The Trophy Taker

by Lee Week

  The Bond Bar would be next.

  Lucy slid into the centre of the waterbed and flipped onto Big Frank’s stomach like a wet fish. They lay panting together for a few minutes. Lucy could hear his heartbeat through the wiry carpet of silver-grey chest hair. She lay there, smiling to herself. Big Frank was getting more adventurous every time. It wouldn’t be long before he was hooked. He could be the answer to all her prayers. God knows, she deserved it! He could get her out before Chan had any chance to look for her. Big Frank had big bucks, Lucy could tell – she was used to men with money – she’d known many. He was generous and eager – that was a good sign. Lucy would work hard on him, devote everything to winning his heart and soul. But she’d better hurry up: the clock was ticking and the debt was mounting.

  29

  It was gone two a.m. when Mann arrived at the Bond Bar in Wanchai. The area was number three on his list, and probably the same number in order of importance in the nightclub world. It used to be number one, but the smarter clubs across the water, in Tsim Sha Tsui, Kowloon side, had taken that slot.

  The bar’s theme was Bond girls: Honey Ryder, Holly Goodhead, Plenty O’Toole. It was in the guidebooks as one of the ‘must see’ bars and was described as ‘intimate’. It was certainly that: small, cramped, and with a definite exchange of body heat going on. But it didn’t matter what the place looked like. The fact that it had half-decent, half-naked girls in it was all that mattered.

  The doorman, Sam the Sikh, was in his usual pos ition – a genie in the shadows in his red silk – guarding the entrance to the club. He stepped forward and greeted Mann.

  ‘Good evening, Inspector.’

  ‘Hi, Sam. How’s it going?’

  Sam screwed up his face and rocked his hand in the air. ‘So so. Business is not bad but I’ve seen better.’

  ‘Not like the old days, huh?’

  Sam clapped his hands together and laughed. ‘The old days – before the Handover. Before we all changed into Chinese.’

  ‘This place hasn’t changed, that’s for sure – still as disreputable as ever. Still, I’d better make an in spection, Sam – see if it passes the health and safety regulations.’

  Sam laughed. ‘Very good, Inspector. Say hello to her from me.’

  Mann passed the wall of famous faces – an array of framed and signed photos of those well-known visitors who had been caught – some off-guard and obviously regretting it, others past caring. A few looked almost grateful. No new ones, though.

  He scanned the room as he entered. There were about thirty punters in. It should have been busier than it was, but Hong Kong was still reeling from one global catastrophe after another. It had only just emerged from the SARS epidemic and, before that, the stock-market crash. Visitor numbers were down. The punters were distributed around the room, according to their preference in women. They sat at individual bar stations and were served by a topless Bond girl who sat or knelt at eye level in the centre of their bar on a raised rotating island, a metre in diameter.

  All eight podiums were up and running that night.

  Mann passed a group of nervous-looking Japanese who were hovering just inside the door. They’d probably wandered in looking for something more explicit and were too polite to move on when it hadn’t mat erialised. Across the room there were a few Indonesians around Honey Ryder’s station. They were probably dignitaries back home, now getting their first glimpse of a semi-naked white woman and trying not to giggle. The rest of the podiums had small groups of Europeans and Americans, just getting going for the evening. They wouldn’t be staying there for long. The Bond Bar was just an appetiser – pure titillation and completely harmless by Hong Kong’s standards – nothing like the real deal. In Hong Kong, money could buy the darkest of desires and everything and everyone had a price.

  On the way through, Mann passed Honey Ryder entertaining the Indonesians – she looked up and gave him her endearing gap-toothed smile. She was dressed in black rubber hotpants and sported a cute blonde bob. She had an expectant look on her face and he was tempted to say a quick hello. She looked like she was waiting for him to come over. They’d had something going a while ago but it had never quite got off the starting blocks. It would be worth another shot, but it would have to wait. Now was not the time. He was here to see one of the others, Pussy Galore and, although Honey might be, Pussy wasn’t the sharing kind.

