The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  “Where? Where?” said Claire.

  Phyllis nodded towards Anne. “Over there,” she said. “And he’s coming this way.” She took a deep breath and smiled.

  Anne turned to look at the object of Phyllis’s desire. It was Anthony Chung. He was wearing tennis whites and carrying two black Wilson racquets. On his wrist was a slim gold watch and around his neck was a thin gold chain. He looked fit, tanned, and wealthy, three attributes that Anne knew Phyllis found most attractive in men. He raised his racquets in salute to her and walked over to stand by Anne’s chair.

  “Anne,” he said, “so nice to see you again.”

  Her head was level with his stomach, which she noticed for the first time was flat and firm under the tennis shirt, a far cry from William’s pot belly. His thighs were muscular and he looked like he played tennis to win.

  She looked up at him and smiled. “Anthony,” she said. “I didn’t know you played tennis.”

  “It keeps me fit. And this is a beautiful club. It’s just a shame that men aren’t allowed to be full members here.” He transferred his racquets to his left hand and held out his right to her. She offered her hand instinctively, and before she knew what was happening he had held it and bent at the waist to kiss it, the merest brush of his lips against her flesh. She felt a small tremor of excitement ripple down her spine and she almost gasped in surprise, so unexpected was the feeling. He straightened up, still smiling. Anne felt herself blush, something that hadn’t happened since she was a teenager.

  “Well it is the Ladies’ Recreation Club,” said Phyllis, with the emphasis on Ladies. “Anne, you’re being terribly remiss in not introducing us.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Anne. “Phyllis Kelley, this is Anthony Chung.” Phyllis proffered her own hand to be kissed, and Anthony obliged, then Anne introduced Sally and Claire.

  “Do you play here often?” asked Anne. “I don’t think I’ve seen you at the LRC before.”

  “Several times a month,” he said. “I’m playing an American friend today. He’s over there by the bar waiting for me.”

  “Which court are you on?” asked Phyllis.

  Chung pointed to the playing area below. “The court on the right,” he said. “Will you be watching?”

  “Oh yes,” sighed Phyllis. “Definitely.” Anne kicked her under the table but it had no effect, Phyllis continued to make puppy dog eyes at Anthony.

  “Anyway, it’s been nice meeting you all,” Anthony said, making eye contact with them one at a time. His eyes lingered on Anne and she felt her spine tingle again. “I hope to see you again soon, Anne,” he said.

  She smiled back. “That would be nice,” she said. She recalled that he’d twice called her Anne whereas when he’d been at their house it had been “Mrs Fielding”. Had he been so formal for Debbie’s benefit or for William’s?

  Chung waved goodbye to them all and went over to his friend and they left the bar together.

  “Wow,” sighed Phyllis, fanning herself with a menu. “Hot, hot, hot.”

  “Oh, pull yourself together, Phyllis,” said Anne, crossly.

  “Now, now, not jealous are we?” said Phyllis. “I’m not intruding, am I?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Oh come on, you saw the way he looked at you,” said Phyllis. “And he kissed your hand.”

  “Phyllis, he’s French. He kisses everybody’s hand.”

  “French you say? That’s unusual,” said Claire. “How do you know him?”

  “He’s a friend of Debbie’s. He came to the house last week to pick her up. In a Ferrari of all things.”

  “A Ferrari?” said Phyllis. “It gets better.”

  “Is he a boyfriend?” asked Sally.

  “I’m not sure,” said Anne. “I’m not sure Debbie’s sure, either. He’s the first Chinese she’s been out with.”

  “I bet William’s not happy,” said Phyllis.

  “He hasn’t said anything,” said Anne. “At least it’s a step up from the policeman she was dating. So long as she doesn’t get serious about Anthony, I don’t think he’ll mind.”

  “And what about you, Anne?” asked Phyllis mischievously.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, surely you noticed the electricity between the two of you. Come on, admit it, aren’t you the least bit tempted?”

  “Tempted?”

  “To have an affair with him? To find out what it’s like?”

