‘How about the Garner murder? Can we link Wing to that at least?’
‘Not positively. Not as yet. We’re still sorting through the fingerprints lifted at the house. Other than Garner’s own, there are two other sets that we found in the drawing-room that we’ve been tentatively able to identify. One of them belongs to his housekeeper, a Mrs Adams. Ex-housekeeper, I should say, since she quit her job before he went up to Scotland for the grouse shooting. When she read about his murder in the paper yesterday she rang us. He hadn’t paid her wages for a couple of months and she finally got fed up and handed in her notice. Grace went round to see her. Her prints match one of the sets, as I said, and it seems likely that the other one belongs to a maid who was in Garner’s employ until a couple of months ago when he dismissed her. It sounds as though he was having trouble making ends meet. But there were two other sets we found, made by the same person, which remain unidentified, and, given where we found them, definitely suspicious.
‘They were on the bannisters, in fact: the only ones we found there. Maybe Garner didn’t spend much time in his library. One print was halfway up and the other near the top, and they were both made by a left hand, which was significant.’
‘How so?’
‘If whoever killed Garner was dragging his body up the stairs, he was most likely holding him under the armpits and leaning back himself as he pulled the body up. It looks to me as though he lost his balance a couple of times, and instinctively grabbed at the bannister to steady himself. Both of the prints were left-handed, which fits with that idea: the bannisters are on the right going up.’
‘Ingenious, Sherlock!’ Charlie’s doleful visage brightened momentarily. ‘You’ll make a detective yet.’
‘Needless to say, we’re hoping these prints will match Wing’s. I’ve sent a copy of them by express mail to the Hong Kong police. They must have his dabs on record. We should hear from them before long, though I’m hoping we’ll have caught Wing by then.’
‘If he hasn’t scarpered, you mean.’ The chief super’s mood had quickly soured again. ‘You do understand what we’re facing here? It’s not just that we could end up with two unsolved murders and a wounded officer and no suspect to lay the blame on. There’s also the Portia Blake case to consider. You can be sure the press will go on pestering us about that. We could always tell them that we stand by the original finding, I suppose, but that’s not something I’m willing to do, given what we’ve learned in recent weeks. And neither, I might add, is the commissioner.’
22
ELEGANT IN HIS SILK suit and new Charvet tie— he had bought it at a shop in Bond Street only the day before—Chen Yi strolled down the Mall, enjoying the warm summer weather. He had come from viewing the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace—a ceremony he had always wanted to see but only read about—and paused long enough on his way back through St James’s Park to feed the ducks in the ornamental pond.
His appointment was for noon and his way took him beneath Admiralty Arch and around Trafalgar Square to St Martins Lane and Charing Cross Road. It was his first visit to London—but not, he hoped, his last—and he was getting to know the city centre; in particular, the area around Soho. It was no secret that the brotherhood would shortly be expanding its operations, and with his excellent English and good record to date, Chen had hopes of being posted to the capital in a position of responsibility. As yet only an ordinary member—a 49 in the Triads’ code—he was due for a promotion, or so he believed, and could see himself being named ‘white paper fan’, or administrator of the newly established branch; or if not that, then perhaps ‘straw sandal’, which would put him in charge of liaison duties.
Nor did his ambitions end there. The climb to the top could be slippery—and treacherous. But Chen was confident of his abilities and believed that one day he might even ascend to the uttermost pinnacle: he had it in him to be a ‘mountain master’, he believed; a ‘dragon head’, no less.
His unhurried steps, meanwhile, had taken him past Trafalgar Square and up Charing Cross Road, and presently he turned off it and entered the lower reaches of Soho. He had explored the area several times and called in at a number of shops and restaurants, all run by Chinese, in order to show the photograph he had brought with him from Amsterdam. Up till now his inquiries had met with no success. Nor had the word which Huang had put out among his own contacts borne fruit. But Chen had reason to believe that today would be different. The telephoned message he had received had come as a surprise: he had thought that particular avenue a dead end. Now it seemed that the road to their goal might be open after all. His caller had claimed to be in possession of valuable information.
Soon he had crossed Shaftsbury Avenue, and after walking a short distance up Wardour Street he reached his destination: a building fronted by several windows through which half a dozen young men, all of them Chinese, could be seen working at desks. A glassed door with a board beside it bearing the words NEW CHINA IMPORT COMPANY in gold lettering gave access to the building. Chen went in and crossed the carpeted floor of the lobby to a desk at the rear where the receptionist, a young woman dressed in black, watched his approach without expression.
‘I am here to see Mr Lin,’ he announced, speaking in Cantonese.
He took a business card from his jacket pocket and slid it across the desk to her.
‘He is expecting me.’
• • •
Chen walked to the end of the alleyway, taking care not to step on any of the refuse strewn over the cobbles in front of him. The alley ran past the back of a restaurant and the rubbish bins behind it were always overflowing with bits of rotting fruit and vegetables, which were spread like a minefield across the slippery walkway.
Near the end of the street he came to a door, which he opened, using a key. As he started up the narrow stairway the figure of a Chinese woman wearing a soiled dressing-gown emerged from the gloom at the back of the hall. She nodded when she saw him. Chen said nothing. He continued up the stairs.
