Dragon Breath
Page 22
“No, just conjecture and idle gossip at the moment. I have to tread cautiously. The Hong Kong Police isn’t what it used to be. All my bosses are Chinese and they report to the Chief Executive who is beholden to the big men in Beijing.”
Murphy nodded gravely, because the two of them had had this discussion before. It was understood that this meeting was totally off the record but the two men had known each other for a while and that was before the police lost its “Royal” epithet in 1997. He lit another cigarette, coughed for a while, ran a hand across his stubbly chin and then got up to press the button again on the espresso machine.
“I can’t go around making wild accusations against a man as well-connected as Henry Chan but we all know that he’s a dodgy wheeler-dealer.”
“A regular Chinese Del-boy but successful. He’s a rich bastard and that helps him get away with murder. Probably literally, eh? But you don’t have anything concrete at the moment?”
“I’m going to start looking for links. But I wanted to keep you posted because I’m sure London has put pressure on you to find out why that girl got murdered.”
“A million bricks of shit are raining on my head as we speak. My boss wants revenge. This was one of her girls. What’s the official version at the moment?”
“To the papers we’re still going with the ‘burglar murders expat girl’ story. It’s more understandable. Of course my bosses all know there’s something else going on. Although I have a feeling they’d rather I didn’t dig it up. Or only selected parts of the corpse. It might bring up some difficult questions of loyalty. And the two Deputy Commissioners are far too busy fighting for the top job at this moment to want to face up to any decisions that could involve the integrity of the mainland or any of its close allies.”
“Tread carefully, Simon. This isn’t a routine murder investigation. This is a career killer.”
The Detective laughed dryly. “What’s left of it. We all figure two or three more years and all the gwailos will be gone. I’ll have to look for a job as a security guard.”
“Hardly,” Murphy said, because he’d hire Foxcroft in an instant and they both knew it. “Anyway, that’s official then? I can put your suspicions about Henry Chan in a report to London and see what bounces back?”
“You can, but make sure it’s read by only the most important people. Let me know if they do have some interesting feed-back. I’ll keep you posted at my end.”
They shook hands.
Chapter 15
Margaret Rose was on the phone again with Brigadier Wee. She had some more information and she wanted to share it with the wily old strategist.
It never paid to trust anyone in her business but it was a business of information and the trading, receiving and imparting of it was what made analysis and decision-making possible. The art, as in a good game of Bridge, lay in how the facts were manipulated and positioned.
“Henry Chan is a name that comes up frequently. Nothing illegal,” said Brigadier Wee, “but very much that is questionable. I am reminded of that old axiom that one does not become very rich without indulging in lapses of morality. Any man with his kind of money and power must have sold his soul to various kinds of devils in the process.”
“How cynical but probably how true, Brigadier. Does that also apply to you?” Margaret said lightly from London, “Have you made a pact with the Devil to get all that power you wield so discretely?”
There was a light snort from Singapore. “Sadly. You have no idea how many compromises with evil I’ve had to make to get to where I am. Correction. You probably know quite well. It is the nature of our work.”
Margaret agreed but it was not something that either of them were given to pondering much more about. They were not sipping tea at the vicarage and exchanging memories of the vicissitudes that came with a career in intelligence. They were facing a puzzling set of circumstances and needed all their resources to anticipate future developments.
“Could we pull Henry Chan in and give him the third degree?” Margaret said without really meaning it because that sort of heavy-handed behaviour simply wasn’t done any more in her part of the world.
Wee replied, “It’s not out of the question. But I’d hate him to find out Singapore had a hand in it. It could only be done as a last resort, he might not be permitted to survive an interrogation—”
“Good heavens, Brigadier,” was all Margaret could reply at his harsh, pragmatic words.
“You have to remember that this could be a very major international incident. Some factions in China are probably manoeuvring to find an excuse to invade Taiwan. It’s very important for Chinese prestige that this issue finally gets resolved. It’s getting nowhere by peaceful means. The explosives or weapons that are being smuggled to the West are part of this conspiracy, to obtain more funds or to create some kind of diversionary terrorist act. If this man knows about it, if he has an idea of their plans then it is politically justifiable to detain and force the truth from him.”
“By torture? I’d never get away with sanctioning that sort of action.”
“You don’t have to, Margaret. We’d have someone take care of it. It’s not the sort of decision I’d make easily, but we are much more pragmatic about such matters in the East.”
“I had heard.” She paused for a few seconds to collect her thoughts. “As a last resort, but don’t let me know about it. What else can we do?”
“Have him followed. Bug his offices. General surveillance.”
“Sounds better than poking his eye out with a hot needle.”
“Nowadays one uses drugs. You are out of touch with such matters.”
“Not my area. I guess the people over at Five might still have some expertise left over from the Cold War.”
“Singapore is pro-Chinese but we are anti-expansion by any Asian country. This feels like a rogue plot by some powerful political elements. We must maintain stability in the region at all costs.”
