The Trophy Taker
The shop was crammed with all manner of cures and herbs, dried skins and animal parts. It was all kept in perfect order. That was in the days that his wife was alive. It was she who had structured the day-to-day running of the surgery. Under her supervision, Max had helped his father, dispensing the medicine, weighing out the various herbs, bagging them up according to prescription. He had started to train in acupuncture and showed an aptitude for it. His mother spent a lot of time nurturing Max’s abilities. Those were happy days in the Fong household – before his mother died suddenly. She was shopping for groceries when she was hit on the head by a piece of falling construction material being used to build one of the new tower blocks. The shock was too great for Father Fong. His world was shattered, and only the chore of looking after his twelve-year-old son and treating his patients kept him from ending his own life. The business would have gone to pieces, if it hadn’t been for the employees who took over as best they could, keeping things ticking over. One of them, a young woman by the name of Nancy, who had been in their employ since the age of fifteen, and who Mrs Fong had not only trained but had been particularly fond of, came to the fore and did a good job of running the show. She proved herself to be more than just adept at running things – she set her sights on marrying management. It didn’t take her long to work out the best line of approach, and in her attempt to seduce Father Fong she stuck to him tighter than a pressed flower and made it very obvious she was easily plucked.
Father Fong had panicked into marrying her – anyone was better than no one, and the boy needed a mother. But, once married, Nancy quickly grew discontented and let the business fall into decline. Then, as luck would have it, just as Father Fong’s patience was stretched to breaking point, she fell pregnant and became so tired that she had to sit in the upstairs lounge all day, feeding the canary and eating buns. In jubilation at her pregnancy, Father Fong forgave her laziness and bought her a dog, a small white toy Pekinese. All you could hear all day long was the tap tap of the ping-pong ball and the yap yap of little ‘Lucky’, as Nancy played with her beloved dog.
That summer, when Nancy was pregnant and Father Fong too busy to see her cruelty, she poured pints of vindictive venom on her stepson, whom she hated with as much perverse energy as she loved the dog. Max was beaten and starved and locked in the store cupboard, which had no artificial light, just a tiny barred window. It had been summer and the storms had come, lightning illuminating the room for seconds at a time. The heat made his clothes stick to his body, so that he had to pull them off and sit naked, squashed up in the suffocating darkness, panting, breathless with fear and excitement, screaming as the lightning blinded him and the rain came lashing down.
That summer he became a man. He touched his body in the darkness and felt its yearnings and longings. He became a man, caged in that cupboard, howling at the storm.
One day, in the last stage of Nancy’s pregnancy, while she was resting, Max found himself alone with Lucky. The dog sat watching him from its place on the leather-look sofa. Its pink tongue protruded as it panted in the heat. It kept its bulbous eyes on the bedroom door, patiently waiting for its mistress to wake. Max looked at the dog and gave in to an overwhelming desire to kill it. Taking Lucky by the throat, he shook and squeezed the little dog until its eyes bulged from its head and its body stopped running in midair. As Lucky collapsed, limp in his hands, Max jammed the ping-pong ball – Lucky’s favourite toy – into the back of its throat to make it look as if the ball had been the cause of the animal’s demise. Then, trembling, he ran to his bunk to hide and waited for Nancy to awaken and find her beloved dog. When she did, she screamed so loud that Max felt a spurt of hot pee shoot down his leg. The neighbours heard her screams and came down from the floors above to investigate; and Father Fong came rushing up from the surgery below to find the reason for her anguish. It was Father Fong who, after examining the dog, discovered the ping-pong ball. Max’s trick had worked. He was safe.
Nancy produced a son that evening. Her pelvis was too small and the large baby had to be pulled from her like a calf. Consequently, the baby’s head was misshapen and his look somewhat strange. Nancy didn’t care for the ugly baby at all – she was still mourning for her dog.
She finally left the Fong household for good when Man Po was one year old.
After she left, the surgery dwindled until it became just an occasional knock on the shutter to ask for this and that. Then Father Fong would pull down the dusty jars and rummage through old boxes and tins until he put together a prescription, but his heart wasn’t in it any more.