Though he knew better than to reveal it, he had been shocked by the lodgings to which Huang Wei had led him after they had crossed the Channel by ferry from Ostend and taken the train to Waterloo station. Situated south of the River Thames in a rundown district whose seedy aspect was further marred by numerous unfilled bomb craters overflowing with weeds, the building where they were staying seemed little better than a slum to him, its sour-smelling rooms occupied by the lowest sort of Chinese immigrants, most of them labourers, to judge by their clothes and rough manners. Presiding over the establishment was a woman of indeterminate age, who appeared to know Huang. At all events she had greeted him respectfully. But after having shown the two visitors to their respective rooms on the first floor she had left them to their own devices, and Chen, at any rate, had not had occasion to exchange another word with her.
As he walked down the uncarpeted passage towards Huang’s door he heard a high whining sound, steady in note, and quickly cut short. After each brief pause, it resumed at the same even pitch. When he knocked on the door, the sound ceased.
‘Come.’ The terse order was uttered in Cantonese.
Chen entered and saw Huang, barefoot and clad only in trousers and a white vest, sitting in a cane chair by the window. He had a long axe balanced across his knees and held a whetstone in his free hand. His slate-coloured eyes were expressionless as they took in Chen’s appearance.
‘A handsome piece of neckwear.’ He spoke in English. His glance was fastened on the tie Chen was wearing. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘The tie . . . ah . . . in a shop.’ Chen stumbled over the words.
‘Has it not occurred to you yet that we did not come here to be noticed?’ Though Huang’s tone was mild, his eyes told another story. They had hardened in the last few seconds. ‘Why do you think we are staying in this . . . ?’ He switched back to Cantonese, employing a vulgar term for a lavatory bowl and its
likely contents. ‘Our purpose is to remain invisible. But you advertise your presence like a . . . like a . . .’ Again he turned to his native tongue, this time using a common term for a male prostitute. ‘I blame myself. I should have guessed from the silk suits you wear. I should have known a peacock when I saw one.’
He paused.
‘Do not take offence at these words of mine. Learn from them. You are a clever young man and you will see that what I say is worth listening to. Appearance is nothing. Let others think less of you. That way you will learn more of them; you will see their weaknesses. In time they will come to fear you. All will follow from that. Keep it in mind and you may rise in the brotherhood. Forget it and you will surely fall.’
‘Your words are precious.’
Chen stood with head bowed. Although he was trembling with suppressed rage, he knew better than to show it. He saw now that he had misjudged the enforcer. He had seen him simply as a thug: a man with iron fists and an indifference to physical pain. But there was more to Huang than he had imagined, and he would do well not to forget it.
‘I will remember each one.’
Huang returned to the task he had been engaged in, drawing the whetstone along the edge of the axe, setting off the same high, keening note as before. Chen stared at the implement. He knew that Huang hadn’t brought it to London with him. His luggage had been confined to a single small suitcase. He had obviously acquired the axe locally, but not from a hardware shop. Although the gleaming head looked new, the handle had been used. It was clear that he had connections here; there must be people he was acquainted with apart from the woman who ran the lodging-house. For all Chen knew the embryo of a new Tang branch already existed. His hopes of attaining a post of importance in the new order had begun to shrivel under the sharp edge of Huang’s tongue.
As he stood there another thought came to him, equally disagreeable. Earlier in the day he had allowed himself to indulge in pleasant dreams of the future; he had seen himself rising through the organisation, gaining steadily in importance and influence as his talents were recognized, even to the point where one day the leadership might beckon.
But now, watching Huang as he drew the whetstone across the gleaming axe-head, Chen was aware for the first time of a flaw in the image he had of himself, a weakness he had not acknowledged before. There was one position in the Triad hierarchy that he could never aspire to, and it might be enough to damn his hopes. The cold purpose he sensed in the scarred figure of the enforcer was foreign to his nature. Although the thought was like gall, he knew that the iron that dwelt in some men’s souls was not his to command. He would never have it in him to be a Red Pole.
As though reading his thoughts, Huang paused in his labour.
‘You looked pleased with yourself when you came in.’ His tone was neutral. ‘Have you fresh information?’
Swallowing, Chen nodded.
‘The old man has news of our bird.’
‘Does he know where he is?’ Huang showed no reaction. Only his eyes had narrowed slightly.
‘No, but he has learned his plans. Wing means to leave the country as soon as possible.’ Eager now to placate his superior, Chen ventured a smile. ‘With luck we can set a trap for him.’
Huang stroked the head of his axe with a scarred forefinger. Chen could see that he was thinking.
‘This is good.’ His eyes bored into the younger man’s. ‘But how do we know Lin is telling the truth?’
Sweating now, Chen replied.
‘He is too afraid to lie.’
Huang nodded with satisfaction.
‘You see, I am right. It starts with fear.’
PART THREE
23
‘AYE, AYE . . . do you hear that?’
Hammer raised, George Burrows paused in mid-stroke as the rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. Busy shoeing their old mare, he was standing in the stable-yard with the animal’s foreleg held firmly between his thighs and his hammer raised, ready to drive the nail in.