“I know, Brigadier, I know.” Margaret wondered if the old man slept peacefully at night. Somehow she suspected that he did. She knew that she couldn’t if she’d been doing his job as long as he had.
* * * *
Jim lay in bed and marvelled at how tense his body was. The events of the day should have drained him to the extent of exhaustion but in fact he was pumped with adrenalin.
He stared at the ceiling and the smoke detector. There was no point in turning out the light, he wouldn’t be able to sleep. And he needed rest because tomorrow he had to appear calm, collected and in control in the office.
What irritated him most was that with the violent events after the Tea Dance he’d probably missed a call from Doris, although there was no message on his mobile. She had promised to call.
Now he lay in bed in his boxer shorts and dialled her number but every time the voicemail, which he had begun to hate with a passion, clicked on. Where was the girl? It wasn’t fair to do this to him. They’d had a great talk at the Ritz Carlton and any tensions from London seemed to have been resolved.
He turned the television on again and watched a Hollywood movie on HBO for half an hour, then he fixed himself a drink and tried the number again, cursing the girl and her recorded voice.
* * * *
Scrimple meanwhile reclined on his sofa, a half bottle of Jameson Whiskey on the side table. It had been a gift and normally he preferred vodka. He felt elated, because the violence and his reaction to it had released some of his frustrations. But now he was too excited to sleep.
This was how it had been before, the last time he’d been involved with something. This was the excitement for which he’d joined the police force back in England and—tired of freezing his nuts off during bleak English nights—for which he’d signed up in Grafton Street for Hong Kong. Things had not turned out quite as the recruiting posters advertised. The glamour was minimal, the bullshit dominated and the wild Asian lifestyle had started to pall after a few years. Now here he was, pushing forty and still trying
to figure out where his life was leading.
Nowhere interesting nor upwards. It had stagnated years ago and any movement there was, was that of a one-legged duck. Now like a rabies-ridden monkey, fate had suddenly jumped up onto his back again and was throwing challenges into his face. But what did it all mean and how could he benefit from what had been happening?
He lit himself another Marlboro and watched the grey-blue smoke curl upwards. There was no way that he could leave the territory now after having fired his revolver. There’d be another avalanche of statements to make and surely some big brass nob from PHQ would be summoning Scrimple for meetings which would be designed to humiliate him. It had always been like that.
If only there was a job that could take him away from Hong Kong and the grubby existence he’d drifted into. He remembered something someone who was leaving Hong Kong had said to him. Somebody who’d done well, a banker or a businessman: “The trouble with the rat race was that even if you win it, you are still a rat.” That was the living nightmare of Hong Kong, for all its brilliant sky scrapers and soaring panorama it was still a rabbit warren filled with scurrying vermin trying to clamber over each other to reach piles of glittering offal.
Scrimple had no problem dropping off to sleep. His mind became more dulled by the amber Irish mist and then he slipped away.
* * * *
“I’m going to use Bob Chen’s office,” Jim told the assembled group of Managers and judging from their blank expressions he assumed that nobody had any objection to him moving in. For them it was simply a question of “the King is dead, long live the King.”
They had been shocked when he announced the death of Louise Walker. He’d thought about not telling them but the rumours were probably rife already and it was better to face the facts. Here was a company that had lost three of its staff within a week. He assumed that they’d consider this very inauspicious and was expecting some resignations.
“Perhaps we should have a ceremony of sorts? Any suggestions?” he asked. Somewhere he’d read that the Chinese were very superstitious and in the event of much misfortune one had to perform various rituals to rid the office of bad luck.
Nobody said anything and he didn’t blame them. The atmosphere was sluggish to say the least.
“Well, I guess that’s all. Thanks for your attendance and I know this is a terrible time but we’re going to have to work through it.” He wasn’t sure if his words had struck the right chord. They sounded insincere to him but what else could be said? He had to make some kind of pronouncement.
They shuffled out of the conference room. All except one short-haired girl whom he’d met during his last trip.
“It’s Madeleine, isn’t it?” Jim said.
She nodded. Her eyes were bloodshot and charcoal-rimmed as if she’d been crying all night.
“You were a friend of Louise’s?”
“She was such a kind person. She wasn’t like some of the other Westerners that I’ve worked with.”
“So you knew her well?”
“We used to go out sometimes.”
Jim wanted to tell her that he’d been there when they found her but it didn’t seem to be appropriate. This girl remembered Louise as a live person. It wasn’t right to describe to her how she’d been found, already dead.
“Did you work closely with Bob Chen?” he changed the subject.
“Not really. I’m just a Merchandising Manager handling some factories and clients. Mr. Chen wasn’t in the office so much. We had a Manager’s meeting every week but usually it was taken care of by Mr. Siu, the Shipping Manager.”
“What did you think of Bob Chen though?”
The girl reached for a tissue from the box in the centre of the conference table. Carefully she blew her nose and it barely made a noise.
“I don’t know.”
