Casanova (21 page)

‘Have you spoken to C?’ I asked.

‘No I haven’t,’ he said, ‘We don’t share social chit-chat.’

‘Have you got any news for me?’ I asked.

‘...news, what kind of news?’

‘What did you mean by
mulberry bush
?’ I asked.

‘It’s a nursery rhyme,’ he said.

‘I know it’s a nursery rhyme,’ I replied. ‘What does it have to do with me?’

‘The second verse starts,
this is the way we wash our face
.’ Annoyingly, he actually sang it as if to a child.

‘So what,’ I said with irritation growing in my voice.

Billy Bradshaw’s voice remained infuriatingly light.

‘Just be careful that you’re not washing someone else’s dirty face. I’ve seen it happen. If I were you, I’d question everything. A set-up is always possible. Espionage is a grubby business. Tenerife was your first lesson and you survived. I wouldn’t like Macau to be your second. This time the dice may not roll your way. Your boss is ruthless just remember that.’

Bradshaw ended the call before I could respond. He was a frustrating man but what he said made me think. I hadn’t considered the possibility of deceit. I trusted people. Who would want to deceive me?

‘So what does it have to do with you?’ Xing asked.

‘What?’ I said.

‘The nursery rhyme,’ she asked, ‘mulberry bush, what does it have to do with you?’

I shook my head. ‘I still don’t know,’ I replied.

19

SATURDAY, 16:30—18:30 (local time)

JAMES BRANCASTER CARMICHAEL

The boutiques of St. Christopher’s Place were his favourite.

If one knew anything about upmarket boutique shopping in London’s West End then one knew about St. Christopher’s Place. It was simply the finest.

Today, they all looked so pretty. At this time of year, with their subtle decorations and expensive lights, he could just eat them up.

James Carmichael stopped outside the one he could never resist and admired its elegance. The double glass frontage twinkled in the frosty twilight and threw back his reflection. He enjoyed staring at his reflection. The lighting, he thought, together with the old glass gave him an ethereal beauty like a Christmas angel. Perhaps he would choose something in white today.

The darkness of its interior held a hidden promise of excitement and thrills. He felt an arousal and allowed his body to enjoy the sensation. He gently shivered. It was delightful. Anticipation played on his lips. It was time. With a soft breath, he gently pushed open the small door and went in.

‘Good afternoon, Mr. Carmichael,’ the woman said, greeting him with a welcoming smile that was warm and sincere. She waited for his smile. ‘Do you have something in mind today?’

‘Yes, I do,’ he replied. ‘I would like to see something in white.’

‘...white, yes, of course,’ the woman said.

She turned and led Hoagy towards the fitted teak, open wardrobe behind the hat stand and the mannequin that wore a long, cream coat. Hoagy’s fingers gently brushed the expensive cashmere as he passed. It felt opulent and sensual.

The boutique manageress lifted down a pearl white gown and then turned and held it up.

‘This one is beautiful,’ she said.

Hoagy’s lips parted as his eyes glazed with enthusiasm. The dress held such charm.

‘May I?’ he asked.

‘Yes, of course.’

Hoagy took the object of desire. It was light. He felt the material. It was cool and soft. He wanted to press the hanger against his chest and allow the folds to drop and sway. How high above the knee would it reach?

‘Hold it up,’ the manageress said. ‘Your twin sister is the same size.’

Hoagy did not have a twin sister. He was an only child. The manageress knew that. She was professional and discreet.

Hoagy smiled. He placed the hanger against his body and ran his hand down to his thighs. It was three inches above his knee—lovely.

‘It’s exquisite,’ he said. Again, he pressed the garment to his body and again, the sensation of arousal fluttered. It made him tremble.

‘Perhaps, Mr. Carmichael,’ the woman said, ‘I can show you a pair of shoes that are a perfect match.’ The manageress turned away. Hoagy found the circumspect, handwritten price tag on the dress. Couture fashion was only available to the wealthy. For a moment, he sighed and then his resolve strengthened. He was helpless in the presence of such beauty.

The ivory coloured stilettos would require young ankles and slalom balance if they were not to bring the wearer down. The manageress pushed them together and pointed them at Hoagy. His lips parted and he wanted to sigh. The shoes were divine. At their attendance, he wanted to kneel and worship.

‘I believe you are the same shoe size as your sister, Mr. Carmichael. Am I not correct?’ She smiled and motioned for Hoagy to sit. He removed one boot.

‘And the sock,’ the woman said.

Hoagy pulled it off, pointed his toe and looked up expectantly.

The woman bent at the waist and pushed on the shoe. It was the perfect fit. Hoagy breathed deeply. He pulled his trouser leg higher and then turned his ankle left and right. The stiletto was magnificent.

‘They’re gorgeous,’ he said.

The manageress smiled. ‘Aren’t they,’ she agreed. ‘Your sister is a lucky girl.’

He nodded but didn’t articulate the lie.

At the desk, he paid with a credit card. The manageress passed across the two bags. They too were elegant and printed with the name of the boutique.

‘Thank you, Mr. Carmichael,’ she said. Her smile was soft. ‘Come back and see us again soon.’

‘Thank you, I will,’ Hoagy said.

Outside, the urgency came upon him as it always did. He hurried away and walked south, quickly reaching Oxford Street. Outside the tube station, he took a cab. On normal occasions, he always rode the bus. The cab drove him along Park Lane beside Hyde Park before turning quite close to St. James’s Park. The traffic was frustrating. At this time on a Saturday, it was worse than ever. The cabbie negotiated his way through the endless bumpers into Chelsea. He stopped outside Hoagy’s small, Victorian apartment.

Hoagy paid the fare and the cabbie clattered on his way. Inside, Hoagy took the stairs at a brisk pace. On the top floor, he unlocked his apartment door and went in. At last, he was home.

He opened the closet doors and then removed the dress and the shoes from their bags. Carefully, he placed the shoes in the space on the rack. Then, delicately he hung the gown in the space alongside the rows of others. He stood back and admired them. Hoagy’s Saturday night ritual had begun.

20

SUNDAY, 08:00—18:00 (local time)

The following morning it rained. Bursts of monsoon style downpours battered the glass.

We stood together by the tall window and watched. Our hotel suite felt grey. Outside, the sky was the colour of sheet metal. The harbour bay was reminiscent of the English seaside on a bad day in late summer. Xing stared through the gloom.

‘I can barely see the water,’ she said.

‘Now I feel acclimatised,’ I said.

In the lobby, Xing purchased an umbrella from the gift shop. I covered her in the role of bodyguard. The position I chose was the apex opposite the lifts with clear sight lines to all the entry points. I held my hand inside my coat and watched. As usual, nothing happened. Xing came up to me holding out her purchase. I took it from her and went to the exit. At the doors, I waited. Xing came up behind me and I felt the familiar touch of her hand on my back. The doorman stepped aside and we went out into the rain. I opened the umbrella and the flag of Macau appeared, light green with something white that looked like a flower. Xing had chosen well—it made us look more like tourists. She pushed against me as we sheltered from the downpour.

The rainwater flowed through the gully beside the pathway and ran across the stones like a woodland stream. Xing skipped to avoid getting her feet wet. Above our heads, heavy raindrops slapped against the umbrella making a sound like the beat of a bongo drum.

When the bus arrived, I flapped the umbrella dry. Onboard, we found a seat and rode the yellow bus to the centre of the old town. Senate Square was shiny wet. Open umbrellas bobbed up and down in an impromptu dance routine. We joined in. When the music stopped, we found ourselves at the entrance to a bar.

‘This is Leiteria i Son,’ Xing said. ‘It’s a milk bar. They have amazing milkshakes.’

We went inside.

‘What’s your favourite fruit?’ Xing asked.

‘...mulberries,’ I said.

Xing ordered in Cantonese.

We found a seat. I watched while we waited.

I held the metal container in both hands and stared down at my amazing milkshake. It was pink.

‘They don’t have mulberry,’ Xing said, ‘so I got you strawberry.’

‘I don’t like strawberries,’ I said.

