“What’s the first step, Bart?” asked Tyler.
Lewis gestured at the overhead pulleys. “We rig up a system for pulling the turbine and the gearboxes out. Then I plan to strip her completely. Everything comes out and we’ll lay it down on the floor over there. I want to go over all the electrics and strip the hydraulics down. We can get to work on that while we’re waiting for the new turbine to arrive.”
“Let’s get to it,” said Tyler.
Neil Coleman popped a couple of painkillers into his mouth and washed them down with his coffee. A uniformed constable opened the office door without knocking and dumped a stack of files into his in-tray before leaving without saying a word. Coleman groaned and picked the files out one by one. A blue Mercedes. A green Mercedes. A white Toyota. Another blue Mercedes. Another green Mercedes. A red Nissan. A black Mercedes. Coleman scratched his nose. What the hell was it with Mercedes Benzes, he thought to himself. They were usually a popular choice with the car smugglers, but the rate of Mercedes car thefts was getting ridiculous. In the past month at least fifteen had gone missing, which was well above average for the time of the year. Almost double, in fact. In the past the increase in car thefts had coincided with booms in the Chinese economy: when the cadres and mainland businessmen had money to burn they usually put in orders for cars with the Hong Kong triads, but he’d seen nothing to suggest that the country’s economic woes were anywhere near being solved. And something else was worrying Coleman – the thefts of other car makes were pretty static, it was just Mercedes thefts which were on the increase.
He decided to go over to the Central police station for a chat with CID there and ask them if they had any thoughts about the spate of car thefts. Most of the Mercs had been taken from their patch. He caught the Mass Transit Railway to Central. During peak periods the MTR could be hell on earth. He hated being packed shoulder to shoulder with office workers: nobody smiled, nobody apologised for physical contact, nobody stepped aside to allow passengers on or off. It was every man for himself and all he could see were unsmiling, inscrutable faces. He hated it and always planned his journeys so that he avoided rush hour. During early afternoon the MTR was a totally different experience, fast, efficient and clean with no more than a couple of minutes between trains and a ticketing system that put the London Underground to shame. The only thing that spoiled the Hong Kong system was the people, thought Coleman, not for the first time, as he left Central MTR station and stepped into the burning hot sunshine.
He took off his lightweight jacket and slung it over his shoulder but he was still sweating after a few steps and he decided to cool off in the Landmark Centre. He sat down by the fountain and looked around the multi-level shopping mall, home to some of the most prestigious names in the world: Chanel, Rolex, Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Bally, Nina Ricci – a roll-call of the shopping favourites of the rich and famous. The Landmark was busy, as always. As far as Coleman could tell, the average Hong Konger had only two interests: making money and spending it. If they weren’t at work they were walking around the city’s shopping areas, even if they weren’t actually planning to make a purchase. In Hong Kong, window-shopping had been elevated to an art form. Coleman sat by a bubbling fountain while he got his breath back. He looked up at the second and third levels of shops and boutiques. The shoppers were a mixture of sunburnt tourists in shorts and cheap dresses and rich Hong Kong wives, expatriate and Chinese. Long escalators ferried people up to the different levels. A young Chinese girl with waist-length hair caught his attention. She was on the down escalator and as Coleman looked she swished her hair like a horse shaking its mane. She was wearing a leather miniskirt and a white silk jacket and her legs seemed to go on for ever. Coleman smiled as he saw the number of men who turned to watch her go by on the escalator. Several were rapped on the shoulder by their wives.
Suddenly Coleman jerked out of his reverie. On the up escalator was Anne Fielding, Debbie’s mother, in a red jacket and dress, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders. As always she looked perfectly groomed. She looked exactly what she was, thought Coleman a little enviously, a rich man’s wife. She was attracting almost as many turned heads as the young Chinese girl. He stood up and craned his neck to see if she stopped at the second floor or if she was going higher. If he could “accidentally” bump into her then he could start a conversation – not about her husband’s still-missing car he reminded himself – and find out how Debbie was. Maybe even ask her to pass on a message to her.
