by Clive Hindle
“So there was an Englishman there then, too?” Peter’s eyes twinkled. He had totally relaxed in Jack’s company and they had scarcely discussed the case.
Peter’s history was equally interesting. Before being press-ganged into the family business, he had entertained notions of an academic post at a Russian university. That had been knocked on the head, though, by the Afghan War, into which he had been conscripted.
“The Russian-Afghan War?” Jack asked.
“Is there another? You and the Americans were on the other side, arming the Taliban.” He didn’t say it like an accusation but the irony wasn‘t lost. “They killed a lot of my comrades.”
“It’s like that thing about China, isn’t it?” Jack said, “It’s their land. It’s not our land.”
The Russian nodded agreement. “I am glad that I got you on this duty solicitor thing, Jack. Do you mind if I call you that?”
“Be my guest. I will call you Peter.”
The claim that Peter couldn’t understand the language had enabled him to play for time. Now Jack was on his side, he wasted no time in saying he had been framed. The back story was someone wanted to get rid of the dead man, a notorious local smuggler, and, at the same time, whoever it was had taken the opportunity of getting even with the Russian. “Two birds with one stone, isn’t this what you English say?”
Everyone has a conspiracy theory of course, so Jack didn’t succumb easily. “Why should anyone from Tyneside bear you a grudge?” Peter couldn’t answer that but he told Jack something new: the local fishermen would not have a grudge against him merely because he was fishing their grounds, no more, at least, than the usual xenophobia. The factory ship system provided East Coast fishermen with a service: they sold their fish to him at sea and this meant they stayed out longer and earned more than if they returned to market after each catch and then had to await the tide again. No, it was the big fish processors who lost out, in particular a North East coast multi-trawler and market owner who went by the name of Albert Abel.
“Don’t think I’ve heard of him,” Jack replied.
“I’ve come across him further down the coast. Hull, Grimsby?”
Jack nodded. Peter continued with his tale and it turned out he’d had more than one threat from this man’s henchmen; he knew that, if he ever landed in the U.K, he could be in trouble. He normally stayed at least two miles out and let the local fleet come to him but engine problems had meant he had no choice but to put into port for repairs.
“What would this Abel guy have against Armstrong?”
“I don’t know,” the Russian admitted. “I never heard of him before this case.”
Jack nodded. “I know a lot of the fishermen round here. Armstrong’s got a reputation locally as a petty smuggler. Drugs, usually. MDMA or cannabis brought across from Holland, booze, cigarettes from France. Basically anything he could pick up at sea and drop off on a quiet coast.”
“Oh my God!” The Russian leaned across and grabbed Jack’s arm like he was a saviour. “I was indeed fortunate to find you the duty solicitor, Jack.”
Jack was touched by the man’s sincerity. He was a tough sea-captain but he was obviously frightened out of his wits and this interview had lightened the gloom for him, let him see a chink of light. “From what you know of Albert Abel would he have been interested in any of that?”
The Russian shrugged, “You know more than me, Jack, but from what I know of Mr. Abel there is not much happens on this coast he doesn’t have a hand in. I come across people like these everywhere I go, down every coast on every ocean. There is always a strong man, someone who runs the business. If he doesn’t run it he will tax it, if you see what I mean.”
Jack saw only too clearly, so there was a possibility that Albert Abel or his men were evening up an old score and chalking up a new one at the same time. He came away from the interview believing the Russian and determined to help, just as he always did when he thought his clients were getting a raw deal. It wasn’t easy, though. In accordance with the new procedure for cases which could only be tried at the Crown Court, the case was sent up from the Magistrates and the prosecution applied for an expedited hearing because of the international repercussions. As it turned out, they needn’t have worried because the Russian Embassy, embarrassed by the publicity, had washed its hands of Peter and it also wanted the case over and done with as quickly as possible. A few days later, during a lull in the remand hearing, whilst the Judge was looking at the papers, Jack tried to impart some of his misgivings to Lowther who, after hearing Jack reassure him of his implicit belief in his client’s innocence, queried wryly, “Jack, have you ever represented anyone who’s guilty?”
Jack had to stop and think about that. “I’ve had a few found guilty,” he replied, and it was hard for him to admit anything more. The truth was he had to believe in his clients’ innocence; if he didn’t he couldn’t do as good a job. It wasn’t exactly that he would go through the motions; he’d never do that; but he couldn’t be committed heart and soul to anything but a just cause.
“That’s not what I asked you! I think it’s the influence of these Chinese friends of yours, Jack. You’re learning to be inscrutable.”
Later, he had to say goodbye to his client and send him off to Holme House prison. “I trust you’ll be okay,” he said anxiously, and into his hand he thrust a plastic carrier bag. The Russian looked in it and saw in there a travelling chess set. He grinned broadly and thanked Jack profusely. “Just to keep you occupied, stop it driving you round the bend.”
“Hey, it’ll be very useful,” the fisherman said, “I’ve been a prisoner before!”
“When was that?”
“During the Afghan war. In the Kunar valley. And I never expected to get out. This will be a bit more easy, I feel.”
