Chapter Twenty-Three
The Chief Secretary wanted them to be kept in hospital, the Matilda on the Peak rather than the massive and public Queen Mary in Pokfulam, with a tight guard around the clock. Teller and Brigit both protested. Instead they insisted on going to her flat. It was familiar, they could be together and besides, their medical requirements were not urgent. What was needed more than anything was rest, lots of it, and peace and quiet.
Robert McNamara and the Commissioner of Police reluctantly relented with the proviso that a guard was placed on the building and their flat. There was no argument and by six o’clock on the Monday evening Teller and Brigit had bathed and were lounging in the sitting room in clean clothes, sipping steaming cups of coffee laced with generous helpings of brandy.
However they were still not alone. Also with them were six police officers, including the superintendent who had interrogated Teller at the flat of Amelia Tse months before. And again he was firing questions. They had to go back to the beginning. “Tell me again,” probed the superintendent. “Start from when you left us the last time. When you returned to your home from the station in Central.”
Teller did. He relived the mysterious phone calls, the shock of the dead cat, the tracking down of the killer after the brawl in Tsimshatsui, his visit to the Polytechnic and the terror of being hunted in the hills of Sai Kung, culminating in the bloody murder of the accountant.
“What was his involvement in all this?” asked the policeman.
“I’m not sure,” replied Teller. “I had used him before as a source, but later on he seemed to be speaking or representing the CS. You’d be better asking McNamara about that.”
The superintendent moved on. “What happened after that?”
The flight to the advertising man’s flat and the chilling sampan journey across the channel to Lantau Island. He kept the description of the girl’s killing brief, concentrating instead on their days of captivity in the hut above the cove.
“It was like a cell,” he remarked. “Something out of the dark ages. Damp, cold surprisingly, and all the time we were tied up and denied anything to drink or eat. The bastard should be slowly starved to death when he’s caught.”
“Don’t worry Mr Teller, he’ll be punished. You can count on that.”
Finally there was the description of the Catskinner himself. One of the policemen in the room had been sitting quietly in the corner cradling a metal briefcase in his lap and listening intently to the exchange. The superintendent beckoned him and explained that if Teller and Brigit would describe the killer in detail a composite identi-kit picture could be put together.
As their memories unburdened themselves the policeman began sorting a number of thin transparent sheets showing noses, eyes, eyebrows, chins, foreheads, hairlines, cheeks. It took nearly an hour but they were satisfied with the result.
“That’s him,” said Teller. “At least as near as you’ll probably get.”
Brigit nodded. “It’s a good likeness, yes. I’ll see him forever and that’s him. I’d like to kill him myself.”
“Leave that to us Miss Rolanne,” the superintendent said. He smiled. “You have both been most co-operative. Thank you. I think we have all we need for now. We’ll get right onto it. I would suggest in the meantime that you don’t leave here. If you need anything we’ll arrange it for you. At least until Wednesday. Anyway, I daresay you will sleep and rest up much of tomorrow. Just take it easy and remember we’ll be on duty outside all the time. You are quite safe now.”
Later that night they did sleep, but not immediately. First, Teller made a call to his office and spoke to the Editor in Chief.
Davidson’s opening question was: “When are you coming in?”
Teller had expected it. “Not tomorrow. I’ll be back on Wednesday, or Thursday most likely.”
“Good,” said Davidson. His voice had not changed. There was no indication of any sympathy or concern. Not that Teller was surprised. The editor would not have known what had taken place, but in any event Teller would not have expected any expressions of condolence. He was mildly surprised therefore when Davidson went on: “Is everything alright? Anything I can do?”
“No,” he answered. “Everything’s fine now.”
“Anything you can write about?” There it was.
“I don’t know. What do you mean exactly?”
“Can you do a piece for the paper? Is it all linked to Wednesday?”
“Yes it is. At least at the moment it is, but it could change before that.”
“What about a holding story then? Could you knock out something on the basis that nothing happens in the meantime? You could also change it tense-wise to cover the prospect that the nutter is caught before that. We could have them ready to run on Wednesday.”