“You must have some thoughts on him as your boss. It doesn’t matter what you think now. He’s not around anymore.”
A line of tears began trickling from Madeleine’s left eye and she dabbed at it with the crumpled tissue.
“He was okay, I think.”
“Do you think he was doing some funny things, you know deals that he shouldn’t have been?”
She shrugged evasively. “It could be. It’s not my business. He was my boss.”
“I know,” Jim persisted, although sensing his efforts would be in vain. “But you didn’t come across anything strange?”
“No, of course not.”
“Do you think Louise might have?”
“I don’t understand.” The Chinese girl regarded him with an mixture of confusion and suspicion as if he was on the verge of committing some socially outrageous statement. Perhaps he’d gone too far but it stood to reason that Louise’s death might be linked to Bob Chen’s and some shady deal with which he’d been involved.
“Let me ask you a different question, Madeleine. Do you think the company has been running very smoothly lately and that all shipments are going well?”
Again she stared at him with a look of frightened bewilderment. After a while she answered: “No, it’s not so smooth. There have been problems with manufacturers, and we get many claims. More than before.”
“Why is that?”
“Maybe the policy is not so clear. I don’t know.”
“We should be able to improve on this?”
“Yes, probably. But it will take a lot of work. Somebody has to understand a lot about our business.”
Jim nodded and glanced down at his notebook. He felt she was implying that he was not cut out for the job of putting this ship back on its rightful course. Not that it was his job. He’d have to find a suitable successor to Bob Chen, get him briefed, up and running and then he could get back to his desk in London while the police continued the investigation of the murders. He had neither experience nor expertise in any of these matters.
He looked up and gave the girl a smile. “I guess that’s it for now. We should talk some more. Try to forget about Louise.”
“She was my friend,” Madeleine said and reached for another tissue.
* * * *
There was no particular moment, but after having showered Scrimple realised a decision had formed in his mind. Perhaps while he was asleep.
He finished knotting his tie. It was the blue one. He had a red and a black one as well. His sartorial skills were highly underdeveloped. It was not something he’d have to worry about once he was lying on a beach in Thailand.
He was ready for the big step now. He’d make the letter short and to the point. There wasn’t much to say. Nobody would pay his criticisms any heed and the Force would not alter one jot even if he carefully compiled a list of things that should be improved for better efficiency. Wiser men had tried before and failed miserably. Best to take one’s bow, quietly and quickly, and run for the hills.
When he reached the office it was shortly before lunch. Harriet Cheung squinted at him through her granny glasses. She was a very unappealing woman, even to a man who had never been fussy when it came to the opposite sex. There was nothing feminine about her features and nothing mitigating about her personality. A solitary strand of grey hair had worked its way lose from her bun.
“Why are you in the office? You have been interdicted, Inspector Scrimple.” She seemed much more displeased than one would expect and he assumed it had something to do with the file of teleprinter messages on her left where the shooting incident in Wanchai would have caught her immediate attention the moment she’d arrived for work in the morning. She probably felt this foreign devil was trying single-handedly to damage her fine reputation as a steady police woman with a future ahead of her.
“Yes, ma’am. Do you have a few minutes. There is something I’d like to discuss with you.”
“I’m very busy,” she said, frowning hard as if it could discourage him. It seemed she found his presence so distasteful that she wanted nothing to do with him. Well, he was ready to resolve that problem for his woman boss.
Harriet Cheung stared at him as if he’d just dropped a dead and dissected frog on her desk. Her eyes began to narrow with unexpected suspicion.
“Charges may be brought on you by the ICAC,” she finally said after the silence had spanned a full minute.
“The ICAC has more important things to do, ma’am. I’m sure. They are barking up the wrong tree. That’s not the reason I wish to resign. I simply don’t enjoy my job anymore.”
“Enjoy your job?” the Woman Chief Inspector repeated his sentence.
“It used to be fun. Not anymore,” he said honestly, then realised that the concept of enjoyment while at work was probably alien to this severe person.
“Inspector Scrimple, I’m very busy. Leave the letter on the desk. I’ll talk to our senior officer about it.”
Scrimple did as he was told. He wanted to add how serious he was about the whole matter, maybe even tell her where she had gone wrong in her management style but he caught himself as the cold, brown eyes glared at him in disgust. It would be like a duck trying to talk to a chicken as the Cantonese expression went. He was better off out of this department and the only way was to be out of this Force.
“We will call you when a decision has been made. There are a lot of problems with your file, Inspector.”
Scrimple had stood up now and, thanking her obsequiously for her kind attention, left the office. Perhaps shooting the Triads with his service revolver had not been such a good idea. The facts of the case could be twisted into something very negative for him by anyone inclined to do so.
* * * *
They met upstairs in Delaney’s Wanchai because the Assistant Deputy Commissioner had a habit of taking long lunches. Foxcroft arrived early and ensconced himself in the secluded, wood panelled corner unit. He ordered a pint of Kilkenny and glanced through the menu.