Chapter Four
“I don’t know what it is about you, but you seem to be creating a bit of interest in yourself these days.” Davidson was lounging back in his leather chair, puffing away on his pipe. It seemed to be constantly in the editor’s mouth, withdrawn only to have its burnt contents knocked out and to be refilled for yet another hour of sweet-smelling incineration.
Teller noted how the corner of the editor’s mouth drooped even when the pipe was removed. He stubbed out his cigarette. He might end up with cancer but at least it would be invisible and he’d keep his lips. They wouldn’t have to be hacked off or half his jaw removed.
“What is it this time?” he asked. “Are they still denying the evacuation plan? Or rather the fact they have totally ignored one?”
“No,” said Davidson with a note of sarcasm. “You’ve extended your fan club. You’ve still got the boss of Information services calling me, but you’ve added our boys in khaki to the list.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our loyal guardians of law and order. Nothing less than the chief of the PR bureau who, incidentally, made a point of saying he was speaking on behalf of the Commissioner himself.” Davidson had not moved. “You’re doing well you have to admit.”
Teller shook his head. “I don’t understand. What have they got to do with Daya Bay?”
The editor heaved himself forward. “This time it’s your story on Michael Wong. They’re telling me it’s wrong. So pretend this is a rerun of our conversation only twenty-four hours ago.”
Hesitating, and recalling every salient point in his story, Teller did not answer immediately, but when he did his answer was firm. “There is nothing wrong in it. They can’t complain about anything in it.”
“Is that so?” challenged Davidson and pulled the day’s edition from a shelf behind him. Speaking slowly he read aloud: “Police are baffled….a sadistic killer who chose his victim at random.” He looked up.
Teller held his gaze. “Yes. So?”
“So,” said Davidson, “there could be some maniac out there, lurking in the shadows ready to pounce on any unsuspecting citizen he chooses. No reason. Just a madman on the loose looking to kill for a thrill.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” said Teller. “But whoever did it is sadistic, and there was no apparent reason, and the police don’t have any concrete ideas to go on.”
“You wouldn’t go that far. You mightn’t. Well, let me tell you. The Commissioner goes that far, and at the moment I am prepared to sympathise with him.” Davidson tossed the newspaper back on the shelf. “You created a panic out there Teller. You put a nutter on the streets and scared the hell out of people.”
“Listen,” Teller said defensively. “That information is correct. You did not question it before it went to print. And I can tell you something else too. If I told you the whole story you’d really have something to worry about. There’s more to it than just a senseless killing.” He took a cigarette from his pack and waited.
“You’re missing the point Teller,” came the reply. “I’m saying you’re wrong. Because you created unnecessary concern, worry, and fear out there. You went off half cocked. Back to your cub reporter days building blazes out of tiny kitchen fires. The story was a beat-up damnit….and I should have realised it.”
Teller was taken aback. Before he could say anything the editor went on. “Bloody stupid. I should have put someone else on it. Go on. Stick to your features and for godsakes don’t get them wrong too. And I want to see those minutes on Daya Bay. I want to make doubly, triply, sure myself we’re at least on sound ground with that one.”
Teller was about to retaliate but Davidson’s expression was a warning. He stood and opened the door. Before closing it behind him he said quietly: “The story’s accurate.”
When he sat down at his own desk and looked back at the editor’s office, Davidson was on the telephone talking earnestly. No doubt the next kneecapping would be for the story’s sub-editor.
“Got something wrong, did you Teller?” said the American. He was standing on the other side of the desk smiling. “Got our cops off side have we?”
“Piss of will you,” said Teller. “What would you know?”
The American’s face widened. “Well,” he said, “for starters, I know they arrested two guys from the 14K earlier this morning. And for seconds, I know they have admitted bumping off our good doctor. How do like them apples buddy?” As he turned to walk away he looked back and grinned. “Have a nice day Clark Kent.”
