The Trophy Taker

by Lee Week

  Mann nodded to a cleaner sweeping the front of a Malaysian restaurant. The man paused, leaned on his broom and inclined his head a fraction Mann’s way. Mann would speak to him later – he was one of three undercover officers working the street.

  Mann crossed the packed car park and walked up the well-trodden steps of Headquarters. It took him ten minutes to get past the people waiting to talk to him on the stairs. Finally, he made it to David White’s office.

  The Superintendent was alone. He looked harassed. He hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours, and it showed.

  ‘The post-mortem report makes for gruesome reading, Johnny,’ he said, as Mann walked in and sat down opposite him. The Superintendent was holding the report in his hands. ‘Trophy taker? A torturer? He must hang on to these women, Mann. Where is he holding them? We need to get as many officers out there asking questions as we can. Get some undercover officers into the clubs with foreign hostesses. But for Christ’s sake, make them understand we need discretion.’

  ‘Don’t worry, David, we’re on to it. But, if he is murdering Gwaipohs, it’s a clever choice. Many of these women work under aliases. They have no family here. He must have picked them quite carefully. We have hundreds of matches for our Jane Does. However, if this man moves in the nightclub world, he must have frightened a few women along the way. There must have been some who got away without even realising it.’

  Just then Ng knocked on the door, followed closely by a very agitated Li. ‘Genghis – this just came in from Scotland Yard.’ Ng handed him a file.

  Mann flipped it open and scanned it before reading it out:

  ‘The fingerprint belongs to Maria Jackson. Born in 1963. British. She had form for drug dealing in the UK. She was given a one-year probational sentence in May 1989. Came to Hong Kong in April 1991. Last known place of employment – the Rising Sun in Wanchai. That was in November 1992.’

  ‘Interpol are trying to trace any family at the moment but have come up with nothing so far,’ said Ng, handing the photo of Maria to the Superintendent. It was a mugshot taken at the time of her arrest.

  ‘The pathologist put the woman’s age at mid to late twenties. She’d be forty now. That means she’s been dead ten to fifteen years. So, our murderer has been around a long time,’ said Mann.

  ‘There’s also victim one … the head … belonged to twenty-eight-year-old Beverly Mathews,’ said Ng.

  ‘When did she go missing?’ asked Mann, scanning the second page of the file Ng had handed him. He pulled out a grainy photo of a woman with big hair and a big smile.

  ‘Seventeen years ago – July 1986.’

  ‘You were right to extend the search so far back,’ said Superintendent White.

  ‘How did you know, boss?’ Li asked, looking very Saturday Night Fever in his wide white-collared shirt and his slicked-back hair.

  ‘She had nothing but metal amalgam fillings in her mouth, Shrimp – every one of them. Most people over thirty have at least a mixture of new and old – she didn’t.’

  Superintendent White left his desk, took the report from Mann, and went to stand at the window to read it.

  ‘I worked on the case. I remember it,’ he said.

  ‘Was she a resident here, David? Do you remember?’

  ‘No. She was a tourist. She’d sold the most Renaults in Reading – she won herself a holiday to Hong Kong.’

  Superintendent White picked up the old shot of Beverly Mathews taken at a cousin’s wedding a few weeks before she disappeared. ‘She failed to turn up at her workplace back in England. It was then discovered that she hadn’t returned from her holiday.

  ‘We searched the area. We found nothing. The case was left open but it was generally believed that she’d decided to jack in her job and her life back home and had probably headed off towards Bali or somewhere similar on the backpackers’ trail.’

  ‘When was she last seen?’

  ‘At a party in a local’s house out at Repulse Bay. After a night of heavy drinking she decided she needed to get back to her hotel. She was staying in Causeway Bay. Apparently she couldn’t be persuaded to call a taxi from the house, said she needed to get some fresh air and promptly left.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘It was about six in the morning when she was last seen. She had to walk down a remote road to get to the bus route. No one ever remembered seeing her in Repulse Bay itself, and I think they would have if she had made it that far – she was wearing very little and it was early in the morning. At the time, it was our guess that if anything untoward had happened it must have happened on that walk – someone picked her up there.’

  ‘That means our killer has been around for two decades. He’s at least thirty-five, probably over forty.’

  ‘It also means he could have killed a lot of women in the last twenty years – we could be finding a lot more bodies.’

  ‘Count on it,’ said Mann.

  ‘What about the reports of missing foreign women, Ng?’ asked the Superintendent, going back to sit behind his desk. He spread the photos from the autopsy neatly across his desk.

  Ng shook his head at the enormity of the task. ‘Sir, Interpol have come up with hundreds of women who are unaccounted for and who fit the profile. Even tracing the people who reported the women missing is proving very difficult.’

  ‘And attacks on foreign women?’ White picked up the photo of Beverly and the mugshot of Maria.

  ‘Attacks do not usually involve local men. It’s nearly always between two foreigners. Just a drunken disturb ance,’ replied Ng.

  ‘Similarities between these women, Shrimp?’ asked the Superintendent, studying the photos in his hand.

  ‘Foreigners. Young women. He likes young foreigners.’

  ‘Likes, or maybe hates all foreigners, and he certainly doesn’t like women,’ said Mann. ‘He enjoys inflicting pain.’

  ‘Age, sex, ethnicity? Basic similarities? Marks on bodies? What have we got, Ng?’

  ‘Victim one.’ Ng read from his notes. ‘Beverly Mathews – no evidence of torture. Victim two – a bite mark on the thigh … rope fibres on the wrist. Victim three – many small burns and sexually mutilated.’

  ‘What about the way they have been killed and dissected?’ White asked Mann.

  ‘Probably asphyxiated. We’re not sure yet. All three were dismembered in the same manner, though – with precision, neat, surgeon style. The process is important to him. He takes his time over it. He enjoys it.’

  White scanned the report. ‘He leaves the bodies somewhere cold, the pathologist said?’

  ‘He leaves them for long enough for the lividity to settle, then moves them to somewhere else where he takes his trophies and dismembers them. Some of them he freezes,’ answered Mann. ‘Which is useful for us because some parts have been less affected by decomposition than others and some of the surface injuries are still visible.’

  ‘Like the bite mark that was made after death,’ said Ng.

  ‘That’s so weird! Why would he do that?’ asked Li.

  ‘Part of his fantasy. It’s a common trait with serial killers,’ said White. ‘And to return to the body several times before finally disposing of it.’

  ‘Ng, what did you get from Lucy, the S&M queen?’ asked Mann.

  Ng took out his report, flipped open the page, and shrugged dismissively.

  ‘She gave me a description of six women who had lived in her flat at various times over the last five years. They were all in their twenties. All white. One American, three Europeans, two Antipodeans. According to Lucy, one of the Europeans had a strong accent. She didn’t know where from. None of them had any distinguishing characteristics. Nothing that stuck in her mind, anyway. She seems to have known very little about them. They kept themselves to themselves, she said. She seemed to think that most of them were on their own – no families, no ties. None of them gave reasons for leaving. They just left. She didn’t consider that strange.’

  ‘Not much help the
n, was she?’ said Superintendent White.

  ‘She wasn’t trying.’ Mann took the report from Ng and looked at Lucy’s statement. ‘Leave her to me, Ng. Li – get me photos of those women. Find out all you can about them. I want a name for them all. They deserve that much – and Shrimp …’ he handed Li a photo from the autopsy on victim three, ‘that tattoo. What would you say it was?’

  ‘A fish?’

  ‘Possibly – but I’d say it’s more likely to be a mermaid. Find out all you can about it. I want to know where she got that tattoo, look into the ink used – it differs in different countries. And the design – see if you can trace the artist … And remember, Shrimp – these women could have been somebody’s girlfriend, wife. They could have been somebody’s mother if they had had the chance. Real names and faces – I want to see them. And – before you go – a name for this perpe t rator. It’s up to you.’

  Li didn’t hesitate. ‘The Butcher.’

