Chapter seven
I pushed open the swing door of the garage and went up to the reception desk. The man behind it looked at the ticket, stamped it, and took an ignition key from a peg behind him. He pointed to a door just beyond the showroom. ‘You’ll find the car through there, sir’, he said.
Ten minutes later I was driving Song-yong’s car in the direction of City Hall …
I turned into a side street off Saemunan-ro and parked. I thought it might be a good idea to make a through search of the car, in the hope of finding something else to work on.
The side pocket yielded nothing except a tatty old A to Z and a yellowing evening paper. I opened the glove compartment and rummaged through its contents and found half a packet of chewing gum, a dirty duster, a pair of sunglasses, and a spectacle case. I popped open the case to find a conventional pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, and on the inside of the lid a small label with a name and address on it:
Mrs Choi Ji-hye,
Cherry Blossom Cottage Pocheon
I sat frowning at the label for a few seconds. It could, of course, belong to one of Park Song- yong’s girl friends: the old adage ‘Men don’t make passes at girls wearing glasses’ meant nothing to Song-yong – he’d make a pass at anything under fifty.
It occurred to me that Kim Joo-young might know who Choi Ji-hye was. Newly engaged men, I know, sometimes rattled off a list of their previous girl friends to their fiancée – presumably with the intention of starting with a clean slate. I thought it unlikely that Song-yong would find such a precaution either necessary or desirable, but it was possible; with Song-yong anything was possible.
I stopped in a doorway, out of the noise of the city, and glanced at my watch. I calculated that Joo-young should be in her apartment. She answered almost immediately.
‘Joo-young’, I said, ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but do you happen to know a woman called Choi Ji-hye?’
She sounded mildly surprised. ‘Choi Ji-hye? Rings no bell with me, darling. Should I know her?’
‘I wondered if she was a friend of Song-yong’s’. ‘Well, if she was, he kept very quiet about it’. ‘So you’ve never heard of her?’
‘Never. But what – ?’
‘Thanks, Joo-young’. I said quickly. ‘I’ve got to go now, I’m afraid’. ‘But Han-sang, wait! I’d like to know if this woman – ’
‘I’ll explain later’, I said. ‘See you soon’. I hung up and went back to the car.
I drove out of Uijeongbu and took expressway forty-three for Pocheon. I was beginning to realise what it must be like to be a detective: the endless routine inquiries; the infuriating succession of red herrings; the patient following up of each tiny clue, however vague it seemed. Thirty minutes later found me in Pocheon. I stopped at a small general stores and inquired the way to Cherry Blossom Cottage.
‘You can’t miss it’, said the woman in the shop. ‘It’s got a pale blue gate and there’s a tall tree just behind the garage’.
It was easy enough to find. There was a small girl, about ten years old, playing with a ball in the garden. She was a rather serious-faced child with large, wistful eyes. From under her woollen cap appeared a long pigtail secured by a red ribbon. I said: ‘Hello’.
The girl stopped bouncing her ball and looked up at me, her features transformed by a sudden and oddly winning smile.
‘Hello’, she said.
‘Does Mrs Choi live here?’ I asked. She nodded.
We walked up to the front door together, and as I pressed the bell I turned to the child, who was regarding me speculatively. Her eyes, I noticed, were of a very dark brown.
‘And what’s your name?’ I asked her.
With a strange touch of dignity, she answered: ‘My name is Seung-li…’