‘Try it,’ she encouraged.

I tried it.

‘Well?’ she asked.

It was milk and strawberries after an encounter with a food blender. A couple of the strawberries were cut in two but still alive.

‘It’s amazing,’ I said.

Xing sipped hers. It was blue.

She saw him first. I watched her eyes register his presence and then look away. I found him myself. He was standing alone, wearing a baggy cotton jacket and eating what looked like a bowl of custard. Without too many teeth, the milk bar was probably his favourite place to eat. Wong or Vong didn’t look in our direction. He spooned in his custard until the bowl was empty and then he left.

‘Let’s go,’ Xing said.

‘I haven’t finished my milkshake,’ I said.

‘Leave it,’ she said.

‘But it’s amazing.’

Outside, it was still raining. I put the umbrella up. This time, Xing didn’t seem bothered by the rain. Vong was shuffling away while avoiding the puddles. He sheltered below a tatty, grey umbrella. We followed. He stopped at a dried meat stall. The vendor cut the meat using a pair of dirty scissors. Vong paid and put the wrapped meat in his jacket pocket. He moved on. We left the cover of the jewellery shop window and followed.

‘It does sound like pitter-patter,’ Xing said.

‘What does?’ I asked.

‘...the rain on the umbrella. It’s what my dad used to say when I was a little girl and we were out in the rain. He always held the umbrella.’

‘You’re not tall enough to hold the umbrella,’ I said.

Vong had stopped again. This time it was beside a souvenir stall. We caught him up.

‘Look at the rooster,’ Xing said, pointing at an elaborately decorated carving of a rooster. ‘They’re supposed to bring good luck.’

‘Really,’ I said.

She spoke to the stallholder in English, money changed hands and then the flamboyantly dressed capon was heading in my direction. It was impossible to avoid getting the colourful little fellow thrust into my hand.

‘Isn’t he great?’ Xing said.

‘Great,’ I said.

Vong was casually browsing the souvenirs and ignoring us.

‘Let’s take a picture,’ Xing suggested, ‘one with you and the rooster.’ She stepped back and held the camera to her face. ‘Smile,’ she encouraged.

I held the rooster up and forced a smile.

‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘Now, I want a picture of you, me and the rooster for good luck.’ She turned and looked around with the craft of a natural actress. She was searching for someone to take the picture. ‘Excuse me,’ she said in English. Vong turned from his souvenir browsing and with equal thespian ability said, ‘Yes, I help you, yes.’

‘Can you take a picture of us?’ Xing asked.

‘Yes, I help, very good, yes,’ Vong replied. He nodded enthusiastically and took the offered camera from Xing’s hands. He looked down at it. ‘How it work?’ he asked.

‘I’ll show you,’ Xing said. They stood side by side and Xing took back the camera. She held it for them both to see. Vong held his tatty umbrella above their heads. They spoke together, quietly, studying the camera and glancing at each other for confirmation. It lasted for just a minute or so. I waited and watched. Then Xing pulled away and came to stand with the rooster and me. ‘Okay, we are ready,’ she said. She pressed against my body while I held up Cogburn with one hand and the umbrella with the other. Vong took the picture. ‘It very good picture,’ he said. Xing retrieved the camera. ‘Thank you,’ she said. They spoke together quietly again for a few more seconds. Then Xing returned to me and Vong shuffled off, exiting stage right.

‘Well?’ I asked.

‘Let’s find somewhere to sit down, out of the rain,’ she said. There was a cafe nearby, called the Singing Bean.

‘This is popular with tourists,’ Xing said. We went downstairs and found a table. I ordered in careful English. I already knew what I wanted.

‘I like your rooster,’ the young waitress said.

‘His name’s Cogburn,’ I said. ‘He’s going to bring me good luck.’

She smiled.

Xing ordered sharply in Cantonese and the young waitress hurried away.

‘He won’t bring you good luck if you don’t show him respect,’ Xing said.

‘What’s wrong with the name Cogburn?’ I said, ‘I think it suits him.’

Xing made a noise that told me she disagreed.

‘Tell me what Vong said.’

