“We will celebrate like nobody has celebrated before, once Taiwan is truly united with the motherland,” the politician was saying. “We will take a dead rat and ram it down the throats of the imperialist Americans who cannot stop interfering in our business. It is time we taught them a lesson. We will start small and then it will be too late for them to do anything. You do believe don’t you, Ah-Chan, you believe that we must follow the destiny of the Chinese people?” The politician stared hard at the Hong Kong businessman and the eyes emphasised the fanaticism of the words. This was a man who had a vision and it involved power, chaos and probably bribery and murder.
Henry Chan smiled lightly. “Would I be sitting here if you didn’t think I supported you?”
“That swine, Yang Rinmen, he is like a child who has turned against his parents,” the politician suddenly went on. He waved a hand and one of his minions filled up his brandy glass. It was his fourth or fifth and his eyes were already bloodshot and his face crimson red. They were in a private room but it was still risky to talk about a man so well-connected. Unless you were well connected yourself or insane and wanted to disappear into a labour camp like a Falun Gung supporter or the youths who had protested at Tiananmen Square.
“You are right,” commented Henry Chan trying not to sound as obsequious as the words made him feel, “Yang Rinmen shouldn’t be in the position he is holding. It is not correct. He is practically a revisionist. His attitude to the West is so friendly one must believe he is being paid to make suggestions that will make China weak. It is unbelievable that our leader Jiang Jemin allows him to be so influential. Can’t he see the danger?”
“We must smile to the West, that’s true but then stab them in the back when they are sleeping. If not they will fight us, sooner or later, and that is not good for our country. We must bring the fight to them, stealthily,” Zhu Tsu said, banging his hand on the arm of his leather chair, “Drink, Brother Chan, drink to the success of the Plan of Harmonious Righteousness. Our great secret, comrades.”
Henry Chan did as he was told even though the words he’d just heard sounded like some bitter anachronism. But this relationship with Zhu Tsu would make him more powerful in his circles than ever before and that was worth all the fawning and the pseudo-communist/racist chatter. The Chinese had always been good at the art of dissimulation and there was much that Zhu Tsu believed in which Henry Chan could relate to. After all, he was a “yan”, a Chinese himself. The superior race. It was in the blood.
Chapter 10
The meeting had gone on for ages because there was always somebody who wanted to add something that they felt was of vital import.
Jim felt all of it was a waste of his time because this meeting was about the annual dinner and what entertainments would take place and which guests of honour should be invited. He wanted to get back to work.
The group of fifteen sat in the big board room and there was enough hot air being wafted around to drive a balloon into the stratosphere. Mary Geardley, a stout woman who didn’t seem to know it, was expostulating at the head of the table and Rick, the chairman threw pleading glances around the room because he wasn’t tough enough to shut her up politely. He was hoping someone else would butt in.
Finally Jim came to his rescue.
“Mary, we all appreciate the importance of bringing your partner but it’s never been done before and it will double the required size of venue. Can we leave this matter until the next meeting because some of us have got to get on the phone with the Far East?”
There were supporting murmurs around the room, a grateful glance from Rick, the wimpy accountant, and daggers from the woman who felt her moment of fame was being usurped. It went on for a while because meetings don’t break up that fast unless somebody is unequivocally in control. Ten minutes later Jim was back on his way to his desk.
Mary Geardley was hot on his heels. “Just because you are acting GM doesn’t mean people like me, who are ‘only clerks’ will excuse you for rudeness, Jim Beauregard.” She bent his ear from a foot behind. He turned and forced a smile.
“It’s not rudeness, don’t be so sensitive, I was being practical. We can’t sort out everything in one meeting.”
“I thought what I had to say was important and you interrupted me in the middle of it. It’s inexcusable.”
“You’ll have to excuse me, Mary. Can we carry on this conversation in the pub later?”
“I don’t drink!” she barked and appeared to stamp her foot as she turned and marched off in the other direction.
