by John Burdett
“Would you say she was going through some kind of change, questioning old values, the worth of her life-that kind of thing?”
“I told you, we weren’t close.”
“But so far as we know you were the last of her friends to see her alive. Did she use expressions of despair: “It doesn’t matter anymore,” “What’s the use?” et cetera?”
“No.”
“Anything in her conversation to suggest she was abusing drugs?”
“No.”
“Do you know of any previous suicide attempts?”
“No.”
“Was she burdened by any heavy feelings of guilt or regret?”
“She never said so to me.”
“Why didn’t you screw her?”
“What?”
“You were free, divorced. She was single, the most eligible spinster in Asia, the world probably. None of the other guys said no.”
“Because none of the other guys said no.”
“You’re special?”
“Particular.”
Siu sat back in his chair, then stood up with his hands in his pockets. He gazed out of the window reflectively.
“She wasn’t a whore; how could you apply that word to a billionairess? She was voracious. She dominated with her vagina; she was like a man, a pelvic colonizer. Maybe that’s what you didn’t like. You have a strong independent streak. Everyone says so.”
“It’s not illegal.”
Siu nodded, forced a smile.
“Have you formed a view yet, suicide or murder?” Chan asked the question in a humble voice.
Sui shook his head. “I’ve never seen a case so finely balanced. To swim down to the drain in the pool, chain and lock yourself to it, then handcuff yourself behind your back”-he shrugged-“you would have to have lungs like bellows, but it could be done. Police cadets handcuff themselves for fun in all sorts of positions. You and I have done it?” Chan nodded at the half question. “Murder is a much simpler explanation, but why would a murderer leave the keys in the pool under her where there was just a chance of her retrieving them before she died?”
“Because the murderer wanted it to look like suicide? Maybe he dropped the keys in the water after she was dead.”
Siu nodded. “Of course, we thought of that.”
“Of course.”
“But if it was murder, why no signs of struggle? She was a strong woman, athletic. Wasn’t she?”
Chan reddened again. “She swam like a dolphin. Good lungs.”
Siu stared at him. “Well, thanks for coming to see us. If we think it wasn’t suicide, we’ll need to speak to you again.”
Chan got up. “Anytime.”
Siu also stood. “How’s the mincer case going, by the way? Are all the rumors true?”
Chan forced himself to brighten. “Rumors are always true, you know that. As a matter of fact I might even have a lead. I’m meeting an informant tomorrow night.”
At the door he wished Siu good luck.
48
If Chan had not agreed to an evening meeting, he would never have guessed that the Walking Spittoon considered himself a ladies’ man. From a teahouse on Lan Fong Road Chan watched Saliver Kan in white linen slacks, white and blue suede shoes, Gucci multichrome belt, open-neck silk shirt the color of old gold. His left arm encircled a young Chinese woman who wore nothing at all. Well, almost nothing. Straps no thicker than shoelaces held up a kind of bouncing crimson tea towel joined over the buttocks by a short zip. On the other arm another woman complemented her colleague insofar as she was dressed from neck to ankles in a flesh-colored body stocking. Kan had emerged from a taxi and was walking the ladies slowly toward the rendezvous, a hotel of sorts that rented out rooms by the hour.
Such establishments were known as villas and were the brothel owners’ equivalent to a tax haven: No girls were employed on site-customers brought their own-and no offense was committed by renting out the rooms to those with an abbreviated need for shelter. Indeed, Chan knew that it was the proprietors’ constant dilemma whether or not to reduce the rental period to thirty minutes. An hour was too long in roughly 80 percent of cases, but the remaining 20 percent tended to represent the regular trade. Over in Kowloon Tong, where villas were an important factor in the economy, market research had resulted in a compromise: forty minutes with a penalty for staying over the checkout time.
“Give me half an hour after you see me enter the villa,” Kan had said. “Then check into room five. I’ll book it and the room next door. You should bring a girl, to make it look right.”