She held up the camera so we could both see. The two pictures with Cogburn she quickly deleted.

‘We don’t want our faces on the camera,’ she said. A clear picture of three men then appeared. It was a head and shoulders shot. Xing pointed to the man in the centre. ‘This is Missouri,’ she said. There was Portuguese in his ancestry. His brown hair was thick and wavy and his big nose was obviously European. His skin and eyes were Chinese. ‘This man is the Vanguard and this one the Red Pole.’

‘...what do they do?’ I asked.

‘The Vanguard is head of operations and the Red Pole is the protector.’

I studied their faces. One was intelligent, the other aggressive.

‘They were at the casino for a business meeting. Their business is mainly gambling and prostitution. Their girls work the big casino hotels. They also fix greyhound races.’

We scrolled through the other pictures and familiarised ourselves with the faces. ‘This doesn’t get us very far,’ I said.

‘Know your enemy like your brother,’ she said. Before I could give a suitable response, the waitress returned. She gave me a sly smile and then placed my order on the table. The steak looked good. I drank some Coke and then tucked in. Xing had ordered a bowl of seaweed and some kind of fish. She picked up her chopsticks. ‘I never promised it would be quick,’ she said. ‘Do you have a better idea?’ I didn’t. I kept quiet and ate my steak. It tasted great. Xing’s knitting needles dissected her fish.

‘We need to do more surveillance,’ I said.

With the taste of steak still on my tongue, I called Jemima.

‘I was just about to call you,’ he said. ‘There’s been a development. Can we meet?’

‘We’re in Senate Square,’ I said.

‘I’ll be at the fountain in fifteen minutes,’ he said.

We finished up, paid the bill and left. Back on the street, the rain had slowed. We no longer used the umbrella. We made our way to the fountain. I watched out for Jemima. Senate Square was crowded. It gave us good cover but made it difficult to watch out for people. I didn’t see him until he was on the steps. He walked past without a glance. He wore light coloured trousers and the rainwater had stained the hems dark. He made a slow circuit of the fountain before stopping with his back to us. His umbrella was black and it dripped onto his shoulder.

‘We’ve got more pictures,’ he said. His voice was deliberately soft. Xing was standing on the other side of me and she didn’t hear.

‘What did he say?’ she whispered into my neck. Now that I knew her better, I didn’t need to spot the trace of comedy in her voice to tell she was trying to be funny. I ignored her.

Jemima said, ‘Let’s swap cameras.’ He briefly glanced at me to see I had it and then said, ‘I say, are you British? Would you mind taking my picture? Perhaps you might get the fountain in the background.’

I whispered to Xing, ‘Give me the camera.’ She passed it to me and I took it in my hand. ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘it would be my pleasure.’

Jemima gave me his camera. I stepped back and used it to take his picture. He posed like an uncertain bridegroom.

‘There you are,’ I said, and passed him back the camera. It was easy to make the switch. I slid the camera he had given me with the new pictures into my jacket pocket.

‘Thank you very much,’ he said. Then he whispered secretively, ‘call me,’ and then he strode away.

‘Let’s find somewhere dry to look at these new pictures,’ I said.

‘I know somewhere,’ Xing said.

We took a short walk across the Square to an imposing white building.

‘This is the Holy House of Mercy,’ Xing said. ‘It was once a hospital.’

We went inside. A sign read Museum, Open Daily (except Sundays and Public Holidays) 10am – 1pm and 2.30 – 5.30pm, MOP$5. We paid the entrance fee and went in. It was quiet. A few tourists moved slowly among the exhibits. I looked into the nearest display cabinet. It contained historical religious artefacts. We both moved away to the far wall. I pulled the new camera from my jacket pocket. We stood with our faces together and looked at the pictures. A series of four grabbed our attention. They showed two men and a boy leaving Missouri’s house and getting into the Merc. One of the men was the Red Pole from the earlier pictures, the other man we didn’t know. We focused on the boy. He was six years old. We knew this from the information in the report the HK office had compiled and Meriwether had sent to us on our K106s. The boy was Missouri’s son.