Teller sat very still. The words rang in his ears. Two arrested? Statements or admissions obtained? He did not understand. Less than twenty-four hours ago he had been told the police had not a single clue in the case. David Frank was quite explicit they knew nothing. Now, out of the blue, the police had arrested two triads who had even confessed to the murder. All in less than a day. Also his friend’s advice in the Secretariat bothered him. Why would he tell him to be wary and stay away from the story? He had not been able to get a fix on that. If he had meant not to use it he would simply have said so. If he knew arrests were likely he would have given some hint at least. Instead he had warned him off the story altogether. Why?
Teller checked the government telephone directory and dialled the Wanchai number of the police public relations branch. When the call was answered he did not wait for anything more than the greeting. “David Frank please,” he said. “The name’s Teller.”
“How do you spell please?”
Oh Christ. “ T-E-L-L-E-R.”
“One moment please.”
Shortly a voice came on the phone. “Hello.”
“Dave,” said Teller. “Jason.”
“I know. Hello Jason. What can I do for you?” The public relations man sounded calm.
“Dave,” said Teller evenly. “How did you like my piece this morning?”
“How do you mean?” Frank asked.
“Come off it Dave. What’s going on down there?”
“What do you mean?”
Teller gripped the handset tightly. “You know damn well what I mean. Yesterday you told me you had nothing to go on with the Wong thing. Within hours you’ve got a couple of petty thugs in a cell, signed, sealed and ready for delivery to Stanley Prison.”
There as silence at the other end of the line.
“Well,” said Teller. “How come? And how come you didn’t bother to let me in on it?”
When he did speak Frank sounded calm, but distant, evasive. “Look Jason. I can’t talk now. We just got lucky I guess. These things sometimes happen that way. Not very often, but sometimes. Anyway, it’s all tied up.”
“That’s a load of crap Dave,” Teller almost shouted. “It just does not happen that way. Not in a case like this. I’m left dangling here on a thin line with jaws snapping at me from all directions. What’s the real story?”
“That’s it,” Frank answered. “We got a tipoff and picked up two guys. They talked. End of story.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. It’ll all be on the printer shortly, or maybe it is already on its way,” said the public relations man. “Look, I’ve got to go. Give me a call soon. We’ll have a beer.”
Teller started to say something but the line clicked and went dead. Slowly he replaced the receiver on its cradle. He wanted to smash the instrument down but he controlled his anger. He was angry at Frank who had either fed him incorrect information or failed to update him with developments. He was angry at himself and he was angry at Davidson. The editor had spoken to him like a raw cadet. Chastised was the word. And it was something he resented. He had been in the business long enough to know the ropes, and certainly long enough to be able to smell something rotten when it was upturned over him. At this particular moment the stench was overpowering.
He pulled his keyboard towards him and carefully typed onto the screen:
*The surgeon was killed on Tuesday night
*On Wednesday around midday the police had no clues
*On Thursday morning the police arrested two suspects
*Within hours of their arrest they had confessed
*Therefore within about 36 hours of Wong’s body being found the police had been tipped off, had picked up the suspects and obtained statements
“Bullshit,” said Teller aloud. The girl at the desk next to his turned from her
Terminal and looked at him quizzically, but he ignored her. He began listing his own notes:
*On Wednesday afternoon the police had no clues
*Frank had told the truth then, why not now?
*His friend warned him off the story. Why?
*Who tipped off the police?
*Why didn’t Frank update him?
*Why was Frank avoiding him now?
Supposition – something was simply not right.
He had been the first with a story of any substance. All the other major newspapers had merely reported a man named Wong had died in the storm. He was the only one to identify the surgeon, the only one to know the gruesome details of the killing, the only one to report that a special police team had been formed.
His thoughts were interrupted by a cup of coffee being placed before him and a voice saying: “Sorry about yesterday. How it turned out I mean.”
Teller looked up and saw the crime reporter standing in front of the desk, apparently fully recovered from his bout of illness.
“What?” Teller asked.
The reporter sipped his coffee noisily. “I said I’m sorry you got stuck with the Wong story. It looks like you got landed in a mess. They got the guys I’m told.”
“Yes,” said Teller. “So I am told.”
