Kiss and Die

Chapter 22

‘Tailor, sirs? Copy watches? Copy bags?’ It was the middle of the day and the Indian touts were out in force. They swarmed around the pink-skinned tourists like flies on fresh meat.

The Mansions were at the harbour end of Nathan Road. Nathan Road was the place to get anything made or copied. It was nicknamed the Golden Mile: it glittered, it sparkled, even when it was real it looked fake. It was a great snapshot of Hong Kong. Twenty-foot-high neon signs flashed their adverts. Girls with thigh-high socks and mini skirts chased one another across the linear images. Music videos blared down next to ginseng sellers and noodle bars. The middle of the buildings bulged like saggy pot bellies over the road, weighted with fifty competing neon signs. The back streets were impassable by car.

Shrimp was waiting for him. Mann hadn’t any trouble spotting him – he had slicked his hair back Saturday Night Fever -style and was wearing a vintage black suit, purple shiny shirt, thin black tie.

‘Hello, Boss.’

Mann held him back as he went to walk up the steps. ‘Did you dress especially for this?’

‘Huh?’

‘Never mind.’ Mann smiled to himself.

Shrimp shook his head and followed Mann up the steps to the Mansions.

Within a few paces they were engulfed by the din and chaos of another world. They wound their way through making slow progress amongst the money changers and the touts for guesthouses. The place was like every type of bazaar or busy market, a snapshot of Africa, India, Asia. Together they set up their food stalls side by side blaring out their brand of music. The Mansions belonged to no country. It was its own world under the canopy of fluorescent lighting and overhead pipes. It had corridors like narrow hospital wards. By day the ground floor was crammed with shoppers and stalls selling goods from around the world, food stalls that offered goat and Halal food, all castes, all colours catered for and fed. But there was a tense, precarious harmony.

Mann steered Shrimp through and towards the second set of lifts on the left. ‘We’ll start on the third floor. I have a friend who might be able to help us narrow down the search.’

The lift coming back down was taking its time. They stared at the TV screen above the lift doors. The lift was stopping frequently; people were getting in but then getting out again and sending it on its way. Mann called the security guard over and pointed at the screen. The guard nodded, stepped forward and waited for the lift to arrive.

‘Out of the way, move.’ The security guard pushed the queue back.

The lift stopped; the door opened. A young black woman was unconscious in the corner. The guard stopped people getting in whilst he held the door open for Mann and Shrimp. They knelt beside her. Mann pressed his fore and index finger to the side of her neck.

‘She has a pulse, just.’

Shrimp felt inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a slim plastic pouch. He unclipped the top and opened it out. It had two syringes inside. He tore the plastic off one, pulled off its protective needle cover and pulled up her sleeve.

The queue started grumbling. There were now so many people waiting that single file had become treble. The security guard held his hand up for patience. In this city time meant money, whether you were dying or not. Shrimp injected into the muscle in her upper arm, her bicep. A few minutes later the colour began coming back to her face. She breathed deeply. She opened her eyes and looked at them. She knew instantly what had happened. She tried to stand.

‘You want to wait for an ambulance?’ Mann helped her up.

She shook her head. She staggered forward, leant on the side of the lift wall for just a few seconds and then lurched off towards the mall and was swallowed up by a thousand anonymous people.

‘What did you give her, an opiate blocker?’ asked Mann. They were joined in the lift by twenty others. Mann didn’t bother whispering; out of the nationalities in the lift probably just he and Shrimp spoke Cantonese. With them were three Africans, four Indians and some giggling Filipinas.

‘Yes. Naloxone. I got it when I was in the States. The other is epinephrine – adrenalin. If they’re still breathing you use one. If not, the other.’

They were crammed inside the lift with Africans, Indians and giggling Filipinas. Mann turned to see Shrimp staring at the Africans. They spoke English to one another because they came from different parts of Africa. They were stereotypical in their appearance, striking in their presence; they had ebony skin and bald heads and big muscular bodies. They brought a menacing presence to the area; they were mistrusted because of their colour, their size. Shrimp was still staring at them. Mann smiled to himself as he caught Shrimp looking at their feet. The Africans stopped talking. One of them followed Shrimp’s gaze to his feet and then waited till Shrimp’s eyes came back up to meet his.

Shrimp grinned, embarrassed. ‘Cool trainers.’

The African laughed, deep, guttural, but his eyes showed a menace, a mistrust.

The lift stopped at level three. A strip light flickered above their heads. A cockroach scuttled across the floor. The muted noise of the dishes clanging came from the direction of a kitchen to their right. The Indians got out and disappeared that way. The Africans and giggling Filipinas stayed put. Mann and Shrimp got out with the Indians. The smell of curry greeted them. The landing had three doors. Two were unmarked; the third had a glass panel and above it was a sign: The Delhi Grill golden on a red background.

