Hungry Ghost

by Stephen Leather

  ‘I’m with the Bank of China. And you?’

  ‘A lady of leisure,’ she laughed. ‘Bringing up an eight-year-old girl and looking after Simon.’

  ‘You have an eight-year-old daughter?’ said Petal, surprised.

  ‘I married young.’

  ‘Too young,’ said Dugan.

  ‘Pat didn’t approve,’ said Jill. ‘Nor did our parents.’

  ‘For different reasons,’ said Dugan, sourly.

  Dugan’s objection had been that Simon Ng was a triad member. Their parents didn’t want the marriage to go ahead because Ng was Chinese. One of the crueller things they’d said was that they didn’t want Chinese grandchildren. Subtle. Jill had gone ahead regardless and she hadn’t seen them since. In a way she’d had the last laugh, for when Sophie had been born she’d taken most of her genes from her mother and had curly blonde hair and European features – only the soft brown eyes had come from her father. But it made no difference, because by then the damage had been done.

  ‘Come on, Petal, come and sit down with me and I’ll tell you a few things about my little brother,’ said Jill, leading her to a table close to where Ng was sitting.

  Dugan sighed deeply. It just wasn’t turning out to be his night.

  The Navy boys were getting frisky. Two of them were on their knees behind the bar forming periscopes with their arms and making sonar noises. Their pals thought it was hysterical, and the dancers were laughing too until one of the glasses of lager was knocked over. The mamasan went over and asked them to be quiet, and the barhags moved away. The boys behaved for all of ten minutes before the horseplay started again, a game of tag with the freckle-faced weapons officer as ‘It’.

  He ran around the fish tank, feinted to dash out through the entrance and then lurched back to the bar. His mates were hard on his heels as he ran around the bar and ducked into the changing-room, from where he emerged five seconds later chased by two semi-naked dancers, shrieking and hitting him with towels.

  He cannoned into the giant with bulging forearms, spilling his drink down the front of his T-shirt. The man growled angrily, grabbed Freckle-face by the throat and banged him against the wall. Amy slid off her stool and moved behind Howells, just in time because the younger man brought up his knee into the giant’s groin and pushed him backwards. All the girls started screaming as the giant fell against Howells and overbalanced the stool. They fell to the floor together, Howells underneath, and the weight of the big man winded him. The giant rolled off and went after the weapons officer while Amy helped Howells to his feet.

  By the time Howells was up Freckle-face was back with his head being pounded against the wall, his eyes rolling and his neck limp. Two other youngsters were trying to pry the big man’s fingers from around their friend’s throat, but with little success.

  ‘He’s killing him,’ gasped Amy.

  She was right, Howells realized. There was manic gleam in the man’s eyes, a combination of alcohol and bloodlust that by the look of it was only going to end one way. And if the boy was seriously hurt or even killed then the police would come, and that was the last thing he needed.

  ‘Tom, you must stop them,’ said Amy, as if she’d read his mind. He looked at her, frowning, and she took him by the arm. ‘Mamasan not here, she go to other bar. She leave me in charge.’

  Howells realized then that the Chinese heavies he’d seen on his earlier visit weren’t there either.

  ‘Please, Tom. I be in big trouble. Some of the dancers do not have visas. Please stop them now.’ She practically pulled him off his stool.

  Howells decided he’d help; partly because she was so insistent, but also because he could see that Freckle-face was going to get hurt and he knew that if the police did come they’d take names and addresses and ask for identification and he didn’t want anyone to know where he was.

  Freckle-face’s breath was rasping now, his eyes beginning to glaze and spittle foaming on his lips. The big man was breathing heavily through his nose as Howells moved up behind him and slammed his cupped hands against his ears, hard enough to stun but not hard enough to burst his eardrums. He bellowed and released his grip immediately, turning to face Howells with murder in his eyes. Howells smiled, relishing as he always did the way time seemed to almost stop when he was in combat. He could see each drop of sweat on his opponent’s forehead, the red tinge to the whites of his eyes, the throbbing veins in his arms. He saw him step forward as if in slow motion and reach out with splayed fingers.

