Chapter Twenty
The problems facing the Political Adviser and the Commissioner of Police were quite different.
On the one hand Roger Gould had to wrestle with how to convince his superiors that something odd was taking place in the colony which his instincts told him bode no good for him or his civil service masters in Whitehall. Not that emphasis could be placed on his personal standing. He had to be careful about that. He must be seen to be concerned for HMG and her colonial representatives on the other side of the globe. Even, heaven forbid, for the five and a half million local people. Tact was what was required, along with a good measure of persuasive argument. Unfortunately for Gould though his argument had little or nothing to substantiate it. Had he been in possession of only half of the information the Commissioner of Police had he would have been happier. He didn’t. He had no facts, just gut feelings and suspicions.
On the other hand the Commissioner of Police was beginning to wish he had not been brought into the mess. His problem was that he knew too much and yet not enough to do anything about it. He now knew what had been happening for months and he knew what he had to do to stop it going any further. But how? What did he have to work with? The more he considered it, the more firm the realisation that what it amounted to was locating the proverbial needle in a haystack. Worse. This needle was an extraordinarily explosive needle, primed to detonate in just days. Fail to find the needle and you lose the game. Fail to find the needle and he would have failed to save Hong Kong from a potential bloodbath. The game was not a game. It was a real life horror story and he was one of the principal characters.
The Commissioner of Police knew, or at least knew of, all the players. The Political Adviser did not. The Commissioner would play by the book. The PA had decided he could not. That was why he had taken the unusual step of writing personally to his Foreign Office superiors in London saying what he felt compelled to say. In diplomatic, cautious language of course.
Something is amiss over here, sir. Dreadfully amiss. I can’t spell it out precisely but take my word for it something is going to happen that will knock our socks off. The Chief Secretary knows what it is I’m sure. And probably so do a number of others. The Secretary for Security. The Deputy Chief Secretary. The Commissioner of Police most likely. No mention of the Governor obviously. These newspaper articles about Michael Wong and Amelia Tse are most suspicious. The NCNA people even went so far as to ask what was happening. I didn’t know. I wouldn’t say. However, it is not merely a case of a serial killer on the loose. Not so simple. No. The journalist who has been writing the columns has also disappeared. On leave it is said, but I am not convinced. Tension out here sir, is high. The so-called politicians are gearing up for a real hullabaloo in Legco and the media is fanning the flames as they always do. Nothing like a good metaphorical decapitation to fill the billboards with. And even if the rest try to play down the suspicions, with no solid grounds I might add, they persist. Something is amiss. I know it. I would respectfully suggest you try to settle it once and for all. What is essential at this critical point in time is decisive action. Your obedient servant. Etc etc etc. That was the gist of it anyway.
He almost contemplated underlining the word obedient. After all he was doing what he was doing out of his concern for the Crown. He was fulfilling the obligations of his position. Even if he was wrong he could not be seriously faulted. If he was correct, he would benefit. The trick was to call the warning but not leave himself too open to critical assault. His missive had gone by diplomatic bag three days ago and all he could do now was wait for the response.
Meanwhile, the Commissioner of Police could mot wait for things to happen. He had to create them. First priority was to mobilise his force. Until late on Friday night he briefed his commanders giving them as much of the background as he felt he could. They were left in no doubt as to the seriousness of the situation and the imperativeness of acting quickly, and as he had insisted more than a dozen times “in the widest possible sweep – one-on-one if you have to”. Eyebrows were arched, heads were shaken and spontaneous expletives uttered. He ignored them all and instructed: “No matter what, stop it.”
Every district, division, station and mobile unit was given detailed descriptions of the journalist Jason Teller and the woman Brigit Rolanne with grainy, blow-up photographs of both obtained from the Immigration Department’s identity card files. They were unflattering portraits but they were the best they had. The Island Regional Commander was given a separate briefing on security measures to be taken at the Legislative Council building. And when the staff of the Office of the Members of the Executive and Legislative Councils began arriving at the imposing former Supreme Court which had stood since 1903 on the Saturday morning they found their entrance barred. Uniformed officers manner both main doors demanding ID badges and cross checking names and details of those who did not carry them on their person. Most did not and by nine o’clock the ground floor was seething with dozens of clerical officers, clerical assistants, administrative officers and specialist staff fascinated but mostly frustrated by the delay.
The Superintendent in charge of the Waterfront Station set up his command post in a small room near one of the entrances and at nine fifteen, too late to prevent the queuing and loud chatter from hindering the work of those who had already run the uniformed gauntlet, he went to the second floor to further brief the Secretary General and Clerk of Councils. They accepted the IRA explanation with some reservations about the magnitude of the police presence and by ten o’clock the building had somewhat settled into its normal quiet Saturday morning routine.
