Vulture Peak sj-5

by John Burdett

  “That’s how he died, your father?”

  She twists her head to indicate she didn’t like the question. “People with strong affections develop fetishes. I can’t tell you how many Polly and I have about gambling. And the other things we do.” A smile. “Grandfather loved everything to do with opium-he even grew poppies in the greenhouse. When you love something, you want it every way you can get it. But he was so strong, he never let the opium dominate. I have a luck charm tattooed on the top of my left thigh. Maybe I’ll show you one day.” She has come significantly closer.

  There is a sound on the stairs. Polly appears, daggers in her eyes.

  “You see what I mean about twins?” Lilly says. “Insanely jealous. She’s not attracted to you at all. She just couldn’t stand the thought of my having you. Isn’t that right, love?”

  Polly walks over to kiss me on the cheek. “She doesn’t want you either. Neither of us likes sex. She’s just provoking me. She’s angry that I didn’t die just now, aren’t you?”

  “Same to you with knobs on,” Lilly says, and sticks out her tongue.

  They are standing on either side of me, and the experience is making me feel faint. I am quite certain they know what they are doing. (I hope you will not laugh at me, DFR, when I explain to you that these women are not human at all. They are a variety of pawb or ogre that lives in human bodies, native to Southeast Asia. I didn’t want to test your credulity by mentioning it before, but now I trust the matter is obvious. FYI, there are plenty of demons masquerading as humans all over the world, many of them in high places-political leaders, captains of industry; they are quite unaware of their true identity but often betray themselves by a tragic lack of depth.) The combined force of their malevolence is quite debilitating. I think the game of Russian roulette was set up for my benefit, a shock tactic to disorient me.

  A buzzer sounds. They exchange a glance. Polly goes to the door to press a button. “Yes?”

  “Polly? Lilly? It’s Sam. Just popped by to say thanks for the other night.” It’s a woman’s voice with a British accent.

  Polly and Lilly share a glance, then Polly squeals into the microphone. “Sam! Darling! How wonderful. ”

  “I hope I’m not disturbing anything. My chauffeur just came back from the shops and-you know what gossips Filipinos are-he told me he saw the most gorgeous man standing outside your gates, so I won’t come in. I just wanted to say thankseversomuch for such a wonderful party-you two still know how to throw them-and how, loves.”

  “Of course you must come in!” Polly squeals again into the mike. “Stop being so absolutely disgustingly polite and British. You know we both adore you to bits!” She presses a button, exchanges another glance with her sister, and shrugs.

  The three of us wait in silence until there’s a knock on the door. Lilly opens it, and a tall blond woman in her thirties enters, brimming with health, smiles, and money. Everyone squeals except me: “Darling!”

  “Darlings!”

  “Oh, darling, you look absolutely fantastic!”

  “So do you two! Ohmygod, you’re wearing the same clothes! It’s like seeing double. And after all these years.”

  “Guess who’s who,” Lilly says.

  “Yes, guess.”

  “A glass of Pimm’s if you get it right.”

  “Two if you get it wrong.”

  Laughter. The woman called Sam throws me a glance.

  “Oh, gosh, forgot to introduce you. This is-Detective-ah-”

  “Jitpleecheep,” I say.

  The blond woman shakes my hand. Blue Brahmin eyes check me out: what caste do I belong to? I’m a cop and Eurasian, not her level at all. “So pleased to meet you.”

  “Enchante,” I say, Buddha knows why.

  “Well,” Sam says, “an absolutely gorgeous policeman who speaks French, only you two could pull that off. Where on earth did you find him?”

  “He took us to Monte Carlo. Didn’t you, Detective?”

  “Well,” Sam says again, definitively upstaged, “how interesting. Look darlings, I must be off. TTD, you know.”

  “Oh, it’s always things to do with you. Won’t you stay for a Pimm’s, love?”

  “I really can’t, loves. I’ve got to go down to the snake pit to buy a birthday present for James. He’s terribly sensitive about these things, and he has done rather well on the derivatives market lately, so he does deserve a little TLC.”

