feet inches away from the newspaper and plastic sheeting on the carpet. ‘Do you have any idea what you have done?’ he asked. He used Cantonese, the language which his daughter said the man had spoken. It was Tsang’s second language – he was happier using Mandarin Chinese – but he didn’t want to use a translator.
The man didn’t reply. He averted his eyes but Lim grabbed him by the hair and forced him to look at Tsang.
‘She is my only child. My only living relative. You tried to take the life of my daughter.’ Tsang shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. ‘The name in the passport is Srisathiantrakool. Is that your real name?’ The man stared fixedly ahead, his lips together in a tight line. Tsang waved a thin, liver-spotted hand dismissively. ‘It is your choice. If you wish to die using another’s name, so be it. Your name does not concern me. Nor does the name of your dead companion.’ The man’s eyes widened. Tsang realised that the man hadn’t known that his companion had been killed. Not that it mattered. There was no need for Tsang to play games.
Tsang took a deep breath. He was finding it difficult to stay calm. He had an overwhelming urge to step forward and hit the man hard, very hard. He wanted to hurt him, to make his blood flow, to beat him to a pulp with his bare hands. But Tsang knew that to do so would be to lose face in front of the men who worked for him, and that was not a price he was prepared to pay. ‘I have protected my daughter from the evils of life,’ he continued, his eyes fixed on the bound man. ‘She has known nothing but peace and harmony, and you have stolen that from her. My daughter took a life tonight. She killed a man. Do you have any idea what that means? She is not of your world, yet you have dragged her in, you have tainted her, you have stained her with blood that will for evermore be on
her hands. Not a day will go by when she will not think of what she has done, what you made her do. For that alone you are going to die.’
The man pulled at his bonds but he was securely tied. The exertions increased the flow of blood from his neck and Tsang motioned for Lim to adjust the bandage. He did not want the prisoner to die prematurely. There were things he had to know, first.
‘Yes, you are going to die, here in this room. There is nothing you can do about that. But before you die you will tell me who paid you to kill my daughter. The sooner you tell me, the sooner your suffering will end. The choice is yours.’
Tsang nodded at Lim. Lim reached into his leather jacket and took out an ice-pick, a long metal spike with a pale wooden handle, worn glass-smooth from years of use. Tsang walked slowly around his desk and sat down on the rosewood chair. He steepled his fingers under his chin and watched with eyes as hard as pebbles as Lim went about his task.
HUTCH WAS SANDING DOWN a wooden chest when Pipop came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Visitor,’ he said.
Hutch frowned up at the trusty. ‘Who is it?’
‘Come,’ said Pipop.
Hutch put down his sanding block and wiped his dusty hands on his shorts. Pipop started walking towards the exit. Hutch followed, using a strip of cloth that Thep had given him to keep the chain from dragging on the floor. Pipop waited for Hutch at the compound gate, and took him across the main courtyard to the administration block.
‘Where are we going?’ Hutch asked Pipop in Thai. He’d learned a few words from Thep and the rest of the sanding crew, because most of the guards didn’t speak Thai and those that knew English often refused to use it when speaking to prisoners. Pipop didn’t reply. Hutch knew that the visiting area was next to the main gate, but that wasn’t where the trusty took him. Pipop led him into the administration block and along a corridor. Hutch became apprehensive. He’d heard stories about prisoners being beaten to death by guards, sometimes to obtain confessions, sometimes just for their amusement.
A cockroach scuttled across the floor and disappeared under a door. Hutch wished he could escape as easily. A sharp pain stabbed through his stomach. He’d spent most of the morning crouched over the toilet with a burning case of diarrhoea. He was hot and thirsty and he was sure he had a temperature. He shuffled after Pipop, the manacles rubbing against the open sores on his ankles. Joshua had given him some fresh rags to stuff around the manacles, and the padding had helped, but every step was still agonising.
Pipop stopped in front of a brown-painted wooden door. He opened it and pushed Hutch through. The door slammed shut. A Thai man in a grey suit was sitting behind a small wooden desk that looked as if it belonged in a school classroom. There was an empty chair on the near side of the desk. Hutch turned and looked at the closed door.
‘He has been paid to ensure that we can speak in private,’ said the man. He spoke slowly with a heavy accent and a slight lisp.
‘Yeah? Who are you?’ Hutch asked as he faced the man.
‘I am Khun Bey,’ he said. ‘I am a lawyer. Please, sit down.’ He indicated the empty chair.
Hutch shuffled over to the chair and sat down. Bey took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Hutch. Hutch shook his head. ‘I don’t smoke,’ he said.
‘Take the pack,’ said Bey. ‘You can use them as bribes.’
Hutch considered the offer for a few seconds and then reached for the pack and slipped it into the pocket of his shirt. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘but I still don’t need a lawyer.’
‘I’m not working for you, Khun Chris.’
Hutch narrowed his eyes. So far as the authorities were concerned, his name was Warren Hastings. Billy Winter was the only one who knew his true identity. He leaned forward over the desk, his hands clasped together. ‘Billy sent you?’
‘I am working for Khun Billy, yes.’
‘What the hell’s he playing at?’ Hutch hissed.
‘You can talk to him yourself,’ said Bey. He had a gleaming brown leather briefcase on the floor and he picked it up and placed it on the desk. He opened it and took out a portable telephone. After tapping in a number he handed it to Hutch. Hutch held it to his ear and listened to the ringing tone. Winter answered on the fifth ring.
‘Billy, what the fuck’s going on?’
