The Dragon's Tale: A Jack Lauder Thriller (14 page)

     “I’ve taken the day off today, Jack, ” Amie reminded him. “Moriarty’s not in.”

    “I remember you saying.” He didn’t let on that he already knew that her boss was in the middle of an assignation with some fairly unsavoury characters. “Great! Am I being presumptuous to think we might spend the afternoon together?”

     “Not at all!”

     “Fantastic! What do you suggest? I’m game for just about anything. I couldn’t think of anyone’s company I’d rather enjoy.”

     “We could do anything. There’s a lot more to see, a lot that has changed since you were last here.”

     “We could do a bit of sight-seeing and then go for dinner.”

     “We could.” She sounded doubtful. “I will have to go home at some point though. I expect a call from my cousin.”

     “This is the one in Macao?”

     "Yeah. I haven't spoken to him yet, but he left a message on my answer phone. He’ll ring me tonight, so I should be able to find out what you want to know.  About 8 o'clock or so?”

      “Maybe I can come over and pick you up around then?”

     “Why don't we do that? Go out on Kowloon side!”

     “Gaddis?”

     “You do have expensive tastes!”

     “I don’t know whether you only live once but I do know only once is guaranteed.”

     She laughed. “So full of philosophy, Jack! But you’ll need to know where I live.”

     “I know. Mei Foo,” he said.

     “You know Mei Foo?”

     “Mei Foo and I are old acquaintances.”

     “You’re full of surprises. Tell you what I’d like to do first?”

     “Go on.”

     “Take a look at Gerry’s apartment.”

     “Really? I thought you’d been there.”

     “I have but not for the same reason.”

      “Ah.” He didn’t mention that she had answered another question.

      He was worried too she’d pick up the scent of the other woman around the place, rather as one tigress can sense another. If she did sense it, she gave no sign of caring, because she was on a mission of her own. It made him think of Krakatoa! The only oriental volcano he could think of.

     Amie left around 4 pm promising to see him again that evening and he went for a jog on the Repulse Bay sands with a swim to follow. He was curiously self-satisfied but at the same time he had a sense of doom. He was worried about the thin veneer of a truce with K.K. Chow, but it wasn’t just that. It was the fact that things were going so well, far better than he’d ever imagined when setting off here, and he feared them changing for the worse. The high he’d got from winning Peter’s case had followed him here and, like the storm which was still somewhere out at sea, the high was always followed by a low.

     Later that evening he took a cab through the Cross-harbour tunnel to Mongkok and walked across the square between the blocks towards Amie’s flat. He didn’t have any real recollection of Mei Foo, even though he’d been here that once previously. One Chinese housing estate looks very much like another - rows of concrete monoliths - but one thing which distinguishes them from their British counterparts is the absence of graffiti and rubbish. Children playing in the square looked at Jack curiously. No matter how common Europeans were in the city, obviously they didn’t see many of them here. He took the lift to the twelfth floor and knocked on Amie’s door.  To his surprise it was open. He was reluctant to barge in but eventually plucked up the courage.  The rooms were tiny.  A writing desk in one corner bore an envelope. She had started to write out his address but she’d made a mistake.  There was nothing else there so maybe she’d redone it and posted the letter? He called her name; there was no response.  He crossed to the bedroom.  It was tidy; everything was normal. Feeling like an intruder, he looked around.  The bed was a water-bed.  Mildly amused he sat down on it, feeling it move beneath him. On a dressing table was a selection of lipsticks, face powder, eye make-up.  On the stool in front of it underwear was neatly folded. The cheong-sam she’d worn on the night of the festival hung on a coat hanger on the wardrobe door.  He listened for a few moments.  Children shouted in the courtyard and a hum came from the flat next door, probably a television or radio.  As his ears became accustomed to the environment he heard running water.  It was slow, just a trickle, but there was a tap running. 

     The bathroom door was shut so he knocked. There was no response. He opened it and looked in then recoiled in shock. In the bath, under crimson water, lay a woman’s nude body. “No!” Almost involuntarily, the cry escaped his lips and he moved forward, grabbed the hair and lifted the hideously white head out of the water. It had already distended Amie’s face to a degree which made it unrecognisable and the flesh was peculiar, rubbery.  Across the neck a slash wound, several inches deep, gaped like obscene lips. He dropped it hurriedly back into the murky water and nearly gagged. He fought the urge to run. As his head cleared he looked round for signs of struggle.  He saw none. Nothing had been ransacked.   

