Chapter Fifteen
When Tuesday September 29 dawned it signalled two full days remained for the public consultation on the Green Paper on political reform in Hong Kong.
Over the following forty-eight hours the residents of the territory would be able to freely express their views on how they would like to see their home city-state develop. After that they would be given no additional opportunities. No further green papers or surveys were proposed by the government.
In November a detailed report by the Survey Office would be tabled in the Legislative Council and made available to the public. Three months later in early February 1988 the administration would publish a white paper outlining its considered opinions on that report.
In other words, it would tell the people of Hong Kong what its policy was actually going to be, and how rapid, or slow, the democratisation of the territory was going to be.
While this consultation was taking place vital discussions were also going on in another forum. Members of the Basic Law Consultative Committee, and the Basic Law Drafting Committee, were meeting frequently in Guangzhou and Beijing to arrive at a consensus on the shape of the basic law, or constitution, of the future Special Administrative Region of China.
There was generally an atmosphere of concern and common objective-seeking at the meetings but this did not mean that all was going well. Differences were aired and Martin Lee frequently expressed his opposition to some moves. On more than one occasion he walked out of the China meetings and returned to Hong Kong to involve himself in “more important things”.
Faction fighting was also beginning to become very obvious within the Legislative Council membership itself. For a long time two clear camps had been identified which separated the government appointed councillors from those who had gained their seats in the council through indirect electoral collage or functional constituency selection. Since their introduction in 1985 Legislative Council proceedings had become more animated, contentious and at times divisive in character.
Outside the Legislative Council too were many other groups who proposed a variety of political options for the future. The result of this multiplicity of effort, and the bickering within the Council, as well as the perceived weakness being shown by the administration, was that the public did not know which way to turn. In their search for demonstrated leadership they were frustrated. The government was constantly labelled a lame duck and the Legislative Council was often seen to be ineffectual and internally divided. Criticism from outside was persistent.
And all the while, in the wings, the United Kingdom Government was considered to have abandoned the people of Hong Kong, and China was feared to be forcing systems through which would bode no good for the territory after, or perhaps even by, 1997. The situation in Hong Kong on September 29 was not volatile, but it did exhibit many of the necessary ingredients for a flash point that could manifest itself in a breakdown of authority.
The British Government may well have relegated the question of the future of their richest colonial possession, but the problem would just not disappear as many had hoped with the signing of the Joint Declaration three years before. What should have initiated a new beginning had merely ushered in a new set of anxieties. Whitehall and Downing Street were getting repeated reports of unease from the colony, and it was said the British Prime Minister was rapidly tiring of them and was herself becoming increasingly short tempered with those she felt were rocking the boat.
For its part the Chinese politburo were also not entirely pleased with either the pace of change being sought and wrought, or the direction that change was taking. In the face of constant hard-line reins being put on him, the octogenarian leader of the largest communist country in the world was having to tread a very careful path.
On the other hand the future masters of Hong Kong had to appear understanding and willing to concede on some issues, yet there was no way they could go too far and risk displeasure at best or disorder at worst in their own front yard. The chess game being played out with Hong Kong people as pawns was a high risk game indeed and the risks were growing daily.
Moves from Beijing were winning the day but the trouble was that despite this their track record in the past did little to give those who would be most affected by the outcome cause for peace of mind. Hong Kong officials appreciated this and did their best to allay fears. British officials could not, or would not, understand. Chinese officials learned from the mistakes of the gwai los and stepped up their propaganda.
The political battle so far had been a war of words. Warning salvos had been fired but as yet there were no obvious casualties. But if any one of the protagonists lost control, or felt compelled to directly demonstrate unacceptable strength, the battle ground could run with blood.
Neither the powers in London nor the powers in Beijing were aware that political blood had been shed. If it did become known, those few men and women in Hong Kong who were aware of it would be powerless to prevent the inescapable consequences. But what even they did not know was that more blood had already been spilled.
*
Teller was woken by the telephone ringing in his ear. It was muffled as all hotel telephones are so they do not disturb guests in adjoining rooms, but it must have been ringing for some time because Teller was a sound sleeper and usually needed an explosion to wake him. He bolted upright on the bed and his arm stung him. He had slept on it during the night and it now pained him.
Around midnight he had fallen asleep involuntarily, fully clothed on the top of the covers. For many hours he had paced the room, peered through the curtains hoping to see Brigit outside in the street.