  Howells let him come, taking a step backwards and dropping down as he put most of his weight on his rear leg, ready to spring forward. His right hand was clenched and in the ready position on his hip, his left hand slightly crooked, fingertips pointing at the man’s face. He was still smiling. Relaxed – Howells had long passed the stage where he tensed up during a fight. There was only one time for tension, and that was when you made contact.

  He knew it was a lot easier to kill a man or cripple him than it was to stop him without causing too much damage, and from his cat stance he could put together fifty or sixty combinations of moves that would end the life of the big sailor as easily as stepping on a cockroach. Part of Howells wanted to do it, to bring the side of his palm crashing against the man’s temple, to hammer his knee with the side of the foot and then slam his elbow into the man’s throat and feel the cartilage splinter. But the rational part of him knew that now wasn’t the time. Best bet would be the solar plexus, but he wouldn’t risk his fist because too hard and he’d break the sternum. He let the man move until he was almost on top of him, then he went under the outstretched arms, still in his crouch, and threw his right hip forward and thrust his arm towards the centre of the man’s chest, dead centre between the base of his ribs. The fist unclenched as his arm moved and when he hit it was with the palm of his hand and it was controlled, but even so the sailor moved back a full yard in small shuffling steps, bent double. He slumped sideways against the wall and then slid down it to the floor, conscious but totally unable to move, his arms clasped around his stomach. The bloodlust had gone from his eyes; now he just looked pained.

  Howells gestured to the two young sailors who’d been trying to help their friend. ‘Dump him in a cab, now,’ he said. ‘With any luck, by the time he’s recovered he’ll have forgotten where he was when it happened.’

  The two of them had to strain to lift him, and they half carried, half dragged him out of the bar.

  ‘Thanks mister,’ said Freckle-face. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  He went back to the other side of the bar as Howells picked up his stool and sat on it. Amy stood close to him, and slipped her arms around his waist. ‘Thank you,’ she said looking up at him. ‘Where you learn to fight like that?’

  ‘I had a rough upbringing,’ he said, but saw from the look on her face that she didn’t understand.

  ‘You looked so peaceful when you were fighting. What style do you fight?’

  ‘No style,’ Howells answered. He knew what she meant by peaceful. That’s how he felt when he was fighting – at peace. With himself and with the world. Only one thing gave him more satisfaction, more contentment, than fighting. And that was killing.

  There was a strong smell of burning as Dugan and Petal stepped out of the lift.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Dugan.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said Petal. ‘Is the building on fire?’

  ‘No,’ answered Dugan. ‘Just one of the neighbours appeasing his ancestors. It’s too much trouble to go outside so they use the stairwell.’

  He took her to a wooden door and pushed it open. It led to a small landing where the occupants of his floor left their rubbish to be collected in a large plastic bin. Dusty concrete stairs zig-zagged down to the entrance hall far below. They were supposed to be for emergency use only but Dugan had trudged up and down several times when the lifts had failed. Where the stairs angled to the right at the floor below, an old lady in a blue flowery-patterned trouser suit bent over a chipped ename
l bowl, inside which sheets of paper money burnt with a reddish flame. She looked up, startled, like a child caught shoplifting, then relaxed as she saw it wasn’t a security guard. She shouted a greeting up to Dugan and he answered.

  ‘Mrs Chan, she lives in the flat directly below me. She’s a nice old lady, almost stone-deaf.’

  ‘That must be useful if you want to play your stereo loud,’ said Petal.

  They left Mrs Chan to it. ‘It’s a strange place, Hong Kong,’ said Dugan as he unlocked the door to his flat. ‘Twenty-odd floors up in a modern tower block and a little old lady carries out a tradition that goes back thousands of years without a thought to the fire risk. The management sent around a letter a few days back specifically telling residents not to light fires and joss-sticks inside the buildings and pointing out that there were specific areas on the podium outside where they could do it. But does anyone take any notice? Do they hell. Sometimes I lie awake at night worrying what would happen if one of the flats below went up in flames. You know the ladders of the fire engines only go up eight floors? Any higher than that and you’re on your own.’