     Pulling himself together he located a telephone in the hallway and rang Graham Witherspoon, a cool, sane head in a crisis. The Australian’s jovial tone turned to one of incredulity. "Struth!" he exclaimed, "Jack, stay there.  Don't move!  I'll come across. Let me call the cops. Don‘t you do it!" Jack thanked him, his words like a whisper, hoarse in his throat.  He couldn't bring himself to go back into the bathroom.  Instead he walked into the bedroom. Without thinking he opened the bureau drawer. In it was an envelope full of photographs.

     On automatic pilot, he began to leaf through the shots, the usual family scenes and a few landscapes as well. Then he saw something familiar: a picture of a man staring out from a promontory over a slate-coloured sea. He’d been to seaside places with Amie but not this one. He was looking at a photograph of himself on Cullernose Point the night he'd been waylaid by a masked attacker. Numbed by this second shock of the evening, he stuffed the photograph in his pocket so the cops wouldn’t find it. Nosing around now with greater intent he found the perfect replica of the ninja uniform which one of the would-be assassins had worn on the same cliff top. Time then passed very quickly and he scarcely had the energy to think before Graham arrived with the R.H.K.P.  "What has this got to do with you?"  the Inspector asked.  

     "Nothing that I know of," he lied and he gave a brief explanation of how he knew Amie and what he was doing there, careful however not to mention Gerry Montrose, whose name seemed to be a red rag to a bull for anyone in an official position. He escaped any further grilling only through Graham's influence.

     Later, when the police had finished with him, Graham drove him home and patted him on the shoulder as he got out of his Rover. Promising he'd be okay, he could see a homily about cross-cultural relationships coming so he cut the Aussie short. It was bad enough that he felt responsible for Amie’s death. Even if he couldn’t work out what she had been doing on that remote Northumbrian beach he couldn’t believe she had meant to harm him. If I had never come here, would she still be alive, he wondered?

     Guilt is a peculiar thing. Even if you can console yourself rationally that it can’t be down to you, it is impossible to escape the emotional idea that you are actually responsible for everything that goes wrong around you. Anyway, whether or not such thoughts were a million miles from the truth and whatever that truth was, it was time for Jack to make himself scarce. There was nothing for him in Hong Kong now. All roads led to Manila.

PART 3

CHAPTER 1

     The city of Manila stretches from Manila Bay to the Sierra Madre foothills and is four cities in one: Manila, Caloocan, Pasey and Quezon.  Travelling in a taxi from the airport down Roxas Boulevard Jack struck up a conversation with the driver, who took pride in pointing out some of the most expensive nightclubs in the world. He assumed Jack was there for the clubbing. "You'll be going there, eh?" he asked, pointing at the swish hacienda-like building of the racy boulevard. His English was good. The American military had long had bases here and the Americans usually tried to build up the infrastructure of any country they occupied, even if it was only to promote the dubious virtues of the American way of life, the first of which was that everything and everyone had a price.

     "I don't think so," Jack said.

     "You here on business?" the driver asked.

     "Actually, I'm looking for a friend."

     "You looking for a friend in this city? Like looking for a fish in the sea." 

     Jack smiled. The stories of the friendliness of the Philippines people were legendary and the driver, whose name was Romy, proudly added that everyone in the Philippines now enjoyed free speech and a free press.  He had been one of several hundred political prisoners freed by Cory Aquino after her election. He was talking about the 1986 elections and the downfall of Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos, whose rod-of-iron-rule over this country had been accompanied by evidence of some of the worst corruption in the history of the world and had seen many dissenters thrown under lock and key without trial. The crack beat any Jack could remember in a taxi ride. Hong Kong taxi drivers are monosyllabic and Geordies want you to know your life history. There’s a happy medium somewhere and he’d just found it in Manila. Eventually, the vehicle pulled up at the Hyatt Regency from which the views across Manila Bay took the breath away.  An American aircraft carrier was lying at anchor, the sun going down behind it.  The air was so hot and thick you could cut it like a loaf. Jack gave Romy a handsome tip and the driver promised to return the next day to show him the sights.

