Hungry Ghost (16 page)

‘Mrs Ng?’ Jill would never, ever, get used to the surname. The sound had no real equivalent in English, a sort of nasal grunt that Westerners just couldn’t cope with. On the occasions she’d been to America or back home to Britain she’d switched to her maiden name when Simon hadn’t been around. It solved a lot of problems.

‘Mrs Ng?’ repeated the amah.

‘Yes, Rose, what is it?’ Rose was one of two Filipina maids who lived in the house, cooking and cleaning and looking after Sophie.

‘The phone isn’t working. There is somebody talking on the line.’

‘A crossed line?’ said Jill. ‘Leave it for a while, Rose, it might sort itself out.’

‘Yes, Mrs Ng. Do you have the shopping list for me?’

‘It’s in the kitchen, Rose. On the table. Is Manny back with the car yet?’

‘Yes,’ said Rose.

‘You might as well go with him, then. And can you buy some more gin, please.’ Rose nodded and left Jill alone in the lounge, curled up on the white leather sofa with the
Hong Kong Standard
.

In Howells’ bedroom in the Holiday Inn the tape reached the end and the recorder automatically clicked off.

After a few minutes the switchboard girl came on the line. ‘Excuse me, Mr Donaldson, are you still using the phone?’ she asked. There was no reply, yet the receiver was definitely off the hook. Probably didn’t want to be disturbed, the girl thought. Strange that it was still connected to an outside line, though. She disconnected it without a second thought.

Howells stopped the car and walked round to open the door for the girl. There was one road that led from the Clearwater Bay Road to Hebe Haven pier. It ended at a row of metal bollards so that cars couldn’t drive on to the pier, but just before were parking bays. His was the only car there. Sophie ran through the bollards, past a long-abandoned canoe that seemed long enough to seat twenty people in single file, propped against a wall.

‘Where is it?’ she asked, squinting out across the shimmering blue sea at the forest of yacht masts. ‘There are so many.’

‘Over there.’ Howells pointed to the left of the pier.

‘Is that it, the wooden one?’

‘Yes,’ said Howells, ‘that’s it. Come on.’

‘It’s small,’ she said. ‘Where is Grandfather?’

‘He’s there. Maybe he’s down below.’

Sophie cupped her hands round her mouth and yelled at the top of her voice. ‘Grandfather . . . we’re here.’ Then she called again in Cantonese, her shrill child’s voice echoing around the beach.

‘Sophie, no,’ said Howells, and grabbed her by the shoulder tightly.

‘Ouch,’ she squealed, ‘you’re hurting me. Let go.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But you mustn’t shout.’

‘But I wanted to let Grandfather know we’d arrived.’

She was quiet now, and there was suspicion in her eyes, the mistrust of a hurt child. An old, balding man was sitting on the edge of the pier on a bleached wooden stool, threading earthworms on to a hook. By his side was a small wooden birdcage and as he impaled the worms he was talking to a small brown bird with a bright red beak.

Howells smiled at the girl. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘that’s our dinghy there.’

He pointed to the jetty nearest the pier, where the little boat bobbed up and down where he’d left it. She looked as if she was going to argue so Howells forced a beaming smile and held her tightly by the hand. He took her back down the pier and along the shore, through a boatyard where large gleaming white cruisers lay cheek by jowl with battered old fishing boats that had seen better days. He let her go first along the wooden planks. From a distance they looked spindly and positively unsafe, a ragbag collection of pieces of wood that had been haphazardly nailed together, but close up he could see that the wood was sound and the nails unrusted, and there was very little give as they walked along.

They reached the dinghy and Howells lifted her in. As he pushed it away from the jetty his arm slipped into the water and his jacket sleeve was soaked. Sophie laughed at his discomfort, her fear forgotten, for a moment at least. He tilted the outboard motor into the surf and tugged at the starter until it kicked into life. Sophie sat at the prow, head over the edge, and trailed her hand in the water as Howells guided the boat towards the junk.

When they got close he cut the engine. He tied the boat up and held it steady while Sophie made her way up the wooden ladder, and quickly followed as she ran down the deck shouting for her grandfather. She went down below, past the galley, through the main cabin and into the bedroom, where Howells caught up with her. She turned round and ran into him, then stepped back, a look of panic on her face.