Jack had to attend a Chinese community charity banquet that same evening. He had accepted the invitation some weeks earlier and by the time it came around he had a bad feeling about it, one he couldn’t quite pin down to anything tangible When he thought about it his mind rested on Gerry or it went back to Peter and the remand hearing. When he was preoccupied with something he found it hard to concentrate on anything else and certainly found it hard to enjoy a normal social live. He could never take his mind off a case once he’d got started. He didn’t want to go to the function in this kind of mood but it was too late to pull out. He went through the dinner and the speeches on autopilot and only pricked up his ears at a titbit of information about a notorious Hong Kong gangster called K.K. Chow, a Triad boss, who was taking over the narcotics business. “You’re smiling Mr. Jack,” Johnny Kwok said, “but he very big crime boss, I assure you. He was policeman once. Station sergeant, Mong Kok district. He dismissed from post.”
Jack nodded. “That doesn’t surprise me,” he replied, “the station sergeants always controlled the criminal activity. Sometimes in a good way but often a bad. But I wasn’t smiling at that. I was smiling at you guys. When I used to work out there, we used to talk about back home all the time. That’s what you do, too.”
They greeted that observation with an hilarity which was far in excess of its desserts but that was the thing about his hosts, they did everything to excess, even politeness, laughing at a guest’s bad jokes. When it was over and they had settled down to the obligatory game of mah jong, to which he was invited but which, as a chess player, he found too dependent on chance to provide even a moment’s entertainment, he was walking back along Stowell Street and he still had that feeling of unease in his head. He wondered if he was just off the pace, too many long court cases not mixing well with late nights. It was raining but instead of the air having a clean feel it was heavy as if a thunderstorm were imminent. He crossed the road, heading towards the taxi rank up on Gallowgate.
At first he thought there was no one else in the street but he became aware of the dark shape of a figure opposite him, a man dressed in black, standing on the corner, perhaps sheltering from the rain. There was something
about him which didn't quite gel with the look of a late night reveller. The memory of the previous encounter in the alleys of Shields was only too fresh. Maybe that was what was troubling him, the idea he hadn‘t seen the last of that guy. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the figure begin to move, seeming to materialise from the darkness. He was deceived at first by its speed because the black clothes made it indistinguishable against the gloom and, even as the thought came into his head, he was already into the same posture of self-defence which had proved so useless last time. Suddenly a voice interrupted the silence and it was not the newcomer's. As Jack gazed at a face masked by a black scarf of a diaphanous material he heard Johnny Kwok shouting his name: "Mister Jack!" The figure suddenly veered from its course, went down the alley towards the old Blackfriars Monastery and was swallowed by the gloom. All that was left was a street of Chinese lanterns, throwing many a shadow as they swung in the wind.
The encounter had been almost dream-like, and that other impression had occurred to him in those few moments. It was not a comfortable one and at that instant he couldn’t define it. Johnny Kwok was stumbling across the street. His face was wreathed in a grin which might have featured in a toothpaste commercial, lending him a slightly vulpine appearance. He held Jack’s scarf, "You almost forget this!”
Jack may have seemed a little ungracious. "Did you see anyone there?"
Johnny shook his head, "I didn't see anyone.”
"There was someone there, standing in the shadows,” Jack pointed towards the door of the Lee Tat Hong supermarket, "and then it came towards me."
"Maybe woman," Johnny said and he laughed a throaty laugh, "we get all sorts that kind of girl round here." He poked Jack playfully, "You missed your chance eh, Mr. Jack!" The smile hadn’t faded.
Jack didn't encourage the exchange, "But you saw no one?"
"No," he replied. "Maybe it ghost, eh? Ghost of old Chinaman?" And then he shuddered because the Chinese don't like talking about ghosts in case they invite them into their lives. He became very sober. "You better get home now Mr. Jack, tomorrow another day, eh?"
In the taxi home Jack experienced again the feeling which had engulfed him as that figure detached itself from the shadows. It wasn’t fear, it was too sudden for that, almost as if the speed with which things had happened had had the effect of a dentist's needle and frozen all sensation. In that moment he had become detached from himself and, although his body had reacted instinctively to the threat, his mind had observed it dispassionately. It came home to him with jarring starkness, just as the taxi turned its nose into his drive, that what he’d experienced was the certainty of imminent death. What did it say about the state of his head that he could be so detached about his own demise, as if it were a matter of no importance?
When he got in the chess pieces still blinked at him from their pride of place on the table. The game had moved on slightly. Black was not long for this world, even though Jack had a preference for playing black.
