Blue Lantern (21 page)

“It takes a while to get used to the money, but you'll want it. And need it.”

“I've told you, I don't want it.”

The crevices in Flinn's puffed face darkened. “I've bought you, boy. Bought you, and paid for you. Do as you're told. You'll have a good career. Step out of line and you'll find yourself in shit street. Think about it.”

Flinn threw the package on the bed. He slammed the door behind him as he went out, and the noise echoed down the corridor like an artillery shot.

Brodie looked at the packet lying by his pillow. He reached out and felt the thickness of the bundle of notes inside. The feel of the money suddenly evoked a desire like sexual desire. Even as he was disgusted with himself, he wondered what he might buy.

Brodie was on daylight patrols with his squad, but he took time to visit the crime laboratory at Victoria HQ, to examine the remains of the bomb – a torn plastic bowl, and a few jagged pieces of cast iron.

“That's all there is, I'm afraid. Not much help,” Askew, the chief chemist, said.

“Do you know this kind of bomb?”

“Sure. Plastic explosive in a container, with bolts and nuts and nails around it. Simple. Deadly at close quarters. I don't have to tell you that.”

“And the detonator?”

Askew fingered his short beard. “Ah, that's different. You know the usual detonation is by interference with the package. As far as we can work out, this one had a delay mechanism operated by acid eating through wires.”

He held up a twisted metal capsule.

“So, easier for the terrorist to place.”

“Right. But the actual time delay isn't accurate.”

“Difficult to disarm.”

“Dangerous to even attempt it. Your mate was unlucky.”

“Where does the stuff originate?”

“The plastic explosive is a Chinese version. And the detonator. But the whole thing is put together here.”

“Any idea where? I mean, anything from the bits you have?”

“I'm sorry, nothing,” he said, turning over the piece of plastic bowl which Brodie could see was imprinted with a manufacturer's name.

“Where can I go from here?”

“I don't like your chances,” Askew said, adjusting his spectacles. “Special Branch have all the intelligence on bomb factories. It's a dead end unless they know something.”

Brodie went to see Parker at his anonymous office in Central District. He said he was curious. “Is anybody likely to be arrested for this?”

Parker was only too pleased to dilate. “Nobody's ever been convicted of planting a bomb. Stands to reason. Who sees a creep who leaves a packet on the seat of a bus or in a lavatory? We've had convictions for being an accessory to making devices. If we can tie somebody in to making this, OK. Otherwise, forget it.”

“It's disappointing.”

“Sure, and all the bits of the Sherwin bomb that we have are commonplace or untraceable.”

“The plastic container was locally made, and has the maker's name imprinted on it,” Brodie said, showing the name he had copied from the fragment in Askew's hands.

“I've seen the remains. Every little family in the Colony has a bowl like that.”

“So it's a closed file.”

“Not at all. It's part of our bank of information, we're looking all the time, and if anything comes up, I'll let you know.”

Brodie accepted that Parker was talking sense, but it made him feel better to go on pushing. He borrowed the piece of the bowl from a reluctant Askew, found the address, and visited the small plastic extrusion factory in Kowloon which made it.

Inside, the factory looked like a lithograph of a nineteenth century mill in England; it was dark, wet and noisy, with unprotected rotating machinery, and ankle-deep litter on the stone floor. The extrusion machines pumped like artificial hearts, squeezing out buckets and brush handles endlessly. The shop floor manager, an astute Indian, took some care, and pride, to identify the container as one from a run of defective products. All reject mouldings were sold to a dealer.

Brodie got the name of the dealer, and located him. He had a big shed at Lok Hin Lane, Tsuen Wan, full of second-hand and rejected hardware of all kinds. At first, the dealer, a bowed old man with a wispy beard and a peaceful smile, denied knowledge of the line of bowls; it was instinctive. Dealing with a Blue Lantern could not bring good luck. When Brodie offered the dealer a hundred dollars, his memory returned; he consulted his stock sheets, and named a hawker who bought the consignment.

