by Chan Ho-Kei
“Mr. Mok … in that case, could you help me find out who kidkit727 is?” Nga-Yee said, staring at the photographs and documents.
“That might be difficult.” Mr. Mok sighed. “This is a traditional detective firm, and we aren’t really equipped to ferret out someone hiding on the internet. At most, we could pick up surface clues from the words. I spent a bit of time looking into the chatboard, but I found something strange—this kidkit727 has only posted this one thing on Popcorn, and the account was created that day. There were no more log-ins after that. It seems this account existed for the sole purpose of propping up Shiu Tak-Ping’s reputation. But Miss Au, I can only speculate.”
“Mr. Mok, if you want me to increase your fees, I’m willing—”
“It’s not that,” he interrupted. “It truly isn’t about the money. To be honest, I’m not going to charge you any more, because the investigation was a failure. I have made a reputation in this business for being trustworthy. I’ll do everything I can for a case, but if I’m not getting any further, I won’t take one dollar more. Though I’m afraid I won’t be able to return your four-thousand-dollar deposit. I don’t mind not being paid, but I can’t ask my assistant to work for free.”
“But …” Nga-Yee stared helplessly at the detective, then at the papers on his desk. A sense of powerlessness welled up in her chest and spread through her limbs. She felt as if nothing she did would ever be any good. The words of the man from the Housing Authority came back to her mind: The only way to live is to take what you can get.
“Don’t be sad, Miss Au,” said the detective, handing her a tissue. Only then did she realize that tears were pouring down her cheeks.
“Must I—Must I just accept my fate?” she said, blurting out what was in her heart.
Mr. Mok seemed to stop himself from speaking. Finally he shook his head and took a business card out of the box on his desk. He scribbled on it with a ballpoint pen, then thrust it in her direction a little hesitantly.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“If you really want to find out who wrote that post, Miss Au, you should look up the person who lives at this address.”
“That’s his name? N?”
“Yes. He specializes in high-tech cases. He’s a little odd and might not take you on as a client. And even if he does, I don’t know what he’d charge.”
“He’s a private detective too?”
“You could call him that.” Mr. Mok smiled wryly. “He’s not licensed, though.”
Nga-Yee frowned. “Not licensed? But is he … reliable?”
“Miss Au, when you come up against a problem you can’t solve yourself and you need someone to investigate, who do you call?”
“I call … you?”
“Right, you call a detective.” Mr. Mok smiled tightly again. “But have you ever thought who us detectives call when we encounter a case that stumps us?”
Silent a moment, Nga-Yee looked down at the business card.
“You call N?”
Mr. Mok grinned. She’d got it right.
“Once again, I don’t know if he’ll take your case, but it might help if you show him this card.”
Nga-Yee picked up the card, not sure what to believe. Could this N be as good as Mr. Mok said he was? Still, he wasn’t telling her to accept her fate, but giving her another way to fight back. She was grateful for that much.
Mr. Mok walked her to the door. “There’s something I forgot to mention earlier, Miss Au.”
“What?” she said, turning to look at him.
“I thought of one other possibility—that the person who wrote this post had some other motive in mind that doesn’t have anything to do with Shiu Tak-Ping. His real target could have been your little sister. Perhaps he had no interest in helping Shiu clear his name, but rather in destroying your sister’s reputation. That could be why a complete stranger would pretend to be Shiu’s nephew. It would make him sound more believable, as if he were standing up for justice, when actually he just wanted to put pressure on your sister until her spirit broke.”
Mr. Mok’s words were like an icy knife slicing straight through Nga-Yee’s soul. She felt cold waves racing up her back.
“And if that’s what happened,” said Mr. Mok, “this would be a case of murder.”
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
!!!
The devil is dead!!!!
20:05 ✔
The devil is dead!!!!!!!!!
?
20:06
Au Siu-Man!!!! She killed herself!!!!!!
http://news.appdaily.com/hk/
20150505/realtime/a72nh12.htm
20:07 ✔
Breaking News: Fifteen-Year-Old Jumps to Her Death at Lok Wah Estate
Now what?
