Anthony Horowitz - Necropolis

Scarlett went over to her.

“Good morning, Scarlett,” the woman said. “Welcome to Hong Kong. I hope you had a good flight.”

“Who are you?” Scarlett asked. She wasn’t in any mood to be polite.

The woman didn’t take offence. “My name is Mrs Cheng,” she said. “But you can call me Audrey. This is Karl.” The man in the suit lowered his head briefly. “Shall we go to the car?”

“Where’s my dad?” Scarlett asked.

“I’m afraid he couldn’t come.”

“Where is he?”

“I will explain in the car.”

The escort – Justin – had listened to all this with growing concern. It was his job to hand Scarlett over to the right person and that clearly didn’t seem to be the case. “Excuse me a minute,” he interrupted. He turned to Scarlett. “Do you know these people?”

“No,” Scarlett said.

“Well, I’m not sure you should go with them.” He turned back to the woman. “Forgive me, Mrs Cheng,” he went on. “I was told I was delivering this girl to her father. And I’m not sure…”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Mrs Cheng interrupted. “You can see quite clearly that we were waiting for her. We are both employed by the Nightrise Corporation and were sent here by her father.”

“I’m sorry. She doesn’t know you and right now I’m responsible for her. I think you’d better come over to the desk and talk to my supervisor.”

Scarlett was beginning to feel embarrassed with two adults quarrelling over her, especially in the middle of such a public place. But Justin and Mrs Cheng had reached an impasse. The Chinese woman was breathing heavily and two dark spots had appeared in her cheeks. She was struggling to keep her temper. Suddenly she snapped out a command, her voice so low that it could barely be heard. The chauffeur, Karl, lumbered forward.

“Now hold on a minute…” Justin began.

It looked as if Karl was going to punch him. But instead he simply reached out and laid a hand on Justin’s shoulder, his long, black fingers curving around the escort’s neck. There was no violence at all. Then he leant down so that his eyes were level with the other man.

And Justin caved in.

“You’re making a fuss about nothing,” Mrs Cheng said.

“Yes…” He could barely get the word out.

“Why don’t you phone the Nightrise offices when they open? They’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

“There’s no need. Of course the girl can go with you.”

“Let him go, Karl.”

Karl released him. Justin swayed on his feet, then abruptly walked away. It was as if he had forgotten about Scarlett. He wanted nothing more to do with her.

“Let’s be on our way, Scarlett. We’ve wasted enough time here.”

Scarlett picked up her case and followed Karl and Mrs Cheng down an escalator. A sliding door led to a private road with a number of smart executive saloons and limousines waiting for their pick-ups. Karl took the case and hoisted it into the boot. Meanwhile, Mrs Cheng had opened the door, ushering Scarlett into the back.

“Where are we going?” Scarlett asked.

“We will take you to your father’s apartment.”

“Is he there?”

“No.” Audrey Cheng spoke English like many Chinese people, cutting the words short as if she were attacking them with a pair of scissors. “Your father had to go away on business.”

“But that’s not possible. He just got me out of school. He made me come all this way.”

“He has written a note for you. It will explain.”

They had left the airport. Karl drove them across a bridge that looked brand new with steel cables sweeping down like tendrils in a web. The airport had been built on an island, one of several that surrounded Hong Kong. Everything here was cut into by the sea.

They reached the outskirts of the city and Scarlett saw the first tower blocks, five of them in a row. They warned her just how different this world was going to be, how alien to everything she knew. All five tower blocks were exactly the same. They had almost no character. And they were huge. Each one of them must have had a thousand windows, stacked up forty or fifty floors in straight lines, one on top of another. From the road, the windows looked the size of postage stamps and anyone looking out of them would have been no bigger than the Queen’s head in the corner. It was impossible to say how many people lived there or what it would be like, coming home at night to your identical flat in your identical tower, identified only by a number on the door. This was a city that was far bigger than the people who lived in it. Hong Kong would treat its inhabitants in the same way that an ant hill looks after its ants.

The motorway had turned into an ugly, concrete flyover that twisted through more office and apartment blocks. It was only seven o’clock in the morning but already the traffic was building up. Soon it would start to jam. Looking down, Scarlett saw what looked suspiciously like a London bus, trundling along with far too many passengers crammed on board. But it was painted the wrong colours, with Chinese symbols covering one side. Hong Kong had once belonged to the British, of course. It had been handed back at the end of the Nineties and although it was now owned by China, it more or less looked after itself.

They passed a market where the stalls were still being set up and made their way down a narrow street with dozens of advertisements, all in Chinese, hanging overhead. Finally, they turned into a driveway that curved up to a set of glass doors in a smaller tower block. Scarlett saw a sign: WISDOM COURT. The car stopped. They had arrived.

Wisdom Court stood to the east of the city in what had to be an expensive area, as it had the one thing that mattered in a place like this: open space. The building was old-fashioned – with brickwork rather than steel or glass. It was only fifteen storeys high and stood in its own grounds. There was a forecourt with half a dozen neat flower-beds and a white, marble fountain, water trickling out of a lion’s head. There were two more lions with gaping mouths, one on each side of the door. Inside, the reception area could have belonged to a smart hotel. There were palm trees in pots and a man in a uniform sitting behind a marble counter. Two lifts stood side by side at the end of the corridor.

They went up to the twelfth floor, Karl carrying the luggage. Audrey Cheng had barely looked at Scarlett since they had left the airport, but now she fished in her handbag and took out a key which she dangled in front of her as if to demonstrate that she really did have a right to be here. They reached a door marked 1213. Mrs Cheng turned the key in the lock and they went in.

Was this really where her father lived? The flat was clean and modern, with a long living room, floor-to-ceiling windows and three steps down to a sunken kitchen and dining room. There were two bedrooms, each with their own bathroom. But at first sight there was nothing that connected it with him. The paintings on the wall were abstract blobs of colour that could have hung in any hotel. The furniture looked new… a glass table, leather chairs, pale wooden cupboards. Had Paul Adams really gone out and chosen it or had it been there when he arrived? Everything was very tidy, not a bit like the warm and cosy clutter of their home in Dulwich.

But looking around, Scarlett did find a few clues that told her he had been there. There were some books about the Second World War on the shelves. He always had been interested in history. The fridge had some of his favourite food – a packet of smoked salmon, Greek yoghurt, his usual brand of butter – and there was a bottle of malt whisky, the one he always drank, on the counter. Some of his clothes were hanging in the wardrobe in the main bedroom and there was a bottle of his aftershave beside the bath.