‘Where is he? Where is my grandfather?’ she screamed, tears brimming in her eyes.

Howells pressed his forefinger against his lips. ‘Shh,’ he said softly. ‘There’s nothing to cry about.’

Sophie began sobbing and backed away from Howells until she was up against the bed.

‘Who are you?’ she said haltingly between sobs. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘You have to stay with me for a while,’ he said. ‘Not for long, but you have to stay on the boat.’

He stepped forward and stroked the top of her head. Sophie flinched. She was suddenly furious with herself. Her mother had told her time and time again never to go with strangers, and once a policeman had come to the school and given a talk about what to do if someone tried to make you go with them. There were bad men who wanted to hurt children, he had said, but he’d never said why or what it was that they did. Neither had her mother. They’d never said why, only that she was never to trust strangers – but Miss Quinlan had said it was all right. Sophie began to shake uncontrollably.

She couldn’t look up at Howells; she didn’t want to see his face. In a quiet, trembling voice she said: ‘Please don’t hurt me.’

Howells smiled down at her and ran his hand down her soft, blonde hair to the nape of her neck. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he soothed. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

The phone rang out, the sudden noise surprising Jill. She uncurled her legs and padded over the parquet floor to the black wooden sideboard. So much for the phone not working, she thought, lifting the receiver. God save me from stupid amahs. It was Simon, inviting her out to lunch at the Excelsior Hotel, and she accepted eagerly. It’d give her the chance to take the new Porsche out for a run; at this time of the day there wouldn’t be much traffic using the cross-harbour tunnel.

She changed quickly, choosing clothes that she knew he’d like, and three-quarters of an hour later she was in the Grill Room. Simon was already seated at the corner table and halfway through his Perrier water when Jill arrived, slightly out of breath, with the head waiter in tow.

He stood and kissed her on the cheek. ‘You look fabulous,’ he said in Cantonese.

‘You flatterer,’ she replied, also in Cantonese. ‘You are twice a liar. I look a mess and you have been waiting for some time. But thank you for lying so beautifully.’

The waiter raised his eyebrows, impressed with her fluency, and held the chair for her as she sat down.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ he said, in English.

‘Campari and soda,’ she said, her eyes on her husband. For the millionth time she marvelled at how good-looking he was. There really wasn’t anything she didn’t like about him physically. His hair was thick and black and his eyes a deep brown, his teeth strong and white, his shoulders broad and his skin the same light brown colour as a cocker spaniel her parents had owned in her childhood. His hands were squarish and strong; she could always feel their suppressed strength when he touched her, yet he’d never once hurt her, physically or mentally. He was immaculately dressed as usual, a black light-weight wool suit with a faint grey pinstripe running through it and a white shirt with his Hong Kong Club tie. His shoes were shining and she knew he’d gone to his regular shoe-shine boy, a wrinkled old man whose patch was in an alley near the Mandarin Hotel.

She’d learnt a lot from living with Simon Ng, not the least being the way her dress sense had improved. There was no doubt that was partly because as his wife she had a hell of a lot more money at her fingertips and several gold credit cards and charge accounts, but it was also as a result of going shopping with him. He had a good eye for design, always insisted on buying the best, and he knew what suited Jill. It had been hard for her to admit at first, but after a while she came to realize that on the occasions she met people when she was wearing an outfit he’d chosen the compliments came thick and fast. When she dressed in clothes she herself had chosen nothing was said. Under his guidance she’d gradually changed her whole wardrobe, and now it consisted mainly of the sort of names she’d only read about in the fashion magazines before she got married – Chanel, Kenzo, Charles Jourdan. She’d also acquired his love of expensive accessories. She had more than a dozen watches and three times as many rings, though she wore only one chain around her neck, a thick strand of seamless gold that he’d given her when Sophie was born.

Today she was wearing a beige silk two-piece suit that stopped just below her knee; she carried a small matching Gucci bag and had her hair tied back with a small black bow, the way he liked it. She enjoyed dressing up for him. She was even wearing the white suspenders he liked, though he wouldn’t see them. Until later. Her drink arrived and Simon raised his glass to her, the way he always did.

