Hungry Ghost

by Stephen Leather

  ‘The fee?’

  Ng nodded. ‘He is a gweilo so it cannot be personal. He must have been paid to do the job, and killers are not usually paid in full in advance.’

  They lapsed into silence again, and despite the unlined and unworried features of his father’s face Ng knew that he was deeply troubled. Once more he wanted to reach out and hold him, to offer comfort, but the fear of rejection preyed on his mind and he held himself back. In the gardens below a peacock screamed, the sudden noise making the old man jump.

  ‘Are we sure the gweipor will be able to identify the gweilo?’ he asked.

  Ng shrugged and admitted that there was no way they could be certain that the man had been captured on videotape or that Miss Quinlan would be able to spot him. ‘But it is our best hope,’ he said.

  ‘And when we know what he looks like, how do we find him?’

  ‘We search for him, Father. We search every house, every hotel, every boat, every single place where he could hide. There are only 50,000 or so gweilos in Hong Kong, plus tourists. It will take time, but it will not be impossible.’

  ‘There is one thing you seem to have overlooked, though. It will mean moving into territories controlled by other triads, areas where we are not allowed to operate. You must move carefully, Kin-ming. Large numbers of our men in other triad territories could start a war.’

  ‘Unless we tell them first.’

  ‘That is what I was thinking,’ said the old man, smiling for the first time. ‘I have arranged for the triad Dragon Heads to come here tonight, to Golden Dragon Lodge. I will have to explain what has happened, and ask for their understanding.’

  ‘And will you get it?’

  ‘We will have to,’ said his father. ‘Tonight I will ask them to take part in the ceremony of Burning The Yellow Paper. I do not think they will refuse.’

  A cat stalked out of the undergrowth behind the pagoda and began rubbing its back against the old man’s legs. There were dozens of cats roaming virtually wild on the estate. All were fed each morning, but were not allowed inside the house. Ng’s father reached down and picked it up and placed it in his lap where he stroked its head. The cat purred loudly and closed its eyes, pushing up against the hand and arching its back, tail upright.

  ‘Father, do you have any idea why anyone would want to kill Simon? Is the triad in any sort of conflict here in Hong Kong?’

  The old man kept his eyes on the cat and said no, each triad was now concentrating on its own dominion, and apart from the occasional power struggle or territorial dispute, most were simply getting on with making as much money as possible before 1997.

  ‘At first it looked like a straightforward kidnapping,’ said Ng. ‘But the gweilo made no attempt to take the money. I think we must assume that it was Simon he wanted.’

  The old man sighed deeply through his nostrils. ‘Your brother did not tell me everything he was doing. He still had the impetuosity of youth, and there were some things I had to find out for myself.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Things that were outside the normal business of the triad.’

  There were times when the old man could be infuriatingly obtuse, but Ng kept a tight grip on his impatience. He resisted the urge to keep asking questions and waited for his father to tell him in his own time.

  The cat had tired of being stroked and it jumped to the ground and disappeared into the bushes.

  ‘It used to be so much simpler,’ the old man said. ‘So uncomplicated. You took what you could, you defended what you had, and you made money. Now everything is political: the Government, China, you and your businesses overseas. The British should never have given Hong Kong back to China. A benign dictatorship it might have been, but it was a system under which everyone prospered.’

  ‘The British have been good, that is true,’ agreed Ng. ‘They even introduced us to the opium on which our fortunes are based,’ he added with more than a touch of irony.

  ‘And they have given it all away. A curse on them.’

  ‘They had no choice, Father. The lease ran out in 1997.’

  The old man snorted. ‘Only the lease on the New Territories. The island was theirs for ever. The Chinese could never have taken it back. It belonged to the British legally, by treaty.’

  Ng couldn’t see where this Form Five history lesson was heading, but he played along with his father anyway. ‘Hong Kong island cannot survive without the New Territories, it is too small; all it has are houses for the gweilos and office towers. The British got the best deal they could. Fifty years of stability after 1997.’