“Chopped pretty bad,” said the reporter Johnson.
“You could say that.”
“Bastards. They should ban choppers. They are the staple weapon of the triads and any other thug who wants to go around hacking people up.”
“What?” Teller asked. “What did you say?”
“Choppers. They should be banned or sold under licence or something. Bloody things lop off arms and open up shoulders like watermelons. Mind you, every housewife would kick up a stink if they did ban them.”
“Is that what happened? Wong was hacked with choppers?” Teller stared at the police roundsman.
“So I’m told. His whole neck, arms and shoulders were gashed open.” The reporter paused. “But you knew that.”
“Sure,” said Teller. “With all those injuries it must have been pretty hard to make an ID.”
“No problem,” Johnson answered, gulping a mouthful of cooler coffee. “He’s pretty well known. Or was. Picture in all the papers at social functions. That’s why they kept it quiet so long. Standard practice.”
“Recognised straight off then,” said Teller casually.
“Of course. He’s a pretty big wig you know. Good story.”
“Not for me it’s not.”
“Yeah well….” The reporter dropped his cup in Teller’s wastepaper basket. “Anyway I’m sorry I was partly responsible for getting you into it. I’ve got to go. See you later.”
“Cheers,” mumbled Teller, and then clearly, “Thanks for the coffee.”
He was now clear in his own mind that something about the murder was being covered up. He had no idea what it could be, or why, but he did know that he was going to find out. Wong had not been chopped. His face had been sliced with a knife so badly he could not be readily recognised. It had been his socks. Also, no-one had mentioned anything about the cat skin.
“One more thing,” he called after the crime report. “The arrest was pretty quick wouldn’t you say?”
“Sometimes it happens that way. When the trail goes cold it takes much longer. Of course, in Wong’s case they got a tip off so it was quicker.”
“Who from?”
The reporter shook his head. “Don’t know. My friends can’t tell me. All enquiries have to go through the PPRB and Frank’s not saying. Doesn’t know himself, I don’t think.”
“Unusual isn’t it?”
“Well, a bit. I can usually get something extra…from him or one of his uniforms. My guess is they’re trying to protect someone. Whoever tipped them maybe. But I’ll keep trying and let you know what I find out if you like.”
“Thanks,” said Teller. “I am curious.”
“Sure,” said Johnson. “I understand. I’ll keep you posted.”
Teller picked up the telephone and dialled. The double engaged tone sounded but he allowed it to be repeated twenty times before he hung up. His Secretariat friend was out at a meeting or was ignoring the ringing on his desk. Maybe early paranoia was setting in. Teller would try again in the afternoon.
For the rest of the morning he read his newspapers slowly and deliberately, checked some notes on stories he was working on, and handed into Davidson the minutes of the meetings on the planned Daya Bay nuclear plant. There was to be an official reception at the site in China in a week and he intended writing a short news piece on it. He called the Omelco press unit and was told five ad hoc group members had been invited, along with an assistant secretary and an interpreter. It was not very exciting but he would build a short story around that and justify his existence for another day.
But all the time at the back of his mind was the Wong case. It nagged him. He could not shake it. Maybe it was because he had been carpeted by Davidson. Maybe it was because something was wrong but not in the sense that he had been responsible for the error. At half past three he dialled his friend again. Still there was no response. On his way to the toilet he saw the copy boy place an envelope on his desk and when he returned a few minutes later he tore it open. The note inside had been badly typed. Flipping to the second page he read the signature at the bottom. Amelia. Puzzled, he began to read from the start:
Jason, you are probably asking yourself why I should be writing to you. It is really quite simple. I need help and to be honest I don’t know where to turn.
Teller drained his cup and once more read the signature to be certain he was not mistaken the first time. She was right though, he thought. He could think of no reason under the sun why Amelia Tse should write to him of all people. Of course, he knew the political affairs writer and had even shared a drink with her and others in the office on a few occasions. They had as one would expect discussed the political developments taking place and he had noted how involved she seemed to be. Too involved for his liking, but that was her problem as a journalist, not his.
