Chapter Sixteen
In the past, hours and days, even weeks had gone by so quickly or so slowly as to make Teller wonder if he alone was being punished for something he had unwittingly done to annoy the master clock maker.
He could remember days vanishing so quickly that he could not recall them at all. He had lost time, and the events that had gone with it were generally not significant enough to ponder for long.
But now time was of the very essence and he had wasted another whole day. Before he realised it, it was past. Tuesday had become Wednesday. And once again Teller was angry with himself that he had let it happen. No, more than that. It was not a passive failure. It was an active dereliction of responsibility and the one who would suffer most by it would not be himself but someone he had told himself he cared for very much. Not to mention others unknown whom he was certain were also targets.
After he had put the telephone down and reviewed the threatening conversation with the Catskinner, he had done nothing. Nothing but play the words over and over in his head while moving aimlessly around the hotel room. He could not even visualise or recall his thought processes at the time. It was just a jumble of repetitive words. Brigit was in danger. He could do nothing to save her, nor the others. It seemed that for twenty-four hours he wallowed in a place and time where time meant nothing. Brigit was gone. He was powerless. And now Tuesday had gone too.
“No,” he called loudly and then to himself “no, no.” He was shaking and he could see bumps rise on his forearm. He rubbed them away and almost ran to the bathroom where he splashed his face with icy water. He critically studied his reflection in the mirror. The water dripped from his chin and fell onto the marble sink surround. He cupped his hands and again tossed water into his face. “Enough,” he said. He would not give in. He would not merely co-operate. He would do something.
The killer had told him what to do, and he had complied, but no longer. He would not go along with the instruction to stay in the room until Friday, two days away, when he would receive further instructions. He realised that to do so would play into the killer’s hands. By the time the second call came he would be in no state to do anything but agree to whatever he was told. He would not let that happen. He would try to regain the initiative. He understood the killer’s motive. Keep him in seclusion in strange surroundings. Under constant threat that the one he loved would be harmed if he disobeyed. In a state of helplessness. Fearful. Self critical. Finally a feeling of utter guilt and uselessness. Then he would only obey. Then he would have succumbed totally. But he would not let that happen. He would not permit the Catskinner to win.
Teller showered and dressed, not bothering to shave. Purposefully, he unnecessarily tidied the room, tucked the key in the pocket of his jeans and with a brief look about him he left. Outside the hotel he hailed a taxi and sat upright in the rear as it fought its way through the busy rush hour traffic. Twenty-five minutes later Teller paid the driver, opened the door and stepped out. As the door automatically slammed shut and the car groaned away he stood on the sidewalk and looked at the building in front of him. It was still early in the day and people were emerging from other high-rises, striding down the hill as cars passed them, or waited impatiently at entrances for free exit.
Teller had to step to one side to allow a heavy blue Volvo to crawl from the compound. As he did so he examined the occupants and was particularly struck by the beauty of the young woman at the window nearest him. She stared at him but turned quickly away, apparently without interest. He watched the car join the irregular queue in the street and then turned his attention back to the building. Squaring his shoulders he walked in and uninterrupted made his way to the door of the flat he sought. The number was in unpolished brass at the side, next to an illuminated bell button, a letter “B” hanging slightly off centre.
Without hesitation he pressed the button and faced the door. A minute passed. He pressed the bell again. Another minute. He stooped to look through the small glass spy-hole in the door. He did not expect to see into the flat but there was a light background signifying there was no obstruction, no object on the other side of the tiny opaque window. He pressed the bell a third time. Still no answer.
He crossed the corridor and pressed the bell to the flat opposite. When there was no answer there either he tried a second time. Then he moved back to the first door. From his bag he removed a thin rectangle of metal the size of a normal visiting card. In fact it was from the case of a pocket calculator, inserted by the manufacturer and covered by synthetic leather, to make the case firm. He had torn the covering from it, and had carried it with him for years, ever since he had locked himself out of his own flat for the second time. It had cost him one hundred and fifty dollars to have a locksmith open on the first occasion, using a battery powered wonder lock pick that seemed to shake the door open. The second tine it had cost one hundred and eighty dollars. But then the young expert had simply used a similar sheet of metal to slip beside the door and its frame and press the tongue of the lock back into its mouth. Single lock doors in old buildings could often be opened that way, he was informed. The one hundred and eighty dollars was for knowledge, experience, not time and sweat he was told. He had since let himself in more than once in this manner.