There was a pause. “I don’t know,” said Teller. His thinking was still unclear. “I don’t really want to be involved any more.”
“It’s just a story,” Davidson pushed. “I’m not asking you to do any more than recount what’s been happening and what could happen. You are a bloody journalist you know and our readers do have a right to know what’s going on.”
Before Teller could respond Davidson hastened on: “Listen Jason. You’ve been right so far. I can see that. And I guess you’ve been through quite a bit. The police won’t tell us anything, but Jesus the whole place has been turned upside down looking for you. So whatever it is it’s serious. It doesn’t take a genius to work that much out. You uncovered it and had the guts to go with it. Don’t quit now. Finish it. Think about it and if you decide to do something, or even if you don’t, call me. Here or at home doesn’t matter. But give it some thought and let me know. OK? Just don’t give up. Give me a buzz when you can. Alright? Good.”
The telephone went dead and Teller frowned. Not at the fact that Davidson had abruptly hung up but at his own indecision. He did not have long to think about it. Within seconds the instrument rang. He snatched it up.
“Hello, Jason?”
“Yes.”
“Robert McNamara Jason.”
Teller smiled. He found himself speaking quickly. “Oh good evening. Thank you for getting us back here. I, we, appreciate what you did. Personally I mean.”
“Forget that,” said the Chief Secretary. “I’m just glad you’re alright now and that you and Miss Rolanne are safe and sound. What I called for was to ask if I can talk to you. Not now. Tomorrow. Say around eleven?”
“Sure. But I’m not supposed to go out.”
“I know. I’ll come there. If that’s alright with you both.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. See you at eleven then. And again, I’m happy everything has turned out alright. Goodnight for now.”
“Goodnight.”
“Who was that?” asked Brigit.
“The CS. He’s coming here tomorrow morning. He wants to talk to us.”
“What about? Why him?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say. Probably just wants to see how we are.”
“A bit strange isn’t it? Him coming here I mean.”
“I guess so. We’ll have to wait and see I suppose.”
She stood and drained the remaining liquid from her cup. “Take the phone off the hook,” she said. “No more disturbances tonight, yes? Even if the Governor calls. We’re going to bed and sleep for twelve hours. That’s an order.”
“Yes ma’am,” Teller replied. “To bed. Certainly. To sleep. Certainly. But first, what about….?”
“No way lover boy. This girl is tired and she’s going to bed to sleep. Only sleep. And so are you, so come on.”
Teller wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “I love you,” he said. “The one good thing to come out of all this is you. Us. I’m not going to let you go you know.”
I know that,” she said. There was a softness in her eyes. “I love you too. Yes, I do love you.”
Despite his weariness he gathered her tiny body in his arms and carried her towards the bedroom.
*
The oriental gentleman in the plain grey suit approached the reception counter in the austere foyer of the new Kowloon Hotel across the road from the rear of the grander Peninsula in Tsimshatsui. He spoke politely to the young lady who handed him a card which he calmly filled in and returned to her.
“Just the two nights sir?” she smiled.
“Hai,” he nodded sharply. Two.”
“Certainly sir. Just a moment please.” The girl left him and began keying the information into the computer behind the counter.
The man, wearing sunglasses and with a bulging carryall slung over one shoulder looked around the lobby. It was one of the newest hotels and while understated reflected its youth in the gleaming marble walls and energetic activity of the staff.
The girl returned from the machine,. “Have you any bags sir?”
“Here,” he patted the carryall. “Business. No more.”
“Certainly sir.” The smile must have been sewn onto her face. “Here’s your key sir. The lifts are to your right. Have a nice stay Mr Takahito.”
“Thank you.”
As he walked towards the lifts hidden around the corner the girl moved back to the computer and confirmed the check in. Mr Kenichi Takahito. Room 1102. Check out Wednesday 7-10-87.
Once in the eleventh floor room the man locked the door. He removed his jacket and threw it only the bed. In the bathroom he took off the glasses and examined his face in the mirror. The room would do just fine. Tomorrow he would get the things he needed.
Stripping off the rest of his clothes he lowered his naked body to the tiled floor. Breathing evenly and deeply he began. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven…