The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  “We could always plant drugs in his car,” said Donaldson.

  Coleman looked at him with narrowed eyes. “You serious?”

  Donaldson wiggled his eyebrows. “I could get it done,” he said.

  “I bet you could,” said Coleman. “No, it wouldn’t work. McNeil would hear about it and he’d remember that I was asking questions about Chung.”

  Donaldson leaned over the table. “I was joking, you soft bastard,” he said.

  Coleman took a mouthful of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I knew that,” he said. “Thing is, I can’t get close to her any more, you know? Last month she said I could go to the races with her, to the last race of the season. The bank’s got its own private box and she said I could go. Now she says she’s changed her mind. Chung’s going with her, I know he is. Bastard. I hate the fucking Chinese bastard.”

  “Maybe he’ll get shot in the robbery,” said Donaldson, grinning.

  “What are you talking about?” said Coleman, intrigued.

  Donaldson bent over the table again, his sleeve scraping against the curry sauce on his plate. “It’s all hush-hush,” he whispered.

  Coleman also leaned over the table so that his head was close to Donaldson’s. “Phil, you can trust me. I’m a policeman.”

  Donaldson guffawed and punched Coleman on the shoulder. “Yeah, right,” he said. He kept his head over the table. “We’ve had a tip from one of our triad contacts that the racetrack is going to be hit tomorrow. An armed gang is going to bust into the betting halls.”

  “Is that connected with the fire?” Coleman asked.

  “Could be,” said Donaldson. “We don’t have any details. Just the tip that there’s going to be a heist. This sort of vague tip is par for the course. It’s probably from another triad that’s got wind of what’s going on and wants to spoil it. It happens.”

  Coleman frowned and took a long drag on his cigarette. He tried to blow a smoke ring up to the ceiling but it came out of his thick lips as a cloud. He coughed and looked at Donaldson. “They’re going to hit the track while the race is on?” he asked.

  “That’s the tip. We’ll be swamping the racecourse with plain-clothes cops and we’ll have marksmen in several of the boxes. We’ve also arranged to have our own people in the betting halls, working as tellers.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” said Coleman. “The way I remember, all the money goes straight from the tellers to an underground vault below the grandstand, right?” Donaldson nodded. “It stays there overnight and then it’s taken by armoured car to their underground vault in Kowloon Bay. Why would they hit the track? The money is all over the place during the meeting; it would make much more sense to attack the armoured car. Best place would be while it’s in the cross-harbour tunnel.”

  Donaldson smiled. “You’ve got a criminal mind, Neil my boy,” he said. “But we’ve got to follow the tip we’ve been given. And our source tells us that it’s the track they’re going to hit.”

  “And where are they going to go with the money? The roads’ll be jammed solid for miles around.”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe they’ll catch a tram to Shau Kei Wan. Don’t tell anyone, all right, or my balls’ll be in a vice.”

  “Of course I won’t,” said Coleman. “As you said, maybe Chung’ll get caught in the crossfire.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Donaldson. “You want another?”

  “Yeah,” said Coleman. “And some. By the way, can I borrow your car again tomorrow?”

  “Oh shit, Neil, why don’t you get your own?”

  “Can’t afford it, you know that. So is that a yes?”

  “It’s a yes, but only if you fill the tank this time.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Phil.” He stabbed his cigarette out in an ashtray, twisting it savagely as if grinding it into the eye of Anthony Chung.

  Archie Kwan arrived at the Shatin stables shortly before six o’clock. His ma-foos were already there, feeding and watering their charges. He had eighteen horses racing at the afternoon meeting and he had high hopes for ten of them. All the horses had been under constant scrutiny for the past forty-eight hours to check that they weren’t slipped any drugs and all the feed and water was checked by Jockey Club officials. He went over to the stall where Galloping Dragon was being prepared. The horse was not one which Kwan thought would win, but William Fielding had been adamant that he race. Face, thought Kwan. Sometimes it seemed that it was the gweilos who were more concerned about face than the Chinese.

  The ma-foo was checking Galloping Dragon’s legs, running his hands expertly over the muscles and tendons. “Too soon to race again,” he muttered.

  “He’ll do okay,” said Kwan.

  The old ma-foo shrugged, a gesture that said everything. He knew as well as Kwan that the horse was being raced for the wrong reasons. Kwan had already decided that next season he would tell William Fielding that he wouldn’t be able to train his horses at his stable. He’d come up with some excuse but the bottom line was that Kwan no longer wanted to train horses for British owners. He’d noticed that when British owners entered the winner’s enclosures with their horses more often than not they’d attract booing and catcalls from the crowd. There’d be cheers and applause, too, but there was bad feeling, a sense that if the British were pulling out they should leave now, the sooner the better. The fire at the grandstand had been the last straw so far as Kwan was concerned. The Chinese press was saying that the arson attack was a reflection of anti-British sentiment and that more such attacks were expected. Kwan had no wish for his own stables to become a target, so he would train only for Chinese owners in future. Besides, the Chinese generally owned better quality horses.

  He went outside to check that the horseboxes were ready. All the horses would be exercised and then driven across the harbour to the Happy Valley stables where they would be prepared for the races. Kwan would also meet his jockeys there. He was concerned about one of them, an Englishman called Reg Dykes who’d been in the colony for just two years and who was having problems maintaining his racing weight. He’d developed a taste for Asian women and Scotch whisky, and the combination had proved disastrous. Kwan hadn’t told him yet, but this would be Dykes’s last race. He didn’t want British owners and he didn’t want British jockeys. He wanted to have as little to do with the British as possible. He looked at his Cartier wristwatch. It would soon be time to go.

  Woo Bik-kuen lay on his back, his face covered in sweat. He’d barely slept all night. His wife slept curled up in a tight ball next to him, her knees up against her chest, snoring loudly. It wasn’t the sound of her snoring which kept Woo awake, nor the stifling heat of their cramped bedroom. Woo was worried, more worried than he’d ever been in his life. He’d obeyed the instructions of the softly spoken Grass Sandal, setting the time locks so that they’d open in two short hours instead of at eight thirty Monday morning. Woo had wanted to call in sick so that he didn’t have to be at his post, but he knew that to do so would be sure to attract attention to himself. His only hope of getting through this was to act as if it was just another Sunday. He rubbed his nose and turned on to his side, but there was no relief from the nagging doubts that plagued his mind. In the next room he heard one of his sons cough. If it wasn’t for his sons, and his wife, then maybe Woo would have risked going to the police, but he knew that the triads would have no compunction about killing them all, slowly and painfully, just to teach him a lesson. He looked over at the cheap plastic alarm clock on the side table. Only thirty minutes and he would have to get up. He rolled on to his back and rubbed his hands over his face. Maybe they wouldn’t come. Maybe they’d decide not to go through with the robbery. Maybe it had all been a bad dream. His wife grunted in her sleep and a thin dribble of saliva ran down her chin. No, it was no dream. Tears of frustration welled up in his eyes and he clenched his fists.

  Neil Coleman drove Donaldson’s car up the Peak, his right foot to the floor and its engine sc
reaming in protest. He had the mother and father of all hangovers, having stayed drinking with Donaldson until four o’clock in the morning. He hadn’t managed to crawl out of bed until just before eleven o’clock and he hadn’t bothered shaving or showering, he’d just thrown on a T-shirt and blue jeans and dashed to the car. He was determined to sit outside the Fieldings’ house until he saw whether or not Anthony Chung had indeed been invited to the races in his place. He parked close enough to the main gate so that he could see anyone driving in or out, and then settled back to wait. He switched on the police radio and tuned it to 449.625 MHz, the frequency used by the Happy Valley police station, so that he could keep track of what was happening over at the racecourse.

