34

Mann called in at the mortuary. He knew it was late but he also knew that Kin Tak would still be there. His finger hadn’t even touched the reception bell when the assistant burst through the plastic curtain to meet him.

‘Ah, Inspector! Good news! We have a complete victim. All we’re missing is a finger.’ He ushered Mann forward and through to the autopsy room. ‘There are two new victims,’ he said, while opening one of the heavy fridges, sliding a bag out and unzipping it. ‘This is one: two legs, dismembered at ankle, knee and hip. Been frozen.’

‘What does the pathologist think? Caucasian?’

‘Forward curve to the femur, length of limb. Yes, Caucasian.’

‘Any marks?’

‘Around her ankles – at first we thought it was where she was dissected but it isn’t – there’s evidence she was tied tightly at the feet and then dragged and hung, by the ankles, after death. There are abrasions also, on the back of her legs, from where she was dragged.’ He turned the legs over for Mann to see. ‘We have sent the debris off for analysis.’

Mann looked at the feet. Her toes were beautifully polished. Someone had taken the time to give her a pedicure before killing her, but her legs were thin, the skin slack.

‘Now,’ Kin Tak said, moving Mann on, ‘there’s not much to see on this one, but the other … now, that’s very different …’ He zipped the first bag back up and returned it to its slot in the fridge, slid out another, wheeled it further into the room and unzipped it.

‘This one’s in good condition.’

Mann helped him lift the body out, first the legs, arms, torso, and then the head of a Caucasian woman. She was small-boned with curly blonde hair and freckles.

‘Not frozen?’

‘No.’

Mann looked at her hands, perfectly manicured like her feet. But the index finger on her right hand had been amputated neatly at the knuckle. The soles of her feet were dirty, and she had scratches on her arms and legs.

‘Was she wearing anything?’

‘Just a crucifix. But she did have traces of animal hide on her body, we haven’t identified what yet.’

‘How long had she been dead, do you think?’

‘Twenty-four hours.’

‘Cause of death?’

‘Strangulation by ligature. A thick rope, with a knot to the side.’ He illustrated graphically. ‘Possibly killed by hanging. She was almost decapitated by it.’

‘Was she moved after death?’

‘Yes. Laid out somewhere cold for at least six hours, then moved.’

‘What else?’

They turned her torso over. ‘Extensive bruising and a burn made by a branding iron on her left buttock.’

Mann examined it. ‘It looks like an F. Anything else?’

‘Needle marks.’ Kin Tak turned her arm over to show Mann the puncture marks on the inside of her elbow. ‘We’re waiting for the results from toxicology, but it looks like she’d been taking heroin. And guess what else we found?’

Mann could see that this was the bit the assistant had been dying to tell him, had been patiently waiting to tell him for the last hour. ‘This killer, this man …’ The assistant’s small hands were shaking and he was showing more gum than teeth as he grinned up at Mann, a happy puppy. ‘He likes his women dead receptive,’ he said, giggling manically. ‘Dead receptive, get it? Get it? He likes his women with a touch of rigor mortis …’

‘I get it. DNA?’

‘No chance. They were cross-contaminated in the bag. But look, your detectives just faxed this through …’

He handed Mann a photo. The woman in the picture smiled provocatively out from a poor-quality modelling shot, permed blonde hair and pink pouting lips, hotpants and a crop top, and a big mouth.

Underneath, Li had written: ‘Roxanne Berger from Orange County, USA. (One of the photos you wanted of the women in Lucy’s flat – the most recent occupant.)’

Mann glanced back and forth from the dismembered head on the slab in front of him to the photo in his hand. SNAP.

Mann turned to see Kin Tak was busy taking photographs. ‘Do you need to do that? They’ll have taken a load at the autopsy?’ Mann asked.

‘I thought while she was out, I might as well take them. They are before and after shots. I am making a reference book of my own. Building up a portfolio – showing my work.’

‘You must have quite a collection of photos by now. How long have you been working here?’

Kin Tak stopped what he was doing. There was something about Mann’s tone that he didn’t understand – a hint of mistrust tinged with disgust.

‘Ten years. I’ve seen all types,’ he said, too excited to be embarrassed for long. ‘Don’t often get Gwaipohs, though.’ He went back to photographing, almost oblivious to Mann’s presence. ‘Mr Saheed says he’s never seen stitching like it – takes me ages. But I like to do a good job. I’m working my way up the ladder. I’ll get there. No one loves the job like me.’ He looked up and grinned. ‘I like to make them look pretty again.’

35

Mann headed for the bars and restaurants of Soho. This area catered for every taste. It would be the ideal hunting ground for the Butcher.

He looked up and down the street. It was time for the Gweilos to come out after work. Their existence in Hong Kong was never lonely – they belonged to an exclusive club of well-paid Caucasians, and, like the Chinese, they tended to stick together in their ethnic groups. Most serial killers killed within their own races – black on black, white on white. That was why, if this was a lone serial killer, he was most likely to be white. But nothing was certain. Rules could always be broken.

Mann walked into the Havana – a long, thin bar with a raised section to the left dotted with round tables and stools, an intimate section at the back with sofas and cushions, and a rowdy bar at the front. People stopped drinking and stared as he walked in. He was used to it. All his life he’d had to fight the prejudice of being mixed race.

Most went back to their drinks after a minute, but three white men carried on staring. The tallest one was bald. He had ‘LOVE’ written on one hand, ‘HATE’ tattooed on the other. Should have written ‘UGLY’ and ‘FUCK’ instead, Mann thought. He would present the least problem, he decided. The second man, slightly shorter, also bald, looked like ex-army. He was muscle-bound; obviously still went to the gym every day – didn’t look like he ever got on the running machine, though. The third man, with a grade-two hair cut, was shorter, slighter, meaner, more damaged by life. He had plenty of chips on his shoulders and probably a knife pouch hidden on him somewhere.

They watched Mann walk up to the bar. He looked at them with a practised stare, then ordered a large vodka on the rocks.

Chip on his Shoulder stared straight at Mann. ‘Hey, banana boy? Your mama slip on a banana skin? She really got fucked over, didn’t she?’ His friends laughed. ‘Who was your daddy? GI? Squaddy? Who was your mama? Suzie Wong?’

Mann looked away.

‘Hey, banana boy – I’m talking to you.’

You’re going to be the first. Musclebound second, Ugly Fuck last.

Mann looked back and smiled. ‘Hello boys. Here on holiday, are we?’ He glanced around the bar. He could take all three out and cause minimum damage. He would do it as a last resort, though.

He leaned his elbow on the bar. The barman brought him his drink, a look of concern on his face. Mann smiled at him and gave him a reassuring look.

Mann made sure he stared equally at each man – made sure they all took responsibility for what was about to happen; what they were about to get themselves into.

‘What’s it to you?’ Chip on his Shoulder’s eyes were gleaming – he knew he had the two baldies to back him up. He thought he could be as antagonistic as he liked. But then, the one thing he didn’t know – he didn’t know Johnny Mann.