The Solitary Man (22 page)

'I'm not sure,' said Jennifer. 'I think he's rejecting everyone at the moment. You might be wasting your time.'

Chau-ling nodded. 'That's what I thought. I told Khun Kriengsak to let me know when the trial is. I might go over for that. I can offer Warren moral support, if nothing else.'

Jennifer wondered if Hastings knew that Chau-ling was in love with him. Probably not, she thought. 'I need a favour,' said Jennifer. 'Do you have a recent photograph of Warren? One that I could use 170 STEPHEN LEATHER with the article I'm writing. The ones taken at the Press conference weren't much use, he has his head down in most of them.'

Chau-ling ran her hands through her hair and pulled it back into a ponytail. Her eyes were moist as if she was close to tears, but she managed a smile. 'He hates his picture being taken. The only photographs I've seen of him are in his passport and on his identity card.'

'Yeah, well, we all hate the camera as we get older,' said Jennifer, though she doubted that Chau-ling had ever been afraid of a camera's lens. 'But there must be some. Holiday snaps, that sort of thing.'

Chau-ling let go of her hair and it spilled around her neck. 'No. Nothing.'

'No publicity photographs, for the kennels? At dog shows? Winning awards?'

'He's almost paranoid about it. He always turned his head away if there was a camera anywhere near him. Shy, I guess.'

'There's no reason for him to be. He's a good-looking guy.'

'I know,' said Chau-ling, quickly. Her cheeks reddened and she looked away, as if she'd just revealed a dirty secret.

There was a scratching at the door and two large Dobermanns forced their way in, stubby tails wagging furiously. Chauling grinned and slid down off her chair to hug the dogs. 'Mickey and Minnie,' she said, by way of introduction. 'They're Warren's favourites.'

Jennifer crossed her arms protectively across her chest. She hated dogs, especially big ones. 'I'd better be going,' she said. She picked her handbag up off the table and clutched it to her chest. One of the dogs stopped fussing over Chau-ling and stood staring at Jennifer, panting. Jennifer backed towards the door. The dog took a step forward, its head on one side.

'It's okay,' said Chau-ling, sensing Jennifer's discomfort. 'They won't hurt you.'

'I'm sure they won't,' said Jennifer, uncertainly. She'd been badly bitten by a Jack Russell when she was a child, and still had a small white scar on her left leg, just below her knee. 'Thanks for your time. Is there any message you want me to give Warren? I'm going to try to see him again in Bangkok.'

Chau-ling reached for the Dobermann's collar and pulled the dog back. 'Just tell him that I . . .' She hesitated. 'No. It's all right. I'll tell him when I see him.'

Jennifer backed to the door, then slipped through and closed it behind her. She walked quickly back to the taxi. The driver pointed to the meter and said something to her in Cantonese. 'Yeah, yeah, yeah,' she said. 'You'll get your money.'

The driver repeated whatever he'd said, louder this time. Jennifer gave him an artificial smile, her lips pulled so far back that it was almost a grimace. 'I said you'll get your money, you little shit,' she said. 'Now shut the fuck up and let me think.' From inside her handbag there was a metallic click as the tape recorder switched off. She told the driver to go straight to the airport.

After checking in for the next flight back to Bangkok, she went over to a row of callboxes. They were all occupied and more than a dozen people, mainly Chinese, were eyeing each other warily as they waited for the phones to become free.

There seemed to be no queuing system. Eventually she managed to grab a callbox by shoulder-barging a Chinese businessman out of the way as they both rushed for the same one. The businessman glared at her, but Jennifer shrugged. If Hong Kong rules meant every man for himself, she was more than happy to comply.

She flicked through her notebook as she waited for her call to go through. There were several clicks, then a ringing tone. Richard Kay answered the phone. 'Where are you?' he said.

'Hong Kong,' said Jennifer. 'The airport. Let me run something by you, okay? There's this guy, name of Warren Hastings.'

'As in the battle of?'

Jennifer ignored him. 'Hastings was picked up at Bangkok airport with a kilo of heroin in his bag. He does everything he can to avoid having his picture taken, and he turns down the services of one of Bangkok's top lawyers. Free services, that is. A girl who works for him was going to foot the bill. He refuses to speak to me--'

'Now why would he do that? I wonder--' Richard began.

