Dragon Breath

by Valerie Goldsilk

  After he’d called 999, Gwailo Pete and some coppers had arrived, the entire episode took on more manageable proportions. He spoke with Kenworthy and they agreed to meet for a drink. Gwailo Pete arranged for somebody at Police Headquarters to sign a temporary chit for Scrimple to be issued with a Colt Detective snub-nosed revolver for his own protection. The theory was that either through his involvement with Marie-Tess or his presence at the killing of Bob Chen and Dougie Campbell, Scrimple had become a threat to unknown parties. His involvement in these cases as an active witness would be known to a number of police officers any of whom might be acting as informers for the men behind the killings. It was an uncomfortable thought, but everybody knew that there was no such thing as complete loyalty in the police force. Everyone had to look after their own interests from time to time and since the handover to Chinese Sovereignty the old ways had started coming back. Corruption was an insidious reality in the Hong Kong Police.

  So by the time Scrimple arrived in the trendy bar area below Hollywood Road, he felt more confident than usual because he was packing a small, deadly bulge under his baggy shirt. He hadn’t carried a personal revolver for years and it made him both nervous and proud. Let any Sikh assassin come after him now. He wouldn’t hesitate one instant before plugging the man full of government issue lead.

  The police’s enquiries at hospitals had yielded little success although there was a trail of blood leading to the lifts and then to the road where a waiting car may have been parked.

  Stabbing a man in his throat was lethal if the carotid artery became severed. In this case it probably hadn’t or the Sikh would have bleed litres within minutes. Scrimple had given his assailant the equivalent of a free emergency tracheotomy from which he could probably recover with minimal medical care.

  “Hey, the man of the hour,” Kenworthy said, making room at the Insomia outdoor bar. It was starting to get busy inside, where the band had commenced their first set, but outside there were still places. Recently it had become the most trendy club in this part of town. Other bars were not so busy and by midnight there would be a line of fifty people trying to squeeze into the smoky, cramped venue.

  “What are we doing here?” Scrimple wanted to know.

  “This is where the horny women hang out.”

  “Will they be interested in me?”

  “I don’t care, man. As long as they’re interested in me. Here’s a beer. Calm your nerves.”

  “I’m fine now,” Scrimple said coolly and picked up the draught pint.

  “Look at that. Isn’t that the finest pair…” Kenworthy didn’t finish his sentence because his attention had already wondered in the opposite direction.

  “Have a feel of this,” Scrimple said to his mate.

  “What’s that, a cancerous growth?”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “A toy gun. Somebody must be out of their mind to even think of letting you carry one of those around with you. Who knows what might happen once you get all pissed up?”

  “It’s for my protection. Okay?” Scrimple was affronted. He’d hoped his friend would take the assault on Scrimple’s life more seriously. It had been a close run thing. The Sikh had meant business and he’d known what he was doing. He just hadn’t counted on the ballpoint pen.

  “So tell me the story again,” Kenworthy said waving at Ardi, the Egyptian barman for another round.

  It was while he was repeating the facts one more time and in greater detail, that Scrimple noticed the short-haired blonde girl and her Chinese companion. He frowned, trying to place them, then realised that it had only been hours earlier at the offices of McPherson Ferguson that he’d met Lousie Walker and Madeleine Fong.

  “See that gwai-mooi there?”

  “Which one, there’s about five in the corner,” said Kenworthy, who was looking sharp this evening in a black, silk shirt and tight black Levi’s.

  “Oh, yeah, not bad, I quite like the more mature ones. They’re always grateful if you pay them a bit of attention.”

  Scrimple explained who the two girls were. Kenworthy listened inattentively because there was too much other activity that interested him. The girls were sitting facing each other and Louise Walker was doing the talking while the Chinese girl, Madeleine listened and sipped occasionally from a bottle of Budweiser. He tried to catch Louise’s eye without success.

  “What’s the story on the chopping death?” Kenworthy asked.

  “Triad involvement by the guy and the Westerner got in the way. But I have a feeling there’s more to it.”

