‘Less of the “old”, and I never knew you were a quitter.’

‘Sorry, Mandy. Can’t hear you. Bye.’ Mann was already out of the door.

‘Catch you soon, okay?’ Mandy stood, hands on hips, with a ‘don’t mess it up again’ look on her face that women seemed to be born with.

As Mann stepped out onto the street he caught sight of Max pulling away in his cab.

45

Max had only just got up from his daytime sleep and was running a few errands for his father before starting work, when Mann shouted to him to stop. Mann could see that, just for a second, Max contemplated ignoring him and driving off. Mann shouted again and stepped into Max’s line of vision; he wasn’t going to let Max get away twice – he’d have to run him over or stop. Max stopped. Mann walked around to the driver’s side and leaned into the cab.

‘I’ve been looking for you, Max.’

‘Huh?’

‘You’re a regular taxi driver for the hostesses at Club Mercedes, aren’t you? I need to talk to you about one of the girls – Roxanne Berger. You knew her, I understand?’

‘I gave her a lift to work, that’s all.’

‘Where do you live, Max?’

‘In Sheung Wan.’

‘Alone?’

‘No. I live with my father and brother.’

‘What does he do – your brother?’

‘He’s a meat delivery man.’

‘For whom?’

‘The Ho Young Dim Sum Manufacturers.’

‘They’re closing down, aren’t they? Selling up?’

‘Yes. Yes.’ Max was sweating. He fiddled with his keys and looked nervously into the mirror as if their conversation was causing a massive traffic jam, which it was. He started the engine and prepared to drive away.

Mann leaned further in and placed a hand on the steering wheel. He had seen something on Max’s arm. ‘Looks nasty.’ He pointed to a bite mark, the edge of which was just visible beneath the cuff of Max’s shirtsleeve. The skin, angry and inflamed, bulged around the puncture marks. Max hastily covered it up.

‘You should get that looked at. Human bites carry a big risk of infection.’

‘It’s nothing, nothing. It’s not human – it was a dog.’ He put the car into gear.

‘What time do you finish your shift?’

‘About eight a. m., sometimes earlier, sometimes later. I never know.’

Mann released his hold on the steering wheel. ‘See you at Headquarters at five past eight. Don’t be late. Ask for Detective Sergeant Ng.’

As Mann stepped back from the taxi and watched Max speed away, he realised that something was bothering him. Somewhere in his memory bank a series of images were searching for each other and trying to find their match. Among those images was Max. Just as Mann thought he was about to get it, it was gone.

His phone rang. It was Li.

‘Are you ready, boss?’ Li’s breathless voice screeched into the phone.

‘For what?’

‘Ever been to Poland, boss?’

‘No.’

‘They have this awesome legend about two mermaid chicks. There’s a statue of one of them, with a sword and shield and stuff, defending Warsaw.’

‘And …’

‘There is one tattooist in Warsaw who specialises in drawing this mermaid. I emailed a photo of the tattoo to him and …’

‘Go on.’

‘He recognised it straight away. It’s a one-off. He said he only ever drew it once, for one person – his sister. After that he changed it, made some modifications, gave it a boob job, so that the mermaid looked less like a fish and more like Pamela Anderson. Victim three – the torso – has to be the tattooist’s sister.’

‘Well done, Li. What else could he tell us about her?’

‘Not much. They fell out years ago. He said that, the last he heard, she’d been working her way round the Far East. She could have been in Hong Kong. He didn’t know. Basically, he couldn’t give a shit.’

‘Did she have any other family?’

‘Nope.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Gosia Sikorska. I looked in the file. She lived in Lucy’s flat in Wanchai two years ago. She was one of the women Lucy mentioned in her statement – the one with the strong accent – but she never said anything about a tattoo. She worked in Club Mercedes for six months.’

Mann hung up and checked the time before calling Lucy’s mobile. It was six thirty, she wouldn’t be going to work for a couple of hours yet; she’d have time to see him first.

He caught the Star ferry across to Kowloon side. This part of Hong Kong didn’t have the charm of the cobbled ladder streets on the Island, or the colonial mansions, or the Peak, but Kowloon had Tsim Sha Tsui, second only to Central for business, and bird markets, jade markets and night markets. Best of all it had the the New Territories. A precious wilderness with fantastic beaches and glorious picnic spots. Where it was possible to find space and freedom and, in the last month, bags of bodies.

The evening was cool and the ferry was quiet. It had deposited its business-suited customers on to the next stage in their journeys home, and it had taken the tourists back to change for dinner. Now it glided across the water, serene and unhurried, making the most of the respite.

Mann walked briskly up the gangplank and off in the direction of Nathan Road; a road that ran vertical from the harbour, long and straight – the Golden Mile. It was the place to buy watches, perfumes and electricals. It was awash with Indians selling fake anything. Every square inch of Nathan Road screamed something: try me – buy me – you can’t live without me …

The neon made Mann sweat and the thumping bass made him deaf. At every doorway a different song was spat out then batted away and replaced by another at the next step. Every doorway multiplied to five and the pavement disappeared as people fought for every inch of retail territory. He gave up trying to walk down it and took off on a side road, cutting across until he came to the Excalibur Hotel, halfway up Nathan Road, eight hundred metres down a side street. The Excalibur was an ‘old school’ type of hotel whose rooms were slightly shabby but well soundproofed. It had a small pool on the roof and its coffee shop was renowned for the fine pastry chef. It was a hotel that most foreigners were familiar with because it specialised in offering not-too-cheap package holidays to Brits and was always full. Helen had loved going there for a late breakfast. It was nice to walk to it along the harbour.

He was thinking about Helen again. Maybe the thing with Georgina had got him thinking What if? What if he’d tried harder? What if he’d been prepared to give it a chance? What if he’d wanted the things she’d wanted? What fucking if?

ENOUGH!

Mann walked through the lobby and past the lounge bar, where a pianist was tinkling away forgettable tunes for the cocktail lounge clientele of post-shoppers and pre-diners to chat over. He walked down a short flight of stairs to Oliver’s Bar in the basement.

Oliver’s Bar was overdone in ‘Old English Stylee’. It was dark red, oak-panelled and tartan-infested. Straight ahead of the entrance was a hexagonal bar. Tables and chairs fanned out from it on two levels, all in regimented restaurant fashion. Further to the right of the entrance was a lounge area, with a brick fireplace and a living-flame gas fire that gave out no warmth. Above the fire was a decorative arch and an oak bookshelf dotted with mock-leather faux Dickens first editions.

Mann gave an involuntary shiver as he hit the wall of air-conditioning that sat waiting for him just inside the entrance. He scanned the bar. There were just a few customers. It was happy hour, but the lure of cheap drinks had proven easy to resist. It wasn’t the most atmospheric of bars, but the good thing about it was there was usually space to sit and chat and at least you didn’t have to compete with a piano.

A few locals were ensconced around the far end of the bar, obviously hailing from the ‘snifter’ brigade where one drink always turned into seven. There was a young couple at one of the tables, as far away from the bar as they could get, gazing intently into each other’s eyes. And then there was Lucy, sitting sidesaddle on a stool at the bar and wearing her trademark leather trousers, black-ribbed polo neck and gold chain. She was snacking on peanuts and drinking Coke through a straw.