‘Have you eaten here before, Boss?’ asked Shrimp.

‘Many times. I’m half British remember; we don’t go a week without a curry. But I haven’t been here for a couple of years…’ Mann didn’t finish that sentence. It should have ended: ‘…since Helen died.’

The restaurant door opened and a tall, robust-looking Indian with a turban on his head and a handlebar moustache stood waiting to greet customers as they alighted from the lift.

‘Hello PJ.’ The two men had known one another for seventeen years since Mann joined the police force and PJ took over the restaurant on the third floor of the Mansions.

PJ came forward to shake Mann’s hand. ‘Welcome back, Inspector. It’s good to see you again.’

‘This is Detective Li,’ Mann introduced Shrimp.

‘Pleased to meet you. Please come inside. Try our speciality of the house – seafood tandoori – freshly made.’

He opened the door onto a chaotic scene. The small space, once intended to be an apartment, was now converted and filled with long, bench-style tables crammed with diners.

Mann held up his hand to thank him. ‘We don’t have time to eat unfortunately, PJ.’

They looked around sharply as the restaurant door opened and a lad, who Mann recognized as PJ’s son, appeared. ‘Go back to work. Go back to work, lad, there’s no trouble here,’ PJ addressed him affectionately.

‘This is one of your sons, isn’t it? Mahmud? He has grown up. Last time I saw him he was a boy.’

PJ summoned him forward. Mann shook his hand. The lad had not inherited his father’s stature; he was slight like his mother had been. His face had an intensity: large brown eyes, eyebrows that met in the middle, a serious face but handsome in a way.

PJ nodded and beamed with pride. ‘Yes. I have high hopes for Mahmud.’ Mahmud looked embarrassed, shy, bright. ‘He will be a doctor some day, an accountant maybe. Who knows? He is such a clever lad. Now go, my son, back to work; otherwise we will have no money to pay for university.’ He laughed, happy and proud, as he ushered Mahmud back into the busy restaurant.

‘I hear you’ve had some trouble here, PJ,’ Mann said. ‘A young girl was murdered the night before last at a Triad initiation ceremony. She was Indian, possibly from the Mansions. We think her father is a tailor here. Have you heard anything?’

PJ looked nervous as he stepped out into the corridor and allowed the restaurant door to close behind him. The din died down and they were left with the heat and silence of the corridor. He wiped his face with his apron. He shook his head and gave a small nervous laugh as his eyes swept the vicinity. ‘It is better if you mind your own business in the Mansions.’ He leaned towards Mann and kept the smile on his face but he looked nervous. ‘It will fetch worse problems down on my head if I don’t. We have problems with the Dalits – the untouchables. We are not used to so many coming into Hong Kong. Now with them crossing over from India to China every day, hundreds more arrive and the Mansions is where they come. They bring with them conflict and it’s not just them, now we have the Africans too. I worry about the way things are here. The Mansions have become a place of fear. The Triads are taking our children from us. The new Indians are causing trouble. The Africans are killing one another and raping our women and no one is stopping them. They are time bombs waiting to go off. They are attracting unwelcome elements into the Mansions. Some people are using it to their advantage. I am afraid for our future here. There’s talk about us leaving – being forced out.’

‘Who is saying it?’

PJ shook his head and glanced nervously back into the restaurant. The youngest of his sons, Hafiz, walked past in view of the door. He was dark eyed, pale faced; he had the look of Asian skin that never sees the sun. He had the look of a user.

‘There have been names mentioned. I do not want to repeat them. It will only go badly for me but I want you to know, Inspector…’ he stared hard at Mann, ‘…that I will pay whatever it takes to stay here. I am sorry for the family of the young woman. If I can help I will.’

Shrimp stepped forward. ‘Mind if I take a look inside? I have never eaten in here. It’s got a great reputation.’

‘Please…please. Take a look.’ PJ opened the door wide for Shrimp to see inside. Hafiz turned and looked at Shrimp before he quickly disappeared to the kitchen.

‘Such a fab place. Love the decor. I’ll definitely be back.’

PJ bowed his head. ‘Thank you. You will get a good discount.’

As PJ disappeared back into the furore of the Delhi Grill, Mann caught a glimpse of Mahmud waiting for news from his father. He watched PJ shake his head, touch his shoulder affectionately and the boy glance Mann’s way. PJ pushed past Hafiz and dismissed him with a wave of the hand.

Mann and Shrimp waited for the lift down. ‘We need to keep pressure on. PJ’s is the best restaurant in the Mansions. If a deal has been made it will be with him.’ The lift didn’t look like coming. ‘Let’s take the stairs,’ said Mann. ‘See if we can help in the search for the girl’s family. The tailors are all on the first floor.’

The echo of voices filtered up from the floor below, the sound of an Indian woman singing and sitar music. They overtook a young woman on the stairs; she had stopped to check her phone for messages.

It was Ruby.