  He spotted her at her usual podium at the right-hand side of the room. Her station was the busiest – he wasn’t surprised. He walked over and sat down on the fake leopard-skin stool, sat back and waited for her to notice him. It didn’t take long – she was good at her job; she’d been doing it for long enough.

  Mann had known her for five years. They had provided mutual comfort for each other on several occasions and were fond of each other in their own way – on a part-time basis.

  ‘All right, Johnny?’ she said in a strong cockney accent. ‘Long time no see.’

  ‘Hi, Pussy. How’s it going? Business good?’

  ‘It’s always good in here, Johnny, you know that,’ she said, with a big false smile that she flashed to the dozen or so punters around her podium. Then she added, under her breath, ‘And don’t call me Pussy, you wanker …’ before spinning away from him.

  Mann was amused by her show of frostiness. He knew she was angry that he hadn’t called her in a while, but he also knew it wouldn’t last long – three minutes max. She never could keep her feelings or anything else under wraps. Nor had she mastered the art of suspense.

  She slammed a vodka on the rocks down in front of him before twirling around to flirt with an overweight loud-shirted tourist on the opposite side of the podium. Her electric laugh was mesmerising to the group of men who sat less than a metre from her, watching every undulation of her beautiful black shiny body as she turned on the rotating table. They didn’t attempt conversation between themselves. They weren’t incapable, but they hadn’t come here to think of anything else except Pussy Galore.

  Two minutes later she swivelled back to Mann. He was playing with the ice in his glass, clinking it against the side.

  ‘You’re looking good, Johnny,’ she said, taking his glass to refresh it.

  There! Knew she wouldn’t make it past three minutes.

  ‘You too, Kim. You missed a spot with the oil, though. Just there on your right buttock.’

  ‘You’ve lost weight,’ she said, ignoring his jibe and sitting back on her heels to look him over. ‘Lean and mean – it suits you.’

  ‘I’ve been doing a lot of running. Helps me think. Gives me energy.’

  ‘I thought you was doin’ it to keep your stamina up for the next time you take me out.’

  ‘That too,’ he grinned.

  She stretched out her hand and moved aside the crow’s wing of dark hair that always fell over Mann’s left eye, before running her finger along the scar on his cheek. She was a lover of scars – emotional and physical – he knew that much about her. That’s how she’d ended up working on the other side of the world serving drinks dressed in a g-string.

  She tilted her head to one side and softness crept into her eyes. Mann tried to avoid that these days. He liked her but he wasn’t interested in taking it further, and neither was she if she was honest.

  He turned his head from her hand.

  She drew back as if she’d been smacked in the face and twirled angrily away from him. He knew she wouldn’t like that. But she’d be back. She was a creature of habit – a boomerang. She always went full circle and ended up back where she started. She couldn’t even leave the Bond Bar. Sometimes she managed to stay away for a few days, even a few weeks, but she couldn’t hack it. She always came back with one excuse or another. Really she missed the adoration and the easy money.

  Mann gave an inward shrug. He wasn’t one to judge or cast stones. Everyone had their buttons. Kim’s were complicated and yet simple – she looked for love but never wanted to find it. She didn’t think she deserved it. Mann�
�s buttons all merged into one big fat one, and it had a T for triad etched on the top.

  30

  Kim spun back to him and sat pouting. He was amused by her hurt expression. She was extremely easy to read. She had a catalogue of expressions and Mann had seen them all, even the ones that she didn’t know she had at certain moments. This one was number six – the ‘pretend to be hurt’ one.

  ‘You’re stressed out, Johnny. I can see it. You should learn to relax more. You should get yourself a girlfriend – someone you can trust.’

  ‘How do you know I haven’t?’

  ‘Coz I know you.’

  ‘Got anyone in mind, Kim? Does she work in a bar and spend her evenings in a spangly g-string?’

  ‘Might do.’ She pulled her hand away and resumed quarter turns on her island. ‘Anyway, it’s just a thought,’ she said, but fighting a smile.