Now, the shutter outside their house no longer opened and closed; it was firmly shut. They continued to live in the two-bedroom apartment on the first floor. Old Father Fong slept in one room, while the brothers slept in bunks in the other. But Father Fong was mainly housebound now. Arthritis had crept into his joints and settled in the marrow, drying them up like abandoned riverbeds. His physical world had narrowed to just a few rooms, and every year saw him shrink a little more. His old slippered feet wore a path on the floor tiles as he shuffled painfully back and forth from kitchen to bedroom to sitting room, only stopping to make kissing noises to the bright yellow canary that twisted its head this way and that as it watched the old man from the confines of its bamboo cage. He spent his days preparing food for his sons and waiting for them to come home.
Man Po was fourteen years younger than Max, which made him nearing forty-six, but he would always look like a baby. He had a round face and large eyes and the hair on his head looked as if it had been hand-stitched like a doll’s. He dribbled from the lazy corner of his mouth. The things he enjoyed in life were simple. He loved his work – driving his lorry. And he especially loved butchering the pigs.
16
Club Mercedes was Hong Kong’s newest and most exclusive nightclub – for the moment. It occupied the top floor of the most prestigious shopping mall in Hong Kong, situated in the heart of Central District on Peddar Street in the Polaris Centre – a landmark in privileged shopping. On its seven floors were the pick of top European designers, jewellers by royal appointment and Rolex suppliers. Club Mercedes sat on top of all of it on the ‘lucky’ eighth floor.
The club was officially owned by a consortium of top businessmen. It was really owned by the Wo Shing Shing triad society and provided a useful way to launder money.
Over three hundred hostesses of various nationalities worked within its golden walls. Plenty of Gwaipohs for a murderer to choose from, Mann thought.
Mann decided to pay Lucy a visit that evening, while, at the same time, checking up on how many foreign girls were working there. He made his way past Dolce and Gabbana and Yves St Laurent and reached the foot of the conical glass elevator that would take him up to the top floor.
A stunning Asian beauty in a cheongsam greeted him as he stepped inside.
‘Welcome to Club Mercedes,’ she said, bowing and pressing the ascent button in one perfectly choreographed move.
Just as the doors were closing a Chinese woman stepped in. She stood at a discreet distance from Mann and kept her eyes floor-bound – except for the odd flutter of lashes and tilting of the head to see if Mann was still looking at her – which he was. Mid to late twenties, he reckoned. She had that ‘been around the block look’: black leather trousers, black polo neck and a gold chain snaking her collarbone. He surmised rightly that she was a hostess going to work.
When the elevator slid to a silent halt and the cheongsamed lovely had completed her farewell bow, Mann and the woman both stepped out onto a red carpet. A pair of solid gold crouching dragons met them (strategically placed according to feng shui), as did two impressively built doormen. As they made their way up the narrow strip of carpet, a smiling woman in a red and gold cheongsam appeared. Mamasan Linda was a petite Chinese with an outwardly kindly nature but an inwardly frozen heart that could only be melted by money in her hand. She was a former hostess herself. When her appeal had begun to wane she was lucky enough to have made the right people happy over the years, and was rewarded for her services to mankind by being placed in a lucrative job.
‘Aye! Good girl, back so soon, huh?’ Mamasan Linda said to the woman from the lift. ‘Customers waiting! Go change, quick-quick!’ She ushered her past and into the club. Then she looked towards Mann, bowed and smiled respectfully. ‘Can I help you, Inspector?’
Mamasan Linda had not met Mann before, but she had seen him and knew all about him. Even though Hong Kong was one of the most densely populated places on earth, it was still just a big village at heart. Plus, there weren’t many six-foot-two Eurasian policemen around, and there definitely wasn’t another like Mann. His reputation for tough justice singled him out. He had earned the respect of cop and criminal alike because Mann feared nothing, and in Hong Kong society, no matter what side of the law you were on, that was attribute number one.
‘Good evening, Mamasan. I need to speak with the foreign hostesses you have working here. I won’t keep them long – just routine enquiries.’
Mamasan Linda listened with a fixed smile on her face, then nodded and beckoned Mann to follow her.