  “Are you going down into the city?” I say on impulse. “I’m going that way myself.”

  “Well, of course,” Sam says, “I’ve got the driver waiting up top. Are you ready?”

  “Oh, yes,” I say, “I’m ready.” I turn to the Twins. “Wonderful as ever.” I kiss them each on both cheeks as they turn them.

  “You don’t have any bags or anything?” Sam says.

  “Oh, no, he doesn’t have any bags,” Lilly says.

  “How long have you known the Twins?” Sam asks. We are in the back of a long, low Jaguar with a polished walnut dashboard and a Filipino chauffeur in gray livery.

  “About a month. You?”

  “Ever since we moved here eight years ago. It’s a village up on the peak, everyone knows everyone, and the Twins-everyone calls them that-grew up here. They’re as much a fixture as the mountain itself. Our kids go to the same school they went to. Aren’t they amazing?”

  “Yes, amazing.”

  “Of course, being ethnic Chinese and speaking the lingo, they have guanxi coming out of their ears. Were there any servants there, by the way?”

  I want to ask what guanxi is, but I’ve missed the moment. “No. It’s the maid’s day off.”

  Sam snorts and leans forward. “Did you hear that, Hill? They told him it’s the maid’s day off.” Hill chuckles. She turns back to me. “They’re notorious for not being able to keep servants. Wait till I tell everyone they told you it’s the maid’s day off.” She gives a big, hard English laugh. “See, they use the same agency as we do, and Hill is in with the agent, so we get all the gossip.”

  “Really? I’m looking for a servant myself,” I say. “Which agency do you use?”

  She gives me her first frank expression: shrewd, penetrating, clever. “You’re investigating them for something? The usual thing, I suppose.”

  “Yes, the usual thing.”

  She leans forward again. “Hill, do you have an agency card with you, so we can be of service to the police?”

  Hill pulls a card out of his jacket and passes it back to her. She hands it to me. “Which unit of the police are you with? Fraud?”

  “Not exactly. But if you have any information on how the Twins make a living, that would be helpful.”

  “Make a living? Well, they both have degrees in medical science, quite good ones they say. But nobody could imagine them working as physicians, not even them, so they taught anatomy for a few years at the Chinese University. That was hardly a living wage for them, so they went into business, some kind of China trade. No one seems to know exactly, but they travel a lot and are able to get hold of money these days. If you’re not fraud, what are you?”

  “Murder.”

  Silence. “I see. May I know if anyone up on the peak has been murdered?”

  “Oh, I’m not based in Hong Kong. I’m from Bangkok.”

  “Oh,” she says.

  “What would ‘the usual thing’ be, by the way?”

  She moves away to look out the window. “I’m sorry, I thought you were local police. We’re in Central now-where would you like to be dropped?”

  The domestic staff agent-a woman with a Filipina accent-will not give me the maid’s name or telephone number, but when I say I’m willing to pay for information, she promises to pass on my own number. I take a stroll among the glittering caverns of Central, then take the Star Ferry to Kowloon. I’m staring across the harbor at the architectural hysteria of downtown Hong Kong when my cell phone rings. A young woman’s voice speaks slowly and precisely in old school English: “May I speak t
o Detective Sonchai Jitpleecheep, please?”

  She agrees to meet me this evening in the Neptune II bar in Wanchai. •

  The bar is an underground cavern that seems to be a Filipina hangout as well as a pickup joint for freelancers. I order a beer and watch the Filipino band get ready on the stage and wait. I gave the maid-her name is Maria-my description. After the band has started into a perfect imitation of an old Bruce Springsteen number, a woman in her midtwenties sits down on the stool beside me. She is heavily made up. I think she comes here to make some extra money now and then.

  “Hello, sir. I am Maria.”

  I buy her a drink. She smiles and wriggles in a way that could be provocative, or not, depending on what I want. When I ask about the Twins, she asks about money. I pass a few notes in Hong Kong dollars under the counter. Then she starts to talk. It seems the Twins are notorious. They have to pay double the going rate for maids, and even then most quit after a month or so.

