The Inscrutable Charlie Muffin

6

The authorities had not anticipated the interest in the remand hearing and had only assigned one of the smaller courts, with limited seating, so that entry had to be controlled by permit.

‘I managed to get two,’ reported Nelson, in the car taking them to the administrative building. ‘It wasn’t easy, though. The press are screaming for all the seats.’

‘We were lucky then,’ said Charlie. Like the tie, the broker retained the harassed anxiety of the previous day. And a dampness was already softening his shirt and suit into creases. The man was still unconvinced his job was safe.

It was the discovery of the other premiums, Charlie knew.

‘You’re quite sure that the rest were only 10 per cent?’

Nelson saw the reiteration as criticism. He was annoyed, too, that such an obvious enquiry hadn’t occurred to him in advance of the man’s arrival from London.

‘Yes,’ he said tightly. ‘Those I could find out about anyway.’

‘Still convinced that there’s nothing strange about the fire?’ said Charlie.

‘It’s odd,’ conceded Nelson.

‘Odd enough to look further?’

‘I’ve told you how difficult that will be.’

‘There’s the police,’ said Charlie. And the personal danger in approaching them. Over-cautious, he told himself. How could there be any danger, here in Hong Kong? It was, he recognised, an apprehension of authority. Any authority. It would always be with him. Like so many other fears.

The car began to slow at the approach to the administrative buildings.

‘It shouldn’t last long,’ said Nelson.

‘Remand hearings usually don’t.’

‘You’ve been to a lot?’

Charlie tensed, then relaxed. There was no danger in the admission.

‘Quite a few,’ he said.

But not the sort Nelson imagined. In the past it had always involved sneaking through side doors and adjoining buildings, to avoid the surveillance and cameras of those uncaptured at the Official Secrets trials of those who had been caught and who nearly always reminded Charlie of the grey, anonymous people at rush-hour bus queues. Which was why, he supposed, they had made such good spies. Until he had exposed them.

‘Have you anything planned for tonight?’ asked Nelson abruptly.

Charlie turned to him in the car.

‘There’s a very good Peking-style restaurant in the Gloucester Road and Jenny and I wondered if you’d like to be our guest.’

Chinatown with English country street names, reflected Charlie. Why, he wondered, had Nelson blurted the invitation with even more urgency than was customary?

‘Jenny?’ he queried.

‘My… she’s… someone I live with,’ said Nelson awkwardly. As if the qualification were necessary, he added, ‘Jenny Lin Lee.’

‘I’d like very much to eat with you,’ said Charlie. Again the need for hurried words. There was embarrassment mixed with Nelson’s permanent agitation.

Because of the crush around the building, they left the car some distance away and as soon as they began walking Charlie felt the prickle of unseen attention. He stared around quickly, as he had in the hotel foyer, but again could detect nothing.

Apprehension of the cameras, he decided, as they got to the steps. Expertly Charlie manoeuvred himself behind Nelson, watching for a casually pointed lens which might record him in the background of a picture and lead to an accidental identification from someone with a long memory.

It was cooler inside the building, although Nelson did not appear to benefit.

‘There’s the police chief,’ he said, pointing across the entrance hall to a tall, heavily built man.

‘Superintendent Johnson,’ called the broker.

The man turned, a very mannered, slow movement. Like Willoughby, the policeman had an affectation involving his height. But unlike the underwriter, Johnson accentuated his size, leaning slightly back and gazing down with his chin against his chest, calculated always to make the person he was addressing feel inferior.

‘The senior colleague from London about whom I told you,’ announced Nelson.

Johnson examined Charlie.

‘ Senior colleague?’ he queried pointedly. He was immaculate, uniform uncreased, buttons gleaming and the collar so heavily starched it was already scoring a red line around his neck.

‘Yes,’ confirmed Nelson, appearing unaware of the condescension.

Hesitantly, Johnson offered his hand.

Charlie smiled, remembering Nelson’s remark of the previous evening about the surprise of people he would encounter. Underestimated again, he thought contentedly.

‘Investigating the fire,’ added Nelson without thinking.

Johnson’s reaction was immediate.

‘It has already been investigated,’ he said stiffly. ‘And satisfactorily concluded.’

‘Of course,’ said Charlie smoothly. ‘These things are routine.’

Johnson continued staring at him. Unconsciously the man was wiping his hand against the side of his trousers.

‘Ever been in the Force?’ invited Johnson.

Another recognition symbol, decided Charlie. Like a tie.