  “You have a feeling?” Kenworthy said, raising an ironic eyebrow. “Since when were you Hong Kong’s answer to Hercule Poirot?”

  “Fuck off,” replied Scrimple and tried to catch the English girl’s eye again. This time she did look up, as she paused to reach for her glass of wine. Their eyes met and she appeared puzzled for a second, trying to place him. Once she worked it out she smiled and nodded slightly. He thought that was signal enough so he hopped off his stool, wanting to go to the toilet anyway.

  “You’re one of the police officers who came to our office today, aren’t you?” she said.

  “Theo Scrimple.”

  “Sorry, I’d forgotten your name. Remember him, Madeleine?”

  The Chinese girl nodded and held up her hand in greeting.

  “Is this where you normally come at the week-ends?” Louise asked, pleasing Scrimple because she was being more friendly than he’d expected.

  “Not that much. My mate likes it. I used to have a girlfriend until last week and haven’t been out that much lately.”

  “How careless of you, how did you lose her?”

  “Oh, you know. Wasn’t young, rich and funny enough or something.” He wanted to add that she was a materialistic Hongkie bitch but he stopped himself just in time.

  “So have you solved the crime yet?” Louise went on pleasantly.

  “Not really. Actually it’s not my case. The other guy’s handling it.”

  “Oh, what were you doing then? Are you sort of an apprentice?”

  “God, no. I was there because somehow I got involved in it by mistake. It’s a long story.” He sighed and touched his neck nervously.

  “That’s a bit of a big love-bite you’ve got there, Theo. Are you sure you’re girlfriend left you only last week? She must have quite a pair of lips on her.”

  “Everyone calls me Scrimple. I’m just going to use the toilet. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  It took him ages to fight through the crowd jiving in front of the bandstand. By the time he got back he found Kenworthy chatting amiably with the two girls. He had his “killer” expression on his face which was intended to make him appear harmless and charming. Scrimple watched Louise as she listened to Kenworthy’s talk and he could tell that the English girl wasn’t taking him seriously. Only brain-dead stewardesses took Kenworthy seriously these days.

  “How’s the office now that the American has come and whipped everyone in shape?” Scrimple asked Madeleine.

  She didn’t seem to say much but for a Chinese girl she was mighty fond of the beer. There were two empty bottles at her elbow. “He’s going back tomorrow. We don’t like him very much.” Her eyes were slightly glazed already and it explained the uncharacteristically direct remark she had just made. Chinese people did not make negative comments about their managers in front of complete strangers. Not unless they were a bit tipsy.

  “So you’ve both been out here over fifteen years. Haven’t you got bored of it all yet?” Louise was saying.

  “The work can be boring but the lifestyle has some redeeming features. We could be back in England and freezing our…” Kenworthy hesitated, “…toes off.”

  “But aren’t you going to leave sooner or later now that the Chinese are in charge?”

  “We’ll leave when we’ve made as much money as we can and they pay us to go away,” Kenworthy said grimly, because it was a sensitive subject.

  “Wha
t will you do then?”

  “Retire. Open a gym in Thailand and drink lots of beer.”

  “And the other thing,” added Scrimple, mischievously.

  “Right.” Kenworthy threw him a dark glance. “Anyone for another drink?”

  “So you think the whole attack was due to Bob Chen’s Triad connections?” Louise probed Scrimple.

  “Yeah, pretty sure. These kind of things happen every once in a while. It’s a standard way of settling disputes or sending a message to people. Bob Chen probably swindled someone and that was his come-uppance.”

  “And Dougie Campbell just got in the way?”

  “Sadly.”

  “Bob Chen was a bit of a shady character. Wasn’t he Madeleine?”

  The Chinese girl nodded. “He wasn’t liked. He was a lousy guy.” Her mobile, a silver Panasonic which hung from a lanyard around her neck, began playing Beethoven’s Fifth and she reached for it. She listened for a few moments and then told the other person in Cantonese that she’d be over soon.

  “I have to go,” she said.

  “You can’t just go. We’re having a girl’s night out. We’re just getting started,” Louise said more surprised than annoyed.