He ran his fingers through his hair and headed towards the escalator, but stopped abruptly when he saw someone else he recognised. A Chinese man in a flash suit. Anthony Chung. Coleman held back and watched Chung go up the escalator, after Anne Fielding.
“Anne, this is a surprise,” said a voice.
Anne Fielding turned to see Anthony Chung standing by the shop window, an easy smile on his face. He reached up and brushed an unruly lock of hair from his forehead. “Why, Anthony, yes, this is a surprise,” she said. “And I notice that it’s ‘Anne’ today and not ‘Mrs Fielding’. I suppose that’s because Debbie’s not here.”
“Isn’t she?” said Chung.
Anne felt that she was being toyed with, and she was more than a little suspicious about their supposedly chance meeting. Debbie had already told him at the dinner party that she could be found most afternoons shopping in the Landmark Centre. Debbie had meant it as a joke but there was an element of truth to it. Anne enjoyed the act of spending money, especially her husband’s money. If she couldn’t have his affection, at least she could have his credit cards, and the Landmark was without doubt the best place to shop. If she was one hundred per cent honest with herself, Anne would have had to admit that she’d half expected to bump into Anthony Chung on one of her shopping expeditions. It was nothing he’d said, but a look had passed between them when Debbie had made the joke about the Landmark, a look that suggested that the information had been stored away for future use.
“You look lovely today,” said Chung, looking her up and down. From a less chivalrous male Anne would have taken offence at the way she was being appraised, but she knew that Chung was observing the dress as much as he was her figure.
“Thank you,” she said. “I feel as if I should ask you if you come here often.”
Chung laughed and nodded. “I must confess to having charge accounts at several of these boutiques.”
“Me too,” she said. “Are you looking for anything in particular?” In her head she seemed to hear him say “Just you” but his lips didn’t move and she knew that he was considering her question.
He shrugged. “To be honest, I buy most of my clothes in Paris. I find the service better there.”
“Oh God, yes, save me from Hong Kong shop assistants,” said Anne. “They stand next to you, say nothing, and follow you around the store like they suspect you of shoplifting. And they’re usually so beautiful and so slender. They make me feel positively defensive about my figure.”
“Anne, I think you’re fishing for compliments,” said Chung. “You know perfectly well you have a superb figure.”
“For a mother,” said Anne, ruefully.
“For any woman,” said Chung. “But I’m not going to let you draw me into this. How about we go for a drink and I’ll tell you about Paris.”
Anne blinked. It was the first time in a long while that somebody had suggested to her that she have a drink. Normally she was the one to suggest it, and it produced either a not-so-subtle look at the watch or a raised eyebrow. It was so refreshing to have someone else take the initiative.
“That would be lovely,” said Anne.
“Gin and tonic?” said Chung. “With ice and lemon?”
“My favourite,” said Anne.
“I knew that,” said Chung. “Shall we go?”
Coleman followed Chung and Anne Fielding down the escalator and out into the busy street. They were talking and laughing as they walked and Coleman knew that there was little chance of them noticing hi
m, they were too engrossed in each other. He wondered what they were talking about and envied Chung for the easy way in which he seemed to be dealing with Debbie’s mother. He’d only been introduced to her once and he’d been tongue-tied. She made him feel that he wasn’t worthy of her daughter, even though she was charming and polite. It was just a feeling. Coleman felt anger flare inside him as he wondered how close Chung was to the Fielding family. The way he was deep in conversation with Debbie’s mother suggested that this wasn’t the first time they’d met. It wasn’t fair, thought Coleman; he’d be just as confident with her if she had time to get used to him.
They walked along Des Voeux Road and into the Mandarin Hotel. Coleman dashed along the road and got to the lobby just in time to see them walking into the Captain’s Bar. Coleman bought a copy of the South China Morning Post and found himself a seat in the far corner of the lobby where he could see the entrance to the bar. He opened the paper and looked over the top of it.
