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.