20:07 ✔
Answer me!!!
20:12 ✔
don’t worry
20:12
they won’t trace it to us
20:14
Really?? But we killed her!!!!
20:14 ✔
how did we kill her? all we did was make certain facts public
20:16
stop thinking nonsense
20:18
where are you now
20:23
i’ll come find you
20:25
CHAPTER TWO
1.
Nga-Yee stood outside a six-story tenement building on Second Street in Sai Ying Pun, staring at the house number in confusion.
One fifty-one … is this the place?
She glanced again at the handwritten address on the business card, then at the numbers by the front door, so faded they were almost illegible. The building must have been at least seventy years old. Its outer wall was a dilapidated gray, which she suspected might have started out white. The gutter was coming off the porch roof, and there were no mailboxes. A plain doorway led to a staircase that reached up to the darkness of the first floor. The building had no name—just 151, though the bottom half of the 5 had been more or less rubbed away.
It was eleven o’clock, the morning after Nga-Yee’s meeting with Mr. Mok. She had followed the address on the card, making her way to Sai Wan on Hong Kong Island. She’d expected to find a commercial building, but when she walked out of the Sai Ying Pun MTR station and down Second Street, there were only run-down tenements. But of course, Mr. Mok had said N was unlicensed, so he could hardly run his firm from a gleaming skyscraper.
Even so, this building was far from what she’d imagined.
It didn’t look habitable by human beings, not because of the worn exterior, but the reek of abandonment that filled the place. All the windows except on the top floor were tightly shut, and none had air-conditioning units, unlike the mud-yellow five-story building right across the street, with units of different sizes and brands on all floors, and laundry racks draped with T-shirts, trousers, and sheets. Number 151 looked as if no one had lived here for years, the sort of place that might be taken over by vagrants, delinquents, junkies—even ghosts. The only sign that it wasn’t abandoned was the intact windows—and the front door hadn’t been boarded up.
Are they going to tear this down and start over? she wondered.
She looked around, wondering if she’d got the address wrong. Second Street was a slightly curved road in the old quarter of Sai Ying Pun. There were new, tall buildings at either end, but along the stretch that Number 151 was on, it was all historical tenements. Apart from one paper goods store and two hardware stores, the dozen or so other shops in the area had their shutters drawn, though she couldn’t tell if they were empty or just closed for the day. There were hardly any pedestrians on this street, which was barely wide enough for two lanes of traffic, though a black van was parked just a few yards from Nga-Yee, blocking one of the lanes. Bustling Queen’s Road West, just a couple of streets away, was completely different. Had Mr. Mok written down the wrong street or number? Perhaps he’d meant First or Third Street, an easy mistake.
As Nga-Yee hesitated, wondering whethe
r she should walk into the murky stairwell or turn tail and look elsewhere, loud footsteps got her attention. A woman in a dark blue dress was clumping down the stairs.
“Beg—Beg your pardon, is this 151 Second Street?” Nga-Yee asked.
“That’s right,” the woman answered. She was about fifty. She looked Nga-Yee up and down while Nga-Yee took in her red plastic bucket filled with cleaning products, rubber gloves, brush, and dustpan.
“Do you live here? I wanted to ask if the sixth floor—”
“Are you looking for N?”
So this was the right address.
“That’s right—sixth floor,” said the woman, glancing at the card in her hand and giving a friendly smile. “Only one apartment on each floor, you’ll see it right away.”
Nga-Yee thanked the woman and watched as she walked away toward Water Street. If this resident—was she a cleaning lady?—knew N, it must be the right place. Her heart in her mouth, she climbed the murky stairwell. She had no idea whether N would be able to help her or not, but this place was giving her the creeps. As she approached each corner, she fully expected some horrifying creature to jump out at her.