When he had arrived back at the hotel he had found the door to the room locked automatically from the inside. He had knocked loudly and called but there was no answer. The floor attendant had looked at him curiously but he had shrugged, hiding his concern, and went down to the ground floor again to look for her. She was not there and Teller reckoned she had, for some reason, gone out. Perhaps to buy food. Perhaps to get some fresh air.
But the rain that was falling quite heavily caused him to wrinkle his brow and look about anxiously. He had approached the reception counter and explained his predicament. At first he was told he would have to wait for Brigit to return as when she had obviously left she had taken the key with her. And their policy was not to hand out more than a single room key. However finally the assistant manager on duty had relented and Teller had been personally accompanied to the room where a duplicate key opened the door. The assistant manager had lingered until satisfied Teller was indeed the occupant and left with a generous tip for his trouble.
Teller then began his long vigil, growing more worried by each passing hour. By mid afternoon he was certain something had gone terribly wrong. He had tried calling Brigit’s flat but there was no answer. He was unsure what he should do. He could run but Brigit might return. He could stay, but if Brigit had been seen and picked up by the police who must still be looking for him then his capture would be inevitable.
Then again, if she had been taken by the police why weren’t they waiting form him at the hotel? No, something bad had happened and he must stay put in case she called. Throughout the afternoon and night he waited. He paced, and read, and paced, and watched impassively the television screen, listening distractedly to the sounds and not really absorbing the moving action. And he paced some more.
As Monday ended so did Teller’s ability to remain awake. He lay on the bed, staring into the distance, his senses alert to the sounds from the street outside his window and the footsteps passing his door in the corridor. Then his eyes closed and he dozed lightly. It was meant to last only a few minutes but he drifted into a deep sleep from which he didn’t wake until the telephone’s relentless tinkle roused him.
He hugged his sore arm and snatched the instrument from its cradle with the other hand. “Yes,” he demanded, short, impatient, angry.
There was no response. “Yes,” he repeated. “Hello.”
“Listen carefully Mr Teller,” a voice said. “If you want to see Miss Rolanne again listen very closely to what I have to say.”
Teller was wide awake. He did not notice the pain in his arm and the drowsiness had been swept from his head. The voice was unmistakable, the stated threat and the further threats he knew would follow loud and clear. He remained silent.
“That is good Mr Teller,” said the voice. There was a hint of mirth in the words though it passed unnoticed. “You do not even bother to ask how I know you are staying in that hotel or why I mention your lady friend.”
“Go on your bastard,” hissed Teller.
“Of course,” the man said shortly. “You have no need to ask those questions. It is obvious. Miss Rolanne did not return yesterday and I now call you direct. There can be only one conclusion.”
“If you have hurt her in any way I’ll kill you,” said Teller. He was boiling inside but kept his words measured, controlled.
The man feigned shock. “Why Mr Teller, I would never think of hurting Miss Rolanne. She is delicate, though her tongue is sharp, and after all she has done me no injury. Now you, on the other hand, you are something I must do something about.”
“What do you want?” asked Teller, his voice rising. “Let her go and I’ll do whatever you want.”
“That is precisely what I have in mind Mr Teller. You see, we do think alike.”
The line was quiet for a time and then the man continued. “Now this is what you’ll do.” For the next two minutes the man issued instructions and Teller held his comments and did not interrupt. “You understand Mr Teller?” the man concluded.
“First, let me speak to Brigit,” said Teller. “I have to know she’s alright.”
“No. Miss Rolanne is rather tied up at the moment.” There was the hint of humour again in his words. “You will have to take my word for it. She is unharmed and quite safe. For now.”
“Bullshit,” Teller shouted. “Let me speak to her.”
“You are in no position to make demands Mr Teller. You do what I say. You do not tell me what to do. Miss Rolanne will not speak to you. I do have her. She is safe. But if you do not carry out my instructions you will be solely responsible for any suffering she does experience. Do I make myself clear Mr Teller?”
“You’re a bastard,” said Teller. “You’ll pay. One way or another you will pay.”
“That we shall have to wait and see. But for now I am in charge. And for now you do what I say.” The man paused. “You have your instructions Mr Teller. You know what you must do.”
The line went dead. Cold. Mute. Final
*
Wan Lung let his heavy black bicycle drop on the grass hear a gnarled old white barked tree and straightened, stretching his back and neck as he rolled his dirty vest in on itself so it would stay hitched around his nipples.