  She was a lot like him – Mann knew that. They might have come from different places, but they had arrived at the same point. He was a ‘love shy’ commitment-phobe. She was a ‘grass greener’ sort – always looking over her lover’s shoulder to the guy behind. But when she got it, she couldn’t wait to get rid of it. And the thing Mann knew about greener grass was that it still got weeds and it still needed cutting.

  ‘Anyway, Johnny, I might not be here much longer. I’m thinking of leaving this place.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. And don’t look at me like that. I mean it this time. I’ve had a good job offer.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can’t say. Not yet, anyways.’

  Mann could see she was itching to tell him. He smiled to himself. He could tease it out of her if he wanted, but then what was the point? The job wouldn’t last five minutes. Then she’d be right back where she started – serving drinks in the Bond Bar in her smalls.

  ‘Maybe you’d like to come and work for me? I need a personal assistant.’

  She laughed and spun away. Pausing with her back to him, she shifted her weight from buttock to buttock and stretched forward to serve some new punters. Mann smiled to himself. He knew the show was just for him. It was appreciated.

  When she finished flirting, she spun back.

  ‘The thing is, Johnny – you pay me enough – I might just consider doing it.’

  ‘Money? I was thinking perks.’ He held on to her table and stopped her from moving. He wheeled her back to him. ‘I need to talk to you, Kim … it’s serious.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I need to ask you something.’

  Her smile disappeared and she frowned at him. ‘What?’ She glared at his hand holding on to her table. Even that much control pissed her off.

  ‘We’re looking for someone at the moment. Has there been any talk among the girls of anyone they’re worried about? Any punter overstepped the mark?’

  Kim thought for a minute before moving her head slowly from side to side. ‘No more than usual.’ She arched herself forward as close as she could physically get to Mann without giving the loud shirt behind more to look at than he’d paid for. ‘But then, you know me, Johnny, I don’t do that kind of thing – I’m a good gal.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ he said. ‘How many foreign girls are working here, Kim?’

  ‘Seven at the moment. Different shifts. Why?’

  ‘All of them been here for some time?’

  ‘We had to replace a couple recently.’

  ‘What’s the turnover of girls like in here?’

  ‘Fast …’ she laughed, ‘and furious.’

  ‘Why?’

  Kim gave a derisory snort. ‘It ain’t the kind of job you give notice to, Johnny. They don’t bovver showin’ up, then we know they’ve gone. Sometimes they turn up again ’cross town. Sometimes they come back after a month, just need a rest, a bit of head space.’ She leaned forward to whisper in his ear again. ‘You know, Johnny, you need to ask me more questions you could always buy me dinner?’

  ‘Are you on the same number?’ he asked, getting out his wallet to pay for the drinks.

  ‘Yeah, but you better hurry up, Johnny,’ she breathed into his ear, her heavy breasts resting against him. ‘I might get a better offer.’

  ‘Than me? Impossible.’

  ‘Mmmmm.’ She closed her eyes for a few seconds. ‘You’re a bastard, Johnny. But a lovely one …’

  ‘I’ll be seeing you, Kim …’ He pulled away. ‘… Very soon, I hope. Meanwhile, don’t take any risks. Watch yourself. I mean it.’

  She recovered her composure, spun away once more and blew him a kiss over her shoulder.

  ‘Don’t worry, Johnny. I’ll be careful. And Johnny –’

  He hovered.

  ‘Don’t wait too long. I get very fidgety.’

  ‘How could I forget, Pussy?’ he grinned.

  At the top of the steps Sam was having trouble with a group of rowdy British holidaymakers.

  ‘Need a hand, Sam?’

  A lairy drunk in a Manchester United shirt turned round and found himself two inches from Mann’s chest. He looked up, then stepped back.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector.’ Sam puffed himself out. ‘There’s no problem here. Is there, gentlemen?’ he said, forcing the suddenly well-behaved men into order. ‘One at a time. One at a time, and remember …’ he wagged his finger at the sheepish line, ‘all nice girls in here – the best – no touching titties.’ He flashed Mann a big smile. ‘Be seeing you, Inspector.’

  ‘Be seeing you, Sam.’