She was not unattractive and was certainly intelligent, but she was too intense. He was downright apathetic by comparison so it was not surprising that their acquaintanceship was shallow. Now he was being asked to help her at a time, and in circumstances, when she implied she felt totally alone. She had not even approached him in person, but had typed him a note.
He read on:
I am writing to you because you have become involved already, whether you like it or not. You see, when you ran the story on Michael
Wong’s murder you left me no choice. We were close. Very close. That is why I have not been into the office.
He had not been aware of her absence.
I could not face it.
Bloody Wong, thought Teller. When he had been alive he had not given him a thought. Now that he was dead he was being dragged into some painful love affair. What was he supposed to do? Provide comfort to the grieving mistress? He doubted it. He had a feeling Amelia Tse was asking him for more than that.
You wrote the story so I am sure you suspect it was not an ordinary
murder. I know it wasn’t. And I dread the thought that more people are going to suffer. These are not things I can write about here. I have to talk to you.
I am frightened. It would be no exaggeration to say that if my suspicions are correct – and I am certain they are – we all have a great deal to fear.
Please you must help me. I am afraid to ask anyone else. Come to my flat at 7.30 this evening and I will explain everything to you. If you do not want to help I promise I will not force you. You can leave and forget we spoke. But please listen to me before you decide. The Legco session will be open soon, so we don’t have much time. Please help me. Amelia
What on earth was she talking about, Teller wondered. It made no sense. He placed the note back in the envelope and turned it over in his hands. There was no stamp so it must have been delivered by hand and not to personally but to the front desk. He pulled the sheets of paper out again and read the note slowly a second time. It gave him a strange, uneasy feeling. Searching for the copy boy Teller found him standing in the reception area chatting to the girl behind the counter. He asked who had given him the note. Nobody, said the copy boy, he had found it on the counter in the absence of the girl and so had taken it to him in case it was urgent.
He checked Amelia Tse’s home address and telephone number and returned to his desk. He tried calling her but the line was engaged. He tried five more times before half past five, but each time he was unsuccessful. Damn it, he cursed. Why should he? If she was having an affair with the good doctor that was her problem. The extra-marital antics of a colleague and a celebrity murder victim were none of his business. He wanted no part of it. Shouldering his bag, Teller switched off his terminal and left the office.
Teller rode the underground to Central and elbowed his way up the escalators into the cavernous station and through the Swire House exit. One more internal flight of moving stairs and he was at the Jockey Bar. When he arrived it was already crowded. One of the better pseudo-English pubs, it was popular with expatriate businessmen and young professional Chinese on most week nights. After eight thirty though only the determined regulars or the odd passing tourist stayed on.
Teller ordered a Tsing Tao from the waitress in red and black silks and lit a Dunhill. The bottle of beer emptied more quickly than usual. He ordered another and sipped it slowly, observing the different groups at the bar and seated around the tables. He could see through the frosted windows that outside it was dull. By seven he had finished the second bottle also and had run into nobody he knew. He was at a loose end for the night. It would be the first night since the storm he realised that he would be able to sleep on his mattress again. The idea had appeal.
As he pulled cash from his shirt pocket the folded envelop fell to the floor. He picked it up and studied it. The hell with it he sighed. He might as well go and listen to the story, let her cry on his shoulder and see what all the fuss and fear was about. He could spare an hour and still be home in bed by nine thirty. He paid for his drinks, giving the girl a two dollar tip, and left. Picking up a taxi outside the Mandarin Hotel in the next block he directed the driver in his impeccable Chinglish to Caine Road and proceeded along Chater Road past Statue Square, down the slip road by the Bull and Bear, another prefabricated pub, where it did a U-turn, headed up Garden Road with the new Bank of China under construction on his right.
Teller missed the diesel Mercedes sedans that in the good old days accounted for virtually the entire taxi fleet in the territory. But like so many other things the Japanese had out shopped the Germans and the familiar three pointed star had been replaced by growling red and silver Nissan Datsuns.