  ‘The Butcher?’ The Superintendent looked questioningly at Li.

  ‘Yes, sir. You need to be a good surgeon to be able to bone and joint a piece of meat, or at least a good butcher – the pathologist said.’

  ‘The Butcher it is then.’

  Just then an officer opened the door with a message. A second bag of bodies had been found.

  32

  Mann and his team were the second squad car to arrive at the New World restaurant in the New Territories. Two young policemen had cordoned the site off as best they could and were in the process of trying to keep a group of people away from an object buried beneath builders’ rubble at the far end of the car park.

  As Mann’s car went to turn in, an open-backed meat lorry carrying pig carcasses blocked their path. The driver had slowed down to see what was happening, and was contemplating turning in to the restaurant car park but changed his mind when he saw the police car in front of him. Instead, he pulled out of the way and parked across the road, and stuck his large, gormless head out of the cab window to see what was going on.

  As his vehicle turned in, Mann looked into the back of the truck. Pig carcasses were thrown haphazardly into the back of the lorry, forming a mangled jigsaw of puffy white flesh.

  The police car headed for the far end of the car park, trying to avoid contaminating the area even further or covering the killer’s tracks. They swung round to park.

  ‘Anything?’ asked Ng, following Mann’s gaze and pointing towards the lorry.

  ‘Not sure. Take down the plate number for me, Li. Now, let’s get a move on – looks like chaos over there. Put these over your shoes.’

  Mann handed Li two plastic bags and rubber bands. Li looked at him.

  ‘So we know which prints are ours. Although, I seriously doubt anyone else is wearing winklepickers.

  ‘What the fuck are they doing?’ Mann pulled the bags over his shoes and marched off in the direction of the rear of the building, where an extension for a new dining room was being built. ‘They’re trampling over everything.’ He pointed towards a crowd gathered around a mound of smashed masonry, then shouted to the crowd to stand back. They chose not to hear and continued to form an ever-shuffling yet impenetrable ring around the source of a stomach-churning smell of putrefied meat, which grew more intense at every step. As they neared the police officers could see a black plastic bag partially hidden among one of the slabs of broken-up concrete paving.

  Mann shouted again. This time some of the crowd turned to watch the three policemen marching across the car park, but they didn’t all pull back. Some of them were transfixed to the spot, rooted in disgust and repulsion, with bulging eyes and hands clasped over mouths. Others ran back and forth like demented yoyos – not able to stay with the offending object and not able to leave it.

  No 3D High Definition could prepare the men for the reality of what they saw and what they smelt. This time Mann shouted to one of the young policemen, who, in his attempt at restoring order, was taking names of some of the people present, and making the mistake of turning his back on the rest.

  ‘Stand back!’ Mann shouted. He turned to Ng. ‘Fuck! The bag looks fit to burst.’

  ‘There must be a hole in it – look at the flies!’ said Ng.

  ‘We better get there quick and stop that crowd touching it before it’s too …’

  At that second, and fifteen metres out of Mann’s reach, one of the restaurant workers became ever more brave with a metal rod he’d found amid the rubble. He dug a little deeper into the stretched plastic than he intended. The black bag ripped from one end to the other and spewed up its rotting treasure in volcanic style. The restaurant worker screamed and jumped back several feet, where he stopped, frozen to the spot and staring wide-eyed as a wet curly-haired head, carried by a viscous stream of melted body fat and water, slid onto his foot.

  Mann moved forward to get a better look: wide-jawed, big-mouthed, perfectly even teeth …

  Shit! An American, that’s all we need!

  Meanwhile, the pig lorry pulled noisily away and started its ascent of Monkey Mountain.

  33

  Man Po forced his lorry into first, slammed his foot onto the accelerator, and laughed out loud as the lorry shuddered, belched diesel, nearly stalled, then lurched forward to begin its long and slow ascent, leaving the commotion at the restaurant behind.

