Lee Weeks - The Trophy Taker

The Superintendent sat back in his old leather chair, which had served him for the last thirty years but was now beginning to show its age, just like its owner. Then he sat up, looked hard at Mann and slammed his forearms on the arms of the chair.

‘But, for now, I need this case solved – ASAP. And that’s what we need to concentrate on, not the triads and definitely not Chan. I know how much you hate him, Mann. I am with you on that, but I want no personal vendettas played out now. His time will come, I promise you that.’

He paused for a moment as if he intended to speak further on the subject, but then thought better of it. Mann knew what he was going to say. He was going to say that Mann would be a better policeman if his judgement wasn’t sometimes clouded by his hatred of all things triad and especially of all things Chan-related. And that Chan was not responsible for the death of Mann’s father. But David White didn’t say it. He merely paused, and the pause said it all.

‘Now, as for the workings of it all,’ he said, businesslike once more and changing tack. ‘I am to head the investigation. You will be my second-in-command. We will set up an operations room at the end of the hall downstairs. We have recruited officers from all over the district to help. Some are already here. The rest will be arriving tomorrow. Detective Sergeant Ng and Detective Li will share an office with you. It’ll be a bit cramped and hot, but then you know what it’s like at Headquarters – no such thing as working air-con.’

‘Hot and sweaty – just the way I like it.’ Mann got out of his chair and picked up his jacket.

‘Remember what I said, Mann – be careful, but most of all be clever, and don’t let that hot head of yours take charge.’

‘You know me, David …’

‘That’s what I’m worried about. I promised your mother I’d keep you alive at least until I retire, and I’ve only got six months left. Please wait till I’m safely back home with my garden gnomes and Sunday papers before getting yourself killed, will you? Now, where are you going to start?’

‘In the Sports Bar.’

‘It’s a bit early, isn’t it?’

‘Not for the person I want to talk to.’

9

Mann picked his way past the police officers on the stairs and paused in the entrance hall before passing through the heavy oak doors. He stood on the black and white tiled floor and breathed in the smell of lavender wood polish and Brasso and allowed himself a self-congratulatory moment. He had been given a reprieve, for which he was extremely grateful. Now he was back in the building he loved, working on a proper investigation instead of chasing traffic offenders. If he was lucky they wouldn’t transfer him back when the case was finished. If he was lucky and very good … so not likely then.

He went outside, crossed the car park and walked the steep road down to Central District. The area was number one in the region for shopping and commerce, with its golden skyscrapers, plush shopping malls and one of the most prestigious hotels in the world – The Royal Cantonese. Many deals were struck by an elite few in its Sports Bar, past the Doric columns and just left of the foyer.

James Dudley-Smythe was propping the bar up as Mann walked in. Originally from Cambridge, he had lived most of his life in Hong Kong. He was fabulously wealthy, with a large house on the Peak. He owned a fleet of Rolls-Royces and employed two full-time chauffeurs. But money really hadn’t brought him happiness. Besides his massive drinking problem, rumour had it that he could only achieve an erection when indulging in rough sex. Pain was what did it for him, if anything did any more.

He picked up hostesses on a nightly basis, but half the time he couldn’t remember whether he’d got what he paid for or not. Most of the girls were wise to it and knew that if they gave him enough drink he would pass out and they could get their money for doing nothing. Some weren’t quite so lucky.

Mann sat down on the stool next to him. ‘How’s it going, James?’ he asked, as the waiter brought him a vodka on the rocks.

Dudley-Smythe was, as always, impeccably dressed: sports jacket, cravat, pressed trousers and shiny brogues. He liked to say that you could always tell a man’s breeding by the state of his fingernails. He never missed his weekly manicure.

‘Rather well, thank you, Mann. And yourself? Married yet? I thought you were going to marry that pretty English girl?’

‘No, afraid not.’ Mann shifted his weight on the bar stool. ‘Been too busy. Talking of which, I’m working on a big case at the moment. Maybe you can help me with it?’

James replaced his glass on the bar, a little unsteadily, and motioned to the barman for a refill. ‘Shame that … I thought she looked perfect for you. Feisty little thing, wasn’t she?’ James Dudley-Smythe took a sideways glance at Mann.

Mann said nothing – he’d let the old drunk have his fun a little longer. He waited while the barman finished pouring his drink.

‘Still playing cricket? You’re a damn fine bowler, you know, Mann. All those years in private school in England did wonders for you. Of course, it helps having an English mother – big-boned stock.’

‘No time for cricket right now, James. Too busy – as I said.’

‘Sorry. Do go on, dear boy … Big case … I’m all ears.’

Mann hailed the barman to refresh James’s empty glass and thus ensure his concentration.

‘Over the last twenty years, have you ever heard about either a Gweilo or Chinese who took his S&M way too far?’

James knocked back his newly arrived scotch and motioned to the barman to pour another. He looked visibly uncomfortable with the reference to his sexual practices. Mann had had to reprimand him once after a new foreign girl (who didn’t understand the rules and didn’t know to ply him with drink) had found herself handcuffed to a bed and at the receiving end of one of Dudley-Smythe’s party games that involved a whip and a blindfold. She had to be briefly hospitalised. She made a complaint but didn’t press charges and was miraculously recovered by the time the cheque cleared.

‘Well, that was some time ago now, Mann. I explained about that …’

‘James, bottom-smacking is one thing, torture is quite another. I want to know if any of the women have mentioned someone who goes much too far, someone who scares them? Has there been any talk like that?’

James took a large gulp of scotch and said thoughtfully: ‘That’s more of a Filipino thing. That’s where you can get away with more these days – if you know what I mean. Haven’t seen many Chinese indulging in that sort of sport, mainly Europeans. But then, you’re not describing something that has to do with sex, are you, Mann? You’re after a psycho?’

Mann had to smile at the wily old drunk – he still had his lucid moments.

‘Yes, you’re right, James. But he takes trophies from his victims, of a sexual nature. He enjoys inflicting pain on women. It might have started like that.’

‘Can of worms, old boy. Can of worms.’ Dudley-Smythe shook his head remorsefully. Mann wasn’t buying it – he could see the glint in the old pervert’s eye.

‘Yeah, well let’s keep it legal, hey, James? Over sixteen would be good.’

‘Of course! Absolutely! Wouldn’t dream of it, certainly not ! You know, come to think of it, there is someone who might be able to help you. It’s who we all go to …’ he wetted his thin, livid lips with whisky, ‘all of us who enjoy a spot of spanking. Club Mercedes – girl named Lucy – Chinese. She’s the one to talk to. She’s a specialist. One of a kind.’

Mann could swear he saw James shiver.

10