The Catskinner

A political event that had one of the world's most important but fragile territories facing a threat from within that could upset the balance of power around the globe.

Synopsis

 

In the middle part of the 1980s the political future of the British Crown Colony of Hong Kong was outlined in a document agreed between the People’s Republic of China and Her Majesty’s Government that would herald the transfer of sovereignty after a century and a half of British rule. It was hailed as a triumph of international diplomacy.

It was decreed in this Joint Declaration that in 1997 Hong Kong would revert to Chinese sovereignty but remain largely autonomous; the famous “One Country, Two Systems” concept of the all-powerful Communist Party Chairman, Deng Xiaoping.

This decision-making process that involved the government of Hong Kong on the periphery was often referred to as the Three Legged Stool. But serious doubts were expressed about the ability of such a stool to stand for long.

In 1987, with only a decade remaining before the world as Hong Kong people knew it was to change, a fourth leg appeared.

Instead of ensuring stability it posed a unique danger to the lives of five and a half million local inhabitants, and set in train a series of devastating events which threatened to shift the path of Hong Kong history forever, challenging regional and world security �" and awakening the beast in the dragon.

 

Chapter One

 

 

            “Christ, look at that lightning.” The man gazed out over the harbour from his balcony. His wife sat quietly inside the flat, hunched near a standing lamp reading a newspaper from the previous day. She did not hear him, and in any event he had been speaking more to himself than to her. If she had caught the comment she would in all probability have had a ready remark for she was at that moment reading how the temperature two days ago had been above thirty-two degrees Celsius with humidity an energy sapping eight-four per cent. Just the conditions necessary for a typical torrential downpour.

            Not a typhoon, though one had ripped through Taiwan and South Korea earlier in the week, and another was building up out at sea, threatening to launch itself.  More than a hundred had perished in the southern cities of Korea. Eight had died in Taiwan. It was early in the season, being only mid-July, so the big wind had ignored Hong Kong this time. But all the same, the British territory was now being drenched in a fierce downpour that flattened crops in the patchy rural areas of the new Territories and sent drains and sewers spewing in the crowded residential suburbs of Kowloon and on the island.

            The lightning snapped like a sheet, lighting the harbour from the distant anchorage for container vessels in the west to the narrower outlet to the open sea in the east. Buildings on both sides of the murky waterway, whose lights were dimmed by the slanting rain, were momentarily caught in a silvery glow, giving them a deathly appearance, like monolithic tombstones. Then they dimmed again leaving only their grey outlines imprinted in the memory.

            Ten seconds lapsed and there was a shattering clap of thunder. It did not start in one corner of the sky and roll across, but rather split the entire heavens at once and the man jumped involuntarily, making it seem that the tall skyscrapers on the Wanchai waterfront of the island had been the ones to move.

            “Christ,” he repeated in a whisper, and turned back inside through the glass sliding doors. As he entered and pulled the doors together behind him he added: “We’ve got a real storm out there. The rain is pelting down and the wind is blowing like crazy.”

            His wife answered with some distracted comment, deeply involved as she was in a news article which to the writer was long dead. The wind whistled into the room through a gap beside a recently installed air-conditioner and there was another flash of sheet lightning that raised the spectre of the tombstones once more.

            Two miles away in Wanchai many were unaware of the real power of the storm as they dined behind sturdy doors in upper floor restaurants, or drank shielded from the angry elements in basement bars where they received the close attention of bare breasted young women, ever ready to listen to a tale of a misunderstanding wife or absent girlfriend, so long as their tumbler of expensive cold tea remained at least half way to the brim.

            The old world of Suzie Wong had long disappeared. It put its first foot in the grave with the end of the Vietnam war and the demise of Hong Kong as a rest and recreation port for American and Australian soldiers hungry for sex and alcohol to escape the horrors and boredom of being part of the most fruitless and divisive conflict of the century. Inviting bars with their cheerful and cheap girls had been replaced by seedy and expensive topless nightclubs interspersed with upmarket businesses of all kinds.

An old timer who remembered the sixties would blink in disbelief at the plethora of banks, offices and exclusive shopping outlets that now lined both sides of the once notoriously lively Lockhart Road. An era had passed, and a new more profitable and durable one had already grown to maturity.

But a block nearer the harbour life appeared to never change. The narrow Jaffe Road cut its way along the length of the waterfront to Causeway Bay, a squalid manmade canyon hemmed in by crumbling tenements where dirty curtains hid furtive low lights and on top of which squatted thousands of families who lived their lives in shacks made from discarded timber, cardboard and corrugated iron. When the typhoons struck the squatters barricaded themselves in their flimsy shelters and rode out the winds and the rain. Or most of them did. Some lost their roofs and part of the meagre possessions, but for a few it would inevitably be the end of their world too.

However, a storm such as the one this night, though unexpectedly wild, was not the sort to cause undue concern. It was a sudden inconvenience, nothing more. In the morning it would have passed and the cleanup would be only a brief interlude before the families set out in their pursuit of more dollars.

There was yet another crack of lightning and a cat froze on the tin roof of a hut, trapped in the silvery flash. Its paws had selected the corrugated ridges avoiding the rivulets of water and the occasional sharp rusty nail, and its fur in parts looked to have been eaten in rings by mange though actually it was heavy drops of rain that mostly mottled its tabby coat. With the flash of light the cat whipped its head to the side and blazing eyes searched the mishmash of rustic structures behind it. In the dark of the night the cat knew every square meter of tenement rooftop. It had prowled the territory countless times in its hunt for food, and the expansive flashes of light only increased its senses rather than aiding it in its foraging. Shapes look on more imposing dimensions and noises were louder warnings. The animal was at its peak alertness, tensed more by the gnawing hunger deep in its belly.

The rooftop was generally a larder of rodents and cockroaches and scraps of rotting food. Because of this the cat, and numerous others like it, kept within its own declared boundaries and saw out its years on the horizon and not on the ground. But since early morning it had been raining on and off and since late afternoon Hong Kong had been on the receiving end of a thorough drenching. So the usual food supply had been washed away or had sensibly gone indoors, leaving the cat without a meal since the night before when a slow rat and assorted piles of hardened yellow rice had provided an essential repast.

Now the animal was hungry and becoming agitated as its sides pressed in on it hollow, shrunken gut. In the darkness once more it growled low and cautiously continued its stalking. It crossed from one roof to the next, head swivelling from side to side, peering into cracks and crevices, and then moved onto the next roof, and the next.

The lightning flickered and flashed and the crackling thunder shook the night

skies. Each time the cat froze. Another half an hour and it had reached a broken wooden door that swung back and forth and led to a dank and unlit stairway down five flights.