  Mann stopped at street level, stepped out of the stream of people, and took out his list again. He scanned down it and then looked up again to get his bearings. He was reluctant to move on. He glanced back at the Bond Bar. It didn’t feel right … He didn’t feel good about leaving Kim and the others. They were all at risk, but there was no point in worrying every foreign woman working in Hong Kong. Besides, Kim wouldn’t listen to him anyway, and Mann was under strict instructions not to start a panic, a stampede out of the region – not to do any more damage to Hong Kong’s vital tourist trade. Not that Mann seriously cared about orders. If it would have helped, he would have told them all – but it wouldn’t help. Wrong place, wrong time … any one of them might just be the chosen one. The killer was definitely out there somewhere, sat at some girly bar, watching and waiting.

  Mann looked at his list; he had several more places to visit that night. He needed to get to as many as possible. He needed to find out how many foreign girls there were, and where they worked – so that the next time one turned up dead, dismembered and dumped in a black bin bag, he might have a chance of putting a name to a head.

  Bernadette was surprised at the old drunk’s nastiness. Hadn’t she just tried to give him what he wanted? He’d turned on her in a flash – had her handcuffed to the feckin’ bed before she knew what had hit her. Then he’d kept her tied up there for eight feckin’ hours while he snored his head off!

  She stood with her back to the mirror and twisted round to look at the damage. Feckin’ bastard! He had marked her good and proper. Thinking about it, she hadn’t got him pissed enough. Ah well! He’d paid her for it – sent his maid to get his stash from the safe. She’d emptied his wallet while he was talkin’ to the maid. Served the nasty old fecker right …

  31

  Just as the early-morning traffic was beginning to build, and the Tai Chi enthusiasts were finishing their salute to the sun in the parks and on the rooftops, Mann stepped into the cool of the underground station and took a train home. He’d worked through the night and could do no more for a few hours until it all kicked off again. He needed a shave and a shower. He boarded a train for Quarry Bay, on the north-east side of Hong Kong Island. He lived in a great location: it was served by the wonderfully efficient MTR and was just a short distance from Central and Headquarters. But it wasn’t a community. It was a vertical village – fifty tower blocks with a shopping mall in the centre – affordable housing for the young executive classes.

  Mann lived in a two-bedroom apartment on the fortiet
h floor in one of the older blocks. Built in the early nineties, it had wooden floors, white walls, and very little else. Mann didn’t do the homely look. He had cutlery for one, crockery in single units and a solitary armchair that he’d positioned opposite a massive plasma TV in the lounge.

  But his apartment hadn’t always been so Spartan. It had been a proper home once. Not long ago someone had stood in his home and in his heart. Helen had been there.

  She was long gone now. He wished he didn’t think of her so often. He missed that spontaneous laugh of hers, that optimistic view of life – so different to his cynicism. He missed the little things she cared about. He missed her. But he didn’t regret her going. She deserved more than he could give. He had never seen himself pushing a baby’s buggy or having friends over for dinner. He hadn’t wanted anything or anyone else – just her. But she wanted the whole package, and he just didn’t have it in him to give.

  He flopped onto his bed. He knew that he would sleep for a week if he didn’t watch it, so he dozed, waiting for the alarm clock to sound. In that last hour, just as he was dreamless and heavy as lead, it started ringing and ringing as if from some faraway planet, dragging him into consciousness. He hit the clock first, then hit the floor running. He checked his watch – noon, time for a quick shower; the colder the better.

  He stepped out of the MTR half an hour later and cut through the park. It was a ten-minute walk up the hill to Headquarters. The midday air was scented with the smell of lush vegetation. The traffic noise was momen t arily lost in a pocket of wilderness and replaced by the sounds of insects – as loud as pneumatic drills.

  He cut across the road, up the cobbled alleyways, past skinny kittens and makeshift kitchens, until he hit Soho, an area of fusion restaurants and fancy artefact shops. In the evening it was given over to partying Gweilos who loved its European feel. Cafés spilled over pavements and noisy Italian waiters touted for business.