The building he was not in was almost as old as his own and the door had a single tongue lock. Teller checked the lift. The light above showed the carriage was on the top floor. He slid the metal sheet in, felt it make contact, pushed it and leaned against the door with his right shoulder. It opened inwards with a loud click as the tongue of the lock shot back out. Teller did not move. Then he stepped in and closed the door gently behind him.
He was standing in a hallway, short, empty, uninviting. Four steps in and Teller was in the sitting room, also dull with little light entering through the windows to his left which faced, he guessed, direct north. The room was a rectangle and he cast his eyes around the contents, trying to read the story they might tell about their owner. Along the wall between where he stood and the windows there was a single bench much like an extended school form he remembered from his primary days. Or a rough pew from a stately mansion that had seated noblemen of old as they gnawed on calf bones, a crackling open fire warming the air, and sleepy dogs under the table. But this was certainly no antique long table’s seat. More likely a ten pound offering in an Islington Mall junk shop. Teller could almost see it outside on the sidewalk with the white cardboard sale notice stuck with adhesive tape to the edge. Christ, how his mind was wandering.
Layers of paint, the last poor imitation of walnut, destroyed its value or any it might have once had, even more than the metal supports that had replaced the original wooden legs at both ends and in the middle. On it were a lonely pot plant, an unused video tape still in its cellophane wrapping, a sixteen inch television set, and at the far end a number of books in a neat pile.
Teller walked to them and lifted one at a time, reading the titles. They were all engineering and architectural works, the covers hard and predominantly in black and white with an occasional splash of relieving sky blue. He left them there and backed away from the windows, out of sight of anyone who might look up from below. On the sills there was nothing. Nor were there any curtains. In front of the windows was a sofa, the pattern a cheap yellow and brown portrait of cut flowers, the blunt stems beginning in patches of off white cotton. As he turned, Teller’s trainers squished on the sealed parquet floor.
The wall he now faced had two paintings hung side by side behind and above a new armchair which was the only other furniture this end of the room. The paintings were attractive, well executed scenes of hills and lakes as seen so often through traditional Chinese artists’ eyes. He had frequently considered buying such a painting himself but had rejected the urge. They suited the homes of locals, but for some reason always seemed pretentious, out of place, in the home of a gwai lo. Chinese sculpture, screens, even pictures of junks in full sail were tolerable, but delicately done rocks and waters of China’s remote mountains were not. In his flat they would seem uneasy, suffering. The other half of the room was no doubt intended to be a dining section, but instead it had two weathered sofas at right angles to each other and a low glass and steel coffee table.
Teller moved to the centre of the room. Directly opposite the hall that led into the sitting room another darker, longer hallway led away from him, ending in a black wall but with obvious openings on both sides, one of them very bright. He quickly investigated and discovered a main bedroom, a second bedroom that had been made into a study of sorts, a bathroom, kitchenette and a passage, well lit by the natural light from outside, which took him to an open area at the rear of the building that was a laundry, tiny amah’s room and toilet and shower combined. The amah’s room was bare. The laundry was empty except for a wicker basket in one corner that had a dirty shirt at the bottom. On the shelf above was a bent kitchen fork.
Teller returned to the kitchenette, opening and closing drawers and cupboards. Then to the bathroom where he opened the cabinet, noted the toiletries inside, and closed it. The bedroom had a single bed, a dressing table and a wardrobe which held clothes and nothing more. Teller felt it was largely an unhappy flat, and without reluctance walked into the study next door. It was the only room in the flat that appeared lived in.