He had plenty of time to look around the half-empty club as they made their way through; Mamasan Linda wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry in that tight dress. It seemed funny, thought Mann, quaint even, all the money spent on the club: Italian lighting, rivers of red velvet, herds of black leather, yet there was still something else: the inevitable gold, red and chintz and those irrepressible ‘lucky fish’. No matter what the designer had originally planned for the club, in Hong Kong you could never get away from the slightly tacky look. He loved his birthplace for it – that wonderful mix of East and West that never let itself be corrupted by ordinary style.
Mann was shown into a VIP room at the back of the club. Most of the rooms in the club were themed, and this one was traditional Mandarin and housed an impressive collection of antique black lacquered furniture inlaid with abalone shell, silk-painted screens and ornately carved wooden seats.
Mamasan Linda left him in the care of Mamasan Rose, one of the newest mamasans at the club. She brought the foreign girls to him one at a time. Eleven were in so far that evening, out of twenty-five, she explained.
One of three sunny-faced, robust-looking Australians came in to be interviewed first. Her name was Angela. She and her two friends were working and living together, sharing a flat in Kowloon. They’d been in Hong Kong for two months and were working their way around Asia. They’d already done the lucrative Tokyo circuit, missed out Thailand (where holidaying Westerners weren’t interested in paying for white women and locals couldn’t afford them), and had made a detour around the Philippines where there were a lot of lonely wealthy Westerners but no hostess clubs to work out of. Finally they had stopped in Hong Kong en route to Singapore. From there they were headed home to resume their jobs as dental nurses.
Mann asked Angela if she’d had any friends go missing unexpectedly. What? Was he serious? she answered. People were always moving on. What did he expect? Had she heard anything about a problem client? She shrugged. Nothing she couldn’t handle.
Mann interviewed the rest quickly: the other two Australians, who were clones of the first, two Kiwis, three Brits, two Americans, and a tall Irish girl named Bernadette. They all said the same thing – they were used to people disappearing, it happened all the time. People came and went continuously. Hong Kong was a transient society. Girls came to work there from all over the world; they did their business and left. They brought with them a new alias, but their identity was always the same. Mann had seen it many times. They were game players looking for easy money – looking to turn their God-given assets into cold hard cash. But at the moment the game wasn’t going all their way. Someone else was having fun making his own private collection of foreign dolls.
17
‘Is Lucy working here tonight?’ Mann asked Mamasan Rose when he’d finished interviewing the foreign girls. Mamasan Rose smiled curiously at Mann, said she was, and left to fetch her.
As soon as she entered Mann recognised her as the woman from the lift with the leather trousers. Now she was wearing a lilac-coloured figure-hugging evening dress that she didn’t quite have the figure for, and an extra coating of lip-gloss. He waited while she sat and readied herself.
‘Hello again, Inspector.’ She smiled sweetly, a very practised smile, and adjusted her dress to show a flirtatious amount of leg.
Surprising, thought Mann. She was nothing special to look at; her sickly sweet smile was set into an over-rouged face. But then she didn’t have to be beautiful. According to James Dudley-Smythe she was extremely talented in other ways.
She giggled, batting her eyelashes and feigning shyness under his scrutiny.
‘Are you the only Lucy working here?’
‘Yes, just me, Inspector. There’s only one Lucy.’
‘Well, it must be you I want then.’
Lucy raised an inquisitive eyebrow and pursed her lips into a ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ smile.
‘I have heard that you provide certain services for men who like something special.’
Lucy’s face was a picture of surprise but her eyes betrayed her. Mann could see that she was as sharp and as calculating as they come – but most of all she was a survivor. She had seen right into the depths of men’s souls. It may not have been a pretty sight, but boy was it lucrative.
‘I mean that you cater to certain tastes. Men who like to feel pain, feel it and inflict it.’
Lucy held his gaze, kept the smile, and inclined her head in a small movement.
‘Tell me, Lucy, have you had any problems with a particular client? Anybody go too far? Anyone scare you? Hurt you more than you wanted or were paid for?’
Lucy kept the smile, lowered her eyes and shook her head slowly.
‘No, I don’t think so. It’s just fun – you know?’
She looked up from beneath her lashes with a hint of a proposition, as if maybe he did know and it was always worth her while testing the water.