  ‘That is what your brother said. And look what happened to him.’

  Ng was confused now, he could see no connection between 1997 and his brother. Simon had never been one to get involved in politics, he was a triad leader pure and simple.

  ‘Your brother kept telling me that there was only one way for us to survive after 1997, and that was for us to forge links with Beijing now, to gain favours from the Communists that would be repaid after they took control of Hong Kong.’

  ‘The Communists are not to be trusted,’ said Ng flatly. ‘They make easy promises but rarely keep them.’

  ‘I told your brother that, but he would not listen. Even after what the madmen did in Tiananmen Square. Even after the children were butchered. He had begun travelling regularly to Beijing, meeting highly placed cadres, and he entertained them when they came to Hong Kong – entertained them like kings; the best food, the best wine, the best of our girls. But that wasn’t enough for them.’

  ‘What did they want from him? From the triad?’

  ‘Information. Intelligence. On the police, on the triads, on Special Branch. On the drugs business, the protection rackets, everything. The Chinese want to know how Hong Kong operates, the good points and the bad.’

  ‘And Simon told them?’

  ‘Not everything, of course. He was playing a dangerous game, telling them enough to win their trust but trying not to give away our secrets. He argued that someone would give them the information, so it might as well be us.’

  ‘He had struck a deal with them?’

  The old man cleared his throat noisily and spat on to the grass. ‘Not a deal. “An understanding” was how he described it. He understood that if he helped them now and co-operated with them after 1997, the triad would be allowed to prosper.’

  Ng snorted. ‘And he believed them? He is so naïve.’

  ‘He was doing what he thought was best for the triad and for the family.’

  ‘How many times have I told you, the way to go is into legitimate businesses, to turn our backs on the old ways. We should be moving into retailing, to transport, to property. At least property developers do not have each other killed.’

  His father turned to look at him with cold brown eyes. ‘Now who is being naïve, Kin-ming,’ he said softly. Ng flushed, he was not used to being spoken to as if he were a child. He waved his hand in front of his face as if to brush away an annoying insect.

  ‘You know what I mean, Father.’

  The old man’s face softened into a smile. ‘I know what you mean. You must forgive an old man’s tongue. Today has not been a good day.’ That was the nearest he would come to admitting the pain he was feeling, Ng knew. He reached out and put his hand on top of his father’s; the skin felt wrinkled but soft and cold, like a piece of tripe. Ng squeezed his father’s fingers gently, then withdrew his hand before the old man had the chance to show disapproval or otherwise at the show of affection.

  ‘You think that Simon might have been killed because he was passing information to the Communists?’

  ‘It is a possibility.’

  ‘But what could he possibly know that would make somebody want to kill him?’

  ‘There is much happening in Hong Kong at the moment that people would not want the Communists to know about. Business deals that are not in the mainland’s interest, smuggling of antiquities from China, illegal immigrants crossing the border,
agents of foreign governments who are acting against China. There are a host of possibilities.’

  ‘And the most probable?’

  ‘I do not know, Kin-ming. Your brother was being very secretive about the ways in which he was helping the Communists. I do not think we will get anywhere by pondering the reasons why he was killed. Find the killer and we will solve the puzzle.’

  It seemed that the old man had already decided that Simon was dead, despite the absence of a corpse. Ng had been constantly reminding himself that there was a chance that his brother had simply been kidnapped, but in his heart of hearts he knew that he was fooling himself. The gweilo already had Sophie, and there were easier ways of kidnapping a man than taking him under water.

  ‘You are right, of course,’ said Ng. ‘I must go.’

  His father nodded. ‘You will be here tonight for the ceremony? I suggest nine o’clock.’

  ‘I will be here.’

  The old man remained seated while Ng got up and walked back down the steps towards Lin and Tse. He heard a cry somewhere behind him, but it could have been one of the peacocks.

  Dugan was swallowing another couple of aspirins when Tomkins appeared at the door.

  ‘How’s the brain tumour?’ he asked, and Dugan grimaced.