Also by ten o’clock passersby outside the Bank of America Tower which housed the British Trade Commission three hundred meters to the east could not help but notice the three police Landrovers and twelve members of the tough Blue Berets unit on patrol. In the foyer of the Commission itself another three plain clothed undercover inspectors drew scant attention as they sat reading the day’s newspapers or browsing through periodicals, or explanatory leaflets on conditions for gaining entry to, and life in, the United Kingdom.
Elsewhere throughout the colony the massive dragnet was in full swing. Literally thousand of policemen and women were asking tens of thousands of questions, stalking buildings and eyeing pedestrians and motorists, looking for a Caucasian man and a Caucasian woman, wanted for questioning in relation to the double Catskinner homicides of months earlier. What could possibly be simpler?
It was a manhunt of unprecedented proportions in the territory and by noon the local media were onto it. Three hours later the news division of the Police Public Relations Bureau had been inundated with questions. Reporters were clamouring for information, on the telephones and in the corridor leading to David Frank’s office above the China Travel Service in Wanchai. Frank was furious. All his worst fears had materialised but it was the fact that he had been compromised that irked him the most. Sitting behind his desk staring blankly out of his window he suddenly straightened. “Dick heads,” he muttered with some vehemence. “Stupid fucking dick heads.”
In the news room on the sixth floor of the Government Information Service headquarters in Beaconsfield House two pretty young assistant information officers recoiled at the Director’s voluble “diu!”. The sharp Cantonese curse, which translated into a four letter favourite in English, was not unfamiliar to them, but it was unfamiliar coming from the smartly dressed Director. Startled they listened to his complaints of the number and eagerness of media probes. He had expected the media to rise to the police action but he had underestimated the strength of that interest.
In North Point the editorial department of the South China Morning Post was buzzing with the news. Between noon and one o’clock the talk was of nothing but Jason Teller and desktop screens remained blank as all other stories were downgraded or disregarded.
Again at two o’clock, as the second shift of the day began, each newly arriving reporter was informed of what had happened. As with other professions the journalists were very clubbish and quickly banded together as they felt one of their number needed to be defended in any way. The reporter was the story.
The editor in chief had watched from his office as the whispering grew into a noisy chatter. He took no action until the chief sub editor knocked on his door and complained that unless “fingers are pulled out we’re not going to have anything to put out tomorrow.” Davidson waited until he left his office. Then he rose slowly and followed him into the cavernous room.
“OK, all you glorified copy boys,” he bawled. “I can’t hear any music. If the tinkle of keyboards doesn’t waft across to my pearl like ears by the time I sit down again I’ll start reviewing the year-end bonuses I have been up until now generously considering.”
In the silence that settled there were one or two snickers and an American accent proclaimed loudly: “goddam amateurs”. Davidson’s tone was impassive as his attention fixed on the Murdoch import. “You’ve got a long way to go yet son,” he said. The rebuke hit home. The American blushed and quickly sat down, a curse on his lips but wisely held under his breath.
“Wonderful,” said Davidson. “Now let’s pick up the pace a little shall we. Let me hear those keyboard notes.”
*
For his part Robert McNamara had also been listening for the sound that would confirm his worries were over. Not that he really expected it to happen so soon. He wanted it ended here and now, but that was far from a realistic hope.
More likely it would take days for the Commissioner of Police to complete his task. Most likely up to the last minute. Perhaps not then. Jesus, the situation had become intolerable. To think that some radical could threaten so many, indeed the very future of the place, was unthinkable.
Already too many had died. The surgeon. Tse. Old Jack. Maybe others they did not know of yet. Teller and the woman might also be dead. Damn nuisances. Why didn’t he just let go when he was warned? Why did he have to go putting his own ignorant head on the block? Dammit. He hadn’t achieved a thing. Why doesn’t he get in touch and tell us what he knows?
The telephone jarred him out of his thoughts and he snatched it off the cradle. But it was not the call he wanted.
McNamara returned the instrument and resumed his waiting. It was seven o’clock. The Commissioner had had more than twenty-four hours. Surely he must have learned something by now with the thousands of men and women he had thrown into it. He had to leave for an engagement in half an hour and if he did not hear in a few minutes he would call the Commissioner himself. There was not much time. What was left was racing away.
*
Time was also of the essence for Martin Lee and the other Legislative Councillors who were due to go public with their views on the Survey Office Report on Wednesday. They would not be required to launch into a long detailed debate in the chamber, but the report was being tabled at the sitting by the Chief Secretary and that meant instant opinions would be demanded as they left.