The animal was reluctant to enter as it was unfamiliar and spilled onto the lane which was far beyond its own boundaries. Also, it knew instinctively there was little likelihood of any food being found on the staircase itself. It was the only access in and out of the building and creatures that might have been suitable as morsels would be aware also it was not a place to dally.

Added to that was the worry that it might confront a street sleeper who on nights such as this moved indoors to comparative comfort. They were not usually killers but they were human and humans could not be trusted.

Despite these innate fears the cat warily stepped in through the door and very slowly began the downward climb. The steps were littered with pieces of sticky toilet paper, empty drink cartons and bottles, and large and small indiscriminate coils of faeces. In the light the walls would have been seen to be covered in mould and peeling paint. On each small landing a bucket of sand stood in a corner with an overflowing refuse bin beside it. Lining the corridors grimy wooden doors were protected by strong metal grilles and shutters. From behind them came disjointed snatches of television programmes.

On the first landing the cat stopped, sniffed the rubbish and listened carefully to the distant sounds from inside rooms, before moving off and venturing down the second flight of fourteen concrete steps. On the next landing it did the same and repeated it each time until it came to a stop at the top of the last set of steps. There it stood its ground and stared straight ahead, its eyes unblinking and its ears twitching nervously. Its tail snaked out behind in sharp impatient swishes and once more it growled from deep within its gut. Finally, confident of its next move the cat almost gracefully descended to the bottom where it again paused, motionless, listening for warning noises. Sensing there was none, other than the heavy rain beating down and the wind blowing a torn awning across the street, the cat slowly padded to the doorway and looked outside.

The lane was strewn with rubbish, lying scattered in windswept piles or floating soaked in puddles of filthy water. A crate of broken slabs of concrete with protruding wires stood against the wall of the building next door, and adjacent to that an old refrigerator had been blown onto its side. The lane was deserted though there were a number of cars, a van and lorries parked at various intervals, abandoned by some owners who were no doubt waiting out the storm in the colourful interiors of nearby night spots.

The cat gingerly stepped out of the doorway and, after a moment, bounded across the lane and under the van. When it emerged on the other side it headed straight for a heap of plastic garbage bags, all tied at the top but at least one which had burst its sides and spewed its reeking contents against the wall of a tenement almost identical to the one it had just left.

It had gone barely three meters and had just passed the rear of the van when it instinctively stopped, wheeled and hissed into the darkness, its teeth bared and its fur bristling on its arched back. But its defensive manoeuvre was to no avail as a club was brought down swiftly, cracking the cat’s skull open and killing it instantly.

As blood ran into the puddles of rain water two hands reached down and the one holding a short curved skinning blade began slicing the animal from under its chin the length of its belly.

 

*

 

To the casual observer there is nothing in Caine Road in the island’s Mid-levels district which would excite interest. Unless one lives in one of the flats there, works in one of the few struggling corner shops, or attends the Hong Kong University, the road is just a means of passing between the Central area and points to the west or around to the south.

Unlike so many of the streets in Hong Kong one heads to for a purpose, Caine Road is a long, winding transport route one proceeds along to get somewhere else. You either live there or work there or you generally don’t stop there. Amelia Tse lived there. In a sixty-five square meter fourth floor flat that had one bedroom, a small bathroom, a functional kitchen and a step-up lounge-dining room that featured large windows looking out on to the buildings opposite and through a gap in the high-rises to a postage stamp stretch of harbour in the distance. It was the uncharacteristically large windows that had attracted her to the place and which kept her there though she would have preferred somewhere higher up the mountain with a better view of the harbour. But she would never be able to afford what she wanted so she made do with what she had.

It was tastefully decorated in rattan, with pink covers on the sofa and chairs,  a glass-topped table that seated six at a pinch and dozens of pot plants which brought the life and freshness of the outdoors inside. A tall bookcase in one corner was crammed with publications, including two dictionaries one English the other Chinese, photographic magazines, journals and periodicals and political essays by local and foreign writers. There was only the occasional novel, and a pile of untidy newspapers was dumped on the floor to the side. There was also a wine rack perched under the window sill with four bottles in it. In the morning there had been six, but one was empty and protruded upended from the bin in the kitchen. The other stood half empty on the table between Amelia and Michael Wong.

Wong did not live or work in Caine Road, but he did go there frequently. He was a successful surgeon, and with his wife and two children shared a luxurious four-bedroom apartment in Kowloon. Like most other people he usually used Caine Road to get from one place to another. But every week, or whenever he could, Wong went to Amelia’s flat. They were political allies. They were also lovers.

“Is it becoming too difficult?” asked Wong, leaning back in his chair and sipping the dry Golden Hill from his glass. Californian wine was too sweet, and for some reason the French, German and Italian whites also were not to his liking, whereas Australia’s climate produced grapes of just the right quality for his palate. He was a thin man, tall for a Chinese, with grey in his hair, adding to his distinction but also betraying his forty-seven years. His jacket hung on the back of the chair next to him with his tie tucked into the top pocket. Only two buttons of his shirt were fastened and he wore leather slippers on his feet.

“Not really,” Amelia replied. “Not yet anyway. He knows of course, but so far he’s allowed me to get on with it.”

She was sitting with her elbows on the table, rolling her empty glass between her fingers. Her black silk gown was open to the waist revealing her tanned skin. She was short with a plump, sober figure and she wore her hair teased. Her features were smooth and unlined as was common for an Oriental in her thirties, but her forehead creased as she raised her eyebrows. “I don’t think we have anything to worry about just yet.”

“Good,” said Wong, pushing his spectacles back up onto the bridge of his nose. “Good. We need a little more time. Then we’ll be able to make the move.”

The target of his enquiry and the subject of her answer was the Chief Editor of the newspaper she worked on. She was a senior writer for the South China Morning Post, the leading English-language newspaper, and her specific beat was as special correspondent on Hong Kong’s political affairs.

Ten years ago such a position would have merely taken her to meetings of the Urban and Legislative Councils once a fortnight where she would have been asked to collect speeches and then turn them into reasonable news items for the inside pages. Even five years ago she would not have been expected to do much more. But not today. That attitude was a generation in the past.

Already in its last decade of colonial rule Hong Kong was going through a political revolution at least equally significant to the move from being the world’s largest producer of cheap and shoddy products to being an international leader in finance, fashion and high-tech, among other things. Amelia’s position was now far more arduous and certainly more exciting. Her readers expected exclusives, political analyses and hard-hitting commentaries which took the Administration to task or forced it to justify its actions.

Leadership was demanded by the people. She saw her job as ensuring the government lived up to its promises of 1984 when the Sino-British Joint Declaration was signed, handing the territory back to China in 1997 “lock stock and barrel”. In that historic document Hong Kong had been assured of a continuation of its capitalistic lifestyle, or as was stated time and time again the maintenance of its prosperity and stability. Britain had guaranteed it, the People Republic of China agreed not to change it for 50 years or until at least 2047, and the people of Hong Kong expected nothing less.

