He picked up all the other photos and pushed them to one side. He collected Helen’s and laid them around the chair. He sat in the midst of them, leaned back and closed his eyes. The cool-season effect was about to hit him. The tornado was about to pick him up by his heels and spin him through time – to somewhere he really didn’t want to go. The dream came back to him. Helen was packing her bag again, throwing everything into a small suitcase, and it wouldn’t fit and she was getting frustrated. He helped her shut it. They pushed together and forced it closed. Mann picked it up. It hardly weighed anything. They walked to the door in silence. Already, an anxiousness was creeping into the dream. Mann was trapped in it now. He’d have to fight to get out of this one. He was being held back. Helen was walking far ahead of him. He couldn’t catch up. Helen was almost out of sight then … BANG … Helen’s voice, not speaking – screaming, with pain. And someone else was with her.

73

Mann rocked on his feet as he held on to the cold porcelain bowl and steadied himself for a few seconds. He wiped the bitter bile from his mouth before turning on the shower and undressing. He looked into the mirror. He was wet with sweat, and his face was blotched from the exertion of vomiting. He stood for a few seconds and tried to see Helen as he wanted to remember her, not as he had just seen her. He wanted to forget that image as fast as he could, but he knew the dream was not done with him yet. It had more to show him.

He stepped into the shower and turned the massage jet on. It blasted his back with needle-thin jets of water. Tipping his head back he felt his scalp tingling as the water pelted him like hard rain. He reached out his hand and steadied himself against the cold white tiles, closing his eyes. He bowed his head. He so wanted to escape. But he knew he had not finished yet. He must go back into the lounge and face Helen’s suffering again. He must relive it and find whoever did it. And he must find Georgina. He owed her that. He owed it to Helen as well.

He towelled dry, slipped on some boxers and a T-shirt and went into the kitchen to make some tea. No more alcohol for him for a while. He needed to stay focused, plus it made him morose and he didn’t need any help with that at the moment.

Back in the lounge the photos were around the base of his chair where he had left them. He walked past them and went to stand at the window. He wished he could see the sea, but he couldn’t. He could just look at the other tower blocks in the development. But the sea was out there somewhere. He looked for it to help him now.

If we ever make enough money, that’s what we’ll dowith it … buy ourselves a little shack on Lama Island. Lie on the hot sand, sleep on the beach, get drunk and make love under the stars.

He pulled down the blinds and adjusted them to allow just enough light through, but to take away all distractions. He turned back to the chair.

There were fifteen photos from the autopsy, a lab report and a plastic bag containing her bracelet. He took the bracelet out and held it in his hand and turned it over a few times. Then he placed it next to the black and white portrait and moved the photo and the bracelet away from the rest. Those two items belonged to Helen alive. The rest were from Helen dead.

Mann grouped the photos into the different sections of the body. He picked up the report. She had been frozen approximately twelve hours after death. Her uterus and ovaries had been extracted shortly before that. Her stomach was empty. There was heroin in her system. She had severe bruising around the wrists, consistent with having been suspended by them. There was evidence of rape.

Mann looked at the photos. He kept coming back to the photo of her head. Her face looked swollen and empty but still serene. He stared hard at the photo until his eyes stopped seeing it and he went back to the dream. He went back to Helen packing the case. Mann picked it up. It weighed nothing. He had come back to sort things out with her. He knew she was leaving, she had told him the day before. He had watched her pack her case. He had left for work, but he had come back. When he’d arrived she was already loading her things into the taxi. It was too late. If she wanted to go, then he should let her. But he had come back to ask her to stay. Pride got in his way. He watched her give her case to the taxi driver. Mann could see him now. He’d looked up at Mann as Mann arrived. The files in Mann’s head rolled and flipped, matching images, fitting noses to faces, to expressions, to flashes of frozen memory – searching, searching, until they found what they sought. And then Mann saw Max with Helen’s case in his hand.

74

It was early evening when they set off for the club. Chan was accompanying three of his new clients: Mr Sun Yat-sen and two other newly recruited triad brothers.

The helicopter flew over the ancient walled cities of Kowloon and the small fishing villages of the New Territories. Instead of heading towards Shenzhen, they skirted around it and flew over the reservoir and into the Special Economic Zone. Then they followed a line of disused quarries that pockmarked the land below. Just when the fat trio were beginning to exchange curious looks, they saw it. The men whooped and clapped. There, at the bottom of one of the redundant quarries, two buildings shaped into the numbers sixty-eight dazzled in the last rays of the sun, like diamond-studded birthday cakes.

Chan told the pilot to take his time so they could get a good look at the place. He was immensely proud of his creation and more than willing to show it off. The helicopter circled around a few times and Chan pointed out the various buildings below. The two main buildings, Sixty-Eight, were connected in the middle. They stood four storeys high, coming halfway up the quarry-side, and were surrounded by lush green garden. There were small lakes dotted around the grounds and a golf course that flowed from that quarry into the next.

In all, the complex took up about a square kilo-metre. The men were obviously impressed, especially when Chan told them about his special attraction for golfers:

‘I keep wild boar in the woods around the golf course, so that if you lose your ball, it is up to you whether to risk finding it, or concede defeat. You are welcome to do a spot of hunting while you are here. This is the place where you only have to ask and it will be arranged.’

The pilot circled around a few times, hovering above the swaying palms and rippling rooftop pools before landing. Four security men met them and took their luggage. It would be returned to their rooms after being checked. They were led to the palm-lined entrance, which was in the Eight building.

They stood in the reception area. It was a classy mix of crystal and black marble with antique Chinese furniture mixed with modern paintings and swathes of hanging silks. Above their heads the building spiralled upwards to its four floors. Two young girls dressed as Korean brides served them tea and hovered over them with warm towels. Checks completed, a receptionist approached to escort the men to their rooms. They took the lift up to the fourth floor and walked down the plush-carpeted landing till they reached the first of three rooms. The receptionist opened the door and bowed as she stood back for the most senior man – Sun Yat-sen – to enter.

‘Please enjoy … your fantasy-maker will be along in a minute.’

She shuffled backwards, bowing as she went. Sun Yat-sen closed the door and looked about him. A bottle of scotch was waiting for him on the glass coffee table. He poured himself a generous one and took a slug, undoing his tie and stripping off his jacket. He threw it across the zebra-skinned bed. As he did so there was a knock at the door. A man in a tuxedo brought in his leather holdall and placed it on the rack. He bowed and left. Sun Yat-sen took another swig of the scotch and waited. He was excited, anxious even.