Mann had the distinct impression she was imagining him with a whip in his hand and his pants around his ankles.
‘What about the foreign girls here? Are you friendly with them?’
‘Quite friendly. I rent some of them a room in my apartment, Inspector,’ she said, moving to sit slightly to one side; her best side.
‘Your apartment?’
‘Yes, I live with my sister in Wanchai. We have a spare room which we let to foreign girls from the club. They pay more.’
‘Any of the foreign girls talk to you about a bad experience they might have had?’
Lucy thought for a few seconds and then swung her head slowly from side to side while keeping her eyes pinned on Mann – still holding that sweet, simpering smile, which was beginning to grate on him.
‘Any of the foreign girls gone missing that you know of?’
She gave an exasperated shrug. ‘They’re always disappearing, just leaving all their things and moving on,’ she said. ‘An American girl, Roxanne, all her belongings are at my flat at the moment. Such a nuisance.’
‘Is it unusual for girls just to leave all their stuff and disappear?’
Lucy rolled her eyes. ‘She’s not the first. Guess it’s just the way they are … Gweilos, they come and go. Do whatever they like, whenever they like. It’s just the way they are.’
Mann let his eyes fasten hard on Lucy for a few seconds longer than she was comfortable with. He could tell she was curious about him. He had no problem with being mixed race, but others did. They didn’t know whether to speak to him in English or Cantonese.
Mann liked feeding their insecurities. He belonged wherever he wanted to belong. Everywhere and nowhere. If Lucy was seriously trying to flirt with him she was wasting her time and his.
‘Can you give me a description of Roxanne?’ He poised, pen in hand.
Lucy’s attitude changed. She knew she wasn’t going to get anywhere with him. She had to accept defeat, at least for now. She covered up her leg, and shifted uncomfortably in her seat as if she were going numb from sitting so long.
‘Curly blonde hair, bit fat, nice hands – liked to do her nails, manicures, you know?’ She twirled her bright red nails in the air as she spoke and glanced towards the door.
‘You say there have been other girls?’ He looked up from his notes.
‘Five or six maybe, over the years.’ She straightened her dress in preparation for the off.
‘You have no idea where they went?’
She shook her head.
‘I will need you to give me details about these girls, physical descriptions, that kind of thing.’
‘Of course, Inspector.’ Lucy nodded sweetly, batting her eyelashes, but her smile had changed. ‘Always happy to help the police. If that is all …’ She slid off the chair, bowed, and left.
After she had gone, Mann was left with the distinct impression that Lucy was as mercenary as they came – a good Hong Kong girl if ever he met one. But, he couldn’t blame her. In fact, he even kind of admired her. Hong Kong wasn’t the most caring mother to her daughters. It wasn’t so long ago that infant girls were left to die on the roadside. Now there was every type of brothel – floating, high-rise or underground – to keep a girl off the streets.
He’d done all he could. It was time to move on. He thanked the mamasans, said he would be back soon, and made his way out of the club, past the ‘lucky’ fish and the Taiwanese bouncers.
He was just about to step into the elevator when two men stepped out. One was a prominent elderly Chinese politician, Sun Yat-sen. Mann recognised him from some recent publicity shots. He was in Hong Kong promoting trade alliances – creaming off a few backhanders. The other man was the same age as Mann. He was shorter by six inches but made the most of his slight frame with expensive suits and well-tailored jackets. He carried himself with authority. His hair was very neatly cropped, smoothly side parted. His face was narrow, angular with a sallow complexion. His eyes were dark-rimmed and hooded and larger than his triangular face could cope with.
Chan and Mann eyeballed each other for several seconds before exchanging places in the lift. They had not always been enemies. They had been friends once, brothers almost. Mann had even saved Chan’s life when they were at school together in England on a school trip to the Lake District. Chan had wandered too far out in the water and a hidden shelf took him unawares. He couldn’t swim, and Mann had saved him. From that day on they had been best friends, shared their hopes and dreams and supported one another through the years of a sometimes-lonely exile at boarding school in England. In the last year of school the boys had come back to spend their summer vacation in Hong Kong, as usual. They had spent the evening together and parted company at Mann’s house. When Mann went inside he found his father held captive by triads and being tortured and beaten. Mann was seized, held, and made to watch his father’s execution. The boys had vowed to be united forever in vengeance against them. But only one of the boys had kept that vow. The other had joined forces with the enemy.