Another clause in the Declaration stipulated that the political system would not be interfered with by the new Communist masters, and that the legislature on the date of the handover would be �" at least partially �" constituted by election.

“Have you actually set a date?” asked Amelia.

“Not the day,” answered Wong as he leaned forward to the table and refilled his glass. Slowly he stood and walked to the window. It was still raining and dark heavy clouds over the peninsula were growing more ominous. Without turning he added: “Probably the second week in October.”

“That soon? Are you sure we can do it all by then?” She was as anxious and as determined as he was to ensure the plan was a success, but the journalist in her was not convinced such a rapid timetable was right. Their vision of Hong Kong’s future depended on the right move at precisely the right time. If they were wrong, if they miscalculated, all hell could break loose and there would be little anyone could do to prevent the consequences that might shatter the illusions of all those who had worked so painstakingly for so long to protect the wellbeing of the small overcrowded territory’s people.

The surgeon sipped at his wine as he watched the worsening weather. Amelia knew better than to press the point and instead filled her own glass with the last of the contents from  the bottle and joined him at the window. She put her arm around his waist, the silk gown parting. Resting her cheek against his shoulder she whispered: “It’s miserable out there. What time do you have to go?”

“I think it’s going to come down very heavy indeed,” said Wong, putting his glass on the sill. “I also think it’s going to set in for quite a while so we have a choice to make. We can  either open another bottle and listen to the patter of the rain on the glass, we can think of ways to make your bloated Australian boss lust after you more, or you can take me next door and show me again why it is I find you the most sensuous woman I have ever known.”

Amelia lifted her face to him and smiled, her head on one side. “No problem doctor. I diagnose a severe case of sexual starvation. If you will follow me to my consulting room I am sure I can prescribe a remedy.”

He bent and kissed her gently, and gathering her in his arms he carried her to the bedroom. As he said, it looked like they were in for a storm and he would have to telephone his home and leave a message for his wife that he had an urgent and probably lengthy conference to attend. It was only six o’clock and he would not leave for hours.

“In this case,” he said unbuttoning his shirt, “the patient is right. Administer away as you will.”

Later, after the appetites of both had been sated, Amelia slept on his arm as he lay on his back staring at the ceiling. A loud roll of thunder sounded above, interrupting his thoughts. He glanced at his sleeping mistress and carefully eased himself off the bed without disturbing her. He gathered his clothes and walked silently into the sitting room, closing the door after him. Bending down beside the pile of newspapers on the floor he picked up the telephone and punched a Kowloon number. When it answered he spoke softly but clearly into the instrument just six words: “The three of them October seven.”

Wong put the telephone back on the floor and slipped into the bathroom where he washed and dressed. He had one more instruction to relay but he would do that in person. He had not been to Wanchai for some time and the storm now raging outside would provide the cover he sought.

Without looking in on Amelia he let himself out of the flat and took the lift to the deserted street level. His car was parked around the corner and he would have to sprint if he was to avoid being soaked through. As he ran with his head lowered and his coat pulled up over his ears he did not see the figure standing in the darkened doorway across the street. Nor did he notice as the shape stepped out of the shadows into a nondescript black sedan which pulled into the curb and then followed the surgeon’s car as it headed east along Caine Road.

 

*

 

Seated at the table were three men and one woman.

At the head was Robert McNamara, Chief Secretary and for the past week and another two days Acting Governor while the Queen’s official representative was in London on a duty visit. It was one of the peculiarities of the British Foreign Service that colonial governors returned to be debriefed only months after assuming office. Sir Hubert Morris had been sent to Hong Kong in April. Three months later he was back in Whitehall reporting to his masters and receiving further instructions.

“What are the latest figures?” McNamara asked the man on his left.

“Up to nine this morning the Survey Office has received two thousand five hundred and thirteen submissions,” replied James Wong. “Most of them from groups, but there have been quite a few individuals writing in as well.”

Wong held the relatively new post of Personal Assistant to the Chief Secretary, but he had been a civil servant for many years, the last five envied by colleagues as a handpicked highflyer. His present job called on him to be expert in preparing for, and evaluating, developments affecting the run-up to the 1997 handover.

“What’s your forecast?” McNamara kept his eyes on Wong.

The Chinese sat leaning back in his chair rather than hunched over his files on the table, which were so bulky they almost concealed him at times. The information incorporated in the hundreds of pages had been devoured and Wong was thoroughly prepared as usual.

“At the present rate, and making allowances for a late rush, I’d estimate around fifty thousand. Maybe more.” Educated in Hong Kong but with an Oxford degree as well, Wong spoke impeccable English. “Offer me an encouraging reward,” he added, “and I’ll try putting a precise figure on it.”

McNamara did not smile. “Fifty thousand’s near enough. Anyway that’s not the real point as we know.”

The man on the other side of table put down his coffee cup. “Just the same, how does it compare with 1984? Higher, or around the same?”

Wong glanced at the Political Adviser who had been in office just a year. Everyone seemed to be new, he thought.

Immediately after the signing of the Joint Declaration some of the top officials had retired. Immense pressures were building up, and when decisions had to be made that would shape the future of nearly six million people, all the faces seemed unfamiliar.

“For the 1984 Green Paper,” he said, still not referring to his files, “we had under three thousand. At the time we considered that quite good.”

Gail Jones opened a loose folder in front of her and removed a sheaf of stapled papers. She handed them to Roger Gould. “This is the summary of the report on 1984,” she said with a smile. “It covers the lead up to it, the survey itself and the conclusions drawn. Detailed statistics are in appendix three.”

McNamara nodded to her. She had been his secretary in a number of previous posts and when he had been appointed Chief Secretary he had had no hesitation in asking her to follow him. She had no hesitation in accepting.

Once more she had stepped in at the right moment. Gould should not have had to ask about the result of the survey carried out three years before. Even though he was not in the territory at the time, he had been close to the Hong Kong Department of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office in King Charles Street in London and should have recalled the numbers. It showed a weakness and McNamara noticed that Wong also picked up on it.

“Right,” said the Chief Secretary. “So far our PR efforts seem to be working. But don’t let it slip James. I don’t want fifty thousand, I want a hundred.”

He let it sink in. When there was no response from around the table he asked: “No comment?”

“What can I say?” said the Chinese. “I reckon we’ll receive about fifty thousand. And that’s good, excellent, to be quite honest.”

He pushed himself up to the table and the pile of files reached almost to his chin. Carefully he brushed them to one side. “We’ll step up the APIs and double the press adverts. GIS will have to put their thinking caps on. If we can get the Financial Secretary to approve more funds maybe we can boost the final number by five thousand or so.”

