The Buddha of Brewer Street

by Michael Dobbs

  ‘Business bad, Mr Minister, but plenty of it. Which is good business, you understand.’

  ‘What bad business?’

  ‘The child. You must have heard of child. Everyone heard of child. Everyone looking. Big money for finding him.’

  Goodfellowe felt the veins in his temple beginning to throb.

  ‘Back home in China this boy regarded as great religious leader. But he lost, so Government wish to find him. Put word out on street. Offer big reward.’

  ‘So why is that bad business?’ he asked, very slowly.

  Chou lowered his voice. ‘Because word put out by bad men.’

  ‘Which men? Who is putting the word out on the streets, Mr Chou?’

  The Chinaman looked around nervously, as if to check whether anyone was eavesdropping. ‘You know, Mr Minister. Bad men.’

  ‘You mean criminals? The Triads?’

  Chou didn’t deny it. Madame Lin cast a long shadow.

  ‘But why is the Chinese Government using such bad men?’

  ‘Big hurry. Everything big hurry. Want child very quick.’

  ‘So who are these bad men? Who is organizing this search, Mr Chou?’

  Chou’s thin lips were working furiously, as though nibbling rice crackers. This was a gweilo, but a senior and very influential gweilo. One he wanted to impress. Chou was torn between his instinct for caution and the desire to share a confidence, to show that he. Chou, was important enough to know about such matters. It was a finely balanced judgement, but one that in the end was resolved by nothing more complicated than commercial rivalry. Jiang was growing altogether too haughty, his dining tables too crowded. He had just bought another vanity number plate, and a new Audi coupé to carry it. The time had come to pay for it all. Chou shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s Jiang.’

  ‘Jiang’s one of the bad guys? The Triad?’

  ‘He should stick to things he knows,’ grumbled Chou. ‘Like credit cards. His gambling den.’

  ‘He runs a gambling den? An illegal one?’

  ‘In basement below travel agency.’ Chou had lost eighteen hundred on the tables almost a fortnight before and he was still sore. ‘But nobody gamble there any more,’ he lied.

  Except that it was not a complete lie. Several of the illicit gambling dens had closed in recent years, clobbered not so much by the law as by growing competition. The legitimate casinos in Leicester Square and Shaftesbury Avenue had come to realize that nobody gambled with the intensity of a Chinese kitchen hand, particularly one who worked seven days a week and slept amongst boxes of lychees and water chestnuts in the storeroom because he had no entry visa. They had nowhere else to take their money. So the legitimate operators had thrown out their prejudices and their normal dress codes and opened their doors to small-stake Chinese waiters in T-shirts and jeans. Everyone could join in. There was one snag, however, which threw a lifeline to establishments like Jiang’s. In order to keep their licences the casinos were required to run games of chance whose rules were recognized by the licensing authorities, like roulette and blackjack. But these were not always to Chinese tastes, and the dens that survived were still the only places to get an authentic game of fau-ten or pei-gau in which you could win – or lose – an entire business overnight, Chinese style.

  In Chinese eyes, Jiang ran a valued public service, but Chou would never dream of admitting it. ‘Business not good for Jiang,’ he spat. ‘Soon he disappear, I think. With VAT money.’

  It wouldn’t be the first time that a business in Chinatown had folded and the proprietor disappeared along with the taxman’s share. Chances were the business would then reopen with a new proprietor who would turn out to be a close relative, if only the records were there to establish the family link. Which they never were.

  Chou took a deep drag on his cigarette and drank his tea without offering any sign that he had exhaled. Perhaps he simply swallowed it and converted the nicotine directly into bile. The eyes blinked rapidly as he planned a new thrust on the integrity of Jiang. Meanwhile, Goodfellowe considered the options, all of which looked grim. He was up against not only the Chinese Government but an entire private army. Against them he could muster nothing more than a battered monk and three hopelessly confused immigrants. The odds were overwhelming; he stood not a chance. Not unless he got a break, learned something new. He needed his luck to change. He needed Mickey’s help, with Baader. Which he’d just blown. He desperately needed time.