  “The first thing that disturbs one is their fights, sir,” Maria says. “They are quite bloodcurdling. Quite often one will run after the other with a weapon, a knife or some heavy object, and the other will have to lock herself in a room until the danger is past. Many a time I was frightened for my life. Then one of the former maids told me they have both spent time in mental hospitals. They are quite insane, sir, in my opinion.”

  “That’s why the maids always leave?”

  “Not exactly, sir. There is a room, sir, which they keep shut for the first week of one’s engagement. Then when they have decided one is strong enough, they order one to clean it. I shudder when I think of it, sir.” She shudders. “It is the most terrifying experience of my life.” I wait for her to finish shuddering. “That room is full of human organs, sir.”

  “Human organs?”

  “Yes, sir. The organs are embalmed in bottles on shelves, just like in a hospital or laboratory. They appear to collect them.”

  “They collect human organs?”

  “Yes, sir. All with labels in Chinese characters. It is their hobby. They receive body parts and dissect them at home. They appear to be quite skilled. It would appear to be legal, however, otherwise they would not be so open about it. But that room is full of ghosts, sir. We Filipinas are quite sensitive to such matters. In my village in Oriental Mindoro, there is a good deal of lore on the subject, so I know what I am talking about. Ghosts of those who have died violently and who are seeking a new bodily vehicle in which to express themselves. I have spoken to the other maids, all of whom agree with me on this point.”

  “I heard they often get into trouble with the police.”

  “That is quite a different matter, sir. It seems they are frequently short of funds and have recourse to fraudulent practices. However, they always seem to find the money in time to pay off the debt and avoid prosecution. In any case, they have guanxi, so they are able to get away with such things. That is all I can tell you. If you wish, I can ask some of the other maids to contact you. I am sure they will corroborate my evidence.”

  I pass her some more notes under the counter and forget to ask what guanxi is.

  The bar is warming up. Since we have been talking, a number of Chinese women with mainland accents have arrived, along with more Filipinas and quite a few Thais. Some middle-aged men have dropped in after work in their business suits. It’s almost like home. Maria seems to have a friendship with one of the men who looks like a British businessman and excuses herself. I watch the band get ready for their next number, which is vintage Beatles from Abbey Road. Then they play “California Dreaming” for the old folks before segueing into “Between the Moon and New York City,” then a couple of Cantopop numbers I’ve never heard before, each song reproduced perfectly to the point of being indistinguishable from the original. While I’m listening to the music, a Thai woman in her early twenties approaches me. As soon as she realizes I’m Thai, she gives up on the proposition, and we talk about Bangkok politics and the proposed extension to the Skytrain.

  I must have been enjoying myself because more than two hours have passed. It’s about ten-thirty, and the bar has filled. There’s plenty of light groping going on, but it’s pretty tame compared to my mother’s bar; couples disappear up the stairs to the short-time hotels just the same, though. I also climb up the steps to street level, where I’m immediately surrounded by four uniformed cops and an inspector, also in full uniform with resplendent stars and a shiny peaked cap. At about six foot, he is unusually tall for a local Chinese.

  “Passport,” the inspector says. I give it to him. He examines it, then jerks his chin toward a police van parked down the street. “I’m afraid I must ask you to accompany us to the police station,” he says.

  Now, DFR, a tip from a pro: the first thing you do when apprehended by police in a capitalist democracy, where everyone is equal under the law, is prove to them that you possess high monetary value and social status, whether you do or not. So when he gives me back my passport, I make a point of opening my wallet as if I keep it there, and allow the black Amex to fall out. I was afraid he might not know what it is, but this is Hong Kong and he is Chinese. He has instantly adapted his manner. Now we are walking together to the police van as if we are chums, and he gets in the back with me.