  Madeleine shook her head, indicating she had no choice. “My mother, she wants me to go home. She argues with my father because he has another woman.”

  “But your father is about seventy.”

  “My mother isn’t happy. They are always arguing.”

  “Why can’t men just stick with one woman?” Louise said rhetorically.

  “Ah, now there’s a good question,” said Kenworthy who had just come back holding the new round of drinks.

  “Sorry,” Madeleine said, pecking Louise on the cheek and disappearing behind two tall black basketball player types who had just been allowed in by the bouncers.

  “Suppose I shouldn’t complain. I’m left with two charming men,” Louise said lightly.

  “One charming man,” Kenworthy said.

  “Oh,” she said with a puzzled frown.

  “Scrimple is just Scrimple. Charming is not a word that’s generally associated with him.”

  “Do you two always abuse each other so much?”

  “It’s part of our male-macho culture. Can’t help it.”

  Scrimple suddenly decided he wasn’t enjoying himself anymore. He didn’t want to sit here and listen to Kenworthy ingratiate himself at his expense. He looked at his watch pointedly.

  “Got to meet someone in Wanchai.”

  “You have?” Kenworthy said, arching his eyebrows.

  “No one you know,” Scrimple said abruptly.

  “Catch up with me later. Probably be in Dusk till Dawn. Nice to meet you, Louise. I’ll let you know if anything comes up on the case.”

  “I’d put some cream on that love-bite if I were you, Theo,” Louise said pleasantly.

  “That’s not a love-bite,” Scrimple heard Kenworthy say as he turned to leave. “Someone tried to strangle him with a silk scarf earlier. No kidding. I couldn’t believe it either when I first heard.”

  Typical of my friend, thought Scrimple, as he waved down a taxi and told the driver where to go. Using someone else’s adventures to impress a girl.

  * * * *

  Jim had booked himself into the same hotel as Dougie Campbell. Maybe there were vague ideas at the back of his mind that he would go around interviewing the concierge and bell-boys if they’d seen anything suspicious that could explain his boss’s death. It was nonsense of course.

  He unpacked his suitcase. Assuming this trip might last two to three weeks he’d taken the necessary stuff including two suits. Previously he’d had some suits made in Hong Kong but not anymore. The Indian tailor had aggravated him too much during the price negotiations and in the end the “fine wool, nothing better for the price sir” material had fallen apart after a few months and the seams given way on the sleeves. There were some great tailors in Hong Kong, you just had to know how to find them, and most of them, he’d been told by an old hand, were not located in the ground floor shops.

  The same went for shirts. He got his at Thomas Pink’s in Jermyn Street and he’d packed five which should be enough as long as the laundry got them done fast enough.

  The flight had been okay. He hadn’t quite dared to book himself on Upper Class but Premium Economy was acceptable and a flight attendant called Sharon had come over frequently to top up his glass of wine. If she hadn’t been so broad in the hips he might have spent a bit more time chatting her up. Two hours after departure he’d nodded off and not woken until breakfast was served. That’s how flying should be. Ideally they should offer cryogenic beds to passengers in which they could be frozen for the duration of the trip. That would come. They’d need it for space travel anyway. Richard Branson was just the sort of guy to pioneer those kind of “sleepers.”

  Hong Kong hadn’t changed visibly since Jim’s last visit. After he had his shower and was just toying with the idea of wandering down to the office, the phone rang. It was John McHardy telling him he was downstairs in the lobby.

  They’d only met once but it was easy to recognise the tall, hard-looking American.

  After some small talk McHardy briefed Jim on the situation. Not much had changed since they last spoke on the phone.

  “I’ll be catching the four o’clock flight back to Bangkok but I’ve had a word earlier with Louise Walker, the English girl in the office and she’s happy to act as your guide. If you need one that is.”

  “Around the office, probably.”

  “Nothing much I could do except keep a lid on things and tell the staff not to miss a beat and carry on working. Bob Chen wasn’t much of a detail guy so I guess his absence won’t make a difference to the current shipments. Some of the merchandisers seem pretty bright. A few are complete pea-brains. Just as you’d expect.”