Though it was raining and there was a breeze coming off the water, he was hot from the hard ride on the machine that was almost a quarter of a century old, a third his own age. He would have none of the new fangled cycles that gleamed silver and blue and clicked along the roads with their riders flicking gears up and down at the slightest suggestion of an incline. For more years than most of the holiday cyclists had been alive he had pushed the heavy black two-wheeler the eight kilometres from Ho Chung village near Hebe Haven where he lived alone in a hut decreed by officials to be the home of indigenous New Territories residents. To them he was an indigenous villager, but as far as he was concerned he was just a farmer who eked out a living from the poor earth, and added a few nutrients to his system and fewer dollars to his pockets by fishing with his rod and net in Three Fathoms Cove to the north of where the secondary road ended at Yung Shue. Three fathoms Cove, with its two tiny verdant islands, was a cutaway of Tolo Harbour, right at the end of the channel of the same name that was the marine highway for vessels coming from Mirs Bay to Tai Po.
From where he stood, rain dripping from the brim of his straw hat, Plover Cove Reservoir abutted the other side of the channel at eleven o’clock. Mirs Bay was at the first hour, and behind him, at four o’clock was the High Island reservoir. Wan Lung had been casting his line and hand net in Three Fathoms Cove almost daily for much of his long life. It was a poor day when he did not peddle back to his hut without at least half a dozen twenty-five centimetre fish, unsuitable for filleting but adequate for pounding and kneading into balls, resting at the bottom of the basket tethered between the handle bars of the cycle.
The rubbish tossed overboard by the junks entering and leaving through the channel was washed up by their wake into the cove where it eventually sank to become food for the creatures of the dirty brown water. Occasionally Wan Lung met other ancient villagers in the vicinity, sucking on their long bamboo pipes and gazing across the water as if longingly searching for something that would change the pattern on their mundane lives, but that was not too often and on this uninviting day he could see no others.
But he as not entirely alone.
Protruding from the murky water was the trail end of a car. It too was dull brown, the chrome bumper rusted almost to the point of hanging off, and with patches of lighter colour on the trunk which indicated efforts had been made to halt the progress of the insatiable metal eater. Shoals of small fry swarmed around the hulk and as Wan Lung approached he could see that some skittered urgently through the water inside the vehicle as well, having swum in through the windows that were open, or at least those he could see that were not closed.
As he stood on the verge and wiped the rain from his eyes and peered through the stained rear glass he could see, or he thought he could make out, a large unmoving shape under the surface, inside the vehicle, up at the front. The weathered face showed no expression other than curiosity and this was heightened only marginally as he studied the muddy tracks that led from the end of the road across the grass and into the water of the cove. He didn’t read anything beyond the obvious into the marks, but the experts who prowled the scene four hours later concluded from the depth of the water in them and no doubt other more scientific evidence that they had been there for no more than twelve hours.
Wan Lung squatted under the tree and watched as the uniformed police in their black rain coats drove pegs into the sodden ground and strung pink and white tape between them. A group of plain clothed police stood to one side and talked animatedly to a pair of men clad in black and red diving suits who had just returned from examining the partly submerged car. A third diver, his hand resting on the trunk of the vehicle, waved his other arm in the air and called back to the driver of a police lorry which immediately took the strain on the cable trailing behind and began hauling the car from the water in a roaring, wheel slipping crunching of gears.
Wan Lung watched without moving as slowly the vehicle emerged through the surface, water gushing from the windows and out through the cracks around the doors. Finally it stood nose pointing to a sampan in the distant channel, dripping like some dead monster dredged up from the sea depths. For a few minutes nobody approached but then an officer picked his way to the passenger side window and peered in. He quickly returned to the group of detectives and there was an exchange of words, and then they went and all sat in the back of the lorry, out of the rain. They did not come out until half an hour later when an ambulance drove up and four men got out. Wan Lung observed as they conversed with the detectives and then walked back to the ambulance where they took out a stretcher.
He stood and watched as they opened the driver’s door of the car and noisily struggled to remove a body. Then, rather reluctantly, he was led by detectives to the rear of the ambulance where the stretcher had been loaded. The damp sheet outlining the form of the body beneath was pulled back and Wan Lung was made to look into the face of a young Chinese man, the skin taught but still slightly rubbery, pulling the closed eyes into long slits and dragging the corners of the mouth down..