Anne put her empty glass on the table and it was replaced by a full one almost immediately, the bubbles of the tonic sticking to the cocktail stick. She stirred her drink, poked at the slice of fresh lime, and licked the stick. She was aware that Chung was watching her and she slipped the stick out of her mouth and on to the table.
“Sorry,” she said, feeling like a little girl being caught doing something wrong by her father.
“No need to be sorry,” said Chung. “A gin and tonic is a very sensual drink. It deserves to be enjoyed.”
“Oh, I love it,” sighed Anne. “I love the taste of the gin, the coldness of the ice cubes, the bite of the lime. I love the way the tonic bubbles against the inside of my mouth as I swallow. You’re right, it’s a sensual pleasure. Not many people know that.”
Chung was sipping at a whisky and ice. She thought of what William would say if he saw ice in Scotland’s finest export, and smiled.
“What are you thinking?” asked Chung quickly.
She gestured at his drink. “Ice and whisky. William would hate that.”
“William’s not here,” said Chung. She looked up at him sharply and his eyes looked deep into hers.
“No,” said Anne thoughtfully. “No, he isn’t.” She wondered what the time was but didn’t want to look at her watch in case Chung thought she was dropping a hint. She was enjoying his company, and relished the fact that she was with someone who was totally uncritical of her drinking. William always sighed when she ordered a second or third drink, and even Debbie had started to pull a face. Chung was a real gentleman; as soon as she finished one drink he would order her another without her even asking. How many had she had? She tried to remember. Three or four. There were three cocktail sticks on the table next to her glass but she knew the waiter had removed some earlier.
The waiter put a bowl of roasted peanuts on the table and Chung pushed it towards her, but she shook her head. “No, no thank you,” she said, “they spoil the taste of the gin.”
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“I am, but not for peanuts,” she said.
“Can I offer you lunch?” he said.
She put her head on one side and looked at him. “You’re offering to buy me lunch?” she said.
“No,” he said. “I’m offering to cook for you. It’ll be the best Chinese meal you’ve ever had.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” said Anne. She sipped at her drink but found that there was only ice left in the glass. A waiter unobtrusively took it away and replaced it with a fresh one. Was that five or six? She couldn’t remember. She felt totally relaxed, all the more so for the pleasant time she was having with Chung. Debbie’s boyfriend, she reminded herself harshly.
“It’d be my pleasure,” said Chung. “And I would like very much to show you my home. Think about it. We’ll have a couple more drinks and then you can let me know what you’ve decided.”
Coleman checked his watch. It was three o’clock and if Chung and Debbie’s mother didn’t appear soon he’d have to give up. He couldn’t stay out of the office all day, not with Hui around. Coleman was becoming more and more convinced that Hui was an informer for the Commissioner rather than the mainland.
As he looked over the top of the sports section of the paper he saw Anne Fielding appear, closely followed by Chung. Anne appeared to lose her balance and Chung reached over to steady her arm. She smiled at him and Coleman had the feeling she’d drunk a little too much. Her cheeks were slightly red, though that could have been light reflecting off her red jacket and dress. Chung said something to her and Coleman could hear her laugh clear across the lobby.
They left through the main entrance of the hotel at the opposite side of the building from where they’d entered. Coleman thought that they might join the taxi queue so he looked cautiously through the glass doors before he left. Three men in dark suits and an old woman in a too-tight green dress were the only people waiting for a cab. A doorman in a red coat resplendent with gold braid was standing at the roadside trying in vain to hail taxis for them. Coleman looked right and left and saw Anne and Chung on the pavement, walking slowly. He followed and saw them walk into a multi-storey car park.
He looked at his watch again. More than anything he wanted to know where they were going. He had a feeling of dark dread in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t sure what they were up to, but he had a bad feeling about it. Policeman’s intuition, he thought. A prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck. He loitered outside the car park until he saw the Ferrari growling slowly down the spiral driveway towards the exit. He started frantically to look for a cab and sighed audibly as he saw one cruising up with its “For Hire” light on. He flagged it down and slid gratefully into its air-conditioning. His cheeks and forehead were beaded with sweat and he could feel damp patches under his arms.