“Forget the FS. I’ll see to it there’s no trouble from that quarter. Just get the written submissions up.”

“Are they still running about equal” enquired Gould, “or have the radicals been drumming up more support lately?”

This time Wong opened the top file. “Marginal,” he said. “At close of play yesterday it was one thousand two hundred and seventy-three for, and one thousand two hundred and forty against. Of the twelve hundred and forty only forty were against elections altogether. The other twelve hundred wanted them, but not in 1988. Most favoured 1991 or 1992.”

That was what the Green Paper on Representative Government had boiled down to. While there had been nearly four dozen options outlined, not unexpectedly the one to draw almost exclusive interest was whether there should be direct elections to the Legislative Council in 1988 or later. The Administration had continued to exhort people that they should speak out on all aspects, but while some other views were expressed there was no doubt the real question was the one being pushed by the so-called radicals who wanted elections to the colony’s parliament in 1988 and no later.

And that was where the real dilemma lay. On the surface the people of Hong Kong were generally saying they wanted direct elections and it seemed a good number of them were saying they wanted them in 1988. And the government had stated many times they had no preconceived intentions, thereby intimating that if sufficient numbers favoured the quick move to greater democracy then they would support it. But since the election bandwagon had begun to roll and gather momentum, the Chinese authorities had been putting their interpretation on the salient clauses of the Declaration, interpretations that did not accord with those perceived in more liberal quarters. No one believed they were correct, but many realised that right or not, the communist leaders in the north were not about to sit by quietly while a political system was established in Hong Kong that might in ten years prevent them from interfering as they wished. Cadres had been hard at work rallying action on the left and if reports were to be believed they were using frightening tactics against some of those of those on the right. By the end of September the public consultation period would be over and recommendations would have to be relayed to London. The numbers game was therefore of paramount importance.

“The two significant polls will be finished in September,” McNamara was saying. The other two men silently agreed. “So get those written figures up James. We’re going to need them when we go public.”

“Of course,” said the assistant. He knew as well as anybody the point his boss was making. He also well knew it was going to be easier said than done.

“What about the Lees and their followers?” he pressed.

Gail Jones put down her pencil. Notes were not required on the comments being voiced at the moment. She topped up her own coffee and blew on it before raising the blue and white china cup to her lips and sipped tentatively.

The Lees, as they were often called, were certainly seen by some to have had a serious influence on the Legislative Council. Martin Lee was their leader. A successful lawyer and therefore a most eloquent and effective advocate, he delivered speeches at public forums much as he might address a jury in a courtroom trial of a little old widow facing a shoplifting charge. He used reason and legal precedent as the backbone of his arguments, but his strength lay in his ability to bare the passion in his heart and make the listener believe it burned in his own just as fiercely whereas minutes earlier he had been merely inquisitive. Cynics doubted the depth of his true feelings and some openly accused him of playing to the gallery to achieve his ends, ends that were his own personal goals and which had little to do with the future of those he constantly claimed to be fighting for.

Be that as it may, when Martin Lee rose to speak, people listened. He had fought the Administration on a number of issues since his elevation to the legislative body in 1985. Some he had won. Others he had badly lost. But he was never entirely defeated. Even when outvoted he managed to salvage some of the wreckage and perhaps even a few new admirers of his courage and sympathisers to his cause.

Martin Lee was the unchallenged leader of the unofficial opposition and, as with all underdogs, he had ranks of followers cheering him on. This extended to the council chamber itself. Hence the reference to the Lees as though they were one big family. In reality they were not and two groupings had emerged. One was led by Desmond Lee Yu-tai and Doctor Conrad Lam. Desmond Lee was unfairly characterised as the mouthpiece of his namesake. He  spoke in the shadow of his more respected mentor, yet had the satisfaction of obtaining as much newspaper space as anyone else. Doctor Lam was not so verbose in espousing views. The result was that this disciple of the lawyer gained less exposure but was nevertheless inextricably tied to the group.

The second tier was those who on many occasions agreed with the radical sentiments expressed so strenuously, and were therefore by association rightly or wrongly tarred with the same brush. They numbered another five or six. It was said that if some of the conservatives were to have their way the Lees and their followers would not only be tarred and feathered and filed under the heading “case closed”. That was fanciful thinking though, especially on the issue of direct elections. It was an emotive subject and in the expert hands of Martin Lee and a bevy of dedicated supporters, including influential journalists, quite a few thousand people had joined their ranks. They crowded seminars and media-organised meetings, they undertook a transparent but nonetheless noticeable letter writing campaign to the press, they raised banners in parks and public housing estates, and on one occasion staged an impressive candle-light vigil outside the council chamber when the Green Paper was being debated inside.

Nothing like it has been seen in apathetic Hong Kong before. Two months into the consultation period the supporters of direct elections in 1988 were taking on all the appearances of being a real force to be reckoned with.

Robert McNamara pulled a manila envelop from the plain unmarked file before him. Extracting twenty-two closely typed pages on unheaded paper he turned to his assistant.

“This report from Special Branch on the respondents has found a few gaps.”

“I know,” answered Wong. “And I’ve been onto them to clarify it.”

There was a pause. “And?”

“And they say the error is minor. One per cent, no more. Acceptable in their words.”

“Not in mine,” stated the Chief Secretary. “One per cent means sixty of those people could be influenced in any direction.”

“They couldn’t be any more precise.”

“They have to. We must be able to work from something more exact. At the end of the day the margin of difference is going to make the difference. Reduce it by even one per cent and we increase the risk unacceptably. This exercise must be straight up and down. No room for manipulation.”

The Chinese lit his tenth cigarette of the morning. He inhaled deeply and then spoke again as he breathed out the smoke. “There is the risk of it becoming obvious. If anyone finds out the fallout will be …well, not to be imagined.”

“I realise that very well, James” Chief Secretary McNamara said. “That’s my second instruction. Do it, but don’t be found out.”

 

 

           

Chapter Two

 

 

When Jason Teller walked into the compound of the South China Morning Post at nine thirty in the morning he was still suffering. He had had a dreadful night and the start of the day had not gone well either. The storm had been fierce but he had not realised at the time, which was surprising given his experience of typhoons, just how bad. He had worked late editing an in-depth feature on the nuclear power plant being built at Daya Bay, about thirty-five kilometres north east of the border crossing between Hong Kong and Guangdong.

It had taken him weeks to put it all together, his main difficulties correlating what the local officials were saying with regard to a study carried out by the United Kingdom Atomic Energy Authority. There were discrepancies, principally relating to the need for an evacuation plan in the event of another Chernobyl. He had obtained as much information as he felt he could. He had then spent six hours at his terminal laying it all out in a sensible easily digestible order. When he had read it in the early edition of the paper he realised just how hard hitting he had been. Those directly involved would not be happy. But then, nor was he at the moment.

