He switched the television off, took his plate out to the kitchen and realised he was stalling.

Understandable, but not acceptable.

He opened his briefcase and took out all the files, exhibits and photos and set them out in neat groups over the lounge floor.

Victim one … He placed her photos in the far right corner of his lounge room, under the window. Victim two underneath, clockwise, against the window, and so on – neatly laid out to afford space to walk between them. He arranged them in a circle until he came back to Helen – victim six … he put her at the top, next to victim one, but tucked slightly back from the others.

He stood and looked at the photos. Then he walked around among the victims. His eye lingered on each group of details as he tried to picture the victim’s death. He started with Gosia – victim three. Gosia’s torso was found in the first bag. The bag on the building site at Sha Tin. There’d been a hundred trucks a day going in and out of that site, so there were no tyre tracks to examine.

What kind of woman was she? He picked up the photo of Gosia that her brother had sent and placed it in the centre of the group. She looked Eastern European, dark blonde – she was very pretty in an austere, hard way. She was an independent traveller, a loner, a wild child, otherwise she wouldn’t have ended up working in a club in Hong Kong on her own. She only had her brother and yet she fell out with him. She bore grudges. She had issues. She came from a tough background, orphaned. She was strong. She would have fought hard against her attacker. She was held for several weeks. She had been systematically tortured. She’d had electrodes applied to her nipples and she’d been burnt with cigarettes over her chest. Her wounds were made over a period of days. The person who had done this was into humiliation; there was nothing to gain by torturing her except his own sexual gratification. And there was the trophy taking … Mann studied the picture of the abdominal wound, made by a sawing action – carefully made – but not by a surgeon.

Mann picked up her file and scanned the notes. Traces of heroin. How did she die? Guess – asphyxiation – bag over the head. If her killer was into taking his time, he might have brought her to the point of death many times before finally leaving her there.

Victim two. All he had to go on was the upper right thigh and right arm. She had been tethered with rope. Mann pulled out the sample from the exhibits box. Tiny threads of common rope with a myriad of uses. But the wound was deep. She had been kept tied up with the same piece of rope for some time. It had worked its way deep into the flesh on her wrists. She must have pulled hard against it, caused friction. The skin on her limbs was slack. She’d been held a long time too.

There were no obvious signs of torture. The bite mark didn’t count – that was made several hours after death. Mann took out the cast of the bite from the box. There were a lot of uneven teeth in that cast – too many. This person’s upper jaw never met his lower. This person’s mouth wouldn’t meet. He would have a problem eating, talking.

Ng called.

‘The file – Beverly Mathews. Nothing, sorry. No forensics at all.’

‘Anything else come back?’

‘We’re having no luck tracing the F brand on Roxanne Berger. We looked at all the pig farms in the region. None of them have any branding even similar. Wherever it comes from, it’s not here.’

‘Did you trace the licence plate from the pig lorry we saw?’

‘It doesn’t match anything on our records.’

‘Okay.’

‘You’ll be pleased to hear that the Shrimp is working hard on his assignment.’

‘I bet he is.’

‘He left word for you to meet him at “The Lips” in Kowloon, just past the …’

‘I know where it is. Thanks but no thanks. I’ve messed up enough recently.’

63

Lucy was feeling the pressure. She worked every hour that she was able. She turned punters around so fast that she was in danger of losing her prestigious place in Mamasan Linda’s mercenary heart. Mamasan had always picked the wealthiest of men for her – those with special needs. Now Lucy was choosing her own clients and they were not paying Mamasan their dues. They were quantity rather than quality. But Mamasan Linda was fond of Lucy and knew that she had money problems and that her and her sister’s relationship was strained with the arrival of Georgina. She had seen the way Lucy reacted when Chan was in the club. Even though Mamasan Linda provided Chan with information on the girls, Lucy had brought her in a lot of money over the years and she had to protect her assets.

She was not pleased when three Chinese men from the mainland asked for Lucy by name. She did not know them. ‘Low-life triad types’, she called them. Lucy didn’t like them either, they looked as if they had clawed their way up the ranks and still hadn’t reached the dizzy heights of the sewers. But she needed to pull every punter at the moment.

Two of the men left five minutes after Lucy sat down. She was quite relieved; they hadn’t been the greatest conversationalists. Just a few minutes after that the third made advances to buy her out. Mamasan Linda looked at Lucy and shrugged disparagingly. Would she like to go? Yes, she would. Mamasan Linda came back to the Dressing Room to tell Lucy to be careful. She told Lucy she would see her when she returned later in the evening.

They drove to an apartment block in Causeway Bay. Lucy knew it. She had been there once before. It was a place that let apartments to tourists or travelling businessmen who did not want to stay in a hotel. She followed him in. No doorman. Just a pass code.

‘Nobody here tonight, hey? Got the night off?’ she joked. He didn’t answer.

Lucy walked behind him, staring at his shoulders. He was nervous. She could see the tension in the way he walked, bristling, hackles up, looking twitchily from side to side, starting at any creak or squeak. In the elevator he avoided her gaze.

Alighting at level thirty-two, they walked down a quiet corridor; her heels thudding on cheap carpet. He stopped at an apartment door and knocked. Why had he knocked and not opened it with a key?

The answer came to her just as the door was opened. It was then that her heart began racing, and her mouth dried. Her instincts told her to run but he was blocking her exit. Then she knew: Not his apartment, someone else there. Too late! She was pushed inside as the door opened, and into the waiting arms of his two companions from the club.

Lucy turned to run. There was no chance – the door was already shut behind her. She bolted for the bathroom and tried to lock the door but they were on her. They pulled her around the apartment by her hair, smashing her face into the walls as they went. She closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands in an attempt to minimise the damage. Finally, trapped back in the bathroom, one held her by the throat, pressing a knee onto her chest, while another removed her trousers and knickers and they took it in turns to rape her. Just when she thought she would definitely die, they gave her a last kick for good measure and left.

For a few minutes she stayed absolutely still, waiting for their return, but there was only silence. Then, blinded from her injuries, she crawled along the floor and found her bag. She fumbled inside for her phone and called Max.

He was at her side in minutes. She had managed to find her clothes and dress herself. She crawled to the door and opened it for him.

‘Max, are both my eyes still there?’ Her hands shook violently as she held them up in front of her face, not daring to touch.

Max bent down to look at her. Lucy felt his breath on her face.