'Don't be a prick all your life, sweetie,' Jennifer interrupted. 'He puts a big X in the no-publicity box, and sits in police custody as meek as a lamb. Now, this guy lives in Hong Kong, he's been there for seven yeajs or so. He has no next-of-kin, no family, he 172 STEPHEN LEATHER gets no Christmas cards. But he's not a loner, he has friends in Hong Kong and the girl who works for him would open a vein if he asked her to. This guy never talks about his life before he arrived in Hong Kong, and he's camera shy. And before you say anything, I can assure you he's not ugly. Oh yeah, and the kicker is, he can't remember his date of birth.'

'Ah,' said Kay. 'I see.'

'So I want you to run his passport number by the Home Office and see if alarm bells ring. And then I want you to check his birth certificate and then see if you can find a matching death certificate.'

'That could take days, Jenn. They're not computerised yet, it's all in ledgers. I'd have to check every--'

Jennifer ignored his protests. 'Also, get one of your cop friends to check out the Warren Hastings name through CRO, just in case it is genuine. Try the Kennel Club, too. He breeds Dobermanns.' Jennifer read out the passport number and date of birth and had Kay repeat them. 'I'm going back to Bangkok,' she said. 'I'll call you from there.'

'Okey-dokey. How did you get on with Tim Carver, by the way?'

'He was okay. Gave me plenty of background. Did you know he was gay?'

'Gay? What? Are you sure? Oh shit, hang on, Gerry wants a word,' said Kay.

'Shit,' mouthed Jennifer.

'Jenn, where the hell are you?' asked her boss.

Jennifer ripped a sheet of paper out of her notebook. 'Gerry, hi, how are you?'

'Short of one reporter,' said Hunt. 'Get your arse back here ASAP.'

Jennifer crumpled the paper next to the receiver and spoke through the crackling noise. 'Gerry . . . you're breaking up ... can't hear you . . . I'll call you back later.V She hung up. Hunt would be mad at her, but he'd get over it, especially when he got the story she was planning to file. She looked up at a monitor announcing departures. Her flight to Bangkok was boarding and the back of her neck was tingling again.

HUTCH SCRATCHED THE TWO reddening mosquito bites on his left arm. He'd been bitten some time during the night and now the itching was driving him to distraction. He'd already applied some of the antihistamine cream that Kriengsak had sent in to him, but the bites still itched. Hutch knew that scratching the bites would only make them worse, but the itching was incessant and the temporary relief was better than no relief at all.

A young Thai with a tattoo of an elephant on his right forearm was squatting over the metal bucket, a look of quiet contemplation on his face. The Thais seemed to have no problem going to the toilet in full view of the rest of the prisoners. Hutch had used the bucket several times, but only when he'd been unable to contain himself any longer, and it had been with a feeling of intense shame. He wondered how he'd cope when the inevitable stomach bug struck. He rolled over on his sleeping mat and tried to get comfortable. The smell from the bucket was nauseating and he pulled his shirt up over his mouth and nose. He hadn't washed in four days but even his body odour was preferable to the stench from the bucket.

There was a rattle from the bars and Hutch opened his eyes. There was a guard standing there, looking left and right as if he was worried about being seen with the prisoners. He pointed at Hutch. Hutch got up off his mat, and scratched his bites as he went over to the bars. The guard unlocked the cell door and took Hutch along to the visiting room.

There was a woman waiting on the other side of the wire, a thirty-something blonde smoking a cigarette. She smiled when she saw Hutch, as if she'd just thought of something funny, something that she wasn't prepared to share with him. The guard closed the door and stood with his back to it, his eyes half-closed.

'Warren Hastings, I presume,' she said. Her voice was deep and throaty, almost masculine. 'I'd just like you to know that this meeting's costing me five thousand baht. It's the first time in my life that I've,paid for a date.'

Hutch narrowed his eyes. 'Jennifer Leigh?' he said.

'How sweet. You remembered.' She flicked ash on the floor. 'What's it like in there? Pretty rough, I suppose.'