It was expected to be a lengthy document but the media, and the general public, would be mainly interested in views on direct elections and the strong suspicion that it would point to 1988 not being the year for their introduction. The betting was on 1991 as the likely date and it was also widely forecast that ten to twelve seats would then be allocated. But that would have to await the actual White Paper. In the meantime councillors would be called on to yet again state their individual positions. The weight would lean towards support, there was no about that, but there would be voluble opposition from the democrats. Arguments would abound. Accusations would fly. Comments would be carefully noted and analysed and councillors could count on being hounded constantly, their every word reproduced faithfully in dozens of newspapers, on radio and television. So positions were already being formulated. Crystal balls were being looked into, statements drafted and tried out on confidants.
For days remained but it was hardly a long time to the budding Hong Kong politicians.
*
For the group of five men and a woman in the Hong Kong Department of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office in King George Street in Whitehall it could have been four weeks or four months for all they knew.
As far as they were concerned whatever happened on October the seventh was neither here nor there. There was a blueprint that was being followed and no matter how much was said in the streets or boardrooms or chamber of the small wealthy colony it would not change the history that had already been mapped out. If the policy makers in London, Beijing and Hong Kong wanted direct elections in 1988 or 1991 or 1997 then the bet was they had already decided it. The Survey Office report and the White Paper to come were steps in the programme which had no doubt been drawn up long ago.
The reality was there for anyone with a clear head to see. One just had to open one’s eyes and look. No amount of opposition would alter things. After all, Hong Kong was not Korea with its demonstrations, political assassinations and turmoil. Hong Kong was British. Staid, controlled, unemotional. One could indeed get away with murder in Hong Kong.
*
On Sunday morning the mist was still shrouding the territory, a cloak of claustrophobic dampness enveloping everything, seeping into buildings, settling on walls and gathering to run in rivulets to the floor.
If it had been April the weather would be accepted and put up with albeit not without complaint. However it was unique for October. The last quarter of the year was the peak tourist season and it was the low humidity and clear blue skies that drew the millions of visitors. Post card scenes were snapped then.
The gardener with the gnarled knuckles and broad brimmed straw hat seemed not to notice though. He prowled the courtyard, skewering loose papers with a deadly trident, occasionally bending to tug an errant weed from a plot or twist off some wizened bloom that had given up the fight for prolonged survival. Most of the plants were healthy and glistened. The rains had done their job well. In another two months the plants in the courtyard and the surrounding trees would turn rusty and he could divert his attentions elsewhere until the spring. But for now he still had hard work to do and he slowly moved around the area adding to his bag of unwanted rubbish.
Leaving the flower and fern beds he wandered over to the fence and dropped the plastic bag on the ground. From his trousers he took a crumpled packet of cigarettes and cupping his hands stuck a match. The exhaled smoke appeared to stick to the microscopic drops of water and hung thickly in the air. The gardener stared at the cloud and then abruptly turned away and looked out towards Aberdeen, his elbows resting on the fence rail, the hat pushed back on his head.
One of the caretakers rounded the corner of one of the blocks and was about to call out when the gardener climbed over the fence and disappeared down the slope. The caretaker stopped and watched. Less than a minute later the gardener re-emerged and scrambled back over the fence. He ran to the caretaker and breathlessly spoke quickly in Cantonese. Together they rushed to the caretaker’s office at the front of the block and dialled the 999 emergency number.
Warily they then walked back to the fence. They did not climb over but following the pointing arm of the gardener the caretaker could see what appeared to be a pair legs sticking out from behind a clump of bushes at the bottom of the slope.
A death was bad enough, but the gardener had told him the victim had been shot and that it was a gwai lo. And that meant a great deal of trouble.
*
The Chief Secretary had just won his seventh end when one of the staff walked from the clubhouse and stood respectfully by as Robert McNamara and his opponent discussed the fine points of the bowls they had just rolled down the green.
“Yes,” said the Chief Secretary with a smile when he noticed the man.
“Telephone sir. In the office sir.”
“Oh hell. Right. You start Ben. I’ll be back in a minute. Make it short again if you like.”
McNamara was up. The decision to escape from his Peak residence and put the affairs of state out of his mind for a few brief hours had been a correct one. He had started off poorly but with each end his concentration grew and he was now enjoying himself.
“Hello,” he said into the mouthpiece, the word beginning high and finishing low, but pleasant. The following word was short and he said nothing more until finally: “I’ll be at home in forty-five minutes. I’ll meet you there.”
Dear god in heaven, what was happening? Who was this maniac who went around killing whoever he liked? Or disliked? Not only was his latest victim a complete unknown but if the killer was indeed the Catskinner it appeared he had now taken to using a gun. The pattern had changed.