He had arrived back at his Happy View Terrace flat in Happy Valley late to find the windows in the sitting room and his bedroom open. The gale force wind had blown the rain straight in. His bed was soaked as was the desk, his typewriter and the carpet. The television set in the adjacent room was probably wet inside, his prized Tientsin rug was dripping, and his collection of replica classic cars was scattered around the floor. One of the windows in the sitting room had been buffeted against the outside wall and was hanging by the lower hinge only, one pane of glass smashed, another cracked.

Teller had cursed the storm and his own stupidity a thousand times during the following few hours as he made frustrated attempts to clean up the mess. He discovered two of his cars were broken beyond repair, and when he flicked on the television there was a phutt, followed by a blank and silent screen. It took him until one o’clock in the morning to strip his bed and stand the mattress against the wall in the short corridor beside the landing door, to hang his rug and the rest of the soaked things in the tiny bedroom and kitchen, clean up the debris and then to try to mop up a quarter of an inch of rainwater on the floor of the two rooms. The bathroom mat served as an immediate temporary replacement for the broken window.

Then he relaxed with a tasteless can of beer and two cigarettes before curling up on a chair in the far corner of the room where he slept fitfully for five hours. When he awoke stiff and still angry he surveyed the damage and his remedial work of the night before.

“To hell with it,” he said simply. He pulled on a tracksuit and escaped for his usual four circuits of the racecourse. On his return he shaved, showered and dressed, ignoring any thought of a breakfast heartier than a glass of orange juice and the first cigarette of the new day.

At eight thirty he pulled the door to his flat shut and walked down the steep terrace into Link Road. He dodged across Wongneichong Road, between blaring taxis and clanking trams and turned the corner into Sports Road, a narrow one-way lane separating the race track and the Hong Kong Football Club.

At the other end he rejoined the circular Wongneichong Road opposite the Caravelle Hotel and continued down to Hennessy Road where he sidestepped his way into the underground station. He bought a copy of his paper as well as the Hong Kong Standard and started to read his story as he descended the long escalators and then waited for his train to Quarry Bay. The carriage was packed as usual so the Standard would have to wait until he got to his office.

As he entered the compound a Chinese security guard offered a salute of sorts and muttered “tsosan.” Teller repeated the greeting, but once out of earshot he added “good morning my a*s” and prayed nobody else would tempt him into explaining why it was a bad morning and why there was every indication for it to remain bad for the rest of day.

He reckoned the other security guards in the lobby must have heard because they ignored him as he stepped into the lift and pressed the button for the fifth floor. The cab rattled slowly up stopping at each floor to admit various staff and the photographic and printing, advertising and promotions departments.

As the doors ground apart a squat Australian reporter pushed in with a curt “G’day”. Teller said nothing. He bit off the “good bloody day yourself” that was on the tip of his tongue and walked straight to the counter where he collected his badge and strode into the editorial department.

The South China Morning Post building used to be a sugar refinery depot in another incarnation. The editorial department was an open plan office, desks pushed close together with paper spread everywhere and the clicking of terminals as dozens of reporters and secretaries hammered out their messages to the news hungry world.

An Indian reporter named Sharma approached, coffee cup in hand and asked pleasantly: “How did you make out last night?”

“Don’t ask again,” snapped Teller and brushed by, throwing his newspapers onto a desk.

He looked quickly around the office. Some were reading newspapers, others chatting noisily, many more hard at work banging away on their keyboards. He glanced at the glassed office of the editor in the corner and saw that his arrival had been noticed. Davidson sat puffing on his pipe and beckoning with his index finger.

“Oh s**t,” muttered Teller under his breath.

Before answering the summons he helped himself to a mug of strong black coffee from the machine, lit his second Dunhill and strolled over to the office. On the way a female reporter smiled up at him: “Liked your piece on Daya Bay,” she said.

“Thanks,” he replied and pushed open the door.

Davidson had watched him as he crossed the floor and as he entered he said nothing. He took another deep draw on his pipe as Teller shut the door and slumped into one of the chairs in front of the desk, resting his mug on the edge.

“So,” said Teller, fixing his eyes on the man before him. He respected the editor as a newspaperman of the old school and seldom joined others who, because of the own inadequacies usually, tried to run him down. He was a solid journalist who had proved himself in Sydney, Singapore and London and was a hard but good manager of the news, and of people it had to be admitted. That didn’t mean he liked him though. To the contrary, as a man he considered Davidson obnoxious. He was large, oily in appearance and dirty in his habits. He drank far too much and he was known to have tried it on with virtually every female member of his staff. His success rate on that score was low but it did not seem to bother him.

The most recent object of his intentions was Amelia Tse and he seemed unconcerned how painfully obvious those intentions were. It was even said that his attitude to her biased column was tempered by the thought of a single night in her bed. Teller doubted it. A slob he might be, but first and foremost Davidson was an old hack who knew the rules of professional journalism and lived by them. The news in his paper would not be compromised by a desire for a quick romp in the sack.

“So,” replied the editor.

Teller sipped from his mug and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. He waited. He had had meetings which started out like this before and he knew if he was patient enough he would hear what they were supposed to be about.

“So,” reiterated Davidson. “Your Daya Bay story.”

“What about it?” At least he came to the subject pretty quickly, thought Teller. No need for beating unpleasantries about the bush.

“Is it accurate?”

“Of course it is. It would not have run if it was bullshit. Why? Who says it’s not?”

“No-one of any consequence,” Davidson said, heaving his body forward and tapping the contents of his Petersons into the ashtray. “Just Hiller of Economic Services, Doctor Henry Wu of the joint nuclear consortium, Leung of Omelco and the Director of the Government Information Services. Unless you’ve heard something from someone else I think that’s about it.”

Teller was familiar with the sarcasm. “What are they complaining about?”

The editor began refilling his pipe from the bright red and gold packet of tobacco. He finished and was tamping it tight before he replied. “Those parts about evacuation,” he said. “They say it’s all bullshit.”

“Bullshit,” said Teller.

“Are you repeating their view, asking me a question or describing their opinion?”

“Describing their opinion. It’s a fact.”

“Tell me,” said Davidson, striking the first of three matches. He puffed, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, and studied his reporter through the pall. Teller lit a Dunhill. “It’s in the AEA report, it was discussed by the Legco Ad Hoc Group at least three times, the British experts made a presentation when they were here, and the Ad Hoc Group rejected the lot. It’s a fact.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Can you prove it?”

“If I have to, yes. I’ve got copies of the minutes. But I don’t want to do that unless there is no other way. For obvious reasons.”