The other rooms were necessities, but the study was a creation. It was not luxurious but it was by comparison a luxury. Teller took in the furnishings, confused by the striking contrast. A pale green sofa was against one wall, three covered cushions neatly positioned so their bright corner designs were displayed to their best advantage, and with a brass standing lamp at the far end, obviously carefully placed to give the reader the best possible light. Next to it, facing out through the clear glass windows, was a desk.
On it was a red lamp, two glass paper weights with flowers embedded inside, a photograph of a group of young people, more architectural and engineering manuals, and a brown tea holder, the type that was so commonly found on office desks. A chair with leather back was pushed into the desk, out of the way, snug between the legs at one end and the three drawers at the other.
Along the wall on the other side, opposite the sofa, was a long two-shelf book case, lined on both sides with novels, or at least English language novels he recognised and works disporting large black Chinese characters on their covers which Teller presumed were novels.
Curiously he noted the owner’s taste ranged through local, British, American, South African and even Australian authors. They were neat, tidy, well cared for. And read. Slips of paper stuck out of the top, marking chapters completed or more likely simply left between the pages once the story had been finished. Teller did this himself and his own books were littered with visiting cards, pocket calendars, utility invoices and in one case he could point to, a metal comb. But whereas his shelves were disorderly, those he now scanned were protected in a way. The owner cared for the books as though he intended to return to them often and when he did, he expected them to be in the same condition as when he first obtained them.
No folded pages that he could see, no torn covers, in their place. Orderly. The same applied to the rattan display case that leaned against the wall to Teller’s right. More books, Chinese fans and plates on dark wooden stands and soapstone ornaments of ancient sages holding staffs and scrolls, horses with their manes flying, and a fat smiling Buddha, his large belly shining in satisfaction. In the middle of the floor a green and rust rug edged in square and curl patterns. The room was pleasant, comfortable, used. On the walls hung a Chinese scroll, three framed Japanese postcards bordered in dark green, and another of the fine Chinese brush works, a bat wing junk moving down a muddy river lined on both sides with cultivated fields, in turn bordered by trees and with sharp mountain peaks slicing pastel skies in the background.
Teller absorbed all of these things from the doorway, then walked in and pulled open the top drawer of the desk. It was crammed with pencils, matchboxes, a ruler, tea spoon, letter opener, rubber bands and a pair of long bladed scissors. The second drawer held a pile of typing paper, a thick foolscap book of lined sheets, a small notepad and a folder of envelopes. The last drawer was empty altogether.
He straightened and tried to create in his mind the personality of the occupant of the flat. His first conclusion was he was spartan in his basic needs. The rest of the flat showed no trimmings, no trappings of invitation or even more than essential comfort. Needs not wants. However the study where he now stood was the exception. Everything her saw was wanted, chosen, tended. Two people. Or one person, two lives. Teller reminded himself that the resident, the occupier of the space he was standing in was a cold blooded killer. The sitting room, the main bedroom, all the other rooms were not inconsistent with that. They retreated, gave nothing, absorbed. The study on the other hand spoke, reached out, accepted. One part transient, the other permanent. Inconsistent, complicated, incongruous.
He looked around the room again and his eyes settled on the group photograph on the desk top. Maybe twenty young men and women stood in a garden smiling broadly at the camera. Fourth from the left in the back row was the face. The smile was wide, but the eyes stared back expressionless. Teller studied it. Two parts. One warm, the other cold. Like the flat. Contradictions. He held up the photograph, fixing the face in his memory, underlining it, filing away every individual feature. Then he put it back on the desk, exactly where it had been before and left the room. He did not return to the other rooms, he had seen all he wanted, gathered what information he could. To tarry would be a waste of time, and time was not something he could afford to waste. Also he knew where he had to visit next. The photograph told him that.
Carefully, Teller let himself out of the flat, pulling the door firmly behind him, listening to the click as the tongue of the lock shot into its metal mouth. Outside on the sidewalk he glanced up at the fourth floor and for a brief moment imagined he saw someone watching him from the study window. But the figment vanished and he gulped in a lung of air, setting off down the drive to the main road and the subway.
The flat had disturbed him greatly and he wanted to be far away from it as speedily as possible. What he sought now was its absent resident and when he found him he would have to be extremely careful indeed.
