The Trophy Taker. Lee Weeks
Читать онлайн книгу.
he was back in the building he loved, working on a proper investigation instead of chasing traffic offenders. If he was lucky they wouldn’t transfer him back when the case was finished. If he was lucky and very good … so not likely then.
He went outside, crossed the car park and walked the steep road down to Central District. The area was number one in the region for shopping and commerce, with its golden skyscrapers, plush shopping malls and one of the most prestigious hotels in the world – The Royal Cantonese. Many deals were struck by an elite few in its Sports Bar, past the Doric columns and just left of the foyer.
James Dudley-Smythe was propping the bar up as Mann walked in. Originally from Cambridge, he had lived most of his life in Hong Kong. He was fabulously wealthy, with a large house on the Peak. He owned a fleet of Rolls-Royces and employed two full-time chauffeurs. But money really hadn’t brought him happiness. Besides his massive drinking problem, rumour had it that he could only achieve an erection when indulging in rough sex. Pain was what did it for him, if anything did any more.
He picked up hostesses on a nightly basis, but half the time he couldn’t remember whether he’d got what he paid for or not. Most of the girls were wise to it and knew that if they gave him enough drink he would pass out and they could get their money for doing nothing. Some weren’t quite so lucky.
Mann sat down on the stool next to him. ‘How’s it going, James?’ he asked, as the waiter brought him a vodka on the rocks.
Dudley-Smythe was, as always, impeccably dressed: sports jacket, cravat, pressed trousers and shiny brogues. He liked to say that you could always tell a man’s breeding by the state of his fingernails. He never missed his weekly manicure.
‘Rather well, thank you, Mann. And yourself? Married yet? I thought you were going to marry that pretty English girl?’
‘No, afraid not.’ Mann shifted his weight on the bar stool. ‘Been too busy. Talking of which, I’m working on a big case at the moment. Maybe you can help me with it?’
James replaced his glass on the bar, a little unsteadily, and motioned to the barman for a refill. ‘Shame that … I thought she looked perfect for you. Feisty little thing, wasn’t she?’ James Dudley-Smythe took a sideways glance at Mann.
Mann said nothing – he’d let the old drunk have his fun a little longer. He waited while the barman finished pouring his drink.
‘Still playing cricket? You’re a damn fine bowler, you know, Mann. All those years in private school in England did wonders for you. Of course, it helps having an English mother – big-boned stock.’
‘No time for cricket right now, James. Too busy – as I said.’
‘Sorry. Do go on, dear boy … Big case … I’m all ears.’
Mann hailed the barman to refresh James’s empty glass and thus ensure his concentration.
‘Over the last twenty years, have you ever heard about either a Gweilo or Chinese who took his S&M way too far?’
James knocked back his newly arrived scotch and motioned to the barman to pour another. He looked visibly uncomfortable with the reference to his sexual practices. Mann had had to reprimand him once after a new foreign girl (who didn’t understand the rules and didn’t know to ply him with drink) had found herself handcuffed to a bed and at the receiving end of one of Dudley-Smythe’s party games that involved a whip and a blindfold. She had to be briefly hospitalised. She made a complaint but didn’t press charges and was miraculously recovered by the time the cheque cleared.
‘Well, that was some time ago now, Mann. I explained about that …’
‘James, bottom-smacking is one thing, torture is quite another. I want to know if any of the women have mentioned someone who goes much too far, someone who scares them? Has there been any talk like that?’
James took a large gulp of scotch and said thoughtfully: ‘That’s more of a Filipino thing. That’s where you can get away with more these days – if you know what I mean. Haven’t seen many Chinese indulging in that sort of sport, mainly Europeans. But then, you’re not describing something that has to do with sex, are you, Mann? You’re after a psycho?’
Mann had to smile at the wily old drunk – he still had his lucid moments.
‘Yes, you’re right, James. But he takes trophies from his victims, of a sexual nature. He enjoys inflicting pain on women. It might have started like that.’
‘Can of worms, old boy. Can of worms.’ Dudley-Smythe shook his head remorsefully. Mann wasn’t buying it – he could see the glint in the old pervert’s eye.
‘Yeah, well let’s keep it legal, hey, James? Over sixteen would be good.’
‘Of course! Absolutely! Wouldn’t dream of it, certainly not! You know, come to think of it, there is someone who might be able to help you. It’s who we all go to …’ he wetted his thin, livid lips with whisky, ‘all of us who enjoy a spot of spanking. Club Mercedes – girl named Lucy – Chinese. She’s the one to talk to. She’s a specialist. One of a kind.’
Mann could swear he saw James shiver.
Glitter Girl was supposed to run – that was the game. It was always the same one. She was supposed to run and to hide and then he would come and find her.
She ran barefoot through the newly planted forest. The bark was rough beneath her feet and the spiky leaves scratched her face. She ran till her lungs burned, ready to burst. She ran till her legs wobbled like jelly. She knew she was running in circles and that there was no way out. When she could run no more she crouched in the vegetation and made herself as small as she could and stayed absolutely still. Listening hard, she prayed silently: Sweet Jesus, save me. I’ll be good – I promise. Save me, Lord … She didn’t hear a reply from Jesus. All she heard was, Ready or not … I’m comin’ …
In the skies over Hong Kong, on a packed plane from Heathrow, Georgina Johnson prepared to touch down. She was tired. It had been a long journey and she hadn’t slept at all on the plane. She looked around. People were returning to their seats to get ready for landing. One woman, sitting across the aisle to Georgina, had been doing her make-up for the last hour. All but two of the passengers were Chinese. Georgina had never seen so many Chinese people before. Sometimes, as a child, out shopping with her mother in their hometown of Newton Abbot, a medium-sized market town in Devon, she had seen small family groups of Chinese. There were never more than two noisy children at a time, happily chasing their parents’ heels or pulling on their arms. The family only had eyes for one another – protected in their Chinese capsule. As if the rest of the world were a dream that they could choose to step in or out of, but in which everyone else was trapped. Every morning Georgina’s mother, Feng Ying, walked the three miles from their home on the outskirts, into the town centre to the produce market next to the multi-storey car park. There she haggled and badgered the stallholders for the best vegetables, the cheapest meat. Then, content with her dealings, she allowed herself a social call – a brief visit to the Golden Dragon, the town’s only Chinese restaurant. It was situated above the multi-storey and looked down over the market. The Golden Dragon was owned by the Ho family, a family of Hong Kongese who had come over with just enough money to open a take-away, which, within a few years, expanded to a restaurant. For Feng Ying, the Golden Dragon provided an oasis in the pasty-white town of expanding new-builds where she had lived since the day her husband Adam Johnson had brought her to Britain. Where she’d lived alone, since the day her husband had not come home. He had left for no apparent reason. From that day she’d set about making do without him. She lived on the small savings that her husband had put into an account for her and she crocheted decorative pieces of linen, bedspreads and tablecloths for the upmarket