“And I suppose you’re a lesbian vegetarian as well, lovey?” Jim said under his breath, shaking his head. Somebody in the Human Resources department must have a screw loose. Odder and odder creatures were turning up in their company.
He got to his desk and shifted through a pile of reports someone had placed there. He pulled over his IBM and keyed in his screensaver password. Ever since he’d caught one of the girls last year reading his emails while he was supposedly at lunch, he’d made sure the computer was inaccessible whenever he walked out of the room.
This month he’d chosen “Glenmorangie” as his password. It was lazy but working your way through the list of single malt whiskeys was a way to avoid forgetting. At least no girl would ever guess the pattern.
There were ten new emails but mostly cc-copies and he clicked them away into the trash box once he’d browsed them. It seemed these days that there was more and more communication and the bulk of it was less relevant.
We have seen the future and it is superfluous, he thought grimly.
Last week he’d gotten an internal email from a complete stranger telling him that they’d be out of the office for an hour because they had to go to the dentist. Why was a message like that cluttering up his In-box?
He wondered how Dougie was doing in Hong Kong. Lucky fellow, probably swanning around by the pool of some five star hotel, after giving Bob Chen a real tongue lashing, then retiring for a soapy massage and a big Peking Duck dinner. Jim always enjoyed the Orient because it was a different world in many ways. They had Heineken beer and Coca Cola. They had CNN and BBC but it was still the inscrutable East. He looked at his notes and typed up a few emails.
When the phone rang he found it was Doris at the other end.
“Oh, the one missing in action,” he said jovially.
“I’m sorry, we’ve been having a family problem,” her tone was cold and Jim immediately changed gears. Of course he should have anticipated her mood. Her cousin had been found dead and whether or not she knew about Jim’s altercation in Soho and the visit by the police, the fact was that a family member had been murdered.
“What happened?” Jim asked not wanting to admit that he already knew.
Doris told him in a few quick sentences. “The police told us that you met Wah-jai in his shop yesterday. Is that true?”
“I can’t deny it,” he replied.
“Why?”
“Somebody broke into my flat and tried to burn it down. After the incident with my car I assumed it was him. You know what I mean.”
There was a long silence from the other end of the phone, then the girl said, “I’ll call you back when I have time. I don’t think I can work at your company any more. I’ve told the agency I’m quitting. Don’t try to call me.” There was a click that told him the line was cut.
Ah, well. That solved that problem. Jim was relieved but it wasn’t so easy just simply shutting the book on Doris Yung. His mind kept on returning to the terse tone of her voice. It wasn’t how he thought of her. This girl had a certain graceful feminine aura while the woman at the other end of the phone had sounded like an irate harridan. It wasn’t his fault that the little gangster was dead. She couldn’t possibly blame him for it. Nor could the police for that matter, unless they tried to make a case out of the fact that the blow Wah-jai had received from Jim gave the Chinese man a brain haemorrhage from which he collapsed and died hours later.
Not bloody likely! Jim t
old himself.
But the thought did scare him. His mind kept on drifting back to Doris and her dead cousin and it was hard to concentrate on the figures of the monthly shipping report in front of him. He soldiered on and, not unexpectedly, found something that he didn’t like and picked up the phone to the forwarder who verified that again some cartons were missing on a shipment that came from Shanghai. Jim pulled out his plastic folder where he was gathering information and made some comments on a loose sheet of paper.
Half an hour later Sawyers came into the office and said, “Drinkie?”
Jim sat back and put down his Montblanc pen. “After that bitch and the shit she was talking I could do with something to take the edge off.”
“You mean Weirdley Geardley? I shudder at the thought of her.”
“I thought she’d be your type.”
“Ah, yes Rupert Sawyers, shagger of obscene, grotesque women? Not likely.”
“Rupert Sawyers is twenty-eight, was educated at a fine and private place and works in the city, intermittently. He doesn’t like small cars or large women but is regularly seen lolling about in either one or the other.”
“Well, that’s bullshit but it was a bit funny,” Sawyers said, perched on the desk in his usual manner. “So how about that drink?”