Brodie's squad prowled the hawker's territory around Sham Shui Po, and after two days found him. He had a cart of old hardware, and used car parts, displayed in an alley. Sergeant Lam questioned the hawker while Brodie watched, seeing the man's deep fear. He had a tall, concave frame, and dirty clothing; fear seemed to increase his concavity.

Brodie waited in the Land Rover, seeing the end to his enquiries. The street stank of sewage. Dust from a construction site blew though the vehicle, coating the dashboard.

“Money?” Brodie asked, when Sergeant Lamb returned.

“No. He afraid to cooperate.”

“Arrest him for possession of stolen property,” Brodie said.

The hawker was handcuffed, and brought to the Land Rover.

“He fears for the security of his wares,” Sergeant Lam said.

“Good point,” Brodie said.

He crossed the road with two constables, and kicked out the trestle which supported the cart at one end. The contents spilled into the alley, rope, lamps, tins, tools. Some ball-bearings rolled into the crowd, and were seized by the children. Brodie made a sign to his men to overturn the cart.

“Sir,” Sergeant Lam called from the vehicle. “He says he is very poor and will tell all if you let him make his goods safe.”

Brodie and Sergeant Lam argued with the hawker for half an hour. The dust settled on Brodie's hair. They learned little, but perhaps enough. The bowls had been sold to three buyers in separate lots, and the most identifiable appeared to be a foki who worked at the Mei Foo restaurant in the Walled City. He had bought fifty.

When Brodie told Andy Marsden that night on the phone what he had learned, Marsden was quick to say Brodie could go no further.

“The Walled City is taboo.”

“I could have a look at the Mei Foo.”

“I know Sherwin was your mate, but you're getting it out of proportion. This is an edgy time, and a police unit loose in the Walled City could start trouble.”

“Special Branch aren't doing anything.”

“This isn't the time to play Sherlock Holmes with plastic buckets. Put in a report to them. Don't go further yourself.”

“They won't do anything.”

“Because I'd guess they are working round the clock on the leads they have.”

“I might be virtually handing them the address of a bomb factory.”

“Mike, leave it.”

When Brodie put the telephone down he wondered what would happen if he put in a report. There'd be a delay while it was considered. The factory, if there was one, might be moved on. Another possibility was to speak to Parker. But Parker wouldn't take an official interest. He was an organisation man. The final option was to press on, as far as he could, himself. He had a sense of outrage at the sheer unfairness of the bomb.

The sound of water lapping against the hull of the
Pacific Cloud
, and the gentle movement of the yacht induced a pleasant somnolence in Brodie. He was sitting in the cabin, which was comfortably equipped for lounging when the boat was not in racing trim. Helen was with him. He had given her a tour of inspection, having familiarised himself with the craft on two sailing afternoons with Harold Evans. The
Pacific Cloud
was moored in the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club marina. It was nearly dark. The marina was deserted, and they were alone.

Helen was interested in the boat, and he thought she understood at least as much as he did about the radar and electronic navigation devices. After their inspection they had made love in the tiny forecastle bunkroom, and lay on the bunks, while she peeled and fed him lychees that she had bought.

Brodie had used all his ingenuity to borrow the apartments of acquaintances so that they could meet. On the odd occasion when he had a place for more than a night, they would stay over if they could. It was an uncomfortable time trying to coordinate their different duties, but they were able to spend some uninterrupted mornings and even whole days together. The memories of bare bedrooms, in empty apartments, were of no more importance to them than the wrapping paper on a gift. Their love making had developed from hungry lust, to more sensitive passion. Brodie's craving for Vanessa, once so raw, had been been assuaged.

The hull swayed gently. Brodie returned to what was obsessing him. He told Helen of his detective work on Paul Sherwin's killers.

“Why go against the usual procedures?” she asked.

Ethics, professional procedures, lines of communication – these were areas she knew about from her work

“I don't believe they'll find the culprits. They're too slow. Too bureaucratic. They're following their own agenda.”

“You should leave it to them.”

“I owe it to Paul.”

“And yourself? You want revenge?”

“No. It's not personal in that way.”