  He studied his cup, an invigorating brew of ‘eyebrow’ tea, so called because the leaves were as slender as the fine hair on a lady’s brow. In the green liquid he thought he could see Andrina’s eyes, smiling at him. And suddenly he found inspiration.

  ‘As you say, it’s a bad business, Mr Chou, this search for the child. I shouldn’t perhaps tell you this but …’

  ‘Yes, Minister?’ Chou was suddenly attentive, his face alert, totally round, like a satellite receiving dish.

  ‘The boy they’re looking for – you know it’s a boy, don’t you?’

  Chou had only referred to him as a child. The Chinaman nodded furiously. Goodfellowe had established his credentials in the matter.

  ‘I think it’s very sad. These bad men say the boy and his family will be taken care of. But do you know what is truly going to happen?’

  The satellite dish swivelled aimlessly, as though searching the heavens for the answer.

  ‘I shouldn’t say this but … Let me put it this way, Mr Chou. You’re a man of much experience. Do you really trust Jiang and his men?’

  The dish moved vigorously from side to side.

  ‘They say that when they find him they’ll take the boy back to China. They’ll do that, of course. But not in luxury. The boy is regarded as a threat. He’ll be shipped back, in a crate, his family with him. And they’ll never be seen again.’

  Now the receiver was locked on target.

  ‘I’m afraid the boy and his family are in great danger.’

  A tremor ran through the dish, as if it was struggling to unscramble all this new information.

  ‘And Jiang is spreading wicked lies about the boy’s safety simply so he can get his hands on the reward money.’

  Suddenly a power surge seemed to flash through Chou’s face, which grew unusually agitated. Moral signals about the plight of an unknown boy were difficult for him to decode; dissecting the financial plight of Jiang, on the other hand, was his daily routine. Chou’s eyes clouded in anger. ‘That man very bad!’

  ‘I hate to think of an honourable Chinese family being misled by Jiang,’ Goodfellowe piled in. ‘Giving up their son, giving up their safety, simply in order to make Jiang even richer.’

  ‘That is terrible.’

  ‘But there’s nothing to be done.’

  Goodfellowe was all pained impotence but Chou had begun rubbing his hands as though about to strangle a chicken. Or, given the current circumstances, to gut a fish. For behind him the hostilities had been resolved and the fishmonger was preparing to leave. Chou knew what to do. ‘Excuse me, Mr Minister. I must talk with my friend.’ Chou jumped from his chair and scuttled off after a man who would be visiting dozens of establishments in the course of the day. Chou wanted to ensure he took with him not only fresh fish but also bad news. The bad news about Jiang. And bad news, Goodfellowe knew, travelled so much faster than the good. Almost as fast as the speed of sound. Spreading such news around the Chinese community might not make it any easier for Goodfellowe to find the boy, but it could confuse the opposition and buy a little time.

  And that would not be all. There was more disruption Goodfellowe could throw at Jiang, and retribution to be exacted. For the burglary, for Sam. Retribution for the whole sorry mess. Goodfellowe wanted very much to inflict pain.

  Of course, retribution heaped upon the bastard Jiang might not help the Search. But that wasn’t entirely the point. It would simply make Goodfellowe feel so much better.

  When finally he arrived at the House that morning Goodfellowe went direct
ly to his office. He’d been there less than thirty seconds before Mickey appeared. Her expression declared that this was not intended to be a civic welcome.

  ‘Goodfellowe, what have you done?’

  ‘Done?’

  ‘You slept with Andrina.’

  A chink of light burst in upon his doubts. Maybe he could save the deal after all. ‘So?’ he responded defiantly, if somewhat vaguely.

  ‘You weren’t supposed to do that!’

  Goodfellowe took pause for thought. Then, cautiously, he responded: ‘Let’s start again. The whole point was—’

  ‘The whole point was to wind you up. To humiliate you. Just like you humiliated me. Bring a little balance back into this equation. That’s why I chose Andrina. Because I knew you’d get turned down.’

  ‘Hang on, you told me she’d had more MPs for breakfast than the Chief Whip.’