  ‘I think you worry too much, Pat,’ said Petal, flopping down on to the settee.

  ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right. Coffee?’

  ‘Please. I liked your sister,’ she called after him as he went into the kitchen and switched on the electric kettle.

  ‘Sorry?’ he said, popping his head around the door.

  ‘I said I liked Jill. And Simon. They seem a very happy couple.’

  ‘They are. I was a bit worried at first when they married, but it’s worked out really well.’

  ‘Worried about what?’

  ‘You know, Chinese guy and English girl. It can lead to problems.’

  ‘It happens all the time,’ said Petal.

  ‘No it doesn’t. Sure, lots of gweilos take Chinese wives, but not the other way around.’

  ‘Sexist pig,’ she laughed. ‘Or do I mean racist pig?’

  ‘You know what I mean. A pretty girl is a pretty girl, it doesn’t matter where she’s from. Wherever in the world she goes she’ll be looked at as a pretty girl.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And it doesn’t work the other way. They look at the girl and wonder why she’s with a Chinese. Then straight away they’ll assume it’s for money.’

  ‘Who’s they, Pat?’ Petal asked in a soft voice. He could feel that he was forcing himself into a corner.

  ‘You know, Petal. Everybody. And I’m not just talking about gweilos, the Chinese themselves are just as bad, just as racist. You know what the Chinese call the children of all mixed marriages.’

  ‘Bastards,’ said Petal.

  ‘Bastards,’ repeated Dugan. ‘Neither one nor the other. And when they die, only the Chinese half goes to Heaven.’

  ‘It’s folklore, Pat, just that. Nobody means it any more.’ The kettle began to whistle, and Dugan leapt at the opportunity to cut the conversation short. Jesus, second date and already he was arguing with her – over race, of all things.

  He put his head around the door again. ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Three sugars.’

  Dugan brought the coffee in and handed it to her in his Mickey Mouse mug.

  ‘Careful,’ he said, ‘it’s hot.’ She took the mug from him.

  ‘Jill invited us to Sophie’s birthday party tomorrow evening, and on Sunday for a barbecue at their house,’ she said, and sipped the hot liquid.

  Just like Jill, thought Dugan, she’d already tagged Petal and him as an item. In a couple of days she’d have them up to the altar and married.

  ‘House?’ he said. ‘More like a fortress.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Dugan looked at her through narrowed eyes. ‘You do realize what my brother-in-law is?’ he asked. He mentally kicked himself, because of course she didn’t. He hadn’t mentioned it, and Hot Gossip wasn’t the right place to start talking about it, certainly not in front of Bellamy and Burr, anyway. He sat down on the couch next to her. ‘He’s a triad leader, a Dragon Head. Or to be more accurate, the son of a triad leader. One of the most powerful in Hong Kong, Ng Wai-sun, now living in quiet retirement on the Peak and waiting to join his ancestors. Ng Wai-sun has three sons, Simon, Charles and Thomas. Charles is into property development in Canada, legitimate by all accounts, Thomas is in San Francisco looking after the American end of the business, and Simon runs the show in Hong Kong.’

  ‘But what exactly does he do?’

  ‘The same as every other triad in Hong Kong – extortion, protection, illegal gambling, prostitution, drugs. Remember that smooth-looking character that he went up to talk to, Danny Lam?’

  Petal nodded. ‘The one who likes young girls?’

  ‘That one. He works for Simon. Simon’s not a good guy, Petal, don’t be deceived by appearances. He’s never done me any harm, not intentionally anyway, and he worships Jill and Sophie, but I trust him about as far as I can throw him.’

  ‘What do you mean “intentionally”?’

  ‘I mean he hasn’t ever set out to hurt me. But because of him I’m stuck in a job I hate and I can’t move.’

  ‘Commercial Crime?’

  ‘Yeah. I want action, Petal, I want to be where the bullets fly, I want to be a real policeman and not a paper shuffler. But with a triad leader as a brother-in-law they’re hardly likely to trust me, are they?’

  ‘Is it that bad?’

  ‘Yes, it’s that bad. But what can I do? Jill loves him, she always has done, ever since they met almost ten years ago.’