     "I haven't got that much time for sights," Jack said, "I must try and find my friend, but it would be helpful for me to have some transport.  Perhaps I could hire you for the day tomorrow? I imagine your local knowledge will save me from a lot of mistakes."

     A few minutes after checking in Jack was on the telephone to the American Hotel, asking to speak to Mr Montrose.  The receptionist checked the book.  It took her a few minutes to come back. "There's no one of that name here, sir.”

     "Are you sure?" Jack replied.  "Can you tell me if he’s checked out?"

    She went away and checked again.   "There was someone of that name staying here, sir," she said, "but in fact he went last week."

     "Do you know where?  Did he leave a forwarding address?"

     "I'm sorry, sir. I can‘t give you that information."

     No, of course she couldn’t. Jack rang off and telephoned Graham Witherspoon. He asked if Gerry had returned to Hong Kong and the Assistant-Commissioner said he’d check it out.  About half an hour later he telephoned back. No way was Gerry back in Hong Kong. Jack fell asleep. In a troubled dream two Chinese men dressed in Chairman Mao suits attacked him with choppers.  After a terrible struggle he beat them off and collapsed over a rainwater puddle in the gutter.  His face was reflected in the water and in the jugular side was a gaping wound.  But he was still alive. The dream faded and he fell into a deep sleep.

     Romy was as good as his word. He was waiting outside the next morning. It turned out his name was short for Romeo.  He had a dark sunburnt face, almost Negrito in appearance, but he was taller than the average among those people indigenous to the Philippines. They started off on a tour of the city.  Jack didn’t tell Romy the reason he was looking for Gerry nor that he wasn’t alone in the search but he gave his taxi driver enough to whet his appetite, plus the promise of a fat reward if, with his help, he found his old friend. Jack only realised the hopelessness of the task when he saw the throngs of foreigners walking the streets. “I wish they told me if he’d left an address at the American,” he said.

     “Is that where he was? They wouldn’t help?” Romy pooh-poohed that one straightaway and they headed over there. Romy disappeared into the building and when he returned he said, “We’re in luck, he’s still in the Philippines. He was talking about travelling south but he had some people here to look up first. Seems a friendly enough sort but….”

     “But?”

     “I don’t figure how a nice guy like you knows the type who’d stay at a place like that,” he replied, not looking back but pointing over his shoulder with his thumb.

     “Oh, I can slum it with the best of them,” Jack replied and they both laughed. He sobered swiftly, though, when he thought of Amie’s dead body. No matter how much he might want to hide away, he had no choice; he had to get the job done.

     Romy reasoned that an Australian tourist was more likely to be found in the tourist areas during the daytime than anywhere else. Jack wasn't convinced but he had no better plan so they started off at the walled city, Intramuros, which was laid out in an uneven pentagon, its towering walls breached by seven gates.  In the old days of Manila only the Spanish were allowed to live inside the city. It had been protected by a moat over which the drawbridges were raised at night.  It was all but destroyed during World War II but was now undergoing restoration.  Calm and quiet inside, it compared favourably with the hustle of downtown Manila.

     Next they drove to Fort Santiago overlooking the mouth of the Pasig River.  Its notorious dungeons, the scene of many tortures, lay below the high tidal mark. They went on foot down the Plaza Roma towards Manila Cathedral.  The statue of the Virgin Mary, cast in bronze, stood at the high altar.  Breathtaking in its execution, the cycle of stained glass windows depicted the Virgin's life in brilliant tropical colours. But there was no Gerry and somehow Jack didn‘t think they‘d find him in these places. They toured Rizal Park and drove into the Ermita tourist district then across the river to Chinatown and the gigantic slums of Tondo, a vast shanty-town where people lived in shacks of corrugated iron or burnt out Jeepneys. Even a place as desolate as this had its pecking order. The better off lived on houses built of stilts above the knee-deep mud.  “You wouldn’t find him here,” Romy laughed.

