John Burdett - The Last Six Million Seconds

Sound of a short kiss.

“That’s better. We can be friends. I’m sorry I lost it. You’re right, I’m paranoid about what I did to my body for no good reason at all. I wasn’t even especially flat-chested.”

“Just wanted to be perfect?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Money doesn’t buy it. Or maybe it does, what do I know?”

“Why d’you keep saying that?”

“What?”

“ ‘What do I know?’ ”

“You know.”

“I know?”

“Yes, you know.”

“I know why you keep saying, ‘What do I know?’ ”

“Don’t you?”

Sound of laughter.

“Christ, I actually like you. How did this happen? A down-and-out cop with the world’s worst nicotine habit. You’ll probably be dead from lung cancer by next week.”

“Maybe you like short-term relationships. Look…”

“Look what?”

“You want me to go?”

“No. Stay. Just a few minutes. I want to tell you something.”

Cuthbert waited. The pause was so long he wondered if they’d found a way to overcome the problem, when Emily began to speak. She spoke in a precise voice, as if reciting from a briefing.

“In 1982, after Margaret Thatcher went to China and it was clear that there would have to be some deal between England and China about the future of Hong Kong, my father went to Beijing. He was part of a high-powered delegation that included some of the most successful businessmen and women in the territory. They wanted to see Deng Xiaoping, but he palmed them off on to one of his senior cadres. It doesn’t matter who they actually saw, but the point the delegation wanted to make was that Hong Kong was per capita by far and away the most successful city in the world, commercially speaking. They delicately suggested that some care was needed in the handover of power if international business confidence was to be maintained. The cadre they spoke to said-and this is important-‘I don’t know what you’re all so worried about. Look what a good job we did in Shanghai in 1949.’ ”

A pause. Then Chan’s voice: “Shanghai was a disaster after 1949. It went from the most prosperous port on the Pacific Rim to an overpopulated Third World dump that can hardly feed itself.”

“Exactly.”

“So why did you tell me all that?”

“It’s your reward, Chief Inspector. You thought by fucking me, you might get some clue to your murder mystery. I’m giving you a clue. You can go now. When you need another clue, you know where to come.”

A pause.

“This is all a game to you?”

“Isn’t that what they say about the rich, all we have to do all day is play games?”

There was a long pause.

“I’m going.”

Sound of a door opening and closing. Silence.

Cuthbert frowned. What the hell was she up to? He set the alarm to interrupt him again in thirty minutes, went back to the clarinet concerto.

In the middle of the allegro the alarm sounded. He pressed the button. Chan and Emily had spoken in a mixture of English and Cantonese. Now Emily was in Xian’s cabin speaking in Mandarin.

“Don’t be stupid, how was I supposed to prove it anyway?”

“Underwater? What kind of Western decadence is that?”

“It was fun. And you owe me a million U.S. dollars. Why be petty? What does a million matter to you? You gamble that every day on mah-jongg when you’re in Shanghai with your cronies.”

A pause. Cuthbert could imagine the old man scowling.

“Okay, you win, one million off the bill. It doesn’t make a lot of difference. At least I know he was in your cabin just now. He didn’t stay very long.”

“Long enough, though?”

A short pause. Then the general’s voice: “Oh, yes, long enough.”

“And when I’ve got him under control, what then?”

“Then we watch. They say he’s a very talented detective. But I can see he’s more than that. He’s a Chinese who doesn’t give up. Like me. Men like him and me-we cannot be defeated.”

Emily’s surprised voice: “You like him?”

“He reminds me of my youth.” A chuckle. “I was a Communist, you know.”

A long pause. The general’s voice again: “You seem upset.”

“It’s nothing.”

“You had a good time with the detective this morning? I hope you’re not having another depression attack.”

“Do I look as if I am?”

“I don’t know, you look upset.”

“What does it matter to you?”

“Not at all. Just don’t forget who you owe money to. And I don’t want to hear that you’ve been walking around your house at night telling stories to the walls. Walls have ears.”

“Apparently.” A long pause. Emily’s voice: “I’m going now. I need some sleep.”

A grunt, then the sound of a door opening and closing. Cuthbert took off his headphones.

Entering the mouth of the harbor, the boat came within the radius of the city’s thunder. To the six of them relaxing on the rear sun deck the vibrations of the metropolis were unavoidable. Like a nerve gas, it corroded all sense of comfort. Chan counted three loud sighs before giving vent to one himself. As the boat converged with other craft, he could see the same long faces on other decks. Migration back to land had begun.

At Queen’s Pier good-byes were hurried. He kissed Jenny on one cheek, shook Emily’s hand, waved good-bye to Cuthbert, Jonathan and Xian, disappeared down an escalator to the underground.

At Mongkok he started to walk toward his block, then changed his mind and went to the station. The traffic and operations corridors were buzzing as usual, but homicide was quiet with a skeleton staff. It was midafternoon, and most of the weekend murders happened after dark. He locked the door to his office behind him, emptied his bag out on the desk. There was a pair of wet swimming trunks, the book, his regulator with mouthpiece, mask and fins. He examined the inside of the bag, then pressed firmly over every inch. The mouthpiece was clean; the regulator did not block his breath when he blew through it; the fins were clean, as were his trunks. Someone had thoughtfully taped the cover of his book so that it would not open inside the bag. He broke the tape. The inside of the book had been carved out in a rectangle, a small package in polythene placed inside. He took out the package, opened it. Inside was a black and viscous substance the consistency of warm tar. He sniffed, took a sample on his finger to taste, then rewrapped the packet. From his desk drawer he took a roll of tape, cleaned the packet with a tissue, went to the small kitchen at the end of the floor, taped the packet under the sink at the back. He returned to his desk, carefully wiped the book with another tissue, replaced it in his bag.

At a bin two hundred yards from the station he dumped the book.

“Southeast Asia’s like the Bermuda Triangle: People just disappear without trace,” Aston said. He dumped a stack of faxes on Chan’s desk.

“What d’you want me to do with these?”

Chan sifted through, glancing only at the letterheads. San Francisco Police Department, Manila CID, Royal Thai Police Force. Most of them were extracts from missing persons files with reference to the disappearance of young Caucasian women. A small number referred to Chinese males who had also disappeared.

“File them,” Chan said.

“Those concerning the girl-we can forget them, right? Jekyll and Hyde, though, they could be in here somewhere.”

“You know the approximate ages; check it out,” Chan said.

“But there are no dental records for PI. What am I supposed to do if I find some likely candidates?”

Chan lit a cigarette, shrugged. “Positive identification is what they didn’t want. That’s why they shredded the bodies. You’ll have to get hold of relatives to see if they have dental records. Without fingerprints dental records are everything.”