Almost at the top of Garden Road, outside St Joseph’s Cathedral, the vehicle turned off to the right into Upper Albert Road and passed by Government House. Around the next bend the road dipped. When it rose it had become Caine Road and the character of the neighbourhood changed. Teller closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the seat.
It was only minutes before the taxi drew to a stop outside a sixteen story building a hundred meters from the junction of Seymour Road and opposite Ladder Street. In the daylight he would have been able to see as far as Hollywood Road which was lined with antique and junk shops and which led tourists into the famous Cat Street market area where it used to be able to pick up valuables for a song. But it was dark now and Teller could not see more than a short distance into the steep, stepped street so aptly named on the other side of the road.
He turned and checked the number on the building. Then he walked in, nodded to the dozing watchman and pressed for the lift. It crunched open and he stepped inside and thumbed the floor where Amelia Tse’s flat was located. The lift doors crept together, shuddered open and closed again. The car rose at a geriatric pace that made Teller doubt he would even ride up and down by the deadline he had set himself. Finally, the lift jerked to a stop and once more the doors clanked open.
Amelia’s flat was to his left and he depressed the doorbell button. There was no response so he rang again. He waited but nothing happened so he pressed the button a third time. He was about to leave but then rapped his fist on the wooden door. It opened a few inches.
“Amelia?” he called through the gap. “Amelia, are you there/”
There was only silence.
“It’s Jason Teller, Amelia,. Can you hear me?”
There was no reply.
Teller looked about him and pushed the door open wider and looked inside. The light was on in the sitting room and he could see it was neat and tidy with a vase of flowers on the rattan table near the window.
“Amelia, are you home? It’s me, Jason.”
Teller stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. The flat was silent. He noted how much more imaginative and expensive the décor was to his own flat. At the end of a short hallway was a bathroom. He knocked on the door and immediately felt foolish for doing so, but he spoke: “Amelia.” There was obviously nobody in the bathroom.
Ahead of him the kitchen was empty too. The light was on and unlike his place dirty dishes did not fill the sink and everything appeared to be in place.
“Amelia!” he called out more sharply, growing anxious. “Amelia. Are you home? Hello?”
A closed door was to his left and Teller knew it could only be a bedroom. He put his ear to it and listened. There was no sound from inside. Carefully he gripped the handle and turned it, easing the door open. By now he was pretty sure Amelia was not at home but he entered to look around nevertheless.
The room was in darkness with the curtains closed and he could just discern the shape of a double bed against the far wall. “Are you here Amelia?” he tried a last time but without really expecting a reply. His eyes were adjusting to the gloom and he felt for the light switch on the wall beside the door. He flicked it on.
Amelia Tse lay naked on the bed. Her black hair was combed out and spread behind her head. A dark line ran below her chin and blood soaked the pillow and sheet around her shoulders. Teller could not see her face. It was hidden by the skin of a cat, the raw pink edge reaching half way down her left ear.
*
Teller did not keep the appointment with his mattress.
When he saw Amelia Tse’s body lying on her bed he stared at it a long time. He then switched off the ceiling light, closed the door and returned to the sitting room. Seated at the table he tried desperately to control his breathing. It surprised him that he was so unemotional, not that the girl’s death could be expected to greatly upset him considering their distant relationship, but even the sight of the mutilated body had not repelled him. Fascinated was nearer the truth. His first thoughts were how peaceful she looked with her hair fanned out on the pillow like a dark halo, her torso relaxed with her legs decorously together and her arms by her sides. It was as if she was merely asleep. She wasn’t of course. The thin line across her throat, the blood covered bed clothes, the skin on her face made that horribly obvious.
Teller rested his forehead in his hands and tried to think. The police had to be called and he considered going down into the street and using a public phone in case the one in the flat had vital finger prints on it. However he elected to use it nevertheless on the basis that it was unlikely the killer would have been foolish enough to either use it or to do so without wiping it clean afterwards. He was convinced the murderer was not a maniac who had chosen his victim at random. He was certain it was the same person or persons who were responsible for the slaying of Michael Wong. Amelia’s murder had been committed with no signs of a struggle, the body had been arranged on the bed almost with care, and the cat skin blew away any doubts that may have lingered.