  ‘So I lied. She’s been here less than six months. Hasn’t slept around. With anybody, so far as I know, let alone a bloody pensioner like you. That’s what made her so perfect. You’d try to get your leg across, make a complete arse of yourself and come crawling back with a little contrition.’

  ‘You mean …?’

  ‘Yes, I mean.’ She had the good grace to shake her head in a manner that indicated she had lost control of this one. ‘It wasn’t supposed to happen. You’re full of surprises, Goodfellowe.’

  He paused. It was a moment for decision. One of those moments for taking risks. ‘I’ve got another surprise for you. We didn’t.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I couldn’t go through with it, Mickey. Wasn’t right. She slept on my sofa. I guess I was going to lie to you, to pretend. But that wouldn’t be right either.’

  She offered no response.

  ‘How do you feel about it?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘Angry. A little silly. Mostly relieved.’

  ‘Because it means you won’t have to see Paddy Baader?’

  ‘Because if you’d slept with Andy, in trying to shame you I would only have succeeded in shaming myself. Unlike you, Tom, I’m really not into meat markets and sex swaps.’ There was an uncharacteristic vulnerability in her eye.

  The ensuing silence tormented them both. Eventually he spoke, very softly: ‘What will you do?’

  ‘You mean will I go on seeing Paddy?’

  ‘I suppose that’s precisely what I mean.’

  She bit her lip to hide the tremble. ‘The whole thought of it makes me loathe myself. Makes me feel unclean. This isn’t something I can simply wash off afterwards, Tom.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘No you bloody don’t! You broke your part of the deal, yet you still expect me to go through with mine, don’t you?’

  He couldn’t answer, or even look her in the eye.

  Her body was as tense as steel, she was struggling to be brave but tears were tumbling down her face. ‘I have to do it. There’s no other choice. We don’t have any other way to fight.’ Her lips twisted in defiance. ‘But this is my choice, Tom. I’ll do it because I think it’s right. Because I think it’s right. Not because you ask me to.’

  ‘I wish this had never had to happen. I wish there had been some other way, Mickey. I wish—’

  ‘Yeah. Me, too. I wish lots of things. I wish I didn’t hate you.’

  ‘I deserve it.’

  ‘Suddenly we seem to agree on everything.’ She tried to compose herself. ‘This has been so demeaning.’

  He was about to agree but she talked straight through him.

  ‘So demeaning. To think I could ever believe that you managed to screw Andy.’

  He swallowed the temptation to protest and offer evidence to the contrary. Then the implication hit him. ‘Hang on. How do you know she spent the night with me?’

  ‘Andy told her flatmate where she was going last night. You got a mention in there somewhere. And she didn’t make it home.’

  ‘So who is her flatmate?’ he asked with rising concern. ‘Discreet, I hope.’

  ‘Her flatmate?’ Mickey looked at him curiously. Then mischief shone through the drying tears. ‘Her flatmate? Why, her flatmate’s the biggest bloody gossip the Dragonaria’s ever had.’

  Suddenly his sense of humour had vanished. ‘Everyone thinks I …?’

  ‘Played the dirty old man? Seduced an innocent twenty-two-year-old? No, not absolutely everyone.’ She began to smile. ‘But they will by lunchtime.’

  He flushed at the thought of what lay ahead the next time he walked through the Dragonaria. He would have to march past Miss Firebrace who perched behind her Olivetti typewriter – yes, she still used correcting fluid, one of the old timers with old values – like a bird of prey. From her eyrie old Eagle Eyes caught everything. She would stare at him, say nothing. But once he was no longer looking she would pounce and pull him and his reputation apart tuft by tuft, like some piece of rabbit.

  He was already writhing in embarrassment. Perhaps Mickey had won after all.

  ‘What are you laughing at, woman?’ he demanded.

  ‘Nothing much. Only you.’ Her humour suggested the wound had begun to heal. Time to get back to business.

  ‘Then why not do something useful for a change?’

  ‘Such as?’

  He pondered. ‘Well, you could start by fixing me a meeting at Charing Cross police station. With Chief Superintendent Hardin.’