The phone rang and Jim picked it up assuming it was local since it was already after five. He listened for a while, his face becoming serious as the voice at the other end gave him the news.
“And are you sure you’ve made a right identification, Inspector?” he finally asked.
When he put the phone down he just shook his head. He had to loosen his collar.
“What was that about?” Sawyers wanted to know.
Jim just kept shaking his head. He noticed Sawyers staring at him and the capless fountain pen. He leant forward and picked up the cap fitting it firmly in place. He said, “Dougie’s been killed in Hong Kong. Some sort of robbery or gang attack.”
“You must be kidding!”
“That was some sort of local police inspector, Chinese with a Brummie accent on the phone. Seems like Dougie got in the way of something. And they also chopped up Bob Chen.”
“Bloody hell.” Sawyers was gawping. He slid off the end of the desk where he’d been perched and lit a cigarette. He tossed the pack at Jim who’d given up some time back but had forgotten for the moment.
Luckily Dougie’s secretary was still there and she managed to locate the Old Man, Mr. Ferguson at the East India Club. Jim didn’t dare tell her the whole truth so he just explained Dougie’d been in an accident and he’d take care of contacting his wife.
At the East India Club, the porter was expecting Jim and led him upstairs to a bar that was comfortable and smoky. Mr. Ferguson was deep in conversation with two other men sporting grey hair and deep, wrinkled skin.
“This is one of our rising young executives, Jim Beauregard. We’ve just heard some terrible news and he’s had the presence of mind to keep the lid on it so far.” Ferguson introduced the other two men, an industrialist and a judge, then suggested adjourning to the smoking room.
“Very nice club you have here, sir.”
“It’s one of the better ones I have to admit. I went to school with most of the older members so it makes you feel comfortable. Lots of young fellows joining these days. Do you have a club?”
Jim smiled. “No, just the Squash and Health Club. That’s good enough for me.”
“Yes, different strokes for different folks. This is primarily an old codgers’ drinking, dining and whining club and I use the last word not in its gastronomic sense. Here we are, let’s grab these two seats and tell me exactly what you know.”
Jim recounted what he’d been told by the Hong Kong policeman and that there was no doubt about the information. He’d called back the number and ascertained that it was the Kowloon Regional Crime Unit. He’d also verified the situation with the Shangri-La Hotel.
“This is a terrible tragedy,” said the Old Man pulling a cheroot from his inner pocket. He didn’t light it, just toyed with the long thin roll of tobacco. He stared off into the distance for a while and Jim waited with anticipation.
“I gather we weren’t too happy with that Chen fellow but I don’t think he deserved to get stabbed to death. Do you think he’s been involved with some of the criminal element? That would be very bad for the company if it came up in an investigation.”
Jim looked pained and said, “I’ve no idea, sir but it seems likely. I’ve found some very strange discrepancies in our China orders and it’s the main reason Dougie went down there. I have no idea what it means and now I don’t think we’ll be able to find out with Bob Chen dead. Unless Mr. Campbell managed to get some details and made some notes.”
“Not a big note-taker our late General Manager. Always played things close to his chest and then produced results with a big Lothian fanfare,” said Mr. Ferguson pensively. He tapped the cheroot on the teak wood side-table several times. Jim could taste the cigarettes he’d smoked earlier in his own mouth and was angry with himself.
“Makes you want to paraphrase Lady Bracknell: Losing one senior executive may be considered a misfortune, but losing two sounds very much like carelessness.”
Despite himself a smile began crossing Jim’s face as he appreciated the Old Man’s analogy, but he managed to suppress it because this was no time for flippancy or even literary cleverness.
“Right this is what we’ll do, young man. We’ll have to speak to the wife, the widow. Then you get on the phone to our Bangkok office, that American fellow, McHardy seems like he’s got his head screwed on, so have him fly up to Hong Kong first thing in the morning and take charge of matters. You coordinate at this end. Let’s not make a big deal out of it. There’s no need for the staff to know every sordid detail. Let’s put it about that they were in a car together and it had a crash. There weren’t any girls with them were there?”