‘No,’ he admitted. It meant a closed door, he knew.

‘Scotland Yard,’ announced Johnson, as if producing a reference. ‘Fifteen years. Never an unsolved case.’

‘Just like this one?’

Johnson put his head to one side, trying to detect the sarcasm.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Just like this one.’

‘I rather wondered if it might be possible for you and me to meet

… at your convenience, obviously,’ said Charlie.

‘I’ve already made all the relevant material available to Mr Nelson,’ said the superintendent.

‘I know,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ve read your reports. You’ve really been most helpful. There are just one or two things that seem unusual

…’

‘I’ve a busy diary…’

‘Of course,’ flattered Charlie. Pompous prick.

‘Lot of commitments…’

‘It wouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes,’ persisted Charlie. ‘There’s a huge sum of money involved, after all.’

‘Talk to my secretary,’ Johnson capitulated. ‘We will see what we can do tomorrow.’

‘You’re very kind,’ said Charlie. Between what would he be fitted? he wondered. Golf and the yacht club lunch?

An usher announced that the court was about to convene, interrupting them. There was a slow shuffle through the entrance, bottlenecked by two of Johnson’s officers scrutinising the entry tickets. Nelson and Charlie were allocated to the well of the tiny court, just to the left and below the dock. Charlie twisted as the men were arraigned, looking up at them. Why was it that criminals never had the stature expected of their crimes? The two accused Chinese entered the dock cowed and frightened, heads twitching like animals suspecting a trap about to close behind them. One wore just trousers and vest and the second had a jacket, grimed and shapeless from constant use, over a collarless shirt. The man’s trousers were supported by cord. Charlie recognised the opium habit from the yellowed, jaundiced look of their eyes. Their bodies vibrated with the denial imposed since their arrest.

Charlie turned away, stopping at the sight of Johnson rigidly upright and towering above the other policemen at the far side of the dock. The sort of man, judged Charlie, who would stand up before he farted in the bath. Probably at attention. Johnson looked directly at him, his face blank.

At the demand from the usher, the court stood for the entry of the magistrate. Immediately he was seated, the clerk announced that the accusation would be read first in English, then translated into Cantonese for the benefit of the accused.

‘The charge against you,’ began the official, looking first to the dock and then back to the charge sheet, ‘… is that on June 10 you did jointly commit an offence of arson, namely that you did secrete aboard a liner known as the Pride of America incendiary devices and that further you did, separately and together, ignite at various situations aboard the said liner quantities of inflammable material. Further, it is alleged that you interfered with the fire precaution systems upon the said liner in such a way that additional quantities of inflammable material were introduced into the flames…’

He stopped, handing the sheet to the Chinese interpreter.

The man began the accusation, but was almost immediately stopped by a noise which Charlie later realised must have been the sound of the first man falling. He turned at the scuffling movement, in time to see the warders move forward to try to prevent the second Chinese, in the crumpled jacket, from collapsing beneath the dock rail.

There was a moment of complete, shocked silence broken only by the unseen sound from the dock of strained, almost screaming attempts to breathe, and then it was overwhelmed by the babble that erupted as reporters tried to get nearer the dock, to look in.

Then there was another commotion, as Superintendent Johnson began bellowing at his policemen to restore order.

A warder emerged from below the rail, and there was a second momentary lull in the noise.

‘Dead,’ he announced. ‘They’re both dead.’

He spoke apologetically, as if he might in some way be blamed for it.

Superintendent Johnson succeeded in interposing constables between the dock and people trying to stare in, then more officers arrived to clear the court.

It was not until they were back in the vestibule that Nelson and Charlie were able to extract themselves from the hurrying funnel of people.

‘What the hell does that mean?’ demanded Nelson.

Charlie considered the question.

‘It means,’ he said, ‘that there won’t be a trial.’

‘I don’t understand,’ protested the broker.

‘No,’ admitted Charlie. ‘Neither do I. Not yet.’

Suddenly it seemed that there was going to be very little difference between what he was attempting to do now and what he had done in the past. Would he still be as good? he wondered.

The photograph of Charlie Muffin was passed slowly around the inner council, then finally returned to the chairman.

‘Such a nondescript man,’ said the chairman.

‘Yes,’ agreed Chiu.

‘Incredible.’

‘Yes,’ said Chiu again.

‘So the insurers aren’t as satisfied as the police.’

‘Apparently not.’

‘Such a nondescript man,’ repeated the chairman, going back to the photograph.