  “Oh Phyllis, don’t be ridiculous,” said Anne. She took a mouthful of her drink and found to her surprise that the glass was empty. “I have a wonderful husband. I wouldn’t dream of doing anything to hurt William.” While Anne would reveal her innermost thoughts to Sally, whom she trusted with her life, there was no way she would ever discuss her personal problems with a woman like Phyllis Kelley. Phyllis could no more keep a secret than she could keep her legs closed when she was with an attractive man. “I’ve never had an affair, and I don’t intend to,” said Anne.

  “Quite right,” said Sally, supportively. “You’ve got the perfect husband. Why risk it?”

  Anne looked at her friend gratefully.

  “Well, in that case, you won’t mind if I go for it, will you?” said Phyllis.

  “There are times when I’m not sure if you’re joking or not,” said Anne. Chung and his partner appeared on the court below and began hitting balls to each other over the net.

  “Oh, I’m quite serious,” said Phyllis, watching Chung practise his serves.

  Anne felt a flash of jealousy, as if Phyllis was indeed encroaching on her territory. She felt confused, not sure why she felt that way about her daughter’s boyfriend. She suppressed the feeling and smiled brightly. “Go for it,” she said, holding up her empty glass to attract the waiter’s attention. “Who’s for another drink?”

  Anthony Chung looked at his reflection in his bathroom mirror and smiled. The reflection smiled back. He nodded to himself, amused at the way he looked. He hadn’t washed and his hair was lank and greasy and pulled over his forehead like a fringe. He was wearing an oil-stained T-shirt which had once been white but which was now grubby and frayed at the neck. On the front was the insignia of the Caltex oil company. He had on faded black Levi jeans, a brown leather belt and an old pair of Reeboks. He looked like a triad thug.

  On his way out he went into the pristine white kitchen and took a hammer out of one of the drawers and an imitation leather briefcase with gilt metal corners from the table.

  On the way down in the elevator he swung the hammer from side to side, hoping that he wouldn’t bump into any of his neighbours. He took the elevator down to the car park and went over to where the Ferrari stood. The Porsche was parked behind it and he took the keys from the back pocket of his jeans as he went over to it. He opened the door on the passenger side and threw the briefcase on to the narrow back seat.

  The Porsche was a dark blue except for the nearside wing which he’d sprayed black the previous day. He examined the paint job, and once he was satisfied he screwed in the light fittings which he’d removed before spraying. When he’d finished it looked as if the Porsche had been fitted with a replacement wing. He took the hammer and began hitting the hood until there was a large, oval dent in the front, and then he scraped the claw of the hammer along the driver’s door several times until the paintwork was scratched and gouged. He walked to the back of the car and hit the rear bumper hard until it was dented and misshapen. He was sweating by the time he’d finished and the brand-new Porsche looked as if it were ten years old and had a particularly careless owner. Chung threw the hammer underneath the Ferrari and climbed into the driver’s seat of the Porsche. He put the key in the ignition and turned. It started the first time. Chung had expected nothing less. Despite its tatty appearance, the Porsche was in perfect working order.

  He put the car in gear and drove out on to the road. It was late evening and the street lights were on. He drove a hundred yards or so before another driver flashed him to remind hi
m to switch on his own lights. He cursed himself and flicked the switch that operated his headlights.

  The car purred along the road as he headed out to the New Territories. The Porsche had cost Chung more than 350,000 US dollars including the punitive import tax that Hong Kong levied on new cars. Unlike the Ferrari, he hadn’t been able to lease the Porsche, but he planned to repair it and sell within a few months. He would have no trouble finding a buyer in quality conscious Hong Kong. The Porsche was a twin-turbo Ruf TR, modified by the car wizard Alois Ruf from the common or garden Porsche 911. By the time the Ruf Automobile company had finished tinkering with the masterpiece of Teutonic engineering it had almost doubled in price and had a top speed of just over 196 mph. It could do the standing quarter of a mile in twelve seconds dead and could accelerate from nought to 100 mph in 8.4 seconds. Following Chung’s cosmetic changes the car looked like a second- or third-hand 911 Carrera which most enthusiasts would expect to have a top speed of about 160 mph. Chung was driving a car which could do 35 mph more than it was supposed to, and the Carrera’s acceleration was well below the Ruf’s blistering performance, too. The standard Carrera, Chung knew, took more than 14 seconds to reach 100 mph and would need the same amount of time to cover a quarter of a mile from a standing start. He was driving the ultimate dark horse.