“See that car, the red one?” Coleman asked the driver, who nodded. “I want you to follow it, but not too close, okay?”
“Where they go?” asked the driver.
“I don’t know,” said Coleman. “If I knew, I wouldn’t have to follow them, would I?”
“Me not know,” said the driver, shaking his head. “Not care. Maybe they go Kowloon. Me Hong Kong taxi. Me not go Kowloon.”
Hong Kong taxi drivers were supposed to go anywhere in the colony if asked, but most preferred to stick either to the island or to Kowloon, not because they’d get lost but because they didn’t like driving through the cross-harbour tunnels. Traffic always moved slowly and a slow taxi meant a smaller fare. Coleman thought about showing the man his warrant card but instead he promised him an extra twenty dollars and that he’d use the cab to come back to the island later on in the afternoon. The driver seemed satisfied by that and they lurched into the traffic, about a dozen cars behind the Ferrari.
“How long have you lived here?” Anne asked as Chung drove through the wrought-iron gates to the building’s car park. He climbed out of the driver’s seat and walked quickly around the back of the car to open the door for her. He reached down and took her hand. She squeezed it as she pulled herself up.
“It’s hard to get out and still look like a lady,” said Anne. Her head felt woozy and she steadied herself by resting her left hand on the roof of the car. She shook her head but that made her feel worse and she almost dropped her handbag. She felt Chung’s arm around her waist and they walked together to the lobby. On the drive over from Hong Kong island he’d asked her about her taste in food and told her what he intended to prepare for her, though Anne had said she’d be quite happy with another gin and tonic and a look around his apartment. She’d stopped feeling hungry and besides, she knew she’d only end up paying in the gym for the extra calories.
The doorman was talking to a mailman and he nodded a greeting to Chung as he went by. The lobby looked expensive, thought Anne, but there was too much marble for her taste. It was a little ostentatious, and the wooden elevator doors seemed out of place. The elevator arrived and she stepped inside with Chung. She saw Chung press the penthouse butt
on.
“The penthouse?” she said.
“I hope you like it,” said Chung. She could smell his aftershave, a sweet, masculine fragrance that she vaguely recognised. Anne smiled when the elevator doors opened to reveal another, albeit smaller, marbled lobby. Definitely too much marble, she decided.
She looked at her watch and for a moment had trouble focusing. “I think I’ve had a little too much to drink,” she said.
“Nonsense,” soothed Chung, opening the two high-security locks. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said, pushing the door open.
“Welcome to my parlour,” Anne said, under her breath. She knew that she was asking for trouble by going to Chung’s flat, and knew that it was wrong to lead him on, but she wanted to know more about the man. She wanted to see him on his home turf so that she could find out what made him tick.
“I beg your pardon?” said Chung.
“Nothing,” she said brightly, and walked past him, conscious that he was looking at her legs as she went by. She swung her hips just a little, excited by the fact that he was watching her. Did he ever compare her with Debbie? she wondered. Who did he prefer? Debbie was younger, and slimmer, and her skin was better, but she knew that she was the more voluptuous. And she had the legs.
She looked over her shoulder as she got to the middle of the room and felt a sudden rush of disappointment when she saw that Chung had his back to her and was closing the door.
“Anthony, this is lovely,” she said. She went over to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked down on green trees and bushes around a small pool. “This room really catches the sun, doesn’t it?” She turned to look at him.
“It has a good feeling,” he agreed. “I’m not so sure about the decor.”
“You don’t own it?” she asked.
“No, it’s leased. I reckon now is not a good time to own property in Hong Kong.” He shrugged. “You know the way it’s going, Anne. Nobody trusts the Chinese, and the property market is always the first to suffer.”
The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 38