“No.”
“Okay, then I’ll bring two.”
Chan wondered how the extra pair of hands would improve his cover, since she would be seen only with Kan. He had to admit, though, that the triad had developed a keen sense of security. Telephone calls had become nearly unintelligible because of Kan’s efforts to disguise his catarrh-laden voice. Chan didn’t understand what he was saying; he just knew who it was. Now Kan had insisted on a meeting on Hong Kong side, far from his usual haunts. Chan supposed that the early enthusiasm to use the reward to improve Sun Yee On finances had waned and Kan was moonlighting.
At the check-in desk Chan paid a bored middle-aged woman for an hour in room 5. Waiting for the lift, he felt her eyes upon him. Hers was an economic rather than a moral disapproval; whatever he was going to do alone, he could have done at home and saved five hundred dollars. Her gaze fixed on the flat bulge in his trouser pocket where he had slipped in his Sony Dictaphone.
The room itself was an Asian tribute to Aphrodite. The huge mirror on the ceiling reflected crimson bed linen; a note handwritten in Chinese offered a machine named magic fingers for two hundred dollars an hour, available from reception. An elaborate printed notice recorded the exceptional lengths the management went to in laundering the sheets and pointed out that the cupboard in the closet contained ten varieties of condoms in both Asian and Caucasian sizes, “on the house.” Which size would an honest Eurasian choose?
The walls were mostly mirrors too; ten thousand Chans watched ten thousand Chans draw up a chair, put his feet on the end of the bed and wait.
He saw that the room was one half of a double room, divided by a folding screen (with mirrors) that reached from wall to wall and floor to ceiling. On the other side of the screen, Kan’s unusual security arrangements were causing trouble.
“Ouch! Stop it”-Kan’s voice.
“Son of a bitch.”
“Ouch, will you tell her to stop pinching me?”
“Of course she’s pinching you. We told you, a thousand dollars each.”
“And I told you, I’m here on business. It’s a big deal; I’ll have the money early next week.”
“So why hire two girls if it’s business?”
“Front. It’s a secret international deal. You wouldn’t understand.”
“So why did you make us take our clothes off?”
Silence, followed by a snort. “A man gets curious. I didn’t do anything, did I?”
“Maybe you’re queer.”
“Don’t say that. I’ll get angry. And if that little bitch pinches me again, I’m going to hit her.”
“You hit her, I’ll scream. This place has triad protection.”
“Which triad?”
“14K.”
“Shit, that’s all I need. Look, here’s fifteen hundred dollars. It’s all I’ve got. I’ll give you the rest next week.”
“Fuck your mother. Better use the rest to get your nose fixed.”
“What’s wrong with my nose?”
“It doesn’t work properly; you keep sniffing.”
“Don’t get personal.”
“Don’t get personal? You saw my pussy, didn’t you? That’s personal.”
“Just get out of here.”
Sound of a zip being fastened, door opening and slamming.
Feet up, Chan reflected that the life of an underworld playboy was not all milk and honey. He lit a cigarette while
Kan grappled with the divider. Slowly the triad emerged, shoulder to the screen, forcing it back on protesting rollers to reveal a room identical to the one Chan was in. Sweat had stained the golden silk of his shirt, and a severe red pinch mark discolored one cheek; otherwise the killer appeared unruffled, even smug.
“You hear all that?”
“Just the odd word.”
“Two women-it’s not easy.”
“I don’t know how you do it.”
Kan grinned and took out a comb. A thousand Kans checked jet black coiffure, rescued a stray hair, made sure their pants fell properly at the back, hitched their Gucci belts, hoicked deeply. He examined the swelling on his cheek with regret and pride.
“Which room shall we use as an office?” Chan asked.
Kan held up a finger. Chan watched while he checked light fittings and peered into mirrors.
“These places, often they have a blackmail option,” Kan explained. He spoke in a near whisper. “This thing of yours-I have information.”
“Somehow I thought so.”
“Somebody talked, but they want a cut.”
“Two million gives you something to play with.”
“I need some more.”
“No.”
Kan examined him for signs of weakness.
Chan remained cool, immobile and secretly intrigued. Two million dollars had focused the foot soldier’s mind in a way that he found miraculous. Most killers had the attention span of goldfish; their crimes were the final expression of a buildup of rage or avarice when the personality took a backseat to primal, preintellectual man. Watching Kan conspire with something akin to applied intelligence, Chan wondered what could not be achieved in criminal reformation with the right approach. At two million a shot, though, it was cheaper to let them go on killing each other.
Kan sighed. “You’re hard.”
“I should never be let loose on sensitive types like you.”
Kan blinked. “This is no joke. The guy I spoke to is very scared. Fear is expensive to overcome.”
“I said no.”
Kan’s face expressed deep hurt. He leaned forward. “I’m betraying my own people. The Sun Yee On were involved.”
Chan took a long draw on his cigarette. Truly the power of money was boundless. “Another two hundred thousand, and that’s it.”
Kan smiled. “Okay. This is it. I know what happened.”
Chan nodded. “That’s good.”
“So, how about an advance?”
“Definitely not. You know the formula: Information leading to the arrest-”
“Okay, okay. So, three people were minced up alive by triads.”
“You don’t say.”
Kan’s whisper was fraught with sincerity. “It was a subcontract. Sun Yee On got the order, and 14K carried it out. Ever heard of anything like that before?”
Chan shook his head.
“And no foot soldiers were involved. It was top secret. Red Poles did all the work. Generals from both sides showed up to make sure it all went smoothly.”
Clearly Kan was overawed. It was as if Roosevelt and Churchill had attended at an Allied ambush.
“Where did it happen?”
“New Territories. West. I’m going to find out exactly where and take you. There’s a complication, though. Some people are hiding out up there. I’m not too clear on the details.”
Chan masked the sudden increase in his interest with a long draw on the cigarette. “You brought me here to tell me you’re not too clear?”
Kan lowered his voice still further. “No. I brought you here to arrange a rendezvous. Here’s a paper with five addresses, numbered one to five. When I phone you, I’ll just say a time and number and hang up. That’s where you’ll pick me up. Get it?”
Chan took the sheet of paper and looked at Kan. He was finally absorbing Kan’s main message: The killer was scared.
“And you show up alone. In a car alone. If not, it’s all off.”
Chan folded the paper, put it in a pocket. “Whatever you say.”
“I’m going now. You stay for another twenty minutes. When you leave, try to look like you had a good time. Frankly, you always seem like you’ve just spent twenty years in a monastery. Kind of dried up like a prune.”
“I’ll try. I just don’t have your way with women.”
Kan accepted the homage solemnly as he stepped back across the line between the two rooms. Chan watched him push the folding screen back into place. When he was sure that Kan had left, he took out the Sony Dictaphone, laid it on the bed. He needed another cigarette before he could face the grille. He lit up, switched on the machine.
“File one-two-eight/mgk/HOM/STC Memorandum to be classified secret and forwarded by hand to Commissioner Tsui and copied to the political adviser Mr. Milton Cuthbert. At nine P.M. on fifteenth May 1997 I attended at a meeting in a well-known villa in Lan Fong Road, Hong Kong Island, with informant Kan, a foot soldier in the Sun Yee On Triad Society. It is possible that Kan will be able to lead me to the present location of suspects Clare Coletti, Yu Ningkun and Mao Zingfu…”
49
Unlike the Jackson Room, the Red Room of the Hong Kong Club accepted women guests at lunchtime. Old hands still affected to grumble, but there had been surprisingly little opposition from the membership when the rules had changed. Expensive wives demanded a place to be seen at lunchtime, and some husbands found it convenient to discuss domestic issues over a civilized lunch in the club. As a result, the tables were spaced farther apart than in the Jackson Room, and there really was little danger of being overheard. The hors d’oeuvres trolley was another good reason for having a business lunch in the Red Room; it was the best in Hong Kong.