The editor continued to study him. Then he said: “So, how did you weather the storm?”

Teller was not prepared for the sudden abandonment of the subject. “Is that it? That’s all?”

“Is there more?” asked Davidson.

“No,” said Teller.

“Alright then.” Davidson leaned back in his chair. “That twit of a high-rise gardener upstairs left a pot plant on the window sill and it ended up on the hood of my car. No, not true. It hit the hood, but I gave it back. He’ll find it embedded in the bonnet of his own car.”

Teller could not help but smile. “Are you sure it was his pot plant and his car?”

“Yes,” said Davidson. “S**t, I hope so.”

As Teller was leaving the office Davidson called: “What are you on today?”

“I’m going into the Secretariat,” he called back, referring to the government offices in Lower Albert Road, below Government House. “I want to check up on a few things, and then down to Legco where I’ll probably be cross examined by sundry bullshitters. Though maybe I should skip that now and just ride out of town for a while.”

Davidson looked almost apologetic for a moment. “Look in on the police on your way will you. Johnson is off sick and some guy didn’t make it home last night in the storm. Report says he was found in Wanchai. Probably some drunk. Just a few pars. OK?”

“OK.” Teller closed the door behind him. Now he was on police rounds. He had not covered the beat for years and it might be fun to do a short piece. Make a change from the investigative features that required so much time and wearying legwork. A nice little story about a poor hawker with six children and a pregnant wife to feed who got bashed while trying to make an extra buck in the middle of a near typhoon. Teller the cynic. He would drop in on the police public relations guys on the way to Central.

One the way back to his desk a brash young American journalist called across the room: “Hey Teller. Your story on the nuke sucks.”

“Good,” he called back. “Take it with you to the can. You should have fun.”

The American sat with his jaw hanging and his wide grin rapidly disappearing. He made no response. He had been especially brought out by the newspaper’s American-based owner in New York where he was apparently highly regarded. Teller was not alone in his dislike for the man who had a penchant for green flecked suits and pink slacks with pastel blue shirts. How it was thought he would be able to contribute anything to the Post was lost on Teller. Of course, it could have been because he was a brilliant writer who possessed a sharp, incisive mind. Teller the slightly envious.

Teller snatched his shoulder bag from the drawer, threw in his notebook and headed for the lift. He decided against the underground, preferring the tram. The trip would take much longer but he needed the fresh air to clear his head. The run in the morning, followed by the sharp cold shower, had worked wonders but a few cobwebs remained and an hour on the upper deck of the rattling dinosaurs would blow them away altogether.

As he sat on the narrow slatted seat and gazed out of the window he was still enthralled at how much some sections of the city had not changed. King’s Road and Hennessy Road from Quarry Bay through North Point and Causeway Bay were flanked by a hoard of small shop fronts touting leather bags, dresses and jeans, air-conditioners, rhinoceros horn panaceas, cameras and more leather bags, air-conditioners and dehumidifiers. How they all survived he did not know. The trading names all looked similar and gave every indication of being family concerns which had been in business for generations. One of the most interesting, as the tram trundled into the Wanchai district, was a green and white four-storey building which bore the weathered name of the Tung Tak Pawn Shop. Teller had stared at the building and the name a hundred times and tried to conjure in his mind the business that was transacted behind the peeling doors. Somehow it was out of character; it just did not fit.

Everywhere else people were in the bustling business of making money, selling for a profit, whether from hand-pulled carts or from behind counters stacked high with materials, pots and jars, jewellery or electronic gadgets. Yet here were premises which must have been the scene of fascinating, sad and foreboding examples of failure.  If only he could be a Chinese, or invisible, and spend a week privy to the comings and goings of those forced to take their custom to the Tung Tak Pawn Shop.

Teller was still imagining as the tram screeched to a stop under the new pedestrian walkway outside the jaded Sailors’ and Soldiers’ Association building diagonally across from the police headquarters. He quickly dropped down the spiral staircase and flung his sixty cents into the collection slot, reaching the safety zone as the metal doors clanked shut. Time and Hong Kong trams wait for no-one, he reminded himself, and headed up the footbridge to the northern side of Queensway. A hundred meters back the way he had come was the Tai Sang Building with the China Travel Service on the ground level and the police public relations branch on the third, fourth and fifth floors.

The third and fourth floors housed the administration section and the library along with the publicity and promotions sections, the Junior Police Call staff and Studio 4, the private bar where staff gathered most Fridays after work. The information section and the branch heads occupied the fifth floor where Teller saw a pretty girl standing against a metal filing cabinet, engrossed in her search for some papers apparently proving to be annoyingly elusive.

“Can you see if there’s a balding bearded Yorkshireman in there while you’re at it please,” said Teller startling her.

“Sorry,” said the girl automatically. When she saw the stranger, she pushed the drawer closed. “Can I help you?”

“I said, is there a bearded…..is Mr Frank in please?” Teller should have known better. After nearly twenty years in the place he thought he was beyond expecting a sense of humour from a government secretary. They were programmed to say only “Who do you want, who’s calling, how do you spell please, he’s in a meeting.”

“Who’s calling,” asked the girl.

“My name is Teller,” he answered patiently.

“How do you spell pleas?”

Teller enunciated the letters slowly.

“One moment please.” When she returned from the adjoining office she smiled. “Go in please.”

Teller smiled back and walked through.

“Jason Teller,” David Frank all but shouted, crossing the floor to greet him with an outstretched hand. “What are you doing down here/”

He gripped the hand and shook it firmly. Frank was an old friend, but they had drifted along their separate paths for some years and their meetings were infrequent. “Thought I’d check up on you people,” he said. “See that you’re still working.”

“Not planning an expose I hope,” said Frank.

“Should I be?” Teller asked.

“You’d be wasting your time here. All the skeletons are over in CIB. Try Caine House.”

“They’re not my type. All bone. No meat.”

They laughed together.

“Why are you here?” Frank repeated “It’s good to see you, but you weren’t just passing through. It’s a bit off your usual track isn’t it?”

Teller took a packet from his pocket and held it up. Frank shook his head and Teller lit a Dunhill for himself.

“Actually, I’m looking for a few details about some guy who died in the storm last night. You had a line on it on the printer I think. Here is Wanchai.”

Frank perched on the edge of his desk. “That’s right. A bit out of your line though isn’t it?”

“Johnson is home in bed so Davidson asked me to do it on my way into town.” Teller looked around for an ashtray and the public relations man handed him one with an RHKP crest on it. “I haven’t done police rounds for years. This is the best he could trust me with.”

Frank looked at him momentarily and then asked: “What do you want to know? We don’t know much more than we put out over the printer.”

“The usual,” he said. “Who, where, where, how and why. Anything about him or the accident that can give me an intro and a few pars.”