  During his thirty years on the force, Chief Superintendent Hardin had grown cautious about approaches from Members of Parliament. They only ever approached him with problems, never the praise he and his colleagues deserved. A towed car, a little difficulty with a breathalyser, an influential constituent who’d been taken for an expensive ride in one of the clip joints, occasionally a daughter who had been found in unexplainable circumstances surrounded by unexplainable substances. At least, unexplainable to a doting father. Somehow the whole world and its troubles seemed to congregate in Hardin’s parish, and some still expected him to have the solutions. But it didn’t pay to let these matters fester. Better to tell the bloody politicians to get lost at the first opportunity, before they got the wrong idea. Even those like Tom Goodfellowe, whom he knew slightly and rather liked. He agreed to see Goodfellowe the following morning.

  They met on the steps to the station in Agar Street. Hardin had come in his chauffeur-driven Jaguar; Goodfellowe was pulling up on his bike.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Goodfellowe. How are you?’

  Hardin extended a hand, forcing Goodfellowe to juggle with his bicycle clips.

  ‘Hungry, Chief Superintendent.’

  ‘If that’s your only problem, it’s easily solved. Allow me to treat you to breakfast in the canteen.’

  It suited Hardin well. Whatever was bothering Goodfellowe could be aired in a public place rather than within the confines of his office, which would help ensure that whatever demand the politician was going to make would be less unreasonable, and any anger he displayed when Hardin turned him down more restrained. It was difficult to shout for justice or burst into tears of remorse through a mouthful of bacon and egg – except that Goodfellowe chose grapefruit and muesli. He’d been squeezing off too many calories on the hill climber to blow it all on subsidized gluttony.

  ‘So, Mr Goodfellowe, how can I be of assistance?’ Hardin enquired as they sat down. He rather hoped for a rambling explanation that, while being delivered, would allow him to get on with his breakfast.

  Goodfellowe sipped the tea. Indian probably, although stewed to the point that it would have to go through forensics at Aldermaston before anyone could be sure. ‘I wanted a private word, Chief Superintendent. A matter of potential personal embarrassment, I’m afraid.’

  So, Hardin thought, he’s just like all the rest. Why did they always come to his patch to let their trousers down? He eyed his full cooked English with anticipation. ‘I’m used to difficult personal circumstances, Mr Goodfellowe. I can assure you of my discretion.’

  ‘But it’s precisely your discretion th
at’s at issue.’

  The Chief Super’s fried egg seemed suddenly to have turned to wax. ‘My discretion?’

  ‘With your friend Mr Jiang.’

  ‘The owner of The Peking Palace?’

  ‘And much more. I’ve learned that he runs not only restaurants but also illicit gambling dens.’

  The Chief Super’s fork dropped with a loud clatter. ‘Gambling dens?’

  ‘The one in Gerrard Street, beneath the travel agents. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No. No. Not at all. In Gerrard Street, you say? To be honest it’s always something of a nightmare finding out who owns places like that. Chinese walls, you know.’

  ‘And Chinese whispers. The word is that Jiang has powerful friends who are protecting him. Friends in the police force.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘I live in Chinatown, Chief Superintendent. Believe me. The word is on the street.’

  Hardin was beginning to look as though he’d contracted a dose of salmonella. ‘Who are these so-called friends of his in the police force?’

  From the folder he had beside him, Goodfellowe extracted a photograph. It was of the party at The Peking Palace. It showed Jiang standing shoulder to shoulder with none other than Chief Superintendent Hardin. Jiang had his hand on the policeman’s shoulder.

  ‘Good God, you’re not suggesting that I—’

  ‘I am not suggesting anything. I don’t believe for a moment that you have an improper relationship with a Triad leader. But these things are – how can I put it? – open to misinterpretation.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. The evening was an exercise in good community relations. No more. You were there, too.’

  ‘But I am a politician. I’m almost expected to have unsavoury friends. Practically compulsory. I’m judged by different standards to the police. Anyway, I’m reporting my suspicions to you. What more could I be expected to do?’

  ‘So what the hell am I expected to do?’ It was a question asked of himself, but Goodfellowe was more than happy to oblige.

  ‘If you’ll allow me, I think the answer to that is simple. Cover yourself. Make sure no one can accuse you of showing favours to Jiang.’