‘How?’

‘Everyone knows that Gweilos have really rough skin and are very hairy.’

Mann looked at him, half-amused, half-appalled. ‘Yeah, that’s about as true as the one about all Chinese men having tiny cocks. Oh wait! That one is true!’ He turned back to the pathologist who was suppressing a grin.

‘Any theory about cause of death, sir?’ asked Mann.

‘We need to wait for the toxicology results to be sure about poisoning, but I suspect the cause of death to be asphyxiation again – manual strangulation or with the aid of a ligature. We’re just waiting for the x-rays to come back; that might give us an idea of how it was done. Right, let’s see what else we can find.’ He pressed his fingers inside the wound again and eased it apart.

‘We’re quite lucky here – because of the freez ing pro c ess we still have some organs left intact. However …’ his gloved fingers disappeared inside ‘… some are not where they should be.’ He looked at Li.

‘Sir?’

‘The ovaries and uterus are missing …’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Li, before he could stop himself.

The pathologist paused and looked at him. ‘It means … young man …’

Li blinked back at him, ready for the worst, but before Mr Saheed could answer, Kin Tak exploded:

‘We have a trophy taker …’ and immediately smacked his hand across his mouth to silence his excited giggle.

8

Before the process of reclaiming land from the sea, Hong Kong Island was just a big rock. Now, the further up the Rock you lived, the more prestigious the address. At the top, the Peak represented the pinnacle of affluence. Its lofty head rose above the smog and heat, affording some respite from the stifling summers. Its wooded areas were a welcome contrast to the skyscraper world below. It was where the fabulously wealthy lived; where fleets of lucky-numbered Bentleys sat idling in air-conditioned garages. Up to two million US was paid in Hong Kong for a lucky number plate. Two stood for ‘easy’ or ‘fast’. Three for ‘living’ or ‘giving birth’. Six for ‘longevity’. Eight for ‘prosperity’. It wasn’t just number plates and the numbers weren’t always lucky. Four stood for death. Two and four combined – fast death.

Halfway up the Rock towards the Peak were the Mid-levels, a sought-after residential area populated by high-earning professionals. At the foot of the Rock was the business heart of Hong Kong: Central District.

Headquarters was situated at the top of Hollywood Hill, on the rise above Central District towards the Mid-levels. It was a wonderful Victorian colonial legacy: big, white and smack-bang at the top of the hill. At one time Headquarters was a ‘one-stop shop’ where criminals could be held for questioning, interviewed, judged, sentenced and incarcerated all in one place. Now it was the centre for all serious crimes.

In room 210 Superintendent David White sat behind a heavy oak desk. On one side of the desk were photos of his grandchildren. On the other was an engraved cigar box and a small silver rugby ball on a stand – a trophy from his coaching days, awarded for surviving five unbeaten seasons and presented to him by his beloved police rugby team.

In the centre of the room a colonial-style fan hung down from the ceiling and whirred lazily at half speed.

Superintendent White was not only the senior officer in charge of the investigation but also Mann’s mentor and an old friend. He commanded great respect in the force, one of the only non-Chinese senior officers to speak fluent Cantonese. Not that he needed to with Mann, who, with a Chinese father, English mother and educated in England, was fluent in either language.

David White was approaching retirement. He had given his life to fighting crime in the colony and now was being gently phased out under Chinese rule. He knew it was time to go but it didn’t stop him mourning the end of an era. He had arrived in the colony in the sixties when the police force had been one of the most corrupt in the world. When the clean-up came in the seventies he lost many of his good friends. Accepting pay-offs from triads, even working with them to keep the crime level under control, was the norm at that time. Some officers admitted their guilt and did their time. Many more took the money and ran. David White stayed. He helped the Hong Kong police force to develop into one of the finest in the world. He wished he felt happier about leaving it to others.

‘DNA?’

He didn’t wait for Mann to sit down. He had the photos from the autopsy spread over his desk.

‘No chance, David. The bin bag is a great place to rot – makes two days look like seven.’

‘Any reports of missing foreigners?’

‘Fifty in the last year, and those are just the ones we know about. They’re the ones that someone cares enough about to report missing. We don’t know whether there’s a particular ethnicity he goes for. It could be black, Asian, mixed race … we have no idea yet. And I’ve asked to go further back than one year, David. I have a hunch the head we found is much older.’

‘Bloody hell!’ White rubbed his bald head with his hands – a sure sign he was stressed. ‘Hong Kong can be proud of this one. It’s all we bloody well need,’ he moaned. ‘We are going to have so much heat on our backs, Mann. Say goodbye to life as you know it till this is solved. This is going to be our home for the foreseeable future.’

The Superintendent got up from his desk and walked over to the window where he pulled at the louvre blind to observe the day. The morning smog was lifting and rapidly being replaced by rain clouds. ‘But, on the positive side …’ He let the blind go and turned back to Mann, smiling. ‘At least you’re back at Headquarters.’

Mann grinned back at his old friend. ‘Ten months, David! It felt like a lifetime,’ he said, shaking his head with relief. ‘I thought I was going to be forgotten in Sha Tin. Lucky for me they found the bodies out there. You have no idea how good it is to be back.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘I still don’t understand why they transferred me. I’d only been at the OCTB for eighteen months. I expected to stay there for at least three years. I thought I was doing a good job – making some progress.’

‘Yes, well … You were making progress, that was the problem. There are some people, Mann, and not just at the OCTB, who hoped they’d never see you again. You never know when to ease up on the triads, Mann. You could do with having a bit more respect for death. You might be a big lad, but there are still plenty of foundations out there that need filling. Sometimes I think you go looking for trouble.’

He paused, looked squarely at Mann and waited for a reaction. Realising he wasn’t going to get one, he sat down heavily.

‘I was just doing my job, David,’ Mann replied. ‘Since when did that become a crime?’

White shook his head and sighed. ‘Your job, and a bit extra, Mann. You forget I’ve known you all your life. I knew your dad when we were both wet behind the ears – him just starting out in business and me just off the boat. I was proud to know him, proud to call him a friend. After his death I was delighted that you wanted to come into the police force. You’ve proved your worth many times. There are few policemen with your level of intuition for a case, Mann, but there are none so reckless of their own safety either. I know how you think. I’ve seen you on the cricket field. I’ve watched you on the rugby pitch. I was proud to be your coach for many years. You were the best player the police team ever had. I know what kind of sportsman you are: you give everything you have and a little more, and you hate to lose. But, more than that, good sportsmanship is paramount to you. And that’s all right on the sports field, Mann, but not in real life. Right or wrong, black or white, there’s no grey area with you. But there is in real life. Your father was just the same – a strong, upright and honest man – but it was his inability to see the grey that led to his death …’