“It’s a bit sketchy at the moment, as I say.” Frank seemed vague which struck Teller as a little strange given the simple nature of the incident. “There were a few incidents in the wind and the rain. You know what it’s like.”

There was a pause. Teller didn’t interrupt but sat with is pad open on his knee.

“Anyway,” Frank continued, “his name is Wong, it probably happened late in the evening, in Jaffe Road, and to be honest we’re not quite sure how it happened.”

“What’s the problem?” Teller’s interest was piqued. For some reason Frank was holding back.

“Oh Jesus alright,” blurted the information officer. “You didn’t get it from me. It’ll come out sooner or later anyway and it might as well be yours. He’s Michael Wong. And it doesn’t look like it was an accident. But we’re keeping it under wraps for the moment.”

Teller noted the details. He stubbed out his cigarette. “Why the secrecy?” he asked. “Has his family been told?”

He knew of Michael Wong of course. Prominent surgeon. Millionaire. Wife well known in charity circles. He was often a guest speaker at civic organisation dinners, and while it was said he had definite views on Hong Kong’s politics, he had apparently not expressed them strongly in public. He was chairman of the medical association and it was in that capacity only that he had once spoken in favour of direct elections. Otherwise he confined his interest to medicine.

“She was obviously told early this morning,” Frank was saying. “Took it badly as you would expect. The kids don’t know yet I don’t think.”

“That can’t be it though,” said Teller. “What is it? Murder? Suicide?”

Frank fidgeted on the desk uncomfortably. He glanced out the window at the colourless Asiana Restaurant sign hanging across the street.

“Come on Dave,” Teller urged. “Something’s put s**t on your liver. You might as well make sure that when it breaks it is accurate. Otherwise you’ll have to go around with a bucket and spade afterwards and try to clean up the mess. Save yourself the trouble.”

The restaurant held the public relations man’s attention for a full minute. Teller held his tongue. When Frank turned back he spoke clearly and evenly.

“Someone else told you, right? He was murdered. Head smashed in by a baseball bat or something. Face sliced up terribly. Took us all night to make an ID. Funny how some things happen. The b*****d was a millionaire but he had little tags on the inside of his socks with his name on them. But who looks there for Chrissakes?” He took a breath. “No other ID on him but….”

“What?” Teller prompted. “But what?”

The man from York heaved himself up and walked around the end of the table and sat down. He cleared his throat. “Also,” he said, “he had a skin wrapped around his face.”

“A skin? What do you mean a skin?”

“Jesus Jason. Someone, whoever did it, killed a cat, skinned it and then tied it around his head after mutilating his face. Can you imagine that? Jesus.”

Teller stayed with David Frank for no more than five minutes longer. That was all it took for him to learn all he was going to get from his friend, who after his initial reticence let it come out in a rush of words. It was clearly something which Frank found unsettling and which had bothered him since he had been called out around two o’clock in the morning. He had seen bodies before but not like this one. Speaking quickly he described the events to Teller while pacing around his office.

The surgeon’s body had been found by a patrolling constable, a foot protruding from a pile of rubbish bags. He’d reported in on his portable beat radio and within minutes reinforcements were on the scene. The Forensic Scientist got there half and hour before Frank who had been alerted by the senior criminal investigation officer, an English superintendent who had recognised the likely media sideshow once the story broke.

Fortunately, the press were not immediately on to it because communication had been by beat radio. Police headquarters was only two blocks away. Reporters monitoring the police communications band did not hear anything out of the ordinary in the storm calls for assistance. Frank told how he had looked down on the body and felt a cold shiver edge up his spine from his bowel which had nothing to do with the wind and rain sweeping along the narrow alley.

Hong Kong was not a city where brutality was so uncommon that a body would stun the populace. But there were isolated cases which shook even the Chinese society. Some years before two English school children had been battered, raped and murdered on a deserted hillside in a frenzied attack. Long before that a young Chinese had been viciously assaulted and mutilated, her body dumped in a cardboard box on the sidewalk. Frank had no doubt that when the full details of the Wong killing became known, irrespective of who was responsible, it would be regarded with horror as well.

So far the police knew the who, the how, the when within a few hours, the where. They did not know the why or by whom. Possibilities included triad involvement. Another question was what was the respected surgeon doing in Jaffe Road late at night in the middle of a storm? His car was nowhere nearby, yet initial investigations led the police to believe the killing took place where, or near to where, the body was found.

Unlike Frank, Teller had not witnessed the horrors described. So, unlike the public relations man, he did not feel physically ill. He was certainly intrigued though. It was a good story, yet it was one he had given his word that he would treat with a great deal of care. He could not tell it all. However, he had enough for more than the few paragraphs Davidson had demanded. Teller thanked his friend and they agreed to get together again soon.

“Say hello to Joan for me,” he said. “And don’t worry. I won’t drop you in it.”

He left and walked to Central, composing the article in his head as he dodged fellow pedestrians and breathed in the dust and petrol fumes of the traffic. When he reached Chater Garden opposite the Hilton Hotel he decided to go into the Legislative Council first, and then climb the hill to the government secretariat.

The council headquarters used to be the Supreme Court and was one of the oldest structures still standing in the ever changing Hong Kong. Built from solid sandstone it was two-storied, and domed with pillars surrounding its supporting arched precincts. It had been refitted two years earlier and the architects had wisely retained many of the original features and much of the character.

Oak panelled doorways and beans combined well with the liberal use of highly polished brass fittings and clear sheets of thick glass. All furniture was teak, again trimmed with brass, in keeping with the stature of the council and those who deliberated the territory’s policies within its walls.

Teller liked the building enormously and mourned the loss of the old Hong Kong Club a minute’s walk away which had been reduced to rubble and replaced by an uninspiring concrete tower. The Hong Kong Cricket Club’s decease was even more lamentable, but he had hardly given it a thought as he walked on its grave through Chater Garden and into the council building.

As he entered he was confronted by one of the retired policemen who acted as security guards, signed in, was given a media identification badge and released to roam the ground and first floors. The second floor was off limits. That did not bother him. He just wanted to sound out the press unit people on the ground floor with respect to moves by council members on the question of direct elections and the drafting of the Basic Law.  It was a subject that was rapidly risking boredom setting in, but it as one he could not afford to ignore. And anyway, there was always something being said or done that kept the pot boiling.

Martin Lee was again in the news. He had apparently levelled an accusation that the Drafting Committee were dodging the issue of the relationship between the Executive and the Legislature after the 1997 handover. Members were afraid of China and were therefore playing it safe by postponing any definite decision or detailed discussion. Surprisingly the rest of the committee reacted sharply and immediately called a meeting and publically stated an agreed stance on the issue. It was a rebuttal totally unexpected and accused the brash Queen’s Counsel of being what increasing numbers of commentators were calling a troublemaker. His image as people’s representative was showing signs of tarnish and unless he was careful his successes could be overshadowed by his impulsive outspokenness. This opinion was being reinforced by Teller’s contacts. “The sooner he calms down a bit, the better for everybody, including himself,” said one, summing up the views of many others.