  ‘This one is drink-induced,’ he said.

  ‘You have my sympathy then.’ He walked over to the desk, buttocks clenched, and looked over Dugan’s papers. ‘Was it any use to you?’

  ‘What?’ said Dugan, his mind a blank.

  ‘Lee Lingling’s futures dealing. The papers I gave you.’

  ‘Oh shit, I’m sorry. I forgot all about them.’ Dugan didn’t like the look that flashed across Tomkins’ face. It was a look that said ‘amateur’ and ‘incompetent’ and ‘why the fuck did I bother?’ Dugan opened his desk drawer and took out the papers.

  ‘I was just about to go through them,’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps you’d better just photocopy them,’ said Tomkins. ‘Then you can read them at your leisure.’

  Dugan was too tired to argue, so he walked with Tomkins along the corridor to the photocopying room. Tomkins stood with his arms folded across his chest like an impatient executioner as Dugan copied each sheet, and then took the original version off him when he’d finished.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked Dugan. ‘You look as if you’ve got something on your mind.’

  ‘I’m OK,’ said Dugan. ‘Just a hangover.’

  He didn’t want to tell Tomkins about Petal, but there was no point in lying because Commercial Crime was a close-knit family and he’d find out before long anyway. ‘And I think I need glasses,’ he added lamely.

  ‘I’ve always said you needed your head examined,’ agreed Tomkins and tottered stiff-legged down the corridor to his office.

  Dugan kept his head down as he walked back to his own desk, deep in thought. He rang Jill again. This time the phone was answered by a Filipina, obviously one of the maids. She said the same as the bodyguard who’d answered earlier, that Jill was not home but was expected back. Dugan asked if Mr Ng was at home.

  ‘Which Mr Ng is it you want, sir?’ the maid asked.

  ‘Why?’ asked Dugan. ‘Is Simon’s father there?’

  ‘No, sir, but his brother has returned today from America.’

  ‘Thomas?’

  ‘Yes, sir, Mr Thomas Ng.’

  ‘Can I speak to him?’

  ‘No sir, he is not here right now.’

  Despite all his years in Hong Kong, Dugan could still get annoyed by the way Asians could be polite, precise, and at the same time so infuriating that he could quite happily bang their heads against a wall. Secretaries would insist on him spelling his name three times and asking him for a detailed explanation of his enquiry before politely telling him that the person he wanted wasn’t in the office. Or they’d tell him four or five times that the person he wanted was not in the office, but not mention the fact that he was on long leave and wouldn’t be back for a month. They weren’t being deliberately unhelpful, just unimaginative. He thanked the maid and said he’d call back.

  The fact that Thomas Ng was back in Hong Kong was a surprise, and a worry. His visits were few and far between, and planned well in advance. According to Jill he was frightened of flying and as a result it was usually Simon who flew over to see his brother. It was too much of a coincidence that he was back in town at the same time that somebody in China was trying to kill Simon.

  ‘Jill, where the fuck are you?’ he said under his breath, glaring at the phone. He picked up Tomkins’ papers and read them, but his eyes only passed over the typewritten words, they didn’t penetrate and he had no idea of the content. He was too busy thinking about Petal and when he’d see her again. Or if he would see her again.

  The headmistress saw Howells on the second tape. She leant forward like a retriever that had spotted a downed bird, blinking her eyes. Cheng stood up and walked over to the video recorder.

  ‘You have seen something?’ he said.

  ‘Him,’ she said, and pointed to a casually dressed gweilo, white cotton trousers, sandals and a red sweatshirt, swinging a shopping bag. He looked directly into the camera for a fraction of a second and then turned sharply to look at a young Chinese girl, then the camera was focused on a family heading towards the pier.

  ‘Let me play it back for you,’ said Cheng, and he rewound the tape. ‘Watch very carefully.’ Miss Quinlan stood up and walked closer to the television screen, and peered at it as Cheng pressed the play button.

