Mann jolted himself upright. Sweat was pouring down his face and back. He stood up, shook his head and wiped his brow. The nightmare of his father’s death would never go away. The worst part was watching it, not being able to stop it – not being able to reach him in time; not being able to save him. It would haunt Mann forever. But he had been just a lad, and had been held back by three strong men. He had been made to watch in triad-style retribution, a warning to Mann and to others – what happens when payments are not met. He was just a boy, but still Mann blamed himself for not being a superhero, for not saving his father.

He looked about him in a panic, relaxing when he realised where he was. The courting couples had progressed slowly on their promenade and the tourists were still there. He leant against the harbour wall and steadied himself for a few seconds. He looked across to Kowloon. The stars were out. The laser beams were shining into the liquorice sky. The water was still. He shivered as the breeze cooled the sweat on his back, then he pulled out his list of nightclubs.

The Bond Bar would be next.

Lucy slid into the centre of the waterbed and flipped onto Big Frank’s stomach like a wet fish. They lay panting together for a few minutes. Lucy could hear his heartbeat through the wiry carpet of silver-grey chest hair. She lay there, smiling to herself. Big Frank was getting more adventurous every time. It wouldn’t be long before he was hooked. He could be the answer to all her prayers. God knows, she deserved it! He could get her out before Chan had any chance to look for her. Big Frank had big bucks, Lucy could tell – she was used to men with money – she’d known many. He was generous and eager – that was a good sign. Lucy would work hard on him, devote everything to winning his heart and soul. But she’d better hurry up: the clock was ticking and the debt was mounting.

29

It was gone two a.m. when Mann arrived at the Bond Bar in Wanchai. The area was number three on his list, and probably the same number in order of importance in the nightclub world. It used to be number one, but the smarter clubs across the water, in Tsim Sha Tsui, Kowloon side, had taken that slot.

The bar’s theme was Bond girls: Honey Ryder, Holly Goodhead, Plenty O’Toole. It was in the guidebooks as one of the ‘must see’ bars and was described as ‘intimate’. It was certainly that: small, cramped, and with a definite exchange of body heat going on. But it didn’t matter what the place looked like. The fact that it had half-decent, half-naked girls in it was all that mattered.

The doorman, Sam the Sikh, was in his usual pos ition – a genie in the shadows in his red silk – guarding the entrance to the club. He stepped forward and greeted Mann.

‘Good evening, Inspector.’

‘Hi, Sam. How’s it going?’

Sam screwed up his face and rocked his hand in the air. ‘So so. Business is not bad but I’ve seen better.’

‘Not like the old days, huh?’

Sam clapped his hands together and laughed. ‘The old days – before the Handover. Before we all changed into Chinese.’

‘This place hasn’t changed, that’s for sure – still as disreputable as ever. Still, I’d better make an in spection, Sam – see if it passes the health and safety regulations.’

Sam laughed. ‘Very good, Inspector. Say hello to her from me.’

Mann passed the wall of famous faces – an array of framed and signed photos of those well-known visitors who had been caught – some off-guard and obviously regretting it, others past caring. A few looked almost grateful. No new ones, though.

He scanned the room as he entered. There were about thirty punters in. It should have been busier than it was, but Hong Kong was still reeling from one global catastrophe after another. It had only just emerged from the SARS epidemic and, before that, the stock-market crash. Visitor numbers were down. The punters were distributed around the room, according to their preference in women. They sat at individual bar stations and were served by a topless Bond girl who sat or knelt at eye level in the centre of their bar on a raised rotating island, a metre in diameter.

All eight podiums were up and running that night.

Mann passed a group of nervous-looking Japanese who were hovering just inside the door. They’d probably wandered in looking for something more explicit and were too polite to move on when it hadn’t mat erialised. Across the room there were a few Indonesians around Honey Ryder’s station. They were probably dignitaries back home, now getting their first glimpse of a semi-naked white woman and trying not to giggle. The rest of the podiums had small groups of Europeans and Americans, just getting going for the evening. They wouldn’t be staying there for long. The Bond Bar was just an appetiser – pure titillation and completely harmless by Hong Kong’s standards – nothing like the real deal. In Hong Kong, money could buy the darkest of desires and everything and everyone had a price.

On the way through, Mann passed Honey Ryder entertaining the Indonesians – she looked up and gave him her endearing gap-toothed smile. She was dressed in black rubber hotpants and sported a cute blonde bob. She had an expectant look on her face and he was tempted to say a quick hello. She looked like she was waiting for him to come over. They’d had something going a while ago but it had never quite got off the starting blocks. It would be worth another shot, but it would have to wait. Now was not the time. He was here to see one of the others, Pussy Galore and, although Honey might be, Pussy wasn’t the sharing kind.

He spotted her at her usual podium at the right-hand side of the room. Her station was the busiest – he wasn’t surprised. He walked over and sat down on the fake leopard-skin stool, sat back and waited for her to notice him. It didn’t take long – she was good at her job; she’d been doing it for long enough.

Mann had known her for five years. They had provided mutual comfort for each other on several occasions and were fond of each other in their own way – on a part-time basis.

‘All right, Johnny?’ she said in a strong cockney accent. ‘Long time no see.’

‘Hi, Pussy. How’s it going? Business good?’

‘It’s always good in here, Johnny, you know that,’ she said, with a big false smile that she flashed to the dozen or so punters around her podium. Then she added, under her breath, ‘And don’t call me Pussy, you wanker …’ before spinning away from him.

Mann was amused by her show of frostiness. He knew she was angry that he hadn’t called her in a while, but he also knew it wouldn’t last long – three minutes max. She never could keep her feelings or anything else under wraps. Nor had she mastered the art of suspense.

She slammed a vodka on the rocks down in front of him before twirling around to flirt with an overweight loud-shirted tourist on the opposite side of the podium. Her electric laugh was mesmerising to the group of men who sat less than a metre from her, watching every undulation of her beautiful black shiny body as she turned on the rotating table. They didn’t attempt conversation between themselves. They weren’t incapable, but they hadn’t come here to think of anything else except Pussy Galore.

Two minutes later she swivelled back to Mann. He was playing with the ice in his glass, clinking it against the side.

‘You’re looking good, Johnny,’ she said, taking his glass to refresh it.

There! Knew she wouldn’t make it past three minutes.

‘You too, Kim. You missed a spot with the oil, though. Just there on your right buttock.’

‘You’ve lost weight,’ she said, ignoring his jibe and sitting back on her heels to look him over. ‘Lean and mean – it suits you.’

‘I’ve been doing a lot of running. Helps me think. Gives me energy.’