Hungry Ghost (30 page)

There was a flagstoned area in front of the main doors to the house where his father waited for him, hands locked behind his back as he looked out across the harbour.

Tse and Lin stopped at the end of the path, leaving Ng to walk alone across the flagstones to his father. Only at the last minute did the old man take his eyes off the ships in the harbour below and smile at his son.

‘You look well, Kin-ming.’

‘And you, Father.’ The old man steadfastly refused to use his sons’ English names, and they had given up trying to persuade him otherwise.

The old man had reached the age where the passing of the years seemed to have no effect on him. His hair had all but disappeared and his skin was mottled with dark brown liver spots, but there were few wrinkles on his face. He was a small man, with round shoulders and slightly bowed legs, the sort of man who always received poor service in shops and hotels until people discovered who he was. It was partly the old man’s fault; he had never been one to wear his wealth. His clothes were always cheap and off-the-peg, his watch was a simple wind-up steel model that was at least thirty years old, and he preferred sandals to shoes. The only jewellery he wore was a thin gold wedding ring. At a conservative estimate his father was worth US$250 million, but he looked like a hawker, spoke guttural Cantonese with a thick mainland accent and could only manage broken English.

The old man kept his hands clasped behind his back and made no move to touch Thomas. That was his way. He could barely remember the last time they had touched, let alone hugged each other. His father was not a physical man, not a toucher, and he always hid his emotions. Even now he seemed placid and at ease, despite the reason for the visit. He had looked the same way at his wife’s funeral some ten years earlier and had looked scornfully at the tears in the eyes of his sons. Thomas had heard him later that night though, alone in his bedroom on the top floor of the house, crying softly and repeating his wife’s name over and over again. Thomas had felt more love for him then than he had ever done before, but he stayed where he was at the bedroom door, unable to walk in and hold his father. He knew that if he had, the old man would never have forgiven him, and he had crept silently back down the stairs.

‘Walk with me,’ his father said, and turned along the path that ran by the side of the house. The path was narrow and it wasn’t until it reached a flight of steps set into the hillside and reinforced with slats of wood that they could walk side by side. The steps led to a wide strip of grass surrounded by ornate flower beds. In front of one knelt one of the six old gardeners who toiled to keep the estate in pristine condition. They were paid a pittance, and were now at the age where they worked out of loyalty to the old man and love of the gardens. They lived in a small row of huts behind the pool changing-rooms, along with the three Filipina maids who looked after the house. There were also half a dozen Red Poles assigned to look after the old man. Ng had only seen the two at the gate but he knew that at least two more would be close by, shadowing them as they walked.

They moved in silence through a circle of alternating stone herons and turtles, all looking up at the sky, and clumps of bushes that gave off a heady perfume that made Ng’s head swim.

The path led to the two flights of steps, one meandering down to a tarmac tennis court at the far side of the house, the other angling sharply up. The old man gripped the wooden rail of the steps that went up and began to climb, rolling slightly from side to side like a sailor unused to dry land. Ng followed behind, out of breath.

‘Not tired, are we, Kin-ming?’

‘No Father,’ said Ng. The old bastard was doing it deliberately, to show how fit and strong he was.

There were eighty-eight steps, a lucky number – unless you were out of breath and had a rapidly expanding waistline. At the top were two red and gold pagodas, left and right, each containing a large circular stone table surrounded by four stools. Beyond the pagodas were two long single-storey buildings, red-painted wood with tiled roofs, where the old man would play mah jong or cards late into the night with his cronies, or table tennis with Thomas, Simon and Charles when they were young. The buildings were either side of a courtyard the size of a basketball court where the old man practised t’ai chi every morning, and where the boys had learnt kung fu with a succession of teachers. It was a play area, a training area; and a place to come and enjoy the view. It was the highest point of the estate, bar a few yards of sloping hillside which ended at the boundary wall, and it had been Thomas’ favourite spot, until their mother had died, and his father had decided to put her grave on the edge of the courtyard, facing the steps. And not just a grave; the edifice he had built was a monument to her, a huge stone dome inscribed with gold Chinese characters standing on a metre-high podium. It dominated the area, and while it could not be seen from the house below, Ng was constantly aware that his mother was buried there. What made it worse was that his father had decided that he also wanted to be buried there, next to her in the tomb. His father had stipulated so in his will, but Thomas knew that once the old man had died the site would be redeveloped as soon as possible if he had his way.