CHAPTER 4
It was only when he sat at the kitchen table, a malt whisky warming the palm of his hand, drawing on a rare cigarette that the enormity of the event struck him. The feeling was one of coming round from an anaesthetic. His attacker had exuded narcosis, almost as some species of snake have the power to hypnotise before striking. Staggered by his own complacency, suddenly aware of his exposure, he got up and dimmed the kitchen light. He sat there in the dark, smoking his cigarette, drinking his whisky, pondering why he had resigned himself to death and then the memory of Gerry Montrose entered his mind. He wondered where Gerry was now. No sooner had he thought it than there was a knock at the door. He looked first through a crack in the curtain and saw the silhouettes of two figures standing there. They were westerners. Slightly reassured, although intrigued about who would want to visit him at this hour, he opened the door. As soon as he looked at the men he knew they were cops. One was burly, above average height, with a dark moustache; the other was tall, spare of build with powerful shoulders, sparse ginger hair and a stubborn lip. Before he read their warrant cards, Jack said, “Don't tell me, ICAC, am I right?" He didn’t know why that had occurred to him but he had seen enough members of Hong Kong‘s Independent Commission Against Corruption to know one when he saw one. It was if a number of different strands of his fate were being drawn together.
The moustached one deferred to his wisdom with a slight bow, “We are sorry to bother you at this time.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
The ginger one replied, “We know everything about you, Mr. Lauder.”
He meant it to sound intimidating as if to emphasise that, once you have been subject to their jurisdiction, you can never escape the ICAC but that implication of all but supernatural powers made Jack smile. “Oh, you mean I’m well known at the local nick?” The moustached man smiled slightly but the other didn't move a muscle. He looked at Jack disdainfully and then, when he stood back to let them inside, his eyes took in the room and every item of furniture. The moustache sat down in response to the invitation; Ginger stood, still surveilling the room. “You’ll know I spent some time in Hong Kong," Jack added. It sounded like somewhere alien now and it was in a way.
"Like I said, we know all about you, Mr. Lauder," Ginger replied.
"All?" Jack said reproachfully. "Surely not? I must still have the odd secret?" Ginger gave him a hard stare. If it was supposed to intimidate it didn't work. The moustache waved a hand at his colleague, telling him to calm down. Jack eyed them warily. Once a Crown Servant in Hong Kong you can’t escape the ICAC. They are entitled to come after you, wherever you wander, and they can extradite you if you don't co-operate. Even now, Ginger was appraising Jack’s worth as he cast his inquisitive glance round the room, wondering where the English lawyer had made his pile. “A few weeks ago," the moustache continued, measuring his words, "you transferred a very substantial sum into the bank account of a former Crown servant, name of Montrose?"
Jack noticed the pregnant pause and thought of pleading confidentiality, but it was no big secret. "That's right, I did. I wasn't aware, however, that private transactions had suddenly become public in Hong Kong?"
"Cut the crap," Ginger said, "the guy was the subject of an investigation when he jumped ship."
“Investigation? Jumped ship?” Jack was alarmed. “I know nothing about either.”
“Pull the other one!” Ginger nearly exploded but an upraised, calming hand from his colleague quelled his temper.
"Oh no, Mr. Lauder," the moustache said, "please don't imagine we thought you had anything to do with it. We know you helped Montrose for good reasons. What we’re concerned about is why he needed that help."
"You’ll have to ask him.”
"Chance would be a fine thing!" Ginger glared gimlet-style at Jack, who, by contrast, was so laid back in his armchair, he was in danger of touching the horizontal.
“I see you play chess,” the moustache added, indicating the chess pieces on the small table between the chairs.
Jack nodded. There was a hidden code in the message, letting him know that playing games would do no good here. “Not really that much, now,” he replied.
“Oh?” The eyebrows of the law were raised, including Ginger’s shaggy ones.
“Not competitively anymore. I just concentrate on problems.”
“Isn’t that a little lonely?”
“Not for me. It’s known in the trade as home cooking.”
The moustache grinned thinly while Ginger flexed his whole frame as if desperate to go into action braying someone’s head in. It didn’t take much to guess whose. The moustache looked at the board again. “What’s this problem?” he asked, still trying to get Jack’s measure.
“Well, it’s a pawn problem really, although it might not look it. You’ve got a black bishop which can take the knight on f3 and open up the king side and you’ve got an isolated white pawn on d4. Your move? Where do you go?”
The moustache studie
d it for a moment and said, “I’d tend to do the unorthodox and move the rook to c5.”
Jack nodded. “You think that’s unorthodox? You’d lose five moves later. The bishop would take the knight on f3.”
“It would be a sacrifice because the pawn on g2 would take the bishop.”
“And the black queen side rook would then move to d8. You’re now four moves from checkmate.”
“I can’t see it.” He shook his head and beads of perspiration had broken out on his forehead.
“Play it.”
“I‘d love to…but.”
“Gerry?”
He nodded, looking at Jack with renewed respect. “He's disappeared, gone to ground, lost without trace.” He shook his head again as if annoyed with the perceived incompetence which had allowed it to happen. “Temporarily, I'm sure. But that just adds to the riddle. You see, we've suspected Gerry was a security risk for some time. We think he’s been hands on in corrupting witnesses for some of his clients.” He twirled his fingers, making air signs of ironic quotation marks. “He’s been successful in big trials and let’s say there’s been a common theme running through some of them at least of witnesses changing evidence at the last minute. Then he got out. It was almost as if he knew the net was closing in."