Not that Cuthbert had had much choice. The commander in chief of British forces in Hong Kong, Major General Horace Grant, rarely accepted a lunch appointment anywhere else. There was a rumor that his wife had ordered him to boycott the Jackson Room because of the ban on women.
Cuthbert was early, knowing the “Chief” would be on time. Without needing to ask for one, the diplomat had been allocated a table by the window and was shown to a seat by the maître d’. From the seat he faced the room. He knew that the chief would sit next to him, in the other seat next to the window, also facing the room.
The political adviser confessed to himself that he was a touch nervous. Grant was not a man to be persuaded into or out of any kind of decision. Nor was he someone who gave a damn for Cuthbert’s position, reputation or erudition. He came himself from Northern Irish army stock. Contempt for diplomats was a family tradition. A Grant had lost his life along with most of his regiment 150 years ago in some interminable Kabul siege that was supposed to be the fault of the Foreign Office at the time. The Proestant Northern Irish were almost Chinese in their ability to hold historical grudges. One card that Cuthbert had to play, though, mightip the balance. For once it was the diplomat who was asking for action.
The chief appeared at the door in the company of the maὶtre d’ and, seeing Cuthbert, strode briskly over, nodding here and there to people who wanted to be seen saying hello to him. Cuthbert stood up, and they shook hands.
“So kind of you to come,” Cuthbert said as they sat down.
“Not a bit. Good lunch, good company-an excuse to drop in on the governor, now I’m in Central.” He smiled. Cuthbert smiled back, giving the corners of his mouth a slightly humble downturn to acknowledge the subtle assertion of rank. Only the chief had the right to “drop in” on the governor; lesser mortals, the political adviser, for example, needed appointments.
They both ordered Bloody Marys. Cuthbert sipped his while Grant chewed for a moment on the stick of celery that came with it. Cuthbert adapted to his guest’s military time scale. With a fellow diplomat he probably would not have come to business until the cheese course; with Grant it was important not to lose the general’s interest. Even the best soldiers tended to be cursed with an abbreviated attention span. On the other hand, it would be a mis
take to plunge in like an amateur. They talked about people they knew, cocktail parties they had both recently attended, the state of the governor’s yacht, troop movements in southern China, cricket scores. Cuthbert came to the point when the chief finished his Bloody Mary, said “ah” loudly and let the coversation lapse.
“I asked you to lunch, General, because I thought we might discuss a new development in that business with the trunk.”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps you heard that Chief Inspector Chan is making progress?”
“So I’m told. Damned good man, Chan, from what I hear.”
“First-class. As you know, it’s possible that he can lead us to the couriers. They’re hiding somewhere in the western New Territories, it seems, according to his main informant. Assuming his informant is right, of course.”
“Quite.”
“The commissioner of police wanted to go in with his own unit, but I overruled him. His men are first-class, of course, SAS-trained, but they don’t have-how shall I say?-the international experience. Or quite the same kind of loyalties, if you see what I mean.”
Grant gave a quick nod. “I know. Tsui’s hopping mad about it, but you’ve persuaded the governor to recommend SAS from the UK.”
“Subject to your approval of course, General.”
“I’ve given it. Memo went out this morning. In fact I had them take a military flight last night, pending my final decision. They’ll be landing this afternoon.”
“Yes. The governor’s secretary told me just before I came to lunch. It’s the way the army handles the affair that I wanted to discuss with you.”
“Ah! Well, we can discuss. Nothing wrong with that. But I suspect the boys in the field will want maximum freedom of action. You know how it is, the men on the ground have to have the final word in how to manage an operation. Not that it’s likely to be especially difficult, as far as I can see.”