‘We could have a spot of rain later on. The ground could do with it. I’d like to see it softened up a little before we start with the autumn ploughing.’
He bent to his task again. Madden, who was holding the horse’s head still, watched as the nail was hammered home; meanwhile musing on the words he had just heard. Aware that the speaker had given no real thought to what he had said, or to who might be listening, he realised that they reflected a simple reality: namely, that the farm was coming more and more to be George’s responsibility, while his own role was growing increasingly marginal. Either it was time to re-assert his authority or to make a graceful retreat. He watched as Burrows took a fresh nail from his mouth and the operation was repeated.
‘There—that’ll do you for now, old girl.’ He stood up, stretching, as Madden released the mare’s head.
‘The autumn ploughing . . . yes, I must give some thought to that.’ Madden decided it as well to put down a marker at once while the opportunity presented itself. ‘I know I’ve been away a lot lately, George. But it was unavoidable, I’m afraid. Never mind. We’ll soon be back to normal.’
‘That’s good to hear, sir.’ As though aware of his employer’s unworthy train of thought, Burrows showed every sign of welcoming the news, smiling broadly. ‘May was saying only the other day that the place doesn’t seem the same without you here.’
May was George’s wife, a woman Madden had known since girlhood and believed to be incapable of falsehood. Suitably chastened, he surrendered the bridle he was holding and prepared to leave.
‘Well, I only have to go up to London once more,’ he announced as he donned his tweed jacket, an ancient garment patched at the elbows, which was draped over the side of a dog-cart. ‘We’ll be clearing out the very last pieces of furniture from the house in the next couple of days. After that it’ll be in the hands of an estate agent and ready for viewing. Lucy will stay with friends until we find a flat to buy which she can move into.’
He had not seen fit to mention the other business that had kept him away—George knew nothing of the inquiries he had been making on Angus Sinclair’s behalf—but as he made his way along the stream towards the chief inspector’s cottage, he was only too aware that he wasn’t done with it quite yet. Although they had spoken on the phone during the week, his old friend was yet to receive a first-hand report on the latest developments, which included the murders of both Audrey Cooper and Rex Garner, and as likely as not would be champing at the bit for further details.
• • •
‘It’s as good as over, then, is it? Done with? All wrapped up?’
The chief inspector seemed less than happy with the verdict he had just delivered. Madden had found him where he had so often been these past weeks, sitting in his garden under the apple-tree with a book in his hand.
‘I can’t help thinking it was a pity Garner was murdered. If he had hanged himself, as was first thought, Charlie Chubb and his myrmidons could have laid Portia Blake’s murder at his door with a clear conscience. Now it’s still open to question . . .’
‘Not necessarily,’ Madden pointed out.
Seated in a garden chair close to Sinclair’s, he had spent close on half an hour filling his eager listener’s ears with a detailed account of the events of the past few days. The part played by Lily Poole in making sense of Audrey Cooper’s actions prior to her death had brought words of warm approval from her old backer. But it was the second murder committed in the course of the week that had evoked the sharpest reaction from him.
‘Wing might well have been trying to blackmail him over Miss Blake’s murder,’ Madden explained. ‘He obviously thought those photographs were valuable enough to kill for and he didn’t waste any time letting Garner know they were in his hands. But as we’ve learned, his victim was penniless, or as good as, and he probably told Wing that, which may explain what followed.’
‘Still, it’s curious about the flex, don’t you think?’ Sinclair was assailed by the same doubts that had troubled his visitor earlier in the week. ‘After all, Wing had a knife, and was only too ready to use it, as we know. Was he trying to disguise the murder, do you think? Make it look like suicide?’
‘It’s possible. But there could have been another reason. He might have thought that if he used his knife, the killing would be linked to Miss Cooper’s murder and the police would start putting two and two together.’
Stretching, he sighed.
‘But that’s been the trouble with this case, Angus. I’ve never felt easy about it. It’s full of unanswered questions, and some of them may never be resolved. For what it’s worth, I think they’re all tied up in one way or another with the person of Stanley Wing. We’ve heard a lot about him, but for me he’s still a puzzle. Mind you, given his background that’s no surprise. None of us can pretend to imagine what it must have been like growing up as he did. While it’s true that Jack Jessup rescued him from the streets, I think his character was already formed by then. He saw the world as a jungle; no one was to be trusted, not even his benefactor. I think Mrs Castleton was right. He’s driven by hatred. But beyond that there’s nothing I can say about him with any certainty. The man’s a mystery to me.’
Glancing at his watch, Madden made to rise from his chair.
‘I must be getting home. We’ve got Violet and Ian coming for a drink. I want to be there before they arrive so that I can impress on Lucy the need for discretion. She knows far more about this case than she ought to, which is my fault, and is altogether too eager to talk about it. Luckily we’ve had some news that might distract her. Rob has written to say he’ll be back in England soon and that he’s due some leave. Lucy is already organizing several parties in London for his benefit, and with any luck that will keep her mind busy, at least for a while.’
The Death of Kings Page 28