The old man ambled over to the right-hand pagoda and sat on one of the stools, motioning for Thomas to take the seat next to him. They were both facing the harbour and they sat in silence watching the ships, junks and ferries criss-crossing the blue waters and the stream of planes landing and taking off from Kai Tak.

‘You are watching the airport,’ the old man said eventually, and it was not a question.

‘And the ports,’ said Thomas. ‘We are photographing every gweilo who leaves. Once we know what he looks like we will check all the pictures, and we will know whether or not he has left. If he has left there is nowhere in the world where he can hide.’

The old man nodded. ‘But you think he is still here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Because of Sophie?’

‘Whatever has happened to Simon, and we are still not sure exactly what has happened, it is the work of a professional. And professionals do not kill children.’

‘In the past, maybe. But the world is different now. They blow up planes, they plant bombs in shops.’

‘Terrorists, Father, they are terrorists. What has happened to Simon is different. The man who attacked him was a professional. That is another reason we think he will still be in Hong Kong.’

‘The fee?’

Ng nodded. ‘He is a gweilo so it cannot be personal. He must have been paid to do the job, and killers are not usually paid in full in advance.’

They lapsed into silence again, and despite the unlined and unworried features of his father’s face Ng knew that he was deeply troubled. Once more he wanted to reach out and hold him, to offer comfort, but the fear of rejection preyed on his mind and he held himself back. In the gardens below a peacock screamed, the sudden noise making the old man jump.

‘Are we sure the gweipor will be able to identify the gweilo?’ he asked.

Ng shrugged and admitted that there was no way they could be certain that the man had been captured on videotape or that Miss Quinlan would be able to spot him. ‘But it is our best hope,’ he said.

‘And when we know what he looks like, how do we find him?’

‘We search for him, Father. We search every house, every hotel, every boat, every single place where he could hide. There are only 50,000 or so gweilos in Hong Kong, plus tourists. It will take time, but it will not be impossible.’

‘There is one thing you seem to have overlooked, though. It will mean moving into territories controlled by other triads, areas where we are not allowed to operate. You must move carefully, Kin-ming. Large numbers of our men in other triad territories could start a war.’

‘Unless we tell them first.’

‘That is what I was thinking,’ said the old man, smiling for the first time. ‘I have arranged for the triad Dragon Heads to come here tonight, to Golden Dragon Lodge. I will have to explain what has happened, and ask for their understanding.’

‘And will you get it?’

‘We will have to,’ said his father. ‘Tonight I will ask them to take part in the ceremony of Burning The Yellow Paper. I do not think they will refuse.’

A cat stalked out of the undergrowth behind the pagoda and began rubbing its back against the old man’s legs. There were dozens of cats roaming virtually wild on the estate. All were fed each morning, but were not allowed inside the house. Ng’s father reached down and picked it up and placed it in his lap where he stroked its head. The cat purred loudly and closed its eyes, pushing up against the hand and arching its back, tail upright.

‘Father, do you have any idea why anyone would want to kill Simon? Is the triad in any sort of conflict here in Hong Kong?’

The old man kept his eyes on the cat and said no, each triad was now concentrating on its own dominion, and apart from the occasional power struggle or territorial dispute, most were simply getting on with making as much money as possible before 1997.

‘At first it looked like a straightforward kidnapping,’ said Ng. ‘But the gweilo made no attempt to take the money. I think we must assume that it was Simon he wanted.’