Wan Lung was led away again and the detective began asking questions that the old man replied to in short grunts, the answers throwing no light on the dead man’s identity or how he ended up in the waters of Three fathoms Cove. All the old man knew, and repeated to the police officer more than once, was the man had obviously been murdered. Even he could tell an accident would not have left the flesh gaping, pale, bloodless, like he had just witnessed.
The officer knew it too. The thin, neat line running from one ear to the other clearly showed the man’s throat had been cut with a sharp instrument. It was a murder alright. The detective had seen similar injuries a number of times, twice not long ago. He wondered who this latest victim was and why the killer had struck again. What possible connection could there be between a well known doctor, a female reporter, and an ordinary-looking Chinese man found in a battered sedan driven into Three Fathoms Cove?
*
The accountant was mystified also. And worried. And angry. But not as angry as the Police Commissioner who was the reason for the ringing telephone as he unlocked the door to his flat and tossed the magazine on the sofa before picking it up.
“Alright Jack,” the Commissioner started. No preamble. And the unusual use of the Christian name. “What do I do now?”
“What you do first Commissioner is tell me what’s wrong.” The accountant gathered up the black instrument off the wall shelf and slumped in the old armchair, the telephone perched in his lap. “What happened?”
The Police Commissioner began recounting the July murders of Wong and Tse and the following debacle as he termed it relating to the arrest of the triads for the crime. Of course, they were out extorting money from nightclubs and selling drugs to eager teenagers now. The South China Morning Post had played up no end and even though the Teller column had died the stink it had caused would not go away as far as he was concerned. Then, because he was ordered to do so, he had issued a press statement, completely out of the blue that arrests were imminent.
“No-one ordered you Commissioner,” the accountant countered. He had been requested to do it and had fully accepted the explanation thereby accepting the responsibility to.
“Not exactly,” came the thin reply. “You know as well as I do it was a bloody instruction. And as for an explanation it was nothing short of fluff.”
“Whatever,” said the accountant off hand, but in mild tones. “We are extremely grateful and I am sure you can deal with all the queries it might give rise to.”
The police chief lapsed into a crisp, brief stream of Cantonese and the accountant recognised a reference to his mother and a part of her anatomy that he hoped she was no longer having trouble with in the cold Brighton nursing home.
“Evidently,” the Commissioner said, “you have not heard.”
“Heard what?” The accountant changed the receiver from one side of his face to the other and leaned forward in the chair,
“He has struck again. Your maniac, the one we are on the verge of picking up, has killed again. Another slit throat. All the same. Only no cat skin this time. But believe me it’s the same man. Expert, clean, no sign of a struggle. Same weapon by the look of it.”
There followed a string of questions and answers. Who, when, where, what happened? But no why. The Commissioner of Police would not have been able to answer that one any better than he knew the reason for the other murders. When he had all the available information the accountant said: “Commissioner, you must hold the line on this. It is of great importance. Am I correct in assuming you are doing everything possible to keep it quiet?”
“Of course I am,” same the irritable reply.
“Good. Then please continue whatever you are doing. I must discuss and then I will get back to you personally. It must not get to the press. Not Yet.”
“It will,” stated the Commissioner. “Probably not tonight as it was an NT call and we’ve kept it close. But after that I am not so confident. Tomorrow it’ll likely break. When the shifts change and the rank and file call their reporter friends – as we both know happens – it’ll be all over the place. And that’s when I’ll be pressed to explain how a wanted murderer whose arrest was imminent by our own admission in an official statement could go out into the streets and kill again. You tell me.”
“I understand,” said the accountant. He did. “And believe me I am sorry. I can only repeat the statement was considered very important. It’s even more important now that you keep this latest incident as quiet as you can for as long as you can.” The word was wholly unsatisfactory in the circumstances. He wanted to say atrocity, or blunder, or calamity. But incident was all he could say. He had to leave it at that, “And Commissioner, I will get back to you as quickly as I can. Now I must make a few calls.”
The accountant placed his finger over the buttons on the telephone, cutting the line and sat staring at the opposite wall. His brain was racing, examining pieces, discarding them, picking them up and scrutinising them again, searching for others. They were not all in reach and those that were would not fit together. What the hell was going on?
*
Twelve thousands miles away in an office off one of the labyrinthine corridors of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office the administrative head of the department with responsibility for Hong Kong casually dropped a folder on the desk of one of his staff.
“Read that,” he commanded and stood erect with his hands pushed deep into his pockets tinkling coins with his fingers.
When he had finished the junior officer looked up, questioningly.
