Falling Glass (7 page)

He drifted and woke chilled.

Back in the hotel room the light on the phone was blinking.

It was 4.00 a.m. Nine in Belfast.

He played the message: “Killian, something’s come up. Call me.”

He called Sean. “Well?”

“Richard Coulter.”

“What about him?”

“Not a surrogate. Not Tom. Mr C himself. Asked for you by name, wants you to look for his daughters.”

“What’s the story?”

“Weans were with his ex-wife. She was keeping her end of the visitation agreements until one day she didn’t. His lawyers tried to get in contact with her and lo and behold it turns out she’s just fucking vanished.”

“UFOs I suppose. It’s common enough these days.”

“What’s the matter with you? Have you been drinking?”

“The bars are closed. On Saint Patrick’s Day in Boston.”

“Look, mate, this is a thing.”

“What kind of a thing?”

“A missing persons case.”

“Why are you telling me, Sean? You know I’m semi semi. And Dick Coulter? Fuck him. I’ve flown Coulter Air, the bastards charged me two quid to use the fucking toilet.”

“That’s an urban myth.”

“Not on my flight it wasn’t. They’re worse than Ryanair! Charged you for water, the bog, they’ll be charging you for bloody oxygen next.”

“Nice routine but listen, mate, this is a score.”

“Okay. I’ll bite.”

“Fifty thousand for taking the case and the first month’s retainer. Four hundred and fifty thousand more if you find her.”

“Half a million quid?”

“Half a million quid.”

Killian had to sit down. With a half million quid he could clear the debts, sell the apartments, buy a small three-bedroom in Carrick and do the course at Jordy full time.

“Why me, Sean?”

“He’s heard things.”

“Come on.”

“Okay, okay, so your pal told him about you.”

“Michael Forsythe?”

“Who else?”

“When?”

“About four hours ago. Michael was evidently impressed by your work.”

“So Michael calls Coulter, Coulter calls Tom, Tom calls you, you call me?”

“No. Mr C called me personally.”

“It’s basically a wandering-daughter job?”

“Coulter’s married again. His wife’s pregnant. He wants his kids back before the new one comes along. One big fucking happy family.”

“How many kids?”

“Two. Look, we’re the good guys. The missus is off the deep end. Fucked
up. The kids are in genuine danger. It’s all true. She’s had drug problems. Didn’t you read about her last year in the
Sunday World
?”

“I don’t read the
Sunday World
.”

“You should keep in touch with current events. You know they have a black President now?”

“Why so much money?”

“He’s got money to burn.”

“Still.”

“Ease up on the paranoia. They still want to do this on the hush hush before they have to bring in the peelers.”

“Peelers sounds like a good idea.”

“It’s complicated. Coulter doesn’t want the publicity. Not when he’s looking shaky.”

“Shaky? I thought he was making money hand over fist. I thought he was going to be the first fucking Irishman in space.”

“The airline business is in the bog. Coulter Air lost a hundred and fifty million euros last quarter. And after that Iceland volcano they were already in the shitter. They’ve cut half their routes out of Luton. That’s why he’s in Macau. Diversifying.”

“Macau?”

“Macau, it’s a former Portuguese colony in China, next to Hong—”

“I know where it is, Sean. What’s he doing there?’

“Opening a casino.”

“Aye, sounds like he’s really on the skids. That and the half million for finding his wife.”

“That’s not his money, incidentally, that’s coming from the kidnap insurance.”

“Oh right, the kidnap insurance, very small time.”

“Look, they want a decision immediately. Will I tell him you’ll meet him or not?”

“When did this doll go missing?”

“Five weeks ago.”

“This thing reeks, Sean. Five weeks and
now
they wanna start looking? They’re
considering
contacting the peelers?”

“Okay, okay, so we weren’t the first guys they went to. They tried the rest and now they want the best. Believe me this time we’re the good guys. Come on, whaddya think? Does it sound like something?”

“It sounds like something,” Killian admitted.

“What will I tell him? He wants to meet you ASAP.”

Killian thought for a full half minute and then said: “Aye, why not.”

“Good. I booked your flights. Non-refundable.”

“You booked my flights?”

“Boston to LA, LA to Hong Kong. Coulter wants to talk to you in person.”

Killian stared at the phone for a moment. He knew that he should be angry. Sean had gone ahead and the booked the trip?