  ‘It is him,’ she said, after watching the few seconds of film.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Cheng. ‘Let me play it for you one more time. Don’t just look at the face, look at the way he moves, the way he holds himself. Look at the whole man, not just the face.’

  After the third viewing Miss Quinlan was just as certain, and Cheng allowed a smile to pass over his lined face. The headmistress smiled back, relief flooding over her like a warm tropical rain. At least she’d been able to do something to put right the damage she’d done.

  A car pulled up outside, and Cheng and Miss Quinlan heard doors open and close and footsteps crunch along the gravel to the front door. It was Ng. As he walked into the study he could see the triumphant look on Miss Quinlan’s face and he raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You have recognized him? Already?’

  The headmistress nodded quickly. ‘I am sure it’s him. Look.’

  Cheng had frozen the film at the point just before Howells turned his head. It was a thin face with deep-set eyes, clean-shaven, and with a longish neck. Cheng pressed the advance button and Ng watched the man jerk his head around and walk past the camera. He moved well; there was a fluidity in his walk that suggested he was a man used to sport, or physical exercise. Ng had trained in many dojos in Hong Kong and America, and the gweilo moved like a martial arts expert, relaxed but ready to move fast and hard at the merest hint of aggression or danger.

  ‘We need photographs, close-ups,’ Ng said to Cheng.

  ‘I will arrange it. We have a brother who is an editor at one of the local television stations. He will be able to enhance the picture and make prints for us.’ Cheng spoke to Ng in rapid Cantonese but he noticed that the gweipor was listening. He turned to her and said: ‘Would you do me a great service, Miss Quinlan?’ He ejected the cassette and slotted in another. ‘Could you watch this third tape, just in case the man returned, or you recognize anyone else?’

  What Miss Quinlan really wanted to do was to get back to her school, her office, and her desk, but she knew she could refuse them nothing. She meekly said yes and sat down again and watched the dizzying images on the television set while Cheng ushered Ng across the corridor and into the lounge.

  ‘The gweipor speaks Cantonese,’ he explained to Ng.

  ‘A rarity,’ said Ng. ‘So few of them bother.’

  ‘A teacher. It would be useful in her job. But a rarity nonetheless. I will arrange for the tape to be delivered to our man. What
shall we do with the prints?’

  ‘First we must rush copies out to our men at the ports and the airport. We must know whether or not he has left Hong Kong. If he has left, then we must go after him. But for the moment we will assume he is still here. Distribute copies to our men, all of them. Then they are to begin checking all the hotels and guest houses in the territory.’

  ‘There are many.’

  ‘I know there are many, but we must start somewhere. He is a gweilo and he must be staying somewhere. I also want some prints sent up to Golden Dragon Lodge.’

  ‘How many in total?’ asked Cheng.

  Ng thought for a while. ‘One thousand,’ he said eventually. ‘I think one thousand will be sufficient.’

  The normally inscrutable Cheng could not prevent his surprise showing on his face. ‘One thousand?’ he snorted.

  Ng laughed and put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘My father is going to ask the other triads for their help. And I do not think they will refuse him. It will save time if we have photographs ready to distribute this evening.’

  ‘Asking for favours can be a double-edged sword,’ warned Cheng.

  ‘He is aware of that, Master Cheng. But we have to find the gweilo, and to do that we will have to search more than our own territory. Better to ask for their co-operation than to be caught unexpectedly in areas we do not control.’

  ‘Your father knows best,’ said Cheng quietly, but it was obvious from his tone that he was far from happy. Ng made a mental note to mention to his father to have a talk with Cheng, to smooth his ruffled feathers. Cheng was too valuable an adviser to upset. He had to be treated with kid gloves, and Ng was out of the habit of being delicate with people’s feelings.

  ‘You want to leave the gweipor in there watching the tapes?’ he asked Cheng.

  ‘I think it best to keep her here,’ he answered. ‘I doubt he will be filmed more than once. The shopping bag will have been to confuse any watchers. But better we know where she is. And while she is here she cannot talk to anyone else about what has happened.’