She was wearing a beige jacket and a brown skirt that ended just above her knee, and high heels, but the feminine attire was at odds with her stance. She stood like a man, with her legs shoulder-width apart, her hip to one side. Her cigarette was in her right hand, held away from her face, and her left arm was across her body, supporting her right elbow. It looked to Hutch as if she was posing for him, using all her body language to impress on him what a tough cookie she was. Dogs did the same to try to assert their dominance: their hackles would go up, they'd hunch their shoulders and they'd show their teeth. More often than not it was an act. A menacing-looking dog could almost always be faced down. A truly aggressive animal didn't bother showing its teeth and growling, it just went for the throat.

'I've nothing to say to you, Miss Leigh.'

She smiled tightly. Her lipstick was a vibrant shade of pink. It had been applied thickly and was smeared over the filter of her cigarette. 'Oh, you can call me Jennifer,' she said. She took a long pull at her cigarette, then exhaled and watched him through the smoke. 'Now, what should I call you?' They stood looking at each other for several seconds. 'Cat got your tongue?' she said eventually.

'I'm not sure what you mean,' said Hutch.

Jennifer arched an eyebrow. 'Don't give me that, Warren, or whatever your name really is. You know exactly what I'm talking about.' She walked closer to the wire netting and looked at him with pale green eyes that seemed to stare deep inside him. 'You can trust me,' she said.

Her voice carried all the sincerity of an undertaker consoling the recently bereaved. Hutch stared back at her. He didn't believe her for one second. She was a reporter for a Fleet Street newspaper, and jobs like that weren't given to soft-hearted pushovers. 'Leave me alone,' he said. 'There's no story here for you.'

She took another pull at the cigarette. The smile vanished but her eyes continued to bore into his. 'Oh, I think there is. I think that's why you're sweating, Mr Whatever-your-real-name-is. I THE SOLITARY MAN 175 think that look in your eyes tells me that you know that I know. I think you're clenching your fists because you're scared shitless.'

She smiled again, and if Hutch didn't know better he would have been taken in by its warmth and sincerity. Whatever else she was, Jennifer Leigh was a real pro.

He relaxed his hands. 'What do you know?' he asked quietly.

Jennifer studied the burning end of her cigarette. 'I know you're not Warren Hastings,' she said.

'That's ridiculous.' Hutch's heart began to pound. How did she know? And more importantly, how much more did she know?

The journalist shrugged. 'Yes, well, you would say that, wouldn't you? Why are you so camera shy?'

The question took Hutch by surprise. 'What?' he said.

'Why are there no photographs of you in your house?'

'You've been to my house?'

'Why don't you get any Christmas cards from the UK? Why can't you remember your own birthday? Why have you turned down the services of one of Bangkok's top lawyers?'

Hutch's jaw dropped. 'You've been to my house?' he repeated.

Jennifer dropped her cigarette on to the floor and ground it out with her left foot. 'What's your real name?'

Hutch took a step back from the wire. He looked across at the guard. The guard was looking at the ground, his eyes half-closed as if he was dozing.

'I can find out, you know.'

Hutch's head jerked around. 'Leave me alone,' he spat.

'I'm having your passport checked out,' she said. 'I'm having your birth certificate pulled. I'm digging, Mr Whatever-your-name-is. How long do you think your new identity is going to stand up to scrutiny?' She snorted softly. 'I can see from the look on your face that you don't think it'll be too long,' she said.

Hutch massaged his neck. The tendons there were as taut as steel wires. 'You don't know what you're doing,' he whispered.

Jennifer's smile widened. 'Oh yes I do. I know exactly what I'm doing.'

Hutch closed his eyes and shook his head. He felt as if he was about to pass out. Everything was going wrong. Everything.

'The best thing you can do is to talk to me,' said Jennifer, her voice as smooth and slippery as castor oil. 'I'm going to find out anyway, but if you co-operate, I promise that I'll at least give you a fair hearing. I'll put your side of the story. Look, we might even be able to write it from your point of view. I think I can persuade my paper to come up with money. How does that sound?'

Hutch opened his eyes. 'You don't have children, do you?' he asked quietly.

Her lips tightened. 'No. I don't have children.' She frowned quizzically. 'Do you?'

Hutch turned away. He headed towards the door and the guard hurried to open it.

'You can't run away from me,' said Jennifer. 'You're going to have to face me some time.'

Hutch walked through the door and down the corridor, the guard following in his footsteps.

'You can't run away from me!' she shouted after him.

Hutch quickened his pace. 'Just watch me,' he muttered through gritted teeth.