“I don’t think so, sir.”
“Good, I remember an incident back in Malaya when a married fellow was found dead in bed and there were two naked native women with him sleeping off a hang-over. Or was it boys? Can’t recall exactly. That was a tough one to explain to the widow. Happens in the Orient all the time. Now talking of widows…”
* * * *
Giving and taking statements is the staple of police life. As much as Scrimple hated it, he did enjoy being in the thick of things. There had been some tough questions and odd looks as his peers demanded to know what he’d been doing there but his answers mostly made sense to them.
Some of the Detective Constables stole sideways glances at the fat expat inspector who’d been involved in two violent deaths in one day. Bad luck was following him, obviously.
“Do you know Sergeant Topgun Ng?” Gwailo Pete introduced a tough-looking Chinese man with very dark skin, closely cropped hair and a lean hard, muscular body that stretched his white T-shirt and jeans to their limit. Scrimple knew the man’s reputation. He was now in his mid-forties but didn’t look much older than a PTS recruit. Before joining the Force he’d been a successful stunt-man who worked on many Kung Fu movies with the likes of Jackie Chan and Chow Yuen Fat and had even sparred once with the legendary Bruce Lee himself.
Topgun nodded grimly and shook Scrimple’s hand. The Sergeant’s fingers felt like they were made of German stainless steel.
“Sleep enough?” Gwailo Peter asked.
“More than you probably,” Scrimple replied. He’d given his preliminary statement and gotten home by three a.m. Now it was lunch-time the next day and he was back to give another statement.
“Not much we’ve come up with so far,” Gwailo Pete said, indicating for Scrimple and Topgun to sit. They were in the DI’s office and he’d made an effort to decorate it with plants and oil paintings of imaginary Chinese landscapes. The furniture was still the drab, cheap government issue stuff because even if a police officer was willing to buy stylish desks and chairs with his own money he wouldn’t be pe
rmitted to install them. “Regarding the little Flipper…”
“Marie-Tess,” Scrimple supplied the name, surprised at his own sensitivity.
“Yeah, whatever, regarding her, we’ve corroborated everything that you gave us regarding her job at ‘The Firehouse.’ She was quite a little worker, popular with the boss and mama-san and of course certain clients. Bit emotional as they all are. Prone to disappear once in a while. Nothing special there…”
“Poor little bitch,” Scrimple said.
Gwailo Pete, obviously a puritan when it came to the morals of working girls, shrugged and picked up a pile of statements that had been handwritten in Cantonese and translated into typed English copy. He scanned a few and went on, “Then this Bob Chen, he’s turning out to be a typical Hong Kong slimy businessman with interests in all sorts of odd places. Nothing unusual, regular trips to China. Living the good life. Expensive restaurants and under-age whores as his pastimes. Again nothing special. There’s a hundred thousand men like him wheeling and dealing around Southern China. But he has got some dodgy connections and there have been some pretty negative remarks made about him. Tracking down all his potential enemies is going to be a nightmare. It seems pretty clear that he was the intended target. Which Triad did the job isn’t known. We’ve talked with all the District Anti-Triad units already and no informer has come forward with anything, so… Carry on with the statement gathering. We’re going to go down to the office of the trading company where both of the deceased worked.”
“Mind if I come along? I’m not too busy at the moment,” Scrimple said.
Gwailo Pete looked at him blankly for a few seconds, evaluating the request, then admitted it couldn’t do any harm.
Half an hour later the three of them were on their way up in the elevator at Wing On Plaza. Topgun stared stonily at the other occupants. He didn’t speak much but his policeman’s eyes—which were cold, hard and hid a slag-heap of unmentionable experiences—intimidated people. He was a good guy to have on your team, it was said. He was a bastard to have against you. Scrimple wondered how much of what he’d heard about Topgun was true. In the Force there was much mess gossip and facts were distorted or exaggerated when the ale was flowing.
Dragon Breath Page 15