  Michael Wong had told him that the racers would be meeting in a lay-by overlooking Plover Cove Reservoir, about ten miles from the border that separated the New Territories from China. He drove with a watchful eye on the speedometer through the Lion Rock Tunnel to the tower blocks of Shatin, and around Tolo Harbour to the reservoir. Chung had no wish to be pulled up by a traffic cop, though he knew the chances of coming across one were slim. Like most of the Royal Hong Kong Police Force, traffic was woefully understaffed.

  Wong had told him that up to a dozen racers would be taking part, each putting up a stake of 100,000 HK dollars, though he wasn’t able to name more than three of them.

  “No one will ever admit to taking part before they meet,” Wong had said. “Unless it’s a grudge match. It’s part of the psychology.”

  Chung had asked for details of the course, but Wong had just smiled. It seemed that everything about the race was kept under wraps except for the stake. It was understandable, thought Chung. The police would love to put some of the illegal road-racers behind bars. Eight had been killed in the previous twelve months and they were responsible for several multiple pile-ups on the treacherous roads of the New Territories.

  He saw the lay-by ahead and pulled in behind a line of cars. To the right of the lay-by, overlooking the large stretch of unruffled water, was a picnic and barbecue area where families thronged at weekends and on public holidays. There were small stone circles set into the ground where fires could safely be lit and clusters of roughly hewn benches and tables. There were no picnicking families on the benches as Chung climbed out of the Porsche with his plastic briefcase. Instead they were filled with young casually dressed men and their girlfriends. Most were chain-smoking and drinking Coke and Sprite and Chung could feel the tension in the air as he closed the car door. It seemed that every head turned to look at him as the door clunked shut. He looked down the line of cars in front of his Porsche. He could see a red Porsche 928GT up ahead, a car that was capable of 169 mph with its five-litre 32-valve V8 engine, and another red model, a Toyota MR2 Turbo which would be hard pushed to reach 150 mph and which would take about six seconds to reach 60 mph from a standing start. Chung had borrowed one once in Europe, and while it was a pleasure to drive its two-litre engine would be no match for either Porsche. He could see a BMW, which surprised him, because he couldn’t imagine anyone bringing a German sedan to a road race, but as he walked up to it he realised it was a BMW Alpina B10 Bi-Turbo, a real wolf in sheep’s clothing. Chung knew that the 535i-based car had dual Garrett T25 turbos and could almost break the 180 mph barrier. It was built to cruise the German autobahns at a speed which would match many light aircraft and still allow the driver to hear the near-perfect quality of the CD player. Also in the line-up were an Audi V8 Quattro, a Lotus Esprit Turbo, a Nissan 300ZX Turbo, and a Mazda MX-5 Miata which Chung could only imagine belonged to one of the girlfriends. The rest of the vehicles were too far away for him to identify.

  He turned away from the cars and looked around the picnic area. At first sight he’d presumed that there were only racers and hangers-on there, but over to the left was a small group of middle-aged men in sharp suits who he guessed were the organisers of the event. Chung walked over to them, swinging his briefcase and very conscious of the fact that all conversation had stopped.

  He put the briefcase on the picnic table in front of the four men. The one with his hand in his jacket was the youngest of the group, and Chung had the feeling that he was some sort of bodyguard; he had broad shoulders and a thick neck and his nose had been broken several times. He took a step towards Chung but before he could speak Chung clicked open the locks of the briefcase and opened it.

  “I want to race,” he said, holding the lid up so that the men could see the bundles of banknotes inside.

  “We do not know you,” said the man on the right. He was about fifty years old, portly and balding. He was sweating and after he spoke he took a large, red handkerchief from his top pocket and mopped his forehead.

  “My name is Anthony Chung and I want to race,” said Chung.

  “How do we know you are not chi-lo?” asked a tall, thin man whose suit was at least one size too small for him. His wrists protruded from the sleeves and there was a good inch of sock showing above his shoes.