SOMCHAI HUMMED TO HIMSELF as he walked towards the payphone. It wasn't such a bad job, being based at the detention centre. Sure, there wasn't much action, but action was for heroes and heroes often ended up in hospital, or worse. It was a quiet life, more like being a prison officer than a policeman, but the pay was better. There weren't as many perks as there were in the traffic division, where unofficial on-the-spot fines could quadruple an officer's salary, but then Somchai didn't have to spend all day breathing the filthy polluted air or risk being run over by a bus driver high on amphetamines. Besides, he didn't have the necessary exam grades or family connections to get into traffic. Traffic was for people with connections, and Somchai's family were farmers near Ubon, one of the poorest parts of Thailand. He was lucky to have the job he had, and he knew it.

He was even luckier to have met the man called Bird. There t TI THE SOLITARY MAN 177 weren't many opportunities to make a bit of extra money in the detention centre. He'd occasionally smuggle out a letter, or take contraband in, but it was for small money, nowhere near as much as a traffic policeman could get for catching a Mercedes making a wrong turn. The big money went to the officers, and there was little chance of Somchai being promoted. The five thousand baht the reporter had paid for the unofficial meeting with the farang called Warren had gone straight to the inspector on duty. Somchai doubted that he'd see more than five hundred baht of the bribe. Maybe not even that. But Bird had promised him the equivalent of more than a month's salary if he told him about any visitors the farang had. More if he could tell Bird what they spoke about. Bird had been as good as his word when Somchai had told him about the visit from the lawyer. Bird had handed over the cash in a hotel envelope, all new notes as if they'd come fresh from the bank. Somchai hadn't even told his wife about the money. He was keeping it hidden in his locker, under a pile of old newspapers, until he decided what to do with it. Maybe a gold bracelet for his mistress. He smiled to himself. Maybe another mistress. He fished into his trouser pocket and took out a five-baht coin.

Somchai hadn't been able to eavesdrop on the conversation the farang had had with the lawyer, but he'd heard every word that had passed between the prisoner and the woman journalist. He hadn't understood everything, but his English was good enough to allow him to follow the gist of what was said. The woman thought that the prisoner wasn't who he said he was. She thought he was lying. And she wanted to write a story for her newspaper. Somchai hitched up his belt. Bird would pay a lot for that information. It wasn't a bad job at all, being in the detention centre.

BILLY WINTER OPENED HIS mouth and the young girl sitting on his left fed him a steamed prawn. He chewed with relish and grinned at Bird. 'It don't get much better than this, do it?' Winter said in his gruff Newcastle accent.

Bird nodded and peered at the laden plates on the table in front 178 STEPHEN LEATHER of them. Winter had over-ordered madly and there was enough food for a dozen people.

Winter and Bird were in a private room, sitting on cushions, with four girls in white kimonos that opened to reveal that they were naked underneath. They had two girls each, one at either shoulder, feeding them and holding their drinks to their lips whenever they wanted a drink. The restaurant's gimmick was that the diners never had to use their hands. Not to eat, anyway.

'I wonder what Hutch's having for dinner tonight?' mused Winter. He laughed harshly. 'Bread and water, you think? Is that what they give them in clink here, bread and water?' He used a finger to open the kimono of the girl sitting on his right. Her breasts were pert and firm and her skin the colour of light oak. She smiled engagingly, showing small, even teeth. They reminded Winter of baby teeth.

'Rice,' said Bird. 'Rice and soup. Some fish, maybe.'

'Yeah, well, it'll give him an incentive to get out, right?'

'Right,' agreed Bird.

'Yeah, he's always needed an incentive, has Hutch.' Winter opened the kimono wider. 'How old is this one, Bird?' he asked.

Bird spoke to the girl in Thai. 'Eighteen,' he said. ^

'Eighteen? She looks about twelve.'

'A lot of them lie about their age,' said Bird. 'They have to, to work.'

'So how old do you think she really is?'

Bird looked at the girl carefully. 'Fifteen. Maybe sixteen.'

Winter fondled the girl's breasts. 'Jailbait,' he whispered. 'Anywhere else in the world she'd be jailbait.' Her smile widened in anticipation of a large tip. 'I can smell smoke, I think the place is on fire,' Winter said. He grinned. The girl smiled at him and fluttered her eyelashes. Winter looked at the other girls. 'Can anyone else smell smoke?' He met with blank faces.