“Well?” said Lord Benning.
“Sir?” asked the junior officer.
“Well, what do you make of it?”
The officer flipped the pages over again, giving the impression he had completed a super speed reading course and was taking in the details of the cable once again. In fact, he was biding his time, trying to collect his thoughts. Get inside the other’s head so he could frame the correct, or expected, answer.
“Well sir,” he said finally, though not confidently. “It’s interesting. The PA has set it out fairly clearly I must say.”
“Interesting,” mimicked Lord Benning, and sniffed at some undetectable aroma in the room. “It seems Gould-i-locks is still looking for reds under beds.”
He sniffed again, picked up the folder and repeated: “Interesting.”
When he left the office the junior officer glanced across at the assistant at a desk in the corner and raised his eyebrows. “Interesting?” he said.
*
Roger Gould did not see himself as someone who went looking for conspiracies. He did not have to. They were just there and more often than not they revealed themselves. That was one of the paradoxes. Political conspiracies, to the trained eye at least, could be seen a mile off. The fact that they existed, that was. The real difficulty lay in identifying the conspirators, unravelling the mechanics of the plot, and finding out all the reasons for perpetrating it.
So far he had succeeded only partially in the first stage, which was why his cable to London the previous day had only hinted at his suspicions. Of course, he knew the spaces between the lines would be filled in to a certain degree, but the probing questions would not be posed until he initiated the next move.
The actual confirmation that a conspiracy did exist had not come until that morning but he had been certain of it before that. When the story appeared in the daily press it merely underlined his already acute suspicions. It also added to the list of conspirators he had drawn up in his mind. First the Chief Secretary had been off hand in the matter. Too off hand. Too unconcerned even given his worries over the financial crisis. That meant his assistant had to know as well, though when he had indirectly mentioned the matter to him, the inscrutability of the Chinese had given way to apparent confusion. Camouflage no doubt.
The Security Secretary had to be included. After all he had to maintain control over the operational arm, and this was now confirmed by the ludicrously obvious police statement. He had always believed that when the British left Hong Kong, as when they voluntarily departed from India, the locals would cock-up the intricately woven successes of the past century and a half.
The present Commissioner of Police might be an experienced policeman but was a Chinese with a cadre’s elementary forethought.
Unpleasant as it was though, he had to admit those in charge of the Hong Kong and Macau Office of the New China News Agency seemed to be not too out of touch with the way things were progressing, or regressing, in the territory. They seemed to know when to capitalise on a western failure and when to act in order to garner cautious nods of understanding. The intention being to build those nods into robust support at a later date.
They also appreciated when to ask questions. Usually when they already had the answers. However, there were a few occasions when they had done so without knowing what the response would be, but with genuine concern. The recent political killings had been such a time. When he had shaken his head and categorised them as violent crimes embellished by a journalist’s fertile imagination the subject had been quickly dropped. Not what he had expected. They had not come back at him with some indirect metaphor or a strong demand for action. Surprisingly there had been none of that.
Now there was this amateurish police statement that left so many questions unanswered. It was the confirmation he needed. Something was going on that he was being kept out of. But he would find out and he would do whatever was necessary to protect the reputation of Her Majesty’s Government.
*
It is said the lights of Hong Kong never go out. That they light up the most magnificent harbour and skyline in the world twenty-four hours a day the year round. That while they may not flicker and move the way they do in Tokyo for instance, they nevertheless paint the city in a state of constant activity.
That is not true. Hong Kong does sleep. The neon colours are extinguished. Great black, empty gulfs do form, obliterating vast areas. Many signs and working lights remain on to be sure, but where on earth does an entire city switch off?
It is a myth, a promotional ploy, a play of the mind created by those who love Hong Kong and who have been so swallowed up by its daily vitality and challenges, they dread the thought that even a minute might pass when something exciting does not happen in the city. Their city. Never mind the onslaught of New York, the sagging sad reluctance to let go in London, the gaiety of Paris, or the revelling of other great metropolises. Hong Kong is special and therefore its uniqueness must be shouted loud and long. Because if it is not it will die. The lights will go out and it will fade into oblivion.
As the reds, yellows, greens and blues blinked off and as millions crept into their beds or forced themselves to savour the last few minutes in front of fast changing television pictures, Tuesday September 29 came to a close. When the people awoke, and the city’s hum began anew, one week would remain before they were to feel the first shock waves of a tremor that, if not stopped, could alter their lives forever.