Was he really so predictable?

“What time do I have to have to be at Logan?”

“Eleven o’clock. UA 323.”

“Eleven o’clock this morning?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose I better get some kip then.”

“Aye, that might be a good idea.”

chapter 4
an oyster in the mirror sea

T
HE AIRPORT CAME FROM THE BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN, DREDGED
up Dutch-style and poured into gigantic rectangles from which the water was pumped. It was the newest and flattest part of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region.

Fans turning overhead, heavies watching the line from behind a partition. Good heavies, really focusing.

Many of the people getting off the planes had that humorless fixation, that manic whiteness about the eyes of the degenerate gambler.

“Purpose of visit to Hong Kong?”

“Tourism.”

“How many days will you be staying here?”

“Two days.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you.”

He walked through the overlit, white, antiseptic Green Channel and nodded to a short young man who was holding up a sign that said “Killian”.

Behind him Killian could see sharp, brown hazy mountains.

“Are you waiting for me?” Killian asked.

“Mr Killian?”

“That’s me.”

The young man bowed slightly and tried to take Killian’s bag from off his shoulder. Killian didn’t let him.

“This way please,” the man said.

“Okay.”

“Do you have any objections to taking a boat?” the man asked.

“No,” Killian said nervously.

“Excellent. This way.”

The man didn’t take him to a car or a boat. Instead they rode a train into the city. Killian honed his pitch and spent the rest of the ride watching very pretty Chinese girls on the flat-screen TV explaining the multifarious delights of Disney World Hong Kong.

They got off at Hong Kong Central and took an escalator to the first floor.

“Merely a short walk,” the escort said.

Some people might have thrown a huff now, demanded a car, not this subway/walking/boat operation, but Killian couldn’t care less. He’d been in a box for fourteen hours, hoofing it was fine.

They yomped an air-conditioned corridor to the Kowloon Ferry Terminal. He caught glimpses of office buildings and apartment blocks dizzyingly perched on terraces cut into the mountains. The streets were full of small Chinese-built taxis and German luxury cars. Few people outside. Most were inside buildings or air-conned walkways. Close to the ferry terminal exit a crowd of sweating Chinese people poured into the corridor, all of them going in the opposite direction, short bustling elbowy people. Killian was six foot four and here he felt like bloody Gulliver.

Coulter’s man led him through a set of sliding doors to the outside.

Heat. Humidity. Spain could do 110 but he’d forgotten what 90 per cent relative humidity felt like. It was late in the day, nearly five o’clock in the afternoon, but it probably wasn’t going to cool down any time soon.

“Jesus,” he muttered to himself and took off his jacket.

“This way,” the nameless young man said and led him towards a pier on the water’s edge.

Concrete gave way to a boardwalk, glass walls to food stands,
newspaper outlets and a ticket office. A western girl standing behind a row of taps in a large, air-conditioned bar caught his eye. She had blonde hair in a short crop. She was pale, wan. The place was empty. He smiled at her. She smiled back.

“Down here,” Coulter’s man said.

“Where?”

“Down here,” the man said pointing to a wooden staircase that led to a jetty on the water.

He looked back at the girl and she was still smiling at him. He nodded and then negotiated the rickety, heaving staircase.

A long speedboat was tied to the jetty. A driver was waiting for them, ominously dressed in a splashcoat and waterproof leggings.

His guide untied the boat from its moorings.

“Would you care to step in?” he asked.

Killian fought the blind panic and made sure that it didn’t show on his face.

He shook his head. “Smoke first, okay?”

“Okay.”

He lit himself a small cigar and walked back up the steps. He crossed to the bar, went inside and sat down in front of the girl. His hands were shaking. Sean hadn’t said anything about boats.

“What would you like?” the girl asked.

“Your name and a glass of cold beer.”

“Peggy and a beer’s coming up,” she said with a generic American accent. She was about twenty-five. Lithe, slender, with green, sylvan eyes. She was wearing a white polo shirt that said “Pier #11 Pub” on it.

“Peggy, now there’s a name you don’t hear that much these days, I like it.”

“It’s short for Margaret.”