Teller spent about thirty minutes in the building, calling briefly on four contacts, and then slogged his way in the heat to Lower Albert Road where the Central Government Offices housed all policy branches. There he paid his respects to the Secretariat Press Officer, dropped in for chats in the Finance Branch and Administrative Services before ending up sitting across the desk in the office of a particular friend. They had shared opinions on many subjects over the years and his friend had passed him important information on a number of occasions. He had never printed it, but it had always been vital in providing him with a solid understanding of relevant situations. On this occasion though there was nothing significant to learn.

As he was leaving the office he tossed back: “Heard about the Wong killing?”

“Yes,” replied his friend quickly. “Are you involved in it?”

“I’m writing it up,” said Teller. “Anything I should know?”

His friend examined his face, unsmiling. “Be careful Jason.”

“Why? What about it should I be careful of?”

“Just be careful. If you can, stay out of it.”

Teller hovered in the doorway and was about to follow up on the unusual advice when his friend began shuffling the files on his table.

“Interesting times,” he said distractedly “Very interesting times. Let’s hope the interest doesn’t get out of control.”

Teller went back outside into the street and headed down the hill in the direction of the Hilton Hotel. There was time for a quick drink before he returned to his Quarry Bay office and it would give him time to think about the murder. Instinctively he knew there was more to it than he knew at the moment. He was hooked.

Questions buzzed around inside his head. Above all, why should his friend try to warn him off the story? He had a sometimes unusual sense of humour but there was no sign of amusement in the caution. Why should a branch in the CGO be taking an interest in the case in any event? Was there more to Michael Wong than met the eye?

Teller resolved to find answers to these and other puzzles.

Chapter Three

 

 

            Fifty-four.

Fifty-five.

Fifty-six.

Fifty-seven.

Fifty-eight.

Fifty-nine.

Sixty.

He lowered himself slowly to the floor. Perspiration trickled from the end of his nose and glistened on his bare torso as he lay breathing evenly with his arms fully extended by his sides, palms up. The press-ups had been easy as usual and he knew that a hundred would not have been too much of a strain. But he had a strict routine and although he was still keyed up he had no intention of departing from it. In three weeks he would build it up to seventy. For now the figure would remain at sixty.

For two minutes he lay on the wooden floor. Then he carefully rose and walked to the mirror in the corner of the room. Flexing his biceps and then moving up his stomach and arms he tensed and relaxed, studying closely the muscular reaction. He was satisfied with the reflection. He looked good. No fat. His penis hung limp between his legs and he touched himself lightly. He shuddered briefly as the sensation rippled his body. Quickly he turned away. Pulling on a pair of grey shorts and well worn trainers he left the flat and went out into the street. It was already warm and clammy and vehicles were on the move, heading for Tsimshatsui or the tunnel which would deliver occupants to the island. There were a few pedestrians walking briskly in the direction of the mass transit railway station.

He set off at an easy pace, jogging on the road rather than the pavement, out of the way of those on their way to work. The surface of Broadcast Drive was even, spongy almost even at this early hour. Every morning he followed the same route over three kilometres or just under three miles. To describe it sounded much longer than to actually run it. He began circling Broadcast Drive in a clockwise direction with the sun at his back. He turned left in to Junction Road and then Fu Mei Street, again left into Fung Mo Street to the flyover and the heavy vehicle fumes at the junction of busy Lung Cheung Road. For the length of Lung Cheung Road the sun was ahead of him until he reached the second flyover network which carried traffic out of the Lion Rock Tunnel from the New Territories. Here he turned left once more into the arterial Waterloo Road for the final downhill leg to the Junction Road corner. The stretch home took him along Junction Road, left into Broadcast Drive and up the incline to his building at the top. He kept a controlled pace throughout. There was no attempt at racing a clock; it took him a fraction over twenty minutes to complete. Not a marathon run but a healthy effort.

Stepping back into his fourth floor flat he went straight to the shower, stripped off his clothing and stood under piercing jets of cold water. Invigorating. He snapped off the water, stepped out of the cubicle and towelled off. Naked, he walked into the kitchenette, quickly downed two bottles of Vitasoy and then returned to the bedroom where he dressed in faded jeans, T-shirt and his second pair of trainers. At eight o’clock he left the building and walked to the bus stop at the bottom of the street. He alighted just before the Hung Hom terminus and strolled over to the Hong Kong Polytechnic.

Outside, he bought a copy of the Chinese language Sing Tao and was about to continue on when he caught sight of a headline on the front page of the South China Morning Post that was almost hidden on the newsstand. With a copy of that newspaper as well he moved into the compound of the red brick building. He sat casually on a bench a little inside the entrance and glanced through the Chinese newspaper. Then he unfolded the English newspaper and read the story which appeared under the bold heading TOP SURGEON MURDERED IN STORM.

A massive manhunt is on for the killer of prominent surgeon Michael

 Wong whose brutalised body was found in Wanchai at the height of

Thursday’s wild storm.

Police are baffled by the apparently senseless murder but suspect it

could have been carried out by triads or a sadistic killer who chose his

victim at random

            The man’s brow furrowed.

                        Wong’s skull had been smashed and injuries described by sources

close to the investigation as “horrific” were found on his face.

A patrolling constable discovered the body stuffed among a pile of   

rubbish bags in Jaffe Road around midnight.

The police are saying little about the killing, and the SCMPost

understands this is largely because they have little to go on.

A spokesman would only say that Mr Wong was apparently killed in

the Wanchai backstreet, or close by, and that a special team has been

formed to try to apprehend the killer. The surgeon’s murder is one of

the most brutal in years, said one detective.

The story went on to describe Wong’s professional background and personal details. It mentioned nothing about the cat skin that was found covering his face, nor did it mention the police puzzlement at what the surgeon was doing in the area late at night in the middle of a storm. However, it was an obvious question readers would ask. Beside the story was a photograph of the rubbish bags with plain clothed detectives searching the ground and two uniformed constables standing nearby.

            Folding the paper, the man stood and stared out over the toll booths of the Cross Harbour Tunnel. Then he opened the paper again and read the byline above the story. It meant nothing to him but he memorised it nevertheless. As he turned and walked into the courtyard of the Polytechnic the man started to whistle softly. He dropped both newspapers into a refuse bin and continued across the open expanse of tarmac.

 

 

Author's Note

All comments -- good or not -- most welcome.