Mann stood rigid now. His tall, muscular frame tensed as his body willed him to take action against the man he hated. But Mann knew that hurting Chan would only give him momentary satisfaction. Okay, maybe it would last for an hour or two. But it wouldn’t destroy Chan in the long run, and Mann definitely wanted to do that. Because Chan hadn’t just joined forces with the enemy. He had become the enemy. Mann watched them walk away and saw Chan glance back.
Keep looking behind you, Chan, because I’m going to be there.
18
After her interview with Mann, Lucy went back to the Dressing Room to wait for her number to be called. The ‘home from home’ for the girls was a large rectangular space about fifty-five metres long and twenty wide. It was sparsely furnished with lockers and chairs down its left-hand side and starlet-style mirrors arranged in rows down its right. In front of the mirrors were broad shelves used for eating, doing make-up, sleeping. There were stools and chairs scattered around, but never enough.
There were girls everywhere, descended flock-like to roost, at least two hundred at any one time, dressing or undressing. Their glamorous frocks were semi-draped over smooth shiny skin or poured intestine-like from lockers where they had fallen from hangers or been hastily discarded.
The noise of excited girls greeting one another, of locker doors bouncing off their hinges, was deafening, but the camaraderie was touching. Lucy threaded her way through.
‘Hey, Lucy, what’s up?’ The distinctive American tones of Candy could be heard above the racket. ‘You late?’
‘Nah … been out already …’ Lucy sassed over her shoulder as she made her way through.
Candy feigned amazement. ‘Jesus, Lucy! You’re gonna be rich!’
Lucy giggled, then screeched as she heard her number called over the tannoy:
‘NUMBER 169, MISS LUCY … NUMBER 169, MISS LUCY …’
She doubled back and squirmed through the waiting girls to meet her mamasan on the other side of the velvet curtain.
‘You must be good girl now, Lucy.’ Mamasan Linda held on to Lucy’s hand and trotted ahead like a mother escorting a naughty child to receive judgement from a waiting father.
They wound their way through half-full tables, past the Filipino band singing the Police song ‘Don’t stand so close to me’ quite earnestly, considering that a consignment of blow had arrived that day from Manila, past a man from Taipei who was on the dance floor clinging pathetically to the pencil-thin, Lycra-slippery hips of his young date while the changing light patterns on the dance floor stole his drunken feet from beneath him. And past Bernadette, who was leaping from foot to foot in a frenzy of chiffon. Her hair sat rigid on her head like deep-fried roadkill, while the rest of her body hopped madly around the dance floor. Lucy remembered going out on a double date with Bernadette. What a nightmare! She recalled Bernadette straddling a diminutive Taiwanese, his face exploding like a bullfrog on heat at every squeeze of those massive white thighs. Lucy had had to drag her off at the end of the evening with her screaming, But I haven’t feckin’ come yet!
Mamasan Linda stopped in her tracks and turned back to talk to Lucy. She lowered her voice.
‘He’s a good customer. He’s come back many times and asked for you. Look after him, okay? Be a clever girl, huh? Big VIP. He owns all this.’ She swept her hands in the air theatrically.
Lucy gave her a ‘teach grandma to suck eggs’ look and fell into a trot behind her again, following the red and gold cheongsam swishing hypnotically from side to side. They approached a booth that was situated to the back of the club, in the VIP section, overlooking the semicircular dance floor.
‘Here she is.’ Mamasan Linda let go of Lucy’s hand and pushed her forward. ‘Here is Lucy.’
Lucy smiled and slipped in behind the round table until her thigh made contact with her client’s. She studied him but her eyes were still adjusting to the gloom and it took time to recognise him as the man who had bought her out a couple of weeks before and a few times before that. It took time to place body with face – to transcend the gap between leaving the club and leaving the Love Motel. Then she placed him and a surge of adrenalin went through her as she remembered his peculiar tastes that had taken some time to heal.