‘To the prettiest girl in Hong Kong,’ he said.

She snorted. ‘I wish,’ she said. ‘I’m way past the age when I can be called a girl.’

‘You’ll have to excuse my lousy English,’ he joked. A waiter handed them menus. ‘What would you like?’ Simon asked.

‘You choose,’ she said. ‘You know what I like.’

He ordered for her and waited until the waiter had left before speaking.

‘I have to go to Beijing next week,’ he said.

‘Again? You were there last week.’

He shrugged. ‘Business,’ he said. ‘You know how it is.’

She knew. Jill knew all too well the business he was in, she’d known about his triad activities long before she married him. She’d known of them and she’d accepted them. She loved the man and so turned a blind eye to the comings and goings at their home, to her husband’s frequent absences, the late-night phone calls, the ever-present bodyguards. The papers were filled with stories about triad killings, drug seizures, raids on under-age brothels, the bread and butter of the criminal empires, but even though she knew Simon was head of one of the most successful triads she didn’t believe that he was personally involved in the violence. He was always so gentle and considerate with her, and when she watched him with Sophie her heart ached.

She reached over and stroked his hand on the table. ‘Must you go?’

He nodded.

‘Why Beijing?’ she asked. ‘Surely there’s no business to be done there, not now.’

He pulled his hand away and there was a coldness in his eyes. ‘It’s business, Jill. Just leave it at that.’

It was always this way, Jill thought. He gave her everything she could want, he protected her and took care of her and he loved her, but there was a part of him that would be always unattainable and sometimes that frightened her. Her link with Simon Ng went back less than a decade, but the Ng family had ruled the traid for centuries. Jill often wondered what would happen if she pushed him to make a choice – her or the triad? She’d never put it to the test, because in her heart of hearts she knew which he would choose – and she could not bear to lose him.

She smiled and stroked his cheek. ‘I just miss you so much when you’re away,’ she said, ‘that’s all.’

He took her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing it softly. His eyes warmed and he squeezed her. ‘I won’t be long. And I’ll bring you back a present,’ he said.

The room was just as he’d left it when Howells returned. He replaced the receiver and put the tape recorder in the drawer of the bedside table. He stripped off his clothes, dropped them on to the bed and walked naked to the shower.

Later, as he sat on the bed wrapped in one of the hotel’s thick white bathrobes, he dialled the number of Ng’s house. It was answered on the third ring and a female Filipina voice recited the number in a sing-song voice. Howells asked to speak to Simon Ng and was told he wasn’t at home.

‘Is Mrs Ng there?’ asked Howells.

Again he was told no. When would they be back? She didn’t know. Howells hung up and lay back on the bed, fingers intertwined behind his neck, legs crossed at the ankles.

He waited a full two hours before calling the Ng house again. The Filipina girl answered again, and this time she said that yes, Mrs Ng was at home. She asked who was calling and he said Inspector Holt. He waited while the amah relayed the message to her mistress and handed her the receiver.

‘Nick,’ she said. ‘How are you feeling?’

Howells was caught off guard. The last thing he’d expected was for the woman to know the copper he’d taken the ID from. He sat bolt upright on the bed, his mouth open and his mind racing.

‘Nick, are you there?’

Part of Howells wanted to slam the phone down while he got his act together, but he realized that wouldn’t solve anything, he’d only have to call back. All that mattered was that he spoke to Simon Ng; it didn’t matter who he said he was or whether or not the stupid cow knew the copper or not.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Ng, I think you’ve got the wrong person. I’m trying to get hold of your husband.’

‘He’s not here at the moment. Didn’t you say your name was Holt? Inspector Holt?’

‘When will he be back?’

‘I really can’t say. Look, who is calling?’

‘It is important that I get in touch with him, Mrs Ng. Does he have a mobile phone or a pager, or do you know where he is?’

‘Is something wrong?’

Everything was going wrong, thought Howells. She was suspicious, Simon Ng wasn’t there and in all probability she’d be on the phone to the real Inspector Holt as soon as he was off the line.