The killer was clever, vey clever. He was also determined, driven, and would stop at nothing to see his aims carried out. Teller knew that now. He knew that no matter what he had to stop him. He had to put an end to the murderer’s mad plans. For he was certain too, that if he did not get Brigit away from him, she would be killed. So would he and so would many others.
The next piece of the puzzle was the large brick building opposite the Hung Hom railway station at the entrance to the Cross Harbour Tunnel. The desk photograph was taken in a garden with a portion of the building as a backdrop. In a jungle of grey concrete the burnt orange of bricks was a beacon. The Hong Kong Polytechnic stood out, easily recognisable to all travellers passing from one side of the harbour to the other, just as it had announced itself to Teller in the vivid colour snapshot. It was there he hoped to find his next answer.
*
“First, thank you all for coming to this meeting,” said the assistant to the Chief Secretary. “I know you are very busy. But despite your respective individual responsibilities you will agree I am sure that the Survey Office is paramount.”
James Wong glanced around the table. He did not wait for acknowledgement and plunged on. “The day’s not over so technically the consultation period has a few hours to run. However, we have to move and move fast as the schedule is the Commissioner to meet the press later in the day. That is, after the Chief Secretary has spoken in Legco, probably around a quarter to three or three.”
The Commissioner of the Survey Office nodded. “I do public at four,” he said. “Time for the main television news. Later, and we’d miss them.”
“Quite” said Wong. “Any comments on that?”
The others shook their heads. The Director of Information Services knew only too well the importance of catching the stations’ broadcasts. If the press conference was proposed any later he would have objected strenuously. Not only did they needs time for questioning the Commissioner, they had all lined up individual commentators and would be door-stepping Legislative Councillors and other interested parties right up to the last minute.
The Commissioner’s own Chief Information Officer remained silent. He was at the meeting more by convention and only in case his superior needed him. He would speak only when the Commissioner spoke to him.
Roger Gould was unconcerned about the timing.
“Right then,” said Wong. “That’s agreed. Obviously the Chief Secretary has been kept closely informed of things and I understand he has decided on the framework of his speech. As soon as the Commissioner can give him a draft outline of the report he will start polishing and finalising it. Any idea on timing of that?”
The Commissioner coughed. “I should be able to hand it over by next Monday. That will give him two clear days.”
Wong struck a match. “Good. That should be alright. Keep to that please. If you can get it back by the Friday, or even Saturday, so much the better.” He inhaled deeply and leaned back in his chair. “So, over to you Commissioner. Tell us what the people of Hong Kong say they want us to do in the time we have left.”
As the Commissioner began unstacking files, opening pages and pushing his cup of coffee out of the way, the others followed the assistant’s example and leaned back waiting for the stream of statistics and analyses to come. There was an automatic glancing at wrist watches as the Commissioner started his briefing.
As had been pointed out the official four-month consultation time would not officially end until later in the day, and more comments could be expected in the remaining hours. However, up to close of play on the Tuesday just over one hundred and thirty thousand valid submissions had been received. Another two thousand odd had been rejected as irrelevant, duplicates, or of doubtful origin. The vast majority had been from individuals, more than one hundred and twenty-five thousand in fact, with in excess of four thousand from groups of people and one thousand from associations and similar bodies.
“I think it is fair to say the exercise has been a huge success,” remarked the Commissioner. “I for one had not expected such numbers. To be honest it has been a real headache.”
“You’ve done well, very well, under the strained circumstances,” congratulated James Wong.
The Survey Office had also to take into consideration other forms of expression. Apart from the two public surveys commissioned by the office there was a huge number of surveys conducted by outside organisations. In addition, there had been more than twenty signature campaigns and sets of similar documents. Of course, there was the media comment too, and the Legislative Council, Municipal Councils and all nineteen District Boards had debated the Green Paper. Their opinions had to be taken account of.
The Green Paper had been published on May 27 and the response had been as anticipated gradual right up to the beginning of September. But then the unexpected had happened. While a late rush was not case for surprise the magnitude of the rush had been astounding.