Having slowly made her way up five flights, she arrived at the sixth floor. The landing had an ordinary white wooden door with a metal gate before it. There was nothing on the door or the gate—not a PRIVATE DETECTIVE sign nor the usual effigy of the door god or the red banner proclaiming “Come and go in peace.” A black doorbell was mounted on the wall, the old-fashioned kind, like something from the 1960s or ’70s.
After double-checking that the sign on the wall said 6, Nga-Yee pressed the doorbell.
Tak-tak-tak-tak-tak-tak. An old-school ring.
She waited ten seconds, but there was no sign of movement.
Tak-tak-tak-tak-tak-tak. She tried again.
Another half a minute. The door remained tightly shut.
Could he be out? But then a faint rustling noise came from within the flat.
Tak-tak-tak-tak-tak-tak-tak-tak-tak. She kept her finger on the buzzer so the maddening noise kept going like a machine gun.
“Stop that!” The white door abruptly opened a crack, revealing half a face.
“Um, hello. I’m—”
The door slammed shut.
Nga-Yee gaped. Everything went quiet. She pressed the bell again, unleashing another racket.
“I said stop that!” The door opened again, showing a little more of the face this time.
“Mr. N! Please wait!” she cried.
“Never mind ‘please,’ I’m not seeing anyone today!” said the man, pushing the door shut.
“Detective Mok sent me!” Nga-Yee blurted out frantically before the door could fully close.
The words “Detective Mok” actually seemed to have an effect. The man paused, then slowly opened the door again. Nga-Yee took out Mok’s business card and passed it to him through the gate.
“Damn it! What stupid business is that bastard Mok throwing my way this time?” The man took the card and opened the gate to let Nga-Yee in.
Now that she was inside, Nga-Yee got a proper look at him, and what she saw was not what she expected. He looked about forty, neither tall nor well built. A regular, normal guy, a bit skinny. His messy hair looked like a tumbleweed, and his bangs fell past his brows to a pair of lethargic eyes that seemed rather at odds with his aristocratic nose. There was stubble all over his face, and combined with his grimy, creased gray T-shirt and fraying blue-and-white-checked cropped trousers, the overall effect was of someone who slept in a doorway. Nga-Yee grew up on a government housing estate and had seen lots of these unkempt figures around. Auntie Chan’s husband used to look like that. Every day she’d stand, arms akimbo, and yell at him for being so useless while Uncle Chan ignored her and drank more beer.
Nga-Yee looked away from the man and received yet another shock. Two words popped into her mind: “rat’s nest.”
Random objects were piled by the door—newspapers and magazines, clothes and shoes, cardboard boxes of all sizes. Past the entrance, the living room was just as chaotic. Two bookcases took up the far wall, both untidily stuffed with books. On the round table in front of them were three wooden caskets about the size of shoe boxes, crammed with wires, extension cables, and electronic components Nga-Yee had never seen before. All the chairs around the table were covered with stuff, including an old computer terminal, yellowing and upside down.
On the left side of the living room was a desk, just as messy as the rest of the place: papers, stationery, books, empty beer bottles, snack bar wrappers, and two laptops were scattered across its surface. In front of it, two dark green armchairs faced each other, on them an electric guitar and a pink suitcase. Between the armchairs was a coffee table, the only item of furniture that wasn’t covered in trash. Shelves on either side of the desk held an ancient-looking sound system, every available space filled with CDs, vinyl records, and cassette tapes. On the lowest shelf were the electric guitar’s amp and cables tangled like a ball of wool, a whole clump of them on the ground. To the right of the shelves was a three-foot-high potted plant standing in front of a large window. Although the broken venetian blind was half lowered, harsh sunlight managed to force its way in, illuminating a thick layer of dust over all the furniture and surfaces, not to mention the stains on the floorboards.
What kind of famous detective would look like a tramp and live in a dump like this? Nga-Yee almost spoke the thought out loud.
“Ex-excuse me, are you Mr. N? I’m—”
“You, sit down. I just woke up,” said the man, ignoring her question. He yawned, and walked barefoot to the bathroom off the vestibule. Nga-Yee looked around, but there was nowhere to sit, so she hovered awkwardly by the sofa.
The sounds of flushing and running water came from the bathroom. Nga-Yee poked her head out, saw that the bathroom door was open, and swung around to face the other way. A door beside the bookshelf was ajar. Through the gap, she could see an unmade bed, with boxes, clothes, and plastic bags scattered around it. The place gave Nga-Yee the creeps. She wasn’t a clean freak, but this whole flat could fairly be called a rubbish heap. It was only because this was the top floor and the ceiling high that it didn’t feel completely suffocating.
The other reason for her discomfort was now walking out of the bathroom.
“Why are you standing there like an idiot?” said the disheveled man, scratching his armpit. “Didn’t I tell you to take a seat?”
“Are you Mr. N?” Nga-Yee asked, hoping he’d say “The detective is out, I’m just his roommate.”
“Call me N. I don’t like being Mister anything.” He waggled the business card she’d given him earlier. “Isn’t that what Mok wrote here?”
N tossed the guitar off the armchair and plunked himself down. He glanced at Nga-Yee, indicating with his eyes that she should move the suitcase. She did as he asked. It was so light, it must have been empty.
“Why did Mok tell you to find me? You have five minutes to explain.” N was lounging back in the armchair, looking completely uninterested in her. He yawned again.
He seemed so full of himself, Nga-Yee was tempted to walk out and leave this disgusting place.
“My … My name is Au, I want to hire you to help me find someone.”
Nga-Yee gave a quick summary of everything that had happened—Siu-Man being groped on the MTR, the accused changing his plea to guilty, the Popcorn post claiming there’d been a miscarriage of justice, internet bullying, reporters swarming, and finally her sister’s suicide.
“I asked Mr. Mok to help me find Shiu Tak-Ping’s nephew, so I could confront him … but he discovered that Mr. Shiu has no siblings, and therefore no nephews.” She pulled Mr. Mok’s report from her handbag and handed it over. N glanced at the first page, flicked through the rest, and dropped it on the coffee table.
“Given Mok’s abilities, I’d say he got as far as he could with this,” N sneered.
“Mr. Mok doesn’t have the technologica
l know-how to find a person’s identity from an internet post, so he told me to speak to you.” Nga-Yee wasn’t happy about N’s dismissive tone. After all, Mr. Mok was a good person who’d tried to help her.
“I don’t take cases like this,” said N bluntly.
“Why not? I haven’t said how much I’m willing to pay …”
“It’s too easy, so I’m not taking it.” He stood up, ready to see her out.
“Too easy?” She stared at him, unable to believe this.
“So easy, super-easy,” said N, deadpan. “I don’t take boring cases. I’m a detective, not a technician. I’ve never taken on low-level cases that just require me to follow the steps to find the answer. My time is precious—I’m hardly going to waste it on a garbage case like this.”
“Gar—garbage case?”
“Yes, garbage—it’s boring and meaningless. This sort of thing happens every day. People are always looking for the real identity of someone or other online so they can take revenge for some trivial thing. If I took cases like this, I’d be no better than a customer service hotline. Mok’s getting sentimental again. I’ve told him before not to send dog shit my way. I’m not his cleanup crew.”
Nga-Yee had been keeping her temper under control, but this little speech made her explode. “You—you can’t do it, that’s why you’re finding excuses to say no!”
“Oh, you want to get emotional?” N smiled at her outburst. “I could solve a case like this with my eyes shut. It’s simple. Every bulletin board server keeps a record of IP addresses. It would take me a few minutes to get into the back end of Popcorn and download the file I need. Then I’d drop the IP address into a database, do a reverse search for the ISP, look at the log-in history of the ISP, and work out the client computer’s actual location. You think the police have any trouble tracking down people who disseminate sensitive material or organize political rallies online? It’s nothing to them. And if even they can do it, I can too.”