He hesitated to explain himself fully, worried about inflicting yet another scratch on the sheen of their relationship. There was a silence between them. They were sitting apart, spread on the padded benches on each side of the narrow cabin. The tide sucked at the hull. The rigging tinked against the aluminium mast in the breeze. He couldn't see her expression clearly in the fading light.

She rose and placed herself gently beside him, and smoothed her hand over his brow. He saw Helen balanced, for or against him. He had kept his tongue still about her betrothal after his initial outburst, but he had lost the hope of containing her. She was treating him as he had treated all women except her, as no more than a sexual object. He thought he was still a creature of darkness for her, a foreign devil, not yet entered into her mythology of human beings.

16

Brodie had been warned about the sensitivity of the Walled City while he was in training; one of those anomalies of government which delight students of politics.

The ‘City' was not strictly walled, and was a few acres of run-down buildings, situated on Boundary Street, at the landward end of Kai Tak airport. The simple question was whether or not it was included in the 1898 lease of the New Territories to Britain. This was a point on which the British administration, and the Chinese differed. In practice, the police limited their incursions into the City to serious crimes, and the residents disregarded the clutter of well-meaning British ordinances, practicing their trades and professions, and selling their goods without regulation.

Brodie calculated that the thread of evidence he had uncovered would never be regarded by the Force as justification for a raid on the Mei Foo. He decided to act with his squad, without reference to the station. His men would raise no question. He pin-pointed the position of the restaurant on a map, and verified that it opened in the afternoon, until the early hours. He therefore decided to strike in the sleepy mid afternoon. Half an hour before three pm he explained his plans to the squad, making it appear that he had received special orders. Apart from the driver, who would stay with the vehicle, they would go in with revolvers and batons. If they made arrests, they would bring the prisoners back in the Land Rover, and some constables might have to walk out of the City.

It was a cool, somnolent afternoon, with fewer people on the streets at this hour. The Land Rover crossed into the Walled City and moved slowly down the lanes avoiding carts, children and old women. In minutes, they were in front of the restaurant. The street was little more than a single cart track, roughly flagged. There were no footpaths. The façade of the Mei Foo was narrow, wood with peeling dark green paint. Two small windows had plastic curtains; a yellow bill of fare rested askew in one.

Brodie had his boot through the flimsy door in moments, and was inside the empty main dining room; the tables were laid with bowls, chopsticks and glasses. A fan turned slowly in the ceiling, stirring the stale smell of countless meals. A door at the back slammed shut as Brodie crossed the floor. Two constables broke the door open with a heavy wooden battering ram. Brodie ran up the stairs. A man was leaving the upper room through a door to the roof. He caught the man around the throat from behind, and Sergeant Lam snapped on the handcuffs. He pushed the man aside, and looked out of the door. A rickety wooden bridge led over the tiles, up a short flight of steps, to another room.

Brodie led his men across the roof, and broke into the room; it room contained nobody, but plenty of evidence of systematic work on two long tables. The squad collected several pounds of powder which could have been an explosive ingredient, plastic bowls similar to those used in the Sherwin bomb, samples of broken castings and nails; jars of what appeared to be different acids, piles of pamphlets and documents in Chinese.

In ten minutes, the squad had transported their prisoner, and specimens of everything relating to bomb-making to the Land Rover, and they were on their way. According to Brodie's watch, the whole operation had taken under thirty minutes. Driving out was like moving through a sleepy village.

At the station, Bravo 2's haul was the subject of intense interest. The word travelled from the duty room, to the offices upstairs where the bosses worked with their wall-charts. Brodie was asked to see the Assistant Commissioner in charge of the district immediately. He laid down his pen, and smoothed a hand over his hair. This was a man whom he had met officially only once, when he arrived at Mongkok.

Brodie went up the stairs, feeling that the fact that he had uncovered real evidence of serious crime, was a shield against the chastisement he would get for not following procedures. AC Macbeth's door was open. He knocked and entered. The room was vast and cool. McBeth a pallid, man with glowing white hair, muffled in a black uniform, seemed far away behind his desk. He indicated a chair.