“Between September 2 and September 9,” explained the Commissioner, “the numbers went from around three thousand five hundred to ten thousand. Another five thousand came in the next week. Then over the following seven days the total jumped right up to around twenty-eight thousand.” He held up a rough chart showing a thin line creeping horizontally along the bottom of the page, rising steadily and then shooting to the top of the page in a sheer perpendicular thrust. “I think it would not be overstating it if I described the last week as unbelievable. Totally exhausting.” The Commissioner looked at his Chief Information Officer who nodded but still said nothing.
“What’s the breakdown?” asked Roger Gould. “How many in favour?”
The Commissioner opened another file. “Before dealing specifically with the direct election issue let me give you, if you agree, a breakdown by opinion.” It went without labouring the point that virtually all the signature campaigns dealt with direct elections in 1988. About fifty eight per cent of the submissions commented on the role of District Boards. Over sixty per cent dealt with the overall composition of the Legislative Council. More than seventy-five per cent expressed an opinion on the presidency of the council. Just over sixty per cent commented on the voting age. Whether to lower it to 18 years. But less than forty per cent took the time and effort to express an opinion on the general question of the pace of political development sin the territory.
“OK,” said Gould impatiently. “That’s interesting. We know direct elections is the burning issue. So what’s the answer?”
The Commissioner extracted a number of charts and tables from a third file. First he concluded that based on debates in the Legislative Council, the Municipal Councils and at District Boards, the submissions from associations and bodies, just under half wanted direct elections, but not in 1988. Twenty per cent did not think direct elections were at all desirable. About twenty-seven per cent firmly favoured 1988 as the year to introduce them, and the rest or around three per cent had no definite opinion on the timing, though they supported direct elections in principle.
“As to the McNair surveys you know the results,” he said. “Unfortunately they’ve already been accurately reported in the press. But to repeat a significant point, the pro-1988 lobby heads the anti-1988 lobby by about four points.”
The Director of Information Services shook his head. “I am not suggesting we do it here and now, but we are going to have to address the McNair problem soon.” He turned to the Commissioner. “I understand their results – not to mention the phrasing of the questions – are not consistent with the other surveys done.”
“That’s right,” he replied sullenly. “And I do agree we have a problem there.”
In fact, all but one of the other surveys were heavily in favour of direct elections in 1988.The inconsistency was glaringly evident. But that was not the only difficulty the administration would have to content with. Another related to the street corner campaigns conducted, such as those initiated by or which involved the outspoken Martin Lee. In all, twenty such campaigns pushed for direct elections in 1988. No fewer than two hundred and thirty-three thousand names were collected. Even given ten thousand invalidations the expression of support was overwhelming.
“That’s it then,” wheezed Gould. “That’s the bottom line.”
The Commissioner shuffled files around the desk. His Chief information Officer sat impassive. The Director of Information Services smiled. Nobody spoke for almost half a minute.
It was James Wong who broke the silence. “It needn’t be so cut and dry,” he said, putting out his cigarette. “Indeed, it is far from it. The statistics are not the full story.”
“What do you mean?” asked Gould. “How do you get around the fact that two hundred and thirty thousand people say they want direct elections next year?”
James Wong lit another cigarette and breathed nicotine into his lungs before answering. “What I mean is,” he said finally, “it can be argued they are not two hundred and thirty thousand individual comments, but are part of twenty individual submissions.”
There was another silence while the dollar dropped. “Risky,” said the Director of Information services. “Arguable, but risky.”
“Risky?” blurted the Political Adviser. “Risky? That would be dynamite. Christ, you do that and Lee and who knows who else will be all over us.”
The assistant drew again on his cigarette.
Gould went on animatedly. “First, you have that pathetic McNair survey which did more harm than good, and now you’re suggesting we disregard two hundred and thirty thousand vocal supporters of direct elections. You do that in a clumsy way, any way, and you will have a crisis in the streets. It’s bloody dynamite. And I think you all know that.”
James Wong did. “I am fully cognisant of that,” he said. “We all are. Here and elsewhere. As you say if we are clumsy we fail badly. However, if we are careful, extremely careful….” He left the sentence unfinished. The words were unspoken but the intimation was clear.