     They toured the coffee shops in Santos and Malate without success. "Aren't there any Australian bars?" Jack asked. Romy looked surprised, as if he should have thought of it, and he nodded.  They did a tour of the Swag Man Bar, the Emu Club, the Boomerang Club, the Kangaroo and the Great Escape. "I'm beginning to think this is a wild goose chase," Jack said. At nightfall they started at the fast food centre on del Pilar and toured the pubs and girlie bars in Ermita.  “Jesus!” Jack said, “Let me out of here!” as Romy led him through the doors of the Hobbit House, a freak show with its dwarf waiters and waitresses. Finally, at the New Aussie Bar, they had a result, although at first it didn’t seem propitious.  Jack showed Gerry’s photograph to the Australian proprietor and he shook his head.

     "You've never seen him?" Jack asked.

      "What's his name, mate?" he replied.

      "Gerry Montrose," Jack said.

     "Gerry Montrose!" he exclaimed.  "My God, he's a beat up looking bugger now, who'd he pay to touch that up?”

     "Well," Jack said doubtfully, "it was taken some years ago, and life’s maybe been a bit tough on him since."

     "A bit tough! He’s had more than a hard paper round," the proprietor retorted, "but sure, yeah, Gerry was here a few days ago.  Tell you where you'll find him mate. Down on Roxas Boulevard, he's a regular down there."

     "Anywhere in particular you think I should try?"

      "Search me mate," the proprietor replied, "can't afford the cover charge myself." He broke off to introduce himself to a group of newcomers: Germans with Filipina women.  Both the men and the women were covered in garlands of flowers.

     "Marriage safari," Romy whispered with a certain reverence mingled with contempt. They got in the car and drove down Roxas Boulevard, past the joggers and people just watching the sun go down over Manila Bay. Huge cargo ships were laid up offshore with the nuclear aircraft carrier and its support vessels.  The mountains of the Bataan Peninsula were bathed in the red-gold rays of the dying sun. They called at the lined up nightclubs, showing Gerry's photograph to the doormen. No one recognised it. Some had heard of him.  He was notorious in the clubs.   The breakthrough came when a doorman told them to go in his club, a group of Australians got in there whom he'd point out later. A chap called Gerry Montrose was one of that group. The floor show inside was different from Hong Kong.  The hostesses perched like exotic birds in gilded cages suspended above the ceiling.  If you called for one to visit your table, she'd be deposited hydraulically in your lap. A group of boisterous Australians came in and the well-greased palm of the doorman signalled just as he’d promised.  Jack sauntered over to the safari suit-clad group. They all looked a little out of date. He introduced himself. "Struth," one of them said, "it's a Pom!"  He looked at Jack as if he was an endangered species.

     "Any of you guys know Gerry Montrose?" Jack asked.

     "Know him?" one of them replied, "He was here a couple of days ago. You're a bit late mate, he's buggered off has old Gerry.  Manila's got too hot for him! What does he owe you? Join the back of the queue!"  They burst into raucous laughter. They were a robust crew, the sort Gerry would hang about with when he was on the hoy.

      "You don't know where he's gone?" Jack asked his informant. “I'm an old friend of his," he added, "we go back a lot of years from early days in Hong Kong."

     "Oh yeah?" and he looked Jack up and down, "Gerry never mentioned any Pom mates.” They laughed again, "but I suppose you’re kosher then.  He was last seen heading down for Mindanao."

     Jack’s heart sank. That gelled with Romy’s information from The American. No sooner did he get a sighting than Gerry disappeared back into the bush. He gritted his teeth and asked, "He took the plane?"

     "If you want to find Gerry, don't take the plane," the Aussie said, "he hates flying!"  His mates all laughed again.

     “I’d have thought it a necessary evil here?”

    “Maybe, maybe, but not if he has a choice. Stand on me, mate.”

     That remark struck Jack as odd. Gerry was one of the world’s great travellers. He’d never been bothered by aeroplanes. Having said that, Jack hadn’t seen him for years. Who knows what had happened to him in the meantime? "Just not the way I remember him," he replied.

    "You weren’t on the last Air Siam flight into Bangkok, mate," the man replied, "he's never been the same since.  Ran out of fuel in mid air, facking wooden bench seats, no straps, he spent the rest of the flight on the crapper!"  They were all creased by now.  "If you want to catch up with Gerry," the man continued, "take the boat.  He could get off anywhere on the way, if the fancy takes him."

     "Or a sheila," the other Australian said.

     “That’s what I mean, the fancy!” the first man nodded, “count on it, he’ll have stopped off a dozen times on the way, let the dog take a leak.” They all fell about again.