The old man sighed deeply through his nostrils. ‘Your brother did not tell me everything he was doing. He still had the impetuosity of youth, and there were some things I had to find out for myself.’

‘Such as?’

‘Things that were outside the normal business of the triad.’

There were times when the old man could be infuriatingly obtuse, but Ng kept a tight grip on his impatience. He resisted the urge to keep asking questions and waited for his father to tell him in his own time.

The cat had tired of being stroked and it jumped to the ground and disappeared into the bushes.

‘It used to be so much simpler,’ the old man said. ‘So uncomplicated. You took what you could, you defended what you had, and you made money. Now everything is political: the Government, China, you and your businesses overseas. The British should never have given Hong Kong back to China. A benign dictatorship it might have been, but it was a system under which everyone prospered.’

‘The British have been good, that is true,’ agreed Ng. ‘They even introduced us to the opium on which our fortunes are based,’ he added with more than a touch of irony.

‘And they have given it all away. A curse on them.’

‘They had no choice, Father. The lease ran out in 1997.’

The old man snorted. ‘Only the lease on the New Territories. The island was theirs for ever. The Chinese could never have taken it back. It belonged to the British legally, by treaty.’

Ng couldn’t see where this Form Five history lesson was heading, but he played along with his father anyway. ‘Hong Kong island cannot survive without the New Territories, it is too small; all it has are houses for the gweilos and office towers. The British got the best deal they could. Fifty years of stability after 1997.’

‘That is what your brother said. And look what happened to him.’

Ng was confused now, he could see no connection between 1997 and his brother. Simon had never been one to get involved in politics, he was a triad leader pure and simple.

‘Your brother kept telling me that there was only one way for us to survive after 1997, and that was for us to forge links with Beijing now, to gain favours from the Communists that would be repaid after they took control of Hong Kong.’

‘The Communists are not to be trusted,’ said Ng flatly. ‘They make easy promises but rarely keep them.’

‘I told your brother that, but he would not listen. Even after what the madmen did in Tiananmen Square. Even after the children were butchered. He had begun travelling regularly to Beijing, meeting highly placed cadres, and he entertained them when they came to Hong Kong – entertained them like kings; the best food, the best wine, the best of our girls. But that wasn’t enough for them.’

‘What did they want from him? From the triad?’

‘Information. Intelligence. On the police, on the triads, on Special Branch. On the drugs business, the protection rackets, everything. The Chinese want to know how Hong Kong operates, the good points and the bad.’

‘And Simon told them?’

‘Not everything, of course. He was playing a dangerous game, telling them enough to win their trust but trying not to give away our secrets. He argued that someone would give them the information, so it might as well be us.’

‘He had struck a deal with them?’

The old man cleared his throat noisily and spat on to the grass. ‘Not a deal. “An understanding” was how he described it. He understood that if he helped them now and co-operated with them after 1997, the triad would be allowed to prosper.’

Ng snorted. ‘And he believed them? He is so naïve.’

‘He was doing what he thought was best for the triad and for the family.’

‘How many times have I told you, the way to go is into legitimate businesses, to turn our backs on the old ways. We should be moving into retailing, to transport, to property. At least property developers do not have each other killed.’

His father turned to look at him with cold brown eyes. ‘Now who is being naïve, Kin-ming,’ he said softly. Ng flushed, he was not used to being spoken to as if he were a child. He waved his hand in front of his face as if to brush away an annoying insect.

‘You know what I mean, Father.’

The old man’s face softened into a smile. ‘I know what you mean. You must forgive an old man’s tongue. Today has not been a good day.’ That was the nearest he would come to admitting the pain he was feeling, Ng knew. He reached out and put his hand on top of his father’s; the skin felt wrinkled but soft and cold, like a piece of tripe. Ng squeezed his father’s fingers gently, then withdrew his hand before the old man had the chance to show disapproval or otherwise at the show of affection.