Before It's Too Late

by Jane Isaac

  Min Li managed a thin smile, then closed her eyes momentarily. When she spoke her voice was soft and gentle. Her account was surprisingly detailed and articulate. She worked through as much as she could remember: leaving the pub, the boys in the BMW, turning back towards the college. “I don’t remember being taken, but I have hazy thoughts of waking up in the back of a van, blurry images. When I awoke properly he’d already put me in the pit.”

  “He?” Davies asked.

  “I convinced myself it must have been a man. To carry me, lower me into the pit. And Lonny of course.”

  “But you never actually saw him?”

  She shook her head. “His face was always covered.”

  “Could you describe him?” Jackman asked gently.

  She paused a moment. “Tall, I think. Well, taller than me.” She shook her head again. “It all happened so quickly.”

  She went on to describe his visit to the pit to deliver provisions. How frightened she had been. How, later, he’d tied her up when Lonny arrived. “He never came back after that visit. We wondered if you’d caught him?” She looked up at Jackman imploringly.

  “When was that?” Jackman asked.

  “Thursday. When Lonny arrived.”

  Jackman saw Davies make a note. Whittaker wasn’t arrested until Saturday, which gave him plenty of time to visit the pit on Friday. Yet he didn’t. And the pathologist and police evidence so far estimated that Qiang Li had been killed on Thursday.

  Min looked from one detective to another. “I thought you’d arrested someone?”

  “We have,” Jackman said. “But we still need to iron out a few details. I will be leaving an officer with you for today, just to be on the safe side.”

  Min turned her head to the door. “You still think he’s out there?”

  “It’s just a precaution. Min, have you ever met or contacted your uncle in the UK, Qiang Li?”

  She frowned, shook her head.

  “Do you know a man named Richard Whittaker?”

  “No.”

  “What about Lonny? You must have got to know him well over the last few days.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What did you two talk about?”

  “Home stuff. College. That sort of thing.”

  “Did he ever mention those names to you?”

  “No, why would Lonny know my uncle?”

  At that moment, Jackman’s phone trilled. He excused himself and moved out to the corridor. Russell flashed on the screen.

  “Hi there,” he said. “Have you got Lonny Cheung back in?”

  “No, sir. We haven’t managed to locate him yet. He’s not at his flat.”

  “Where’s the officer guarding him?”

  “He sent him away, said he didn’t need him.”

  Just at that moment, Tom appeared in the corridor carrying two coffees in plastic cups. He stared at Jackman, who stood aside to let him through.

  “But you need to come now,” Russell continued. “We think we’ve located the van.”

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  He sat on the edge of the bed and screwed the covers into his fists. His teeth clenched hard.

  Today, he’d seen her. She emerged from the hospital with an officer at her tail, all showered and fresh. Her cream silk shirt fluttered angelically in the late-morning sunshine. She’d looked around, her face pulled into sadness. He was just about to move forward to speak to her when He joined her. All tall, gangly and windswept. A flicker of light lit her face as she turned towards him. He’d drawn back into the shadow of the shop awning and watched as they embraced.

  It wasn’t the fact that she flung her arms around him with such vigour. He could forgive her that. It was the way she buried her head into his shoulder while he stroked her back, how he cupped her chin and raised it to his lips. Afterwards, how she curled her fingers around his, as if never to be parted.

  Once again, he was watching her from across the street. She was just like the others. They pulled him in then let him fall, dangling him for a while, before they drew him back in again like a yoyo. Just like his mother.

  He could still see his mother now, even though it had been almost twelve years. The sheen of blonde hair that sat in curls on her shoulders, the big blue eyes that fluttered under dark lashes, painted lips that left a mark on his cheek when she kissed him.

  There were times when she drew him in and showered him with kindness. Stroked his hair, kissed his forehead at bedtime, let him rest his head on her chest as she sat and read to him.

  Then a cloud would descend and her face would change. Dark smudges formed beneath her eyes, her hair grew dull and flat, her gaze fixed. During these periods she pushed him away into his room, turned the key in the lock behind him. Sometimes it was for several days and the only interruptions to his torment were the odd pieces of fruit and bowls of rice shoved into the room before the door to the outside world was shut again.

  He remembered trying to call out and bang on the door. But his anguish echoed around the room and disappeared into a well of nothingness. Nobody came to relieve the pain. Not until she was ready.

  Then the door would open and she’d be all prettiness and smiles again.

  One day he’d pulled the door constantly, listening to the splinters of wood chip and squeak as they broke. Finally, he wrenched it open. He ran down the stairs. He ran like he’d never run before.

  As he reached the kitchen a strange metallic smell was followed by a strong feeling of uneasiness. The door was ajar and he pushed it forward. There she sat on the floor, blood spilling like ribbons from her wrists, merging into the pool that surrounded her.

  A yoyo. It was always the same outcome. Eventually the string broke and it was game over.

  Suddenly, a furious rage erupted within him.

  He couldn’t let this happen again.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Broken glass crunched beneath Jackman’s feet as he walked towards the garages. He paused as he reached a uniformed officer standing amongst a group of white-suited CSIs outside number forty-three.

