Trafficked

‘I didn’t help computerise the Hong Kong police force without picking up a few skills along the way. Don’t worry, I can plumb the depths of the cyber-sex world without leaving my signature. I’ll start straight away.’

Mann had been given directions to Becky’s—it was a ten-minute walk at most. He left thirty minutes early, shutting the door behind him and cutting across the top of the fields. He was hit by the smell of energised air—the world was warming up: the tarmac, the trees, all collectors of that first heat of spring. He stopped just past the smoker who was sitting at the same spot that Mann had seen him twenty minutes earlier. He was a slight Chinese man in a grey polo shirt and jeans. His hair was cut short at the sides, left long and gelled on the top. He sat with his elbows on his knees, deep in thought as he dragged on a cigarette through a cupped hand.

‘You must be Micky?’

The man looked up, surreptitiously checking out the space around Mann. When he was satisfied that it was as it should be, he nodded.

‘You wanted to see me?’

Mann sat next to him.

‘Yeah, I need some information. I need to know who has the balls to take on CK here.’

Micky tilted his head, looked sideways up at Mann and grinned.

‘You tell me.’ He shook his head and drew the cigarette from a cupped hand. ‘Manufactured—new society—come from nowhere. Came out of fuckin’ thin air! All Chinatown is asking the same question.’ He shook his head again incredulously. ‘How did someone get that big that quick?’

‘Maybe several of the big guns have got together to mount a challenge.’

Micky grunted his agreement. ‘Yeah, you’d expect it to come from existing triad societies.’ He flicked his cigarette into the bushes.

‘What’s the talk?’

Micky shrugged and shook his head. ‘It’s nobody from the 14K or the Flying Dragons. It’s not a recognisable style. Kidnapping such high-profile kids takes organisation—know-how. There has to be somebody home-grown helping with this. Stevie Ho was here. You been tracking him? He’s always in the thick of it.’

Mann nodded. ‘I followed him to the Philippines. He’s expanding trafficking routes, setting up new bases. Seems that Stevie wants more than his fair share of the Asian run. He has some muscle behind him. He was in Boracay at the same time as three white guys. The Colonel was amongst them.’

‘Would they take on CK? They’re not triads, they’re traffickers. Would Stevie cross CK?’ Micky shook his head. He wasn’t buying it.

‘Maybe Stevie changed allegiance?’

‘He was in the Wo Shing Shing all his life. His life will be over if he double-crosses CK.’

‘Or unless CK has given him permission to ally with another society. Maybe CK is playing yet another game. Keep in touch, Micky.’ Mann got up to leave.

‘Another thing, Mann, before you go, the talk is that you are in CK’s pay. They say that you helped him dispose of his troublesome son-in-law.’

‘What do you say, Micky?’

Micky sat back, looked up at Mann and grinned.

‘I know your reputation—the triad annihilator. But everyone has their price.’

‘Maybe, Micky, but mine isn’t money.’

18

Mann walked on around the top of the Fields to the end of a parade of shops and took a left. Halfway along the road he stopped at number twenty-five—a Victorian terrace. Becky Stamp greeted him at the door dressed in jeans and T-shirt.

‘Is that for my benefit?’ He gestured towards the T-shirt, which had a picture of Bruce Lee on the front. She looked particularly sexy and sassy tonight, thought Mann.

‘Of course.’ She grinned. ‘Do you only wear white shirts?’ she asked, ushering him inside and closing the door behind him.

‘Not always—saves me thinking too hard, though. Anyway, it shows off my tan and my great physique.’ He grinned.

She chuckled. ‘You’re a bit vain, you know that, Mann?’

She led him through the narrow hall past a neighbour’s open door and the thumping sounds of techno, and up the two small flights of stairs into her flat. They passed a kitchen on the left and continued into the lounge straight ahead. She opened a bottle of wine and poured them both a glass.

‘Just make yourself comfortable. I need to check the food.’

She excused herself for two minutes whilst Mann looked around the lounge. It was small but nicely decorated with a mix of modern and antique. On the walls were two very different paintings. One was an Andy Warhol poster. The other was a black and white photo of a couple saying goodbye at a train station. She liked her knick-knacks, thought Mann. There were two alcoves filled with a mix of souvenirs from around the globe: a carved black rhino, an African Maasai warrior, a collection of Russian Matryoshka dolls and a family of wooden wild boars in varying sizes, lined up along the shelf.

There were other photos, landscape shots of deserts and rainforest all in ornate silver frames. There was one of a younger fresh-faced Becky with flowers tucked into her shoulder-length hair, smiling out of a wedding photo. The man beside her was blond, good-looking. They made a handsome couple.

‘You’ve travelled a lot then?’ Mann said as Becky returned. He held the black rhino in his hand.

‘I did before I was married. Then Alex and I went around India, safari in Kenya, that kind of thing. We haven’t been anywhere much for a few years. Alex takes off on business trips. That seems to be enough for him. I keep meaning to plan a trip, but I’ve got a bit bogged down with work. You know what it’s like? It’s hard to book something in advance when you don’t know what case is about to come up. I think about it a lot. That rhino you’re holding is from Zimbabwe. We had our honeymoon there.’ She looked sad, thought Mann, as he watched her move the smallest of the wild boars next to the largest. She looked around the shelves of souvenirs. ‘I watch all those travel programmes—have a real wanderlust, just never seem to get anywhere any more. I have to go and finish the food. You can pick some music for us if you like, then come in and chat with me.’

Mann took his time choosing the Eagles’ greatest hits before following her into the kitchen. She was busy peeling onions on a smart granite worktop. It was a well-designed kitchen, all wood, stone and chrome. It had a breakfast bar to the left of the entrance and a huge American fridge. Becky was stood in front of a window that looked out towards a distant block of flats and down to a row of walled gardens below. Mann sat on a stool and watched her.

‘Can I help?’

‘I don’t know. What are you good at?’

‘Grinding, chopping, opening bottles, multi-talented really.’

‘Are you going to get your famous knife belt out?’

He laughed. ‘So you have done your homework on me, after all?’

‘I found out a few things.’ She gave him a small smile.

‘I usually save the knife belt for when I’ve exhausted all my other pick-up moves.’

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