“Yeah, I think I knew that,” he said, wondering what year she was born in. 1985? 1986? By ’86 Killian’s father had drunk himself to death, his mother had killed her boyfriend in a knife fight, four of his nine siblings were in borstal, his younger sister Keira was pregnant and Killian, sixteen
years old, had stolen fifty cars, had been the getaway driver on a post-office robbery, couldn’t read or write and was in love with a girl called Katie.

“What do you do?” the girl asked and pushed a cold Carlsberg in front of him.

“I’m in human resources – I find people, manage people, you know the kind of thing,” he said.

She nodded. “Headhunter. Isn’t that what they call it?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

He drank half the Carlsberg and grinned at her, but this time she didn’t smile back. She was a million miles away.

“You look lonely,” he thought and found to his annoyance he had actually said it. Too personal too quick.

She shrugged. “I am a bit, but I’m okay. I’m fine.”

He drank the rest of the beer in one gulp. He passed her a twenty-dollar bill.

“You take US?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Listen, I have a boat waiting for me. I’ve got to go, but, uh, you wouldn’t want dinner tonight or something? I know this is—”

“Yes.”

“When do you get off?”

“Midnight.”

“See you back here around then,” he said, picked up the jacket he’d left on a bar stool, and made for the door.

“Wait a minute,” she said.

“What?”

“What’s your name?”

“Killian.”

“See you at midnight, Killian.”

“Until then Cinderella.”

Back at the boat a trim, tall, balding man, with wisps of grey hair, a perma-tan, sunglasses and a linen suit was talking into a mobile phone.
He had a long Gallic nose and under the sunglasses, Killian remembered, grey eyes. “There you are! I thought I was going to miss you,” he said, offering Killian his hand.

“Good to see you again, Mr Eichel,” Killian replied.

“Have we met?” Tom Eichel asked.

“Yes, but it’s been a while,” Killian said.

Eichel frowned. He obviously did not remember the encounter, which had been at a party in the Gresham Hotel in Dublin years ago, before Killian had even gone to New York, must have been 1989 or 1990. Killian was still a kid and had been lifting wallets from the coat check and Eichel had had two of Coulter’s bodyguards take him out the back and knock the living shite out of him, while Eichel laughed and called him “a thieving wee tinker bastard”.

Eichel had been about thirty-five then and he looked much the same. Good doctors or good genes or both.

“I meet so many people,” Eichel said apologetically.

“It’s okay,” Killian said.

“Of course Sean and I go back,” Eichel said.

“Aye, I know.”

Eichel looked at his watch. “Listen, I was hoping to catch you, I’m afraid I can’t join you tonight, but if Richard likes you, I’ll have someone leave off the files later, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Great. I’m really sorry but I’ve got to go. Richard’s doing the whole ribbon-cutting thing tomorrow and as you can imagine nothing’s ready. It was nice meeting you
again
. I’ll talk to you for real in Belfast,” Eichel said and turned. He was about to walk back to a white BMW which had been waiting for him but instead he took his sunglasses off, turned and looked Killian in the eye.

“You’ll consider it won’t you? Sean says you’re trying to move out of this line of work.”

“I’m looking for a change of direction, yes, but Sean says this time we’re on the side of the angels.”

“He’s right. She is a fucking headcase. A druggie. If you found her you’d be doing the girls and her some good. They need to be out of that environment and she needs to be in a clinic somewhere,” Eichel said.

Killian nodded, stepped into the boat and put on a brave face as it sped out into the Pearl River Delta. The scene was a mash-up of Canaletto and Ridley Scott: in the Kowloon–Hong Kong harbour area the buildings were on top of one another like a squeezed Manhattan, the architecture functional, a dizzying vertical city that was all about maximizing space with few flourishes, but further out the Pearl River was crammed with junks, cargo boats, ferries, fast ferries, oil tankers, trawlers, yachts.

How many people lived here? Five million, ten? He’d forgotten to do his homework and instead he had spent what time he had available catching up with all the latest news on Dick Coulter. Which actually turned out to be pretty interesting. Sean wasn’t kidding about trouble. Coulter Air was slashing routes left and right, had cancelled all their flights out of Derry and Glasgow and Coulter had been complaining in the tabloids that the British Airports Authority was killing his business with their taxes. The Icelandic volcano had cost Coulter Air close to fifteen million dollars and the world recession wasn’t helping either. Also nothing, nothing at all in the press about a missing ex-wife and kids, which was impressive. That showed real clout.