  Jackman recognised the wide grin of PS Barby immediately and shook his hand. “Good to see you again, Bill. What do we have?”

  “You guys are certainly keeping us busy. Control room received a call this morning from the owner of number forty-one reporting a break-in and stolen bicycle. When my officers attended they noticed the broken lock on this one and the damage to the door, so they contacted the owner.” He checked his notebook, “A Mr Blake. Anyway, it appears that Blake has been renting it out. He tried to locate the leaseholder but couldn’t, so he came down and checked on the garage. When he opened the door he found the van inside.”

  Jackman followed his eyes. The white van with the rust mark around the petrol cap practically filled the small area. He turned back to Barby. “Is the garage owner still around?”

  “Yes, I told him not to leave.”

  “Good. I’d like to talk to him.”

  Barby nodded and, as he moved away, Jackman stared up at the yellow folding door that was raised at an awkward angle. It looked like it had come off its hinges on one side. He dipped his head and crossed the threshold. The rust mark was more prominent from this angle. He looked down, automatically read the number plate then glanced up the side of the garage. It was empty. He moved across and looked up the other side. Nothing. Even though the van was parked right on centre, there was barely enough room to manoeuvre around the outside. He breathed in and squeezed down to the front. Leant against the wall there were several number plates and a set of screwdrivers.

  He turned and called to Davies who stood outside. She walked sideways down the narrow gap.

  He pointed to the plates. “Get these checked, will you? One of them might be the original.”

  Davies nodded and reversed out. Jackman followed her back down the side of the van. The sliding door was open. The temporary police lamp cast eerie shadows against the metal inside that was littered with numbered forensi
c markers. Items that would later be bagged up and examined in the lab. A tartan blanket was folded in the corner. It resembled the blanket that had appeared in the photo on the ransom note. The air smelt musty with diesel and a sickly sweet scent that Jackman couldn’t place.

  He emerged to find Barby waiting. He led him down to the end of the garages where a man with a bald head and a sleeve of tattoos was standing smoking. “Sir, this is Mr Blake, owner of the garage,” Barby said.

  Jackman nodded at the man who eyed him suspiciously. “Can you tell me who you rent the garage to?” he asked.

  Blake scratched the grey bristles that sprouted from his chin. “My wife organised it. I think his name was Peter Tang. He’s used it for about six months.”

  “Do you have a written agreement?”

  Blake shook his head. “No. It’s an informal thing. I wasn’t using the garage so she advertised in the local newspaper. The guy came forward and paid six months’ rent up front. No questions asked.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “I only met him once. Yeah, tall guy. Chinese, although he speaks very good English.”

  “Thanks.” Jackman reached for his phone and dialled Gray’s number. He needed a copy of a photo and couldn’t waste another moment.

  Whittaker raised a weary face as Jackman entered the interview room with Davies beside him. He looked as if he hadn’t had an ounce of sleep.

  As soon as Davies switched on the tape, Jackman made his introductions, pulled a photograph from an envelope and turned it over on the table in front of him.

  Whittaker’s eyes widened in shock, but he said nothing.

  After he’d spoken to the owner of the garage, Jackman left him to work with an artist to give an impression of the man he rented the garage to. He then arranged for DS Gray to email a photo of Qiang Li in the mortuary. This was the photo that now sat on the table in front of them. It was a cleaner image than the one that Jackman had seen the night before, but still dramatic.

  Jackman said nothing and pulled another photo out of the envelope. It was the photo he’d showed Whittaker yesterday, the old black and white Qiang Li with the thread of a fold-line running through the middle.

  “Do you know this man?” Jackman eventually said.

  Whittaker leant in and worked his eyes from one photo to another. “No.”

  Jackman pulled out the image of Lonny. “What about him?”

  “No, I told you yest… ”

  Jackman made a play of pulling out the last of the photos – a still from the casino footage of all three of them together. “Are you sure?”

  Whittaker raised his eyes to meet Jackman’s gaze. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Then how do you explain this?” Jackman replied.

  Whittaker swiped a hand across his forehead and pointed to Qiang Li. “I know of a man called Peng Wu. Looks a bit like this. He’s just an acquaintance from the casino.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us that yesterday?”

  “This one looks so old. I couldn’t be sure.”

  “His left earlobe is missing!”

  Whittaker shrugged.

  “Was this the man who asked you to send the email?”

  Whittaker nodded. “They were already written, saved in the drafts folder of a Hotmail account. All I had to do was to log in and send them. I’ve already told you.”

  “They?”

  “What?”

  “You said ‘they’.”

  Whittaker suddenly looked sheepish and glanced at his solicitor.

  “Are you telling me you sent both emails?”

  He cleared his throat. “I just did as I was asked. I don’t know what they said.”

  “Did you notice they were sent in different languages? One was Mandarin and one was Cantonese?”

  Whittaker shook his head. “They just looked foreign.”

  “Qiang was Chinese. What language did he speak?”

  “English, Mandarin. Probably Cantonese too – I know he had a Cantonese girlfriend for a while.”

  Jackman pointed to the other man in the casino still. “What about him?”

  “I don’t know him. He’s a friend of Peng’s. His name is Peter Tang.”

  Jackman raced out of the interview. The image in the casino was Lonny. That meant Lonny was also Peter Tang. He recalled something Lauren Tate, Min’s best friend, had said in her interview. ‘Min is everybody’s friend. She even helps out the rich kids, lends them her notes to catch up.’ Lonny Cheung’s sketchy account of his captor and the circumstances of his abduction jabbed at him. Lonny must have been involved in his own kidnapping.

  He turned and ran down the corridor, his feet pounding the floor with every step, and climbed the back stairs two at a time. Just as he reached the landing of the incident room his mobile rang out. He cursed and glanced at the screen, just about to turn it off when Dave Benton’s name flashed up. He stopped, leant against the wall and pressed to answer.

  “Hi Dave, thanks for getting back to me,” he said, trying to calm his quickened breath.

  “No problem. It’s been interesting to get a sniff of police work again. Made me realise how much I miss it.”

  Jackman tried his best not to sound impatient. “Sure. Did you find anything?”

  “I think so. I have a couple of pals that still live out there. Was good to catch up. They know the family. The father’s business is pretty big in Hong Kong.” He rambled on for another minute. Jackman was considering ending the call when he said, “There’s something else. Might be something and nothing, but Lonny had a girlfriend over there. A girl by the name of Ting Xú. Was quite besotted by all accounts. Anyway, they had a falling out and she disappeared.

  “What do you mean disappeared?” Jackman almost barked back.

  “Police never found her. Went on a shopping trip and never returned. There was speculation that he might be involved, that he finished her off in some way, but nothing was ever proven. Police questioned him but had to release him through lack of evidence. He had an alibi for the afternoon she disappeared. An alibi provided by someone from his father’s firm. There’s been talk behind the scenes about his father applying pressure. Apparently he wines and dines all the right people there. Two months later, Lonny left to study in the UK.”

  “Thanks, Dave. I’ll get back to you.” He rang off and raced through to the incident room. All eyes looked up as he entered. “Where’s Lonny Cheung?” he asked.

  Keane shook his head. “Still can’t locate him.”

  He grasped the edge of the desk, trying to catch his breath. “What about Min?”

  “She left the hospital and went straight home. There’s an officer with her.”

  Keane took one look at the expression on Jackman’s face, drew out his mobile and dialled urgently. Russell did the same. For a moment the room was silent. Until Keane lifted his phone out at an awkward angle. “Voicemail.”

  Russell shook her head. “Min’s not answering either.”

  At that moment, Davies rushed in holding an A4 sheet in her hand. “The artist’s impression of the van-owner,” she said.

  Jackman drew it close. The man staring back at him was cleaner-cut than he’d seen him, the hair shorter, the skin slightly darker, but there was no doubt that it was Lonny Cheung.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  I took my time in the shower. Despite an earlier one at the hospital, I still felt grubby. And there was nobody yelling at me today to cut it short. Even though all the rooms were ensuite, I’d soon learnt that hot water in the building was limited at any given time. But today, with many of the students gone home or visiting friends for the half-term holidays, I could waste as much as I wanted.

  I indulged in the jets as they sprayed my back, my chest, spiked into my scalp. I lathered up again. No amount of soap could wash away the filth of the last few days, but the heat was warm and comforting and suddenly this simple
pleasure felt like one of life’s secret luxuries. I even ignored the plumbing as it knocked and cranked in the background. It never ceased to amaze me how often it broke down in these purpose-built apartments.

  When I’d woken up in hospital, I’d been surrounded by a chasm of white. I thought I’d died, the baby had died. People moved in and out of the room and it all felt like a dream, like I was drifting across the ocean on a calm day in a rudderless boat.

  But later I woke up properly. My mind felt sharper than it had in days and my stomach screamed for food. I ate three bowls of cereal before a doctor came to see me to explain that I had passed out back in the field from a mixture of shock and dehydration. They’d kept me in overnight for observations. I was going to be fine. And the baby would be fine too.

  I opened my closet and pulled out some jeans and a jumper. New jeans that I’d been saving for the end of term party, jeans that had sliced another huge chunk out of my student budget. But none of that mattered now. I tugged at my bedside drawer, was just about to reach for the scissors when I stopped myself. Labels were my nemesis. From a young age they felt like newly manicured nails picking and scraping away at the skin and I begged my mother to remove them. It had become a habit. But six days trapped in a pit had the ability to cure every mild irritation. I pulled them on, embracing the feeling of the label next to my skin; it made me feel warm, safe, alive.

  The heat of the shower had a calming effect on my frayed nerves and, after wrapping a towel around my hair, I swiped my hand across the condensation on the mirror and gazed at my reflection. My eyes had brightened, the bruising on my chin from when I was climbing out of the pit had faded. Finally, the fabric of my old self was starting to show through.

  I thought about Lonny. He came to see me in hospital this morning and told me about the police rescue. He was able to walk around, his ankle already stronger. He sat next to my bed and we discussed the euphoric relief at being free.

  After the police interview, I’d phoned my parents. Listening to their voices, hearing that they were alive and well, was almost too much to bear. They were coming over, due to arrive tomorrow.