  “It’s a little thing, probably won’t take up too much time,” he explains, sitting on the opposite bench. “Just that some busybody gwaipaw British woman complained that you were impersonating a Hong Kong police officer. Of course, she was just trying to be important and collect gossip at the same time. You weren’t, were you?”

  “Of course not. If it’s that HiSo woman in the Jaguar you’re talking about, all I said was that I was a police officer, then when she asked more, I told her I was based in Bangkok.”

  “Good,” he nods, “very good. Even if you’re lying your head off, which you probably are, there’s no way I can challenge that line of defense.” He removes his hat and puts a hand on his spiky black hair, as if he enjoys the feeling of bounce. (I understand: there is something irresistible about the feel of spiky Asian hair when it’s short. Whenever one of my mother’s girls goes that way, we like to bounce our hands up and down on it; it has the feel of a soft broom.) The van trundles toward a set of lights. “Anyway, I don’t really care if you were impersonating a police officer, I’m more interested in what you were doing with the Yip twins. So how about we do a deal? I’ll pretend to believe you are not here on police business, and you’ll pretend to believe I have a right to interrogate you about the Yips.”

  “That’s what I call policing,” I say.

  At the station Inspector Chan does not lead me to the cells or the interrogation rooms, although they all look pretty comfortable compared to District 8, but straight to his office. (Such luxury: air-conditioned to exactly twenty-four Celsius, and he has his own door that he shares with no one. That’s a tiger economy for you.) Chan hangs his hat on a hook so he can press a hand up and down on his spikes while he sits in his executive chair, opens his top drawer to fiddle with something, and stares at me. “You told the gwaipaw you were investigating a murder,” he says.

  “No, I didn’t. I told her I was from the murder squad.”

  “So you’re from the murder squad investigating tax evasion? Is that how Thai law works?”

  “We already agreed I wasn’t investigating anything.” I stand up. “Where’s your voice recorder? In your top drawer, by any chance?”

  He smiles, takes out a digital voice recorder from a drawer, and lays it on his desk. “Just testing. Turn it off yourself so you feel comfortable.”

  I look at it for a moment as I sit down again. I say in a loud voice, “I am here in Hong Kong purely for private interest and have no professional purpose to pursue during my stay in the SAR of the People’s Republic of China,” then switch it off and give it back to him.

  Now he’s laughing. “Streetwise, that’s for sure. Kind of third-world, though. You remind me of the sort of cops we had here under the
British. They were so corrupt, everyone spent their entire working lives covering their backs. Had to-it was what the job was all about.”

  “And now?”

  “Now it’s all about guanxi — a different ballgame altogether.”

  I’m about to ask what guanxi is, when he stands abruptly and starts to pace with his hands in his pockets. “I’ll be straight. I run the cops up on the peak, and one of my most important assignments is to keep an eye on the Yips.”

  “They are trouble?”

  “They’re gifted maniacs. Eccentrics of the old school, the kind of Chinese women the West doesn’t yet know much about. Ha! A lot of gweilo have this fantasy our women are all submissive slaves who would still have their feet bound if not for Western enlightenment. Anyone who thinks that way should meet the Yips.”

  “Tell me.”

  “No. You first.”

  It may not seem it, DFR, but I’m in a tricky spot. Chan could easily find some excuse for locking me up and delaying my departure if I don’t play his game, but on the other hand it has occurred to me that everything I’ve done that involved the Yip sisters has been either illegal or highly eccentric. I’m playing for time when I say, “They like to gamble.”

  Chan stops pacing and stares at me. “You don’t say.”

  “I mean, they’ll gamble for astronomical stakes on anything, like a fly crawling up a window.”

  “So would ninety percent of the population of this city. How d’you think we got so good at capitalism?” He is watching me with a slightly altered attitude. “They didn’t invite you to Monte Carlo by any chance?”

  “Monte Carlo?”

  “From your body language I think they did.”

  “Did they invite you?”

  “Yes, but unlike you, I didn’t go. You went, didn’t you?”

  I’m fighting a blush. “It was part of an ongoing investigation I’m not at liberty to talk about.”