As they all leaned forward and took urgent sips from their cups the Political Adviser shook his head. “Jesus. Get this wrong and you will have riots on your hands. Blood on them too probably. And they will start next Wednesday.”
The assistant kept his gaze on the Political Adviser and began outlining a plan of action that he hoped, prayed, would succeed. The consequences of failure were unthinkable.
*
Teller had decided against the mass transit railway and rode a Kowloon Motor Bus instead, all the way to the Kowloon Canton Railway depot at Hung Hom. As the red and beige double-decker pulled away from the traffic island and unceremoniously forced its way in the lane entering the tunnel, Teller stood and looked at the brick turrets and sheer wall over the tops of the belching motorised monsters that battled in front of him.
The Hong Kong Polytechnic was partly obscured also by an elevated walkway that took students from the building to the rail terminus and the Coliseum next door. It was the route he had to walk to seek the answers he needed. It was probably the longest way in but he had not been to the Polytechnic other than by car, so he walked into the station, laboriously located staircases which took him levels above the ground and ultimately onto the pedestrian bridge. He strode across, above the crawling cars, buses, trucks and daredevil motorcyclists below.
Like lemmings they followed one another into the black gaping jaws of the tunnel and were swallowed up. He knew they would safely spurt out at the other end, a short mile away, but from where he stood they appeared to be voluntarily submitting themselves to a crunching, indigestible doom.
The sun had come out with a vengeance, completely baffling everyone judging by the number of discarded raincoats and furled umbrellas that were in evidence, and the few clouds that were in the sky were shredded remnants only. Teller removed his own light jacket, tossed it over his shoulder and left the endless battle below to vainly try to sort itself out. Once on the other side of the road he skipped across the double lane side street and up the steps leading into the main entrance of the institution. There were few students about and those that were paid him no regard, accepting him no doubt as one of their own.
To his left inside the hall was a large billboard, filled with notices, and next to it a reception-cum-information counter with a young girl and a woman the age he expected her mother to be, talking in serious low tones. Teller approached the notices and stood as if reading them carefully. The females ignored him and continued their discussion, or more a lecture of the young one by the elder woman. The senior did the talking and the junior the listening and nodding in understanding. It lasted another three minutes and then there was a stern “ho ma”” from the older woman. She waited for the soft response, and with a toss of her head stepped from behind the counter and paced across the stone floor and out through the rear exit.
Teller waited until he was sure she was not returning immediately and approached the young woman who was busily sorting through filing cards in a carousel holder, nimbly clicking them one after another with her long nails.
“Excuse me,” he said politely, smiling “I wonder if you could help me please.”
“Yes?” she said, her fingers momentarily ceasing their sorting.
He had waited for this moment, timing it carefully. The girl had plainly been roundly criticised by her superior for some indiscretion and was now in a weakened state of mind. She was visibly upset. Her fingers were nimble but while her guard would be up Teller knew she would be vulnerable.
“I’m looking for a friend of mine, and to be honest I don’t know where to start,” he said.
“What course?” asked the girl.
A quick look over his shoulder told Teller she was more concerned with the possible return of the older woman than she was with his query. He shook his head. “That’s the real problem,” he said still smiling. “I don’t know. I was hoping you could look up his card and tell me where I could find him.”
“You have to go to records,” she answered. “That way, through there.” She pointed to a doorway to their right.
Teller looked at his wristwatch. “Please, can’t you check for me? I’m in a hurry.”
“No, you have to go over through there.”
“Look, if I ask that lady who was here before, and say you can’t help, do you think she might do it for me? This is the information counter isn’t it?” Teller dropped the smile and locked his eyes on hers. “Is she your boss?”
The girl blinked twice but did not look at him. She kept her attention on the distant doorway. “You have to use records and research,” she said crisply.
“Thank you,” said Teller firmly. “Well, I’ll try that other lady anyway. Maybe she’ll be more helpful than you.” He began to walk away across the open floor.
“Wait,” the girl called after him. “Maybe