79

From behind the mattress a wall of death stared at him. He flashed his torch over the images. Lolling heads and blanched faces stared out in flaccid colour from cheap glossy Polaroids. He searched methodically, left to right, along the rows. He paused at each one, looked hard, tried to see past the distortions of death. He searched for anyone he knew. He recognised Gosia, defiant-looking, even in death – her features hard and lean. She glared back at him, her lightless eyes accusing. He flicked across the photos, searching, straining to recognise the dead women. Looking for Helen. Praying he would not find Georgina.

There was the head that had slipped onto the waiter’s foot – Roxanne Berger’s. It was as he had seen it that day in the car park at the New World restaurant, but someone had taken time to try to hide the wounds made from the rope that had nearly decapitated her. Her blonde curly hair was placed neatly around her severed neck to cover it. Someone cared about the way she looked in death – wanted her to look her best.

As Mann looked at the pictures he could see that all the women had been posed – their hair brushed, their faces cleaned. Some of them had had their pictures taken several times from different angles. He stepped closer to the wall and squatted above the mattress. He looked hard at each image – searching. Halfway along the fifth row he found what he sought.

The street was cleared of loiterers. Twenty officers were in position. Three of them were on the second floor. Ng and Li were on the first-floor landing, outside the Fong apartment. They were sweating profusely in the heat. It ran down their faces, poured down their arms and backs, but they held absolute silence as they waited in the dark. Up and down the street, officers sat it out. Inside the old surgery, Mann crouched and waited. He didn’t feel the heat. He wasn’t bothered by the sweat. Every pore in his body was listening, breathing, poised ready. Every sensory receptor was activated. He listened, he watched. His hands itched to get hold of the brothers.

80

Man Po arrived home. He parked his truck outside the house and walked leisurely around it, inspecting its tyres, making sure he had locked the back. He looked around and it occurred to him, momentarily, that the street was very quiet. Usually there was a group of youngsters standing around mopeds at the far end of the street. They weren’t there. Neither was the old beggar who came to sleep in the doorway opposite at about this time. But Man Po did not dwell on it. He went back to lock his truck – for the second time. Eventually, checks done, he walked towards his front door and stood searching for several minutes for his key. Just as he turned, as if to go back to the truck and look for it there, he dug deep enough in his pocket and found it, and lumbered over to his front door. Key in hand, he stepped through into the unlit hallway and hovered there for a few seconds staring at the old surgery door. Something wasn’t right, it was ajar. He called out to Max, thinking he must be inside, but he got no answer. He walked straight in and stopped a foot from Mann. He looked frantically around for an explanation. Where was Max? Ng and Shrimp raced down the stairs.

‘Man Po, you are under arrest for murder. You have the right to remain silent. If you do not …’

Man Po turned to run. Ng stood with Shrimp and two other officers and attempted to block Man Po’s escape. He threw them off with the strength of a cornered rhino in his first charge, dragging them with him as he made for the door. Ng brought a rubber baton down on his head, which threw him off balance for a second as Mann kicked his legs from beneath him and brought the big man crashing down.

Mann took Ng’s baton. It shook in his grip. He wanted to kill Man Po. He raised the baton above Man Po’s head. Just one or two heavy, hard shunts, that’s all it would take. No. He took a deep breath and lowered his hand. He wanted this man alive. He held Man Po facedown on the floor whilst Ng sat on him and cuffed him. Man Po began blubbing then bellowing.

Max heard it as he drew up outside. He had come home to make sure his father was all right. He hadn’t been well recently and Max had taken a few fares then returned to check on him. The sound of his brother wailing gripped Max by the heart, just like it had always done. He got out of his car and was immediately surrounded by ten officers and thrown onto the bonnet, where he was held and cuffed. Then he was dragged inside the surgery. He screamed at the policemen to get off his prostrated brother.

‘Tell him to calm down,’ said Mann.

Man Po twisted his head and looked at his brother. He was wet-faced from sobbing and he was stuck, chest down, on the floor.

‘Stop crying now, you’re all right,’ Max said, still shaking with anger at being held.

Man Po stopped sobbing and looked about him. ‘Do we have to go?’ he said to his brother.

‘Yes,’ replied Max. ‘We have to go.’

Ng got off him and helped him to his feet.

‘Can I take my photos with me?’ Man Po asked, staring lovingly at the wall of dead women.

81

While the SOCOs moved in to take the old surgery apart, Mann headed back with the brothers. He sat with them in the back of the van. He wasn’t going to take his eyes from them for a minute. Max stared at the floor while Man Po cried. At Headquarters they were separated and taken to opposite ends of the cell accommodation.

The noise of Man Po’s bellowing resounded through the lower floor of the building. He was inconsolable: he wanted his father; he wanted his brother; he wanted his photos. He was getting nothing.

Mann ordered Max to be taken to an interview room on the ground floor.

The room was dark and claustrophobic. There was no air-con in the small room and no natural light. It was never meant to be comfortable.

A table and two chairs had been left in the centre of the room.

Max sat at the table. Ng and Li watched him from opposite ends of the room while they waited for Mann. Max looked every inch a worried old man. He wrung his hands and fidgeted and constantly looked ner vously about him.

Mann was taking his time. He needed to prepare himself. He must stay calm, clever, and, above all, he must stay focused. White had ordered him to pass the interviewing over to someone else. But no one seriously expected him to do that.

He paused outside the room, took a deep breath, shut his eyes for a few seconds and then he opened the door. Ng and Li looked up from their stations as he entered. Ng raised an eyebrow. Mann nodded. I’m all right, Confucius – better the devil you know …

Max turned his head at the sound of the opening door. When he saw it was Mann he looked frantically around the room, as if assessing his chances of escape. Then he sank back into his seat and covered his face with his hands.

Mann sat down in the chair opposite Max. Max’s eyes flicked everywhere but on Mann’s face. Mann’s expression did not change. He stared at Max until Max stopped looking at his lap and started making eye contact. After ten minutes Max reached for a cigarette. Mann flicked the packet off the table. It landed at Li’s feet.

As Max looked at him, the image of him loading Helen’s case into the back of his taxi returned. That second when Max had paused, turned and seen Mann.

‘You ready to talk, Max?’

Max didn’t answer.

‘You ready to tell me about the things we found in your place?’

Max looked at his lap again.

‘You want to explain to me how all those pictures of dead women came to be up in your house? You want to talk about the jars full of human remains? You want to talk about the scalp? The lengths of skin?’