  Lehman padded out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. He knocked on the door to Lewis’s bedroom to tell him that he’d finished with the shower. Hearing no answer, he opened the door and went in. Lewis was kneeling naked on the floor, his back to the door, his head hunched forward. Lehman stepped to the side to see what Lewis was so engrossed in. He seemed to be holding a strip of silver foil under his chin, and heating some white powder in it with a cigarette lighter. He had his eyes fixed on the line of white powder in the foil and as the heat from the flame vaporised it he moved his nose along, inhaling deeply. Lewis suddenly became aware that Lehman was standing in the room and his eyes widened, but he continued to breathe in the white smoke.

  “Bart, what the hell’s going on?” asked Lehman.

  Lewis finished and squatted back on his heels, holding his breath for a full ten seconds before exhaling deeply. He stood up and put the lighter and used foil on his camp bed.

  “Bart? What’s all this about?” pressed Lehman. He closed the door.

  Lewis muttered something incoherent, and rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead.

  “What?”

  “Chasing the dragon,” repeated Lewis.

  “What the hell is chasing the dragon?” asked Lehman.

  “It eases the pain,” said Lewis.

  Lehman went over to the bed and picked up the blackened foil. He held it to his nose and sniffed it. “Heroin?” he said.

  “Opium,” said Lewis.

  “What’s the difference?” Lehman asked, and Lewis shrugged. He began to pull on his overalls. “Where did you get this crap from?”

  “Mr Tsao gave it to me,” said Lewis, “and it’s not crap, Dan. It’s a terrific painkiller. It’s the only thing that kills the pain, Dan, the only thing.”

  “It’s bad, huh?”

  Lewis held his arms out to the side. “Look at me, Dan. I’ve lost about twenty pounds over the past two weeks. I can’t keep any food down, but that doesn’t matter because I’ve no appetite anyway.” He put a hand over his stomach. “I can feel the cancer now. There’s a lump about the size of an orange in here, hard and smooth. It wasn’t there when I was in Vietnam, I’m certain.”

  “Shit, Bart, I’m sorry,” said Lehman, his voice unsteady.

  “So you can see that the dope isn’t going to do me any harm,” said Lewis, his eyes intense. “Don’t tell anyone, Dan.”

  “If Tyler finds out, he’ll hit the roof,” said Lehman.

  “If he finds out, he won’t let me go,” said Lewis. “And if he doesn’t let me go, I could lose the money.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Bart. You’ve done everything he asked of you. You’ll get your money.”

  Lewis screwed up his face as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Maybe, but I’m not so sure I trust him, not after what Chuck told us. I want to be in at the kill, and I want to follow it through. Dan, in ten hours all this will be over. I can last ten hours. I’ve been controlling the dose like Mr Tsao told me, just so it’s on the threshold of hurting. I’m not drowsy or anything.”

  “I know,” said Lehman. He would have noticed over the past few days if Lewis had appeared drugged, and while he had spotted the weight loss he hadn’t seen any signs that Lewis wasn’t fully competent.

  Lewis sat down on his bed and took a pen and small notebook from underneath it. He scribbled, the pen dwarfed by his big, square hands. “I’m giving you the name and phone number of my ex-wife; if anything goes wrong and I don’t make it, I want you to make sure my son gets my share.” He pulled the sheet out of the notebook and held it out to Lehman.

  “Come on, Bart, you’ll make it,” said Lehman. He reluctantly took the sheet of paper, careful not to get it wet. He was still dripping from the shower.

  “Yeah, but if I don’t I want you to get the money to my son and let him know it’s from his father. And the orphanage in Saigon, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “Give them some too. You decide how much, half maybe, see what they need. I just want to know that I didn’t die without doing something to make amends. Okay?”

  “I understand, Bart,” said Lehman, feeling uncomfortable about discussing his friend’s death.

  Lewis smiled. “Okay, thanks. Now get the hell out of my bedroom.”

  Lehman headed to the door.

  “Say, what did you want?” said Lewis. “Why did you come into my room in the first place?”

  “The shower,” said Lehman. “I was just telling you that I’d finished in the shower.”