Teller picked up the telephone and pressed the nine digit three times. Slowly and clearly he requested the police and an ambulance, explaining quite simply there had been a murder. Finally he gave the address and his surname to the operator. Then he walked back to the bedroom and switched on the light. He was still staring at the body when the buzzer sounded from the other room. Three Chinese policemen in uniform faced him, one with a red flash under his shoulder badge indicating he spoke English. After scanning the bedroom and exchanging comments in Cantonese they escorted him back into the sitting room and instructed him to sit and wait.
Seeing their expressions, Teller said: “I didn’t do it. I came to see her and found her like that. The door was open.”
The constable with the red flash simply said: “No more please. Just wait.”
Teller would learn later they had rushed from the local sub-station in the lane across the road as an advance party and had only to run two hundred meters. Their instructions were to guard the scene and to make sure he did not leave.
Detectives and other uniformed police arrived fifteen minutes later having been sent from Central headquarters in Hollywood Road, and for the next hour Teller told his story separately to a Scottish Chief Inspector, an English Inspector and a Chinese Senior Superintendent. He did not mention the note Amelia had sent him. He did not know why exactly.
He maintained he had come to see her because he wanted to talk to her about a story he was writing, and as she was the senior political affairs correspondent he thought she might be able to help him with some background material. The officers accepted his explanation and together asked him once more to repeat the details. At a quarter to ten David Frank walked through the door.
He nodded. “Jason. Hang on a minute. I’ll be with you shortly.”
He spoke quickly to the Chinese detective in charge and then walked down the hall to the bedroom. When he reappeared his expression was severe.
Speaking again to the Senior Superintendent he said: “There are already a couple of press outside but I have some of my people looking after them. Later on you might give them a basic statement. By eleven if you can, because they’ll miss their deadlines otherwise and cause you all sorts of agro.”
The officer agreed and approached Teller. “I won’t mention you by name when I talk downstairs. I’ll say she was found by a friend. OK? You’ll have to come back to the station for a while. You can go later after the deceased has been removed.
“The press should have left by then,” interrupted Frank.
Teller was about to say he understood the routine.
“Yes,” said the detective. “Also, you realise you will probably have to appear in court at some stage. So I would suggest you should not say anything at the moment to anyone. And don’t write anything either. Is that understood?”
Teller nodded. It would be difficult he knew as it would not be long before his involvement was discovered. But he understood very clearly the policeman’s reasons for cautioning him. He also had his own reasons for not wanting to say anything.
For the next hour and a half Teller sat at Amelia’s dining table and watched police check the flat room by room. Doors, knobs and panels were dusted for fingerprints. Drawers, shelves, cupboards and clothes closets were searched meticulously. The government pathologist arrived, and Amelia’s body was soon hefted and laid in a steel coffin-like box and hauled to the lift.
Frank stayed with the police most of the time, but periodically left to see if everything was under control down on the street where a crowd of newspaper and televisions reporters had gathered. He glanced in Teller’s direction a number of times but did not speak to him.
By one o’clock everyone had left the flat except Teller, Frank, the Chinese detective and two uniformed constables who would guard the premises for the remainder of the night. On the way to the police station nobody spoke, and when they pulled into the courtyard Teller was ushered into a sparsely furnished office where for the last time he repeated his story. When he finished the Senior Superintendent stood up. “Thank you,“ he said. “You can go now. I’ll have a car take you home. Please, don’t say anything to anyone. We might want to talk to you again.”
Outside there as no sign of Frank. Teller was driven to Happy Valley in a patrol car by two uniformed officers who offered not a single word of conversation during the entire journey. Back in his own rooms he undressed, drank a pint of milk straight from the carton and lit a cigarette. By the time the butt burned his fingers he had decided what he had to do.
He slipped into bed, his brain racing, and closed his eyes. It was four o’clock before weariness finally overcame him and he dropped off into a fitful sleep.
The screaming of the