‘Hutch, how’s it going? How’s the food?’
Winter’s casual tone infuriated Hutch. ‘Fuck you, Billy. Fuck you. I’m going to go down for fifty years, how do you think it’s going? Have you any idea what it’s like in here?’
‘Hutch, I know you’re upset . . .’
‘Upset! Upset! I’ll be in here for life, you bastard!’ Hutch was screaming and Bey moved his chair back as if fearful of being too close to him. ‘Why did you do it? Why did you set me up?’
‘Relax, Hutch. Take it easy.’
Hutch was gasping for breath, almost hyperventilating. Another wave of pain rolled across his stomach and he felt light headed, as if all the blood was draining away from his brain. ‘Relax?’ Why, Billy? Just tell me why. I did what you wanted, why did you lie to me?’
‘If you don’t stop yelling at me, I’ll hang up.’
‘Fuck you, Billy. Fuck you.’
‘Last chance, Hutch. You can either shut up and listen or you can go back to your playmates in the cell.’
If Winter had been in the room with Hutch, Hutch would have grabbed him around the throat and squeezed the life out of him, but he knew that the phone was the only link he had with the outside world and he couldn’t afford to have that link broken. He had no choice but to listen to the man. He bit down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood.
‘That’s better, old lad,’ said Winter. ‘Now we can get down to business.’
‘I’m listening, Billy. But I want to know why. Why did you set me up? Wasn’t it enough that you threatened my kid?’
‘Do you know the difference between involvement and commitment?’ Billy asked.
Hutch frowned, not understanding. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘What did you have for breakfast this morning?’
‘What?’
‘Breakfast. What did you have?’
‘A raw egg. And soup that tasted like dishwater.’
‘Yeah? I had a full English breakfast. Eggs, bacon, the works.’
‘Get to the point, Billy.’
‘It’s about commitment, Hutch. Take my breakfast: eggs and bacon. The hen is just involved. But the pig, hell, the pig’s committed.’ There was a pause and for a moment Hutch wondered if he’d lost the connection, but then Winter spoke again. ‘That’s what you are now, old lad. Committed. You’ve got to get out. And you’re going to bring the Harrigan boy with you.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘If you don’t get out, you’ll die there. And if you get out without the Harrigan boy, then we’re both dead.’
‘So it looks as if you’re committed, too.’
‘Just do what you do best, Hutch. Escape. Then all our problems are over. Talk to Bey. He’ll get you anything you need.’
The line went dead and this time Hutch realised that the connection had been cut. Winter had hung up on him. Bey held out his hand for the telephone. Hutch gave it to him. Bey put it into the briefcase and took out a wad of banknotes. ‘Khun Billy sent this. It will make things easier for you. Keep it hidden from the guards. You are not supposed to have money in the prison.’
‘I know,’ Hutch snapped. He wanted to fling the money in the man’s face but he resisted the urge and slipped it into his pocket. If he was ever going to get out, he’d have to stay calm and use every advantage he had. ‘There are things I might need from the outside. Can you get them for me?’
‘Within reason,’ said Bey. ‘Money is no problem, and the guards will allow me to give you food and medicine. Weapons are out of the question. I am searched before I come in, but I might be able to conceal small objects.’
Hutch gestured at the manacles on his legs.
‘First, I need you to get these off for me. Find out who has to be paid and how much they want and get it done. I can’t go anywhere with these on. Then I need lockpicks. Something that will pick handcuffs, and the locks on the lockable leg-irons that they use. Billy knows what’ll work.’
Bey took a small cardboard-bound notepad and a cheap plastic pen from his jacket pocket. He wrote down Hutch’s requests. ‘Anything else?’
‘Gold chains. Stuff I can use as bribes. Make sure they’re long so that this shirt’ll hide them.’
‘I understand. What else?’
‘There’s a guy called Matt. An American. He came in with me. Put some money in his account. And a guy called Joshua. A Nigerian.’
‘Surnames?’
Hutch glared at Bey. ‘I don’t know. But I’m sure you can find someone who’ll tell you. I want their manacles taken off, too.’
‘That will be expensive.’
‘Tell Billy it’s part of my plan. As for the rest, I’ll have to think. How do I get hold of you if I need you?’
Bey put the pen and notepad away. ‘I will come back in two days.’
Hutch nodded. ‘Put more money in my prison account,’ he said. ‘As much as you can. Billy can spare it.’ He went over to the door and banged on it with both fists.
‘Good luck,’ said Bey, behind him.
‘Thanks,’ said Hutch. ‘Thanks for nothing.’
TSANG CHAU-LING SAT IN the outer office and stared at the aquarium. Her father didn’t like tropical fish but the feng shui man had told him that fish in the far corner of the office would bring him good luck, and her father was not the type to disregard the advice of the feng shui man. Her father’s secretary was on the telephone, but she’d acknowledged Chau-ling’s arrival with a quick smile and nod. On the wall behind the secretary were large framed photographs of Tsang Chai-hin’s business empire: office blocks in the city’s high-rent districts; container ships that crisscrossed the Pacific; electronics factories over the border in Shenzhen. Her father always made a point of telling Chau-ling that one day it would be hers, that he wanted to pass the company on to her, but she was reluctant to take on the responsibility. Not because she didn’t think that she was capable, far from it. Her fear was that if her father were ever to give up his company, he would give up on life itself. Since the death of his wife, Chau-ling’s mother, ten years earlier, Chai-hin had devoted every waking hour to his businesses, as if he was unwilling to give himself time to grieve.
The Solitary Man (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 28