  ‘You were a cop when they married?’

  ‘Yeah. Just out of my probation. Jill knew the damage that marrying him would do, hell, we talked about it often enough. She loves him, that’s the end of it. And the end of my chance of getting involved in real policework. I only got told semi-officially last night, just before I met you. I’d always known it, but I’d always hoped that if I kept my nose clean I’d prove myself. But apparently that’s not to be. I stay where I am, or I leave the force.’

  ‘And you don’t want to?’

  ‘There’s not much else I can do, Petal. Being a private detective looks glamorous on the TV, but real life is different. I suppose I could go and work for Simon.’ He laughed bitterly, and Petal placed her mug on a side-table and put her hands on his shoulders. She put her face up close to his, close enough so he could feel her warm breath on his lips.

  ‘I’m sorry, Patrick Dugan. Sorry that you aren’t happier.’

  She kissed him full on the lips, her small pointed tongue probing between his teeth. She moved against him and slowly straddled him, sitting in his lap and squeezing him with her thighs. Dugan groaned and closed his eyes.

  Howells looked at his watch and tapped the steering wheel impatiently. There was no way he could have missed the Mercedes; he’d arrived at the crossroads well before seven o’clock and tucked the Mazda into a layby while he waited, but two hours later there was still no sign of Ng’s car. Either the girl wasn’t being taken to school today, or the driver kept changing routes.

  He drove back to the side-road leading up to Ng’s house but he couldn’t see if the Mercedes was there or not. He couldn’t risk hanging around because the guards would be sure to spot him, so instead he began to explore the surrounding area to get a feel of the roads.

  He got back to the hotel early in the afternoon. He wolfed down a hamburger and chips in the coffee shop before walking over to the tourist area of Tsim Sha Tsui. He wanted a tape recorder and he found one quickly, a Sony about the size of a paperback book with a decent speaker. He didn’t bother bargaining, but got the surly teenage assistant to throw in batteries and a C90 tape for the price. He paid in cash and went back to his room.

  He spent the next forty-five minutes lying on his bed with the tape recorder switched on to record, the red light glaring at him accusingly as he read aloud listings from the Yellow Pages, a continuous monologue of names, addresses and
telephone numbers. He kept varying the speed and tone of his delivery, but even so he was flagging towards the end of the tape and sighed with relief when it eventually clicked to a halt. He helped himself to a Coke from the minibar as the machine rewound the forty-five minutes’ worth of verbal garbage.

  For the first time in months Patrick Dugan overslept. Despite the searing sunshine, the clicking window-frame and the echoing lift doors, it was past 10.30 a.m. when he opened his eyes. He was alone, though Petal had left a note saying she’d call him about Sophie’s birthday party and underneath it her signature flower.

  He’d bought Sophie’s present earlier in the week, a big floppy Old English Sheepdog toy with hair hanging over its eyes and a red bow tied behind one ear. He’d wrapped it as best he could and put it on the top shelf of his wardrobe, and after he had shaved and showered he put the parcel on his bed. A paw had come loose and was poking out but it looked kind of cute so he left it as it was. He thought of taking it into the office with him but knew that he’d get his leg pulled so he left it where it was. He’d come back and pick it up after work. Jill hadn’t told him where Sophie’s party was going to be, but he doubted if it would be at home. Simon Ng would want to be seen to be spending a great deal of money on his daughter and doing it at home would be interpreted as doing it on the cheap, as a massive loss of face. Ng would probably book a function room at one of the big hotels in Tsim Sha Tsui, so Dugan would be able to come back to Tai Koo Shing to change and then get the MTR over the harbour.

  He got through most of the morning on autopilot. His headache had returned, with a vengeance. He’d swallowed a couple of aspirins but they hadn’t made him feel any better. Maybe it was his eyes – sometimes headaches were a sign that you needed glasses. He closed his left eye and looked at the typewritten sheet in front of him. He had no problem reading it. He tried it with his right eye closed and the left open, and he could still read it. He held the sheet at arm’s length and squinted at it.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ It was Tomkins, standing in the doorway with a file under his arm.