  “Police?” said Chung, grinning. “If I were police, why would I race? If the police knew there was a race on tonight they’d just set up roadblocks and catch you all.”

  “We still do not know you,” said the thin man. The tendons were clearly visible in his neck and he had a hooked nose, like a bird.

  “But you know this,” said Chung, pushing the open briefcase towards them. “The stake you require is 100,000 dollars. I appreciate you do not know me, so I am prepared to put in 200,000 dollars.”

  The men looked at each other. The balding one nodded but the thin man seemed unconvinced. “We have not seen you before,” he said. “You say your name is Chung?”

  “Anthony Chung,” said Chung.

  “You have identification?” asked the thin man.

  Chung smiled. “Driving licence?” he asked. “This is like Hertz, right? If I were police, wouldn’t I have false ID prepared?”

  “Show me your ID card,” said the thin man.

  “That can be faked, too,” said Chung. “But I don’t have an ID card. I have European citizenship. I am not a Hong Kong resident.”

  The thin man smiled evilly. “Why would a man with an overseas passport want to race?” he asked. “They race to make enough money to leave Hong Kong. Nobody comes from overseas to race.”

  “I race for the excitement,” said Chung. “For the kick.”

  “Not for the money?” said the thin man.

  “For the kick and for the money,” agreed Chung.

  The balding man tucked his handkerchief back into the top pocket of his jacket. Sweat was already beading on his brow again. “Surely no chi-lo would come with a story as weak as his,” he said, nodding at Chung.

  “I agree,” said the thin man. The bodyguard visibly relaxed and his hand reappeared from within his jacket. The fourth man, a stocky middle-aged man with bad skin, also nodded.

  The balding man reached for the briefcase and pulled it towards him. He picked up one of the bundles of red notes and flicked through it. “Very well,” he said. “There are eleven cars taking part, including you. The total stakes amount to 1.2 million dollars, and the organisers retain 200,000 dollars. There will be one prize for the winning driver, and that will be one million dollars. There is no prize for second, none for third. The race will start at midnight at Sha Tau Kok. We leave here at ten minutes before twelve and meet at the outskirts of th
e town. The course is from Sha Tau Kok to Fanling, down to Tai Po, up through Shuen Wan, past here and up to Sha Tau Kok. The course is about thirty kilometres, and the race is three circuits. Once the race starts it will continue until there is a winner, no matter what happens. If you are involved in an accident you must take care of yourself. If you are stopped by the police you must deal with them yourself. We three are the organisers and our word is final. Do you understand the rules, Mr Chung?”

  “I do,” said Chung.

  The balding man looked at his watch. “In that case, you should prepare your car. We will be leaving here in fifteen minutes.”

  Several drivers had already gone over to their cars and were revving their engines, eager to get started. Chung walked along the line of parked cars, checking out the opposition. He realised that his first impression – that the race was between high-powered luxury cars – was mistaken. There were several Toyotas and a Saab, and some of the cars were far from being in top-notch condition. He noticed, too, that the drivers of the more expensive cars were accompanied by older men, and he decided that they were probably sponsors, whereas the drivers of the older cars were on their own. The drivers with sponsors were almost certainly driving the cars for a set fee, or a percentage of the winnings, but the guys with their own cars would be risking everything for a chance of a big win. He wondered where they had got their stakes from. As he passed by, drivers turned to look at him but no one spoke. He could understand why, they were all competitors and there was no prize for second place.

  Several of the drivers began sounding their horns and Chung decided he’d better go back to his car. A girl in a tight red dress and bright red lipstick smiled at him and he winked. He slid into the driver’s seat of the Porsche and started the engine. The first of the cars pulled out of the lay-by and headed for Sha Tau Kok and he followed them. They stuck religiously to the speed limit, indicated well before all turns, kept their distance from the car in front and in all respects were model drivers. As he drove, Chung reached into the glove compartment and took out a stick of gum. He unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth and chewed slowly. The gear change was slick and the engine ticked over nicely. He would have liked to have driven the Ferrari in the race but he knew that if he won in the F40 they’d give more credit to the car than to the driver.