  “Thanks,” grinned Lewis. “I did all that a couple of hours ago. I couldn’t sleep. The excitement, I guess. It’s been a long time since I’ve been this fired up.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  “It’s ironic, isn’t it? I’ve never been so close to death, and yet I’ve never felt so alive. I guess that’s one reason I want so badly to be in the Huey this afternoon. I miss the excitement, Dan. I really miss it. I didn’t know until I met Tyler how much I missed it.”

  Lehman nodded and fingered the piece of paper Lewis had given him. Lewis’s words echoed something he’d been feeling for some time. Tyler had welded the group of disparate personalities into a team which now functioned as a well-coordinated unit. But there was more, Lehman knew. They cared about each other, in the same way that bonds had been forged in the heat of war, bonds that at the time Lehman had thought would never be broken. Lehman wondered what it would be like when the job was over, when the vets had the money and all had to go their separate ways.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Lewis.

  Lehman shook his head. “Just thinking,” he said.

  “You looked furious.”

  Lehman grinned. “Yeah, everyone says that,” he said. “It’s my eyebrows. I was just thinking about what we’ll do when all this is over.”

  “You’ll go back to the States?”

  Lehman nodded. “Hopefully, if I can persuade some not very nice guys not to blow my head off. Anyway, I’m going to get dressed. I’ll see you out at the Huey.”

  “It’s going to work, Dan,” said Lewis. “It’s really going to work.” His eyes blazed with enthusiasm.

  Anne Fielding studied her reflection in the full-length mirror. The blue Ralph Lauren was perfect, but she couldn’t decide whether to wear simple pearls or the sapphire necklace that William had given her for Christmas five years earlier. She held up the pearls, then the necklace, then the pearls again. She settled for the pearls and put them on.

  They nestled comfortably around her neck and she stroked them as she looked at the dress in the mirror. The dress had a simple collar and was cut respectably low at the front, high enough as befitted the wife of a bank chairman, low enough to attract admiring glances. It was a delicate balance, but one she enjoyed experimenting with. She slipped her high heels on and checked her legs in the mirror. The dress ended slightly below her knees, and it swung as she moved. She ran her hands down her slim hips and smiled at herself in the mirror as she remembered her last meeting with Anthony Chung. He’d done things to her she’d only dreamed about before, taken her to a level of passion she hadn’t believed possible. And what struck her most was that the second time she’d gone to bed with him there had been no guilt afterwards, none at al
l. When he’d asked her to take off her wedding ring she’d resisted at first, but he’d been right. With the rings off her finger she had been truly naked with him, and she’d no longer been a wife or a mother, she’d been a lover, his lover, and there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for him. She had become more confident with him on the second occasion, and more willing to experiment. She didn’t know why Chung had such an effect on her, but she felt a desire to do things with him that she’d never dream of doing with William. It was partly because she felt safe with him, and partly because there was no feeling of embarrassment. With William she always had the feeling that he wasn’t quite sure what to do with her body, that he didn’t know how to give her pleasure and was too embarrassed to ask. Anthony inspired her. That was the word, inspired. With him there was nothing she wouldn’t try. He’d seemed more relaxed the second time, less rigid in the way he made love to her. He’d taken his time, too, stripping her slowly and kissing her all over until she’d been screaming for him to go inside her.

  She didn’t want to hurt William, but neither did she want to deprive herself of the pleasure Anthony offered. She’d earned it, she’d raised a child, she’d been a dutiful wife and mother, she’d given William the best years of her life, and she deserved this one transgression. Anthony had sworn that he’d never tell anyone, and she believed him. She wasn’t like Phyllis Kelley, she wasn’t about to embark on a string of affairs, she just wanted to experiment with the sexuality Anthony had shown her, to find out exactly what she was capable of as a woman. It wouldn’t last, she knew that, eventually he would move on, but it would leave her with memories that she could look back on in years to come, when Debbie had left and William was old and she was sitting in a rocking chair. It would give her something to remember, and she would always be grateful to Anthony. Always.