  “We pretty much think of them all as pea-brains in England,” Jim said grimly although he knew it wasn’t a fair comment.

  “You get a good guy in here, it’ll make all the difference. Leadership is what counts.” McHardy took a sip from his black coffee. His eyes didn’t say much. Jim got the impression that here was a competent man who was willing to help up to a point but didn’t necessarily want to empathise with Jim and the problems he faced.

  “Any suggestions as to a successor? There’s a new idea that we might not go for a local this time. But expats are pretty expensive aren’t they?”

  “Not if you get someone young and keen. I don’t think Bob Chen was a bargain and you might be able to find someone ambitious for the same budget.”

  “Anyone you might have in mind?”

  “Here’s a list of head-hunters I’ve spoken to. That fellow,” McHardy tapped the second name on the sheet of paper he’d handed over, “is a bit of a snake but he knows everyone in our business. Of course they charge stupid fees. I’ve placed an ad in the South China Morning Post which will run today and next week three times. You might be lucky but you’ll probably get all sorts of oddballs applying. Every Assistant Merchandiser here thinks they’re qualified to run an office. Mostly they’re just trying it on. But you won’t be able to tell until you see them. They copy their resumes from proforma textbooks which look impressive and when they turn up they have long, dirty fingernails and can’t understand a word of what you’re saying.”

  “Sounds encouraging.”

  “It’s what I go through in Bangkok and my friends tell me it’s no different here. Make sure you check all their references. They have a habit of forging them as well.”

  Jim laughed at the casual cynicism of his colleague.

  “If you can find one, you might be advised to go for a young Westerner who can read and write Mandarin. There are more and more of them floating around. Sinophiles, come to expand their horizons, blend in and learn about Chinese history and culture.”

  “Beats tending sheep in Oregon, I suppose.”

  “No sheep. Cattle and corn fields.”
/>   “What do you think about all this?” Jim asked, unsure if he’d get much of an answer.

  “Nothing. I’ve no idea. Nobody seems to have an idea. It’s a very strange thing to have happened. Bangkok or Manila, nobody would bat an eye-lid but Hong Kong is generally more civilised that this. The Chinese newspapers are going to town on it, I’ve been told. They haven’t had a good blood-thirsty chopping for months so don’t be surprised to see some reporters loitering around the office trying to take pictures.” He stroked his black moustache and his dark eyes revealed nothing more. “Here’s Louise, I’ve asked her to join us for lunch. We’ll just go to the coffee shop if you don’t mind.”

  * * * *

  The bed didn’t seem to be right and the curtains were unfamiliar. The headache that told him he had a hangover again, was an old friend.

  Scrimple shifted around and began the process of working out where he was.

  Alone, which could be good or bad. He found his wallet and all his credit cards were intact. That was important. There wasn’t much cash left. It was Saturday around lunchtime.

  Then he figured out that he was in Kenworthy’s spare room. A half-empty bottle of Evian fell over as he kicked it by mistake. He righted it quickly although it left a puddle of water on the waxed, brown floor.

  In the bathroom he searched for medication and found Kenworthy’s stash of aspirins. No bachelor’s flat should be without them. From behind the closed door of the master bedroom came the sounds of a girl being either beaten or violently made love to. It was this that had woken him up. He wasn’t quite sure why he’d ended up here but Kenworthy lived considerably closer to Wanchai than Scrimple and it seemed they had met up again in Strawberry at around three or four.

  There was something else, he remembered. Something important. He virtually leapt back into the bedroom and a great big feeling of relief washed over him when he found the Colt Detective still comfortably stashed in the leather Bianchi holster.

  Scrimple sat down on the floor, his back against the bed and took a long pull from the Evian bottle then struggled back to his feet. Time for coffee probably.

  Kenworthy wasn’t giving the girl any respite. She was shouting louder and louder and Scrimple was convinced they were not performing ordinary sexual acts. Not that he cared. He seemed to remember her as being tall, lean, very dark and from Thailand. That meant she was probably a working girl. They all ended up in Strawberry—the drunkards and the prostitutes.