'I told you, they don't speak English,' said Bird.

'Just checking,' said Winter. He opened his mouth and accepted a piece of beef and a sliver of ginger. 'So what did you want to talk about?' *

Bird stroked the thigh of the girl on his right. She opened her THE SOLITARY MAN 179 legs invitingly and held his glass to his lips. Bird sipped his beer. 'There's a woman journalist who has been asking questions about Hutch.'

Winter's eyes narrowed. 'About Hutch or about Warren Hastings?'

'Hastings,' said Bird, realising his mistake. 'She's been in Hong Kong, to his kennels. She's been to the detention centre twice. And I'm told that she's been talking to the DEA.'

'Shit,' said Winter. 'Does she know anything?'

'I don't think so, nothing definite anyway. Just suspicions. But if she keeps interfering . . .'

'Yeah, I get the picture.' He stroked the girl's soft, glossy hair. It reached her waist, jet black and perfectly straight. 'How much for the two of them?' he asked.

'A thousand baht each should do it. Unless you want to get rough.'

Winter laughed. 'Not me, Bird. I never went for the rough stuff. A thousand baht each, huh? That's about the price of a bottle of Johnnie Walker, right?'

Bird nodded. 'Red Label. Black's a bit more expensive.'

'What about you, Bird? Fancy giving them one? My treat.'

Bird shook his head. 'No thanks, Billy.' One of the girls wiped his chin with a napkin while the other delicately shelled a cooked prawn.

Winter bit into a chunk of crab proffered by the girl on his left. 'What's this one called again?' he said.

'Nood,' said Bird. 'The other one's Need.'

'Nood and Need. Love* it. This journo, what's her name?'

'Leigh. Jennifer Leigh.'

'Chinese?'

Bird shook his head. 'A farang.'

'We can't have her making waves.'

'Making waves?' Bird repeated, not understanding.

'Rocking the boat. Screwing things up. If she keeps asking questions, she might find that Warren Hastings isn't what he claims to be. You're going to have to take care of her, Bird. And quickly.'

Bird grinned. 'Is it all right with you if I have a little fun with her first?'

Winter opened his mouth and the girl on his right popped in a morsel of chicken. 'So long as you take care of the bitch, you can do what the fuck you want, Bird.' he said.

JENNIFER LEIGH WAS SITTING on her hotel bed in bra and pants going through her notes when the telephone rang. She picked up the receiver. 'Miss Jennifer?' The voice was Thai, male.

'Yes,' she said, hesitantly.

'You have been asking about Warren Hastings.'

'Yes. Who's speaking?'

'I have some information for you.'

'About Warren Hastings?'

'Yes. But I want money.'

'How much?'

The man was silent for a few seconds. 'Perhaps a lot.'

Jennifer picked up her notebook, her heart racing as she realised that this could be the break she was looking for. 'What is the information?'

The man chuckled. 'If I tell you, Miss Jennifer, the information has no value.'

'But my newspaper won't pay unless we know what we're buying.'

There was a longer silence. Jennifer could hear a Thai pop song in the background, and the sound of glasses clinking, as if the man was calling from a bar.

'I must talk to you,' said the man eventually. 'Face to face.'

'That sounds like a good idea,' said Jennifer. 'Why don't you come to my hotel?'

'No. I must not be seen with you.'

'Why?'

'Because it is dangerous. For me. No one must know I have talked to you.'

'Okay, okay,' said Jennifer eagerly. The man sounded genuinely THE SOLITARY MAN 181 frightened and she feared that he might change his mind and hang up. 'I'll come to you. Anywhere you want.'

'I will send a taxi for you.'

'Give me your address and I'll get a hotel car.'

'The address is difficult. Better I send a taxi. Wait outside the hotel in one hour.'

'But . . .' Before she could finish, the line went dead.

Jennifer stripped and showered and watched CNN while she blow-dried her hair. She envied the on-camera reporters, flying around the world covering the big stories, reporting from the trouble spots. If she could just break the Warren Hastings story, if she could find out what the hell it was all about, it might be the ticket that would get her back on the road again. She'd do anything to get off the features desk and back to real reporting. Hell, if the guy's information was good, she'd damn well pay him out of her own pocket.