  He liked making his meat deliveries on these fresh sunny days. Days when the forest buzzed and the birds sang. The cheeky monkeys ran alongside him, screeching from the sides of the road. He made faces at them, daring them to come within arm’s reach, but they didn’t. They were frightened of his deathly cargo. They screamed at the dead pigs in the back of the lorry, at the black throats gaping and trotters shuddering. They shrieked at the smell of death. But Man Po didn’t care. He laughed at the silly monkeys and stuck his large head further out the window at them. Dribbling from the corner of his mouth, he sucked the saliva back up spaghetti style before banging his hand on the side of the cab to scare the jittery creatures even more.

  He loved his job because it allowed him to drive his lorry all through the countryside, visit all sorts of places, and talk to lots of pretty girls. But, most of all, Man Po loved it because of the pigs. He loved scratching the coarse hair between their ears, patting their broad rumps and touching their wet snouts. He made special trips to the pig farms to take them treats. He liked to watch them fight over the tasty morsels he brought them. He liked to watch them being killed. They squealed and squealed as they were forced into a pen, then trussed, ready for slaughter, and hung while their throats were cut. Man Po liked to stand close enough to be hit by the spray as the blood spurted from the pigs’ throats. He delighted in watching the last twitchings of the dying animal, its muscles keeping on moving long after it was dead. But his favourite thing of all was cutting up the carcass.

  A look of panic came across his face as he remembered that he would have to look for a new job soon. He couldn’t bear to think about it. Sometimes it just popped into his head and he was forced to imagine it for a few minutes until he could chase the thought away. His brother said he mustn’t think about it. He mustn’t worry. It would all be all right. He would find something else. But he did worry. What would he be without the pigs?

  Curse the owner for selling up. What did he expect Man Po to do? If he wasn’t a delivery man, if he couldn’t truss up the carcass, carry it on his strong back; if he couldn’t carefully, so skilfully, cut it up? What was he to be? But then Man Po smiled to himself and laughed out loud. His brother was right – he didn’t need to worry, Man Po was much more than that. He was a very important person, and one day people might find out just how important he really was, and the things he had done. He chuckled to himself. If only they knew …

  He thought about the New World restaurant and reprimanded himself. He should have found out what it was about, all that commotion, all that fuss at the restaurant and that smell! He knew that smell all right. One of the fridges at work had packed up once, and no one had r
ealised until it was stinking the place out. But he couldn’t find out what the fuss was about. He had wanted to, but he hadn’t been able to; that car had been in his way and he couldn’t turn in. Otherwise he would have done so. The restaurant workers knew him – he often delivered there – they would tell him what was going on.

  Now he must make up a story ready for his return home. It would have to be a good one to entertain his old dad, Father Fong. He had time: he was in no hurry. Father Fong would be dozing in his chair right now, crouched over like a tortoise. He slept for hours every day waiting for his sons to come home. Then, when they did come back, Max would have to tell him of the streets he had travelled in his taxi – the fares who had sat in his cab – and Father Fong would imagine himself sat next to his son, driving along forgotten roads and half-remembered streets, transported back in time; back to the Hong Kong of his youth and the happy times when his first wife was alive. And Man Po would tell his father of the pigs: their funny habits, the slaughterhouse, the squealing, and about the people he met on his deliveries.

  Father Fong was greedy for his stories. He eagerly awaited each instalment. Has she got the sack yet, the new one who’s related to the chef? Or, Does anyone know who the father of the quiet one’s baby is? But it took Man Po so long to tell his account of other people’s lives that his father became so excited and impatient that he pecked at Man Po – and then and then and then … – until he forced the gossip out of Man Po’s mouth like regurgitated food from a gull.

  Max was still dozing when his brother came in that evening, making the most of his rest before his shift began. The two brothers shared a room. They slept in bunk beds in one of the bedrooms while their father slept alone in the other. But Max was so weary he felt nauseous and too tired to sleep properly. There was a brooding weight in the atmosphere, a heavy charge in the thick air. The summer was hanging on. Max wanted the ‘cool season’ more than most. The summer heat and the incessant rain drove him mad. The thunder and lightning made him agitated.