‘Okay then, all I have to do is convince that man in there…’ He nodded in the direction of the Superintendent’s office. ‘Ng—fill Becky in on what we found out this morning while I go and have a chat with my friend in there.’

Mann knocked on Wong’s office and went straight in. Becky sat down to listen to what Ng had to say.

‘Stevie Ho left England just after you,’ Ng explained. ‘He was seen at the airport changing his ticket. So something unexpected must have come up. He went straight from Manila to Negros. We know there is a triad stronghold on that island. We think he will check in there, then head up to Angeles where the main traffickers are based. The answer must lie in the Philippines—it’s the only reason for Stevie to move so fast. He must be under new orders.’

‘Yeah!’ added Shrimp, who was emptying his bag of drink tins and lining them up on his already untidy and cluttered desk, ready for the day. ‘Stevie is putting some deals down. He knows Mann has come back here and he hopes to slip through the net and get his business done quickly before we can catch up with him. We’re sure he’s going to lead us to Amy Tang’s kidnappers. Now, Mann just has to convince the Super.’

Becky stood with Ng and watched Shrimp fire up his PC and bring up images of the Philippines, for Becky to get a glimpse of what she was going to. All three glanced surreptitiously towards the Superintendent’s room, trying their best to gauge what was happening between the two men. It seemed to be all over in seconds as Mann emerged looking nonchalant.

‘Can we go?’ Becky asked.

‘Yep!’

They all looked at the glass partition. Wong was shaking his head—looking a very worried man. Then he realised he was being watched and gave an embarrassed wave at Becky, who waved back.

‘We’ll leave on the night flight. We have to change at Cebu, a two-hour flight from here. Then we will fly to Davao and move up to one of the tourist resorts of Puerto Galera, before we head up to Angeles. There are a few places we have to go to, some men we have to talk to. We have to cover a lot of ground very quickly. We will be going as a married couple—Mr And Mrs Black. Shrimp will fix us up with our new identities and book the accommodation,’ he said, glancing at Shrimp’s face. Shrimp grinned.

‘Suitable

accommodation,’ Mann added. ‘No three-in-a-bed romps with a couple of horny cockroaches.’

‘Leave it to me, boss.’

Mann escorted Becky out of the building and into the staff car park.

‘Let me see if I can guess which is yours.’ She scanned the half-empty parking lot. ‘I think it will be one of two things—either something sporty and vintage, or a mini with a big engine.’

‘Will a BMW convertible do?’

She smiled. ‘Good choice.’

They left Central, heading through the tunnel across to Kowloon and away from the harbour. They drove up Nathan Road, the Golden Mile, and into the small back roads of Mong Kok. It was a bustling old world of narrow streets and disappearing pavements, known by westerners for its markets: night market, jade market, bird market, they were all here, but so were the choppings—the attacks between triads using meat cleavers. Most tourists were blissfully unaware that the area was run by triad gangs. It didn’t affect them—triads killed other triads.

It was still early morning. The night market was packing up and the piles of the previous night’s rubbish were waiting to be collected. The shopkeepers were just setting up their stalls and opening their shutters in preparation. Although most of the shops would not open till ten, the street was still crammed with people. The office workers, in their smart clothes, were dodging the debris left on the pavement. A Caucasian business-suited man walked by with a Starbucks coffee in his hand. He stuck out like a sore thumb.

‘What was it like growing up for you?’ Becky asked as they were stuck waiting to move on a side road, inching their way along behind moving stalls and street vendors.

‘The main divide here in Hong Kong is not the colour of someone’s skin, it’s how much money he has. I was lucky enough to belong to the “comfortably well off” race.’

‘Are your parents still here?’

‘My mother is. She lives out at Stanley Bay. My father was murdered by triads when I was eighteen.’ They stopped outside one of the old tenement blocks. ‘Here we are.’

He was already out of the car before Becky could question him.

‘What?’ Becky got out of the car and hurried after him. ‘So that’s what Micky meant. When I told him you were coming he called you the triad annihilator. He was right—this is personal for you.’

‘Yes, it’s personal.’

One day he’d tell her how he’d been held down by two men and made to watch every chop that brought his father to his knees and finally split his skull. How he’d looked into his father’s eyes and known that he had failed him. One day he’d talk about the part of him that blamed himself for not being able to prevent it.

They followed a man inside the building. He disappeared left. They headed right towards the elevator. Mann pulled at the heavy metal grid door for Becky to step inside. Four more people squeezed into the tiny lift. They alighted at the third floor and walked past open doors with the din of televisions blaring out and the sound of children being scolded, and then stopped at a door halfway along the corridor. Mann knocked. A few seconds later a woman opened it. She looked at the couple, smiled and bowed as she stood to one side and ushered them in. The place was stacked with cellophane bags. Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Gucci, all piled high to the ceiling. The room smelt of plastic and new leather.

‘Come in. Come look…plenty good bag. Good price. Make me offer. Give discount. What you want?’ She beamed eagerly at Becky.

Mann glanced around the room, at the mountain of counterfeit bags, purses and suitcases, all wrapped in cellophane.

‘Where’s Ponytail?’

‘Not here.’ The woman turned back to Becky and began her sales pitch again. She picked up one of the bags, ripped off the polythene and pushed it into Becky’s hands.

‘Tell him to come.’ Mann took the bag from Becky and turned it over in his hands, inspecting the stitching. Then, disgusted, he threw it back onto the pile. ‘Crap. We’re not buying crap. Get Ponytail or we go.’

The woman rushed over to a different pile and began to tear off more plastic covers.

‘This one. This one velly best. Look!’

She thrust this new one at Becky, still hoping that Becky would take over the negotiations. Mann took it and threw it across the room like a Frisbee. It landed on top of a pile of others.

‘Let’s go,’ he said to Becky. ‘It’s all crap.’ He motioned towards the door.

‘Wait. Wait…I ring Ponytail, sure he come for special customer like you.’ She bowed, blocking their exit.

Mann stepped back. ‘Okay.’

Two minutes later an unhealthy-looking young man slipped through the front door, still eating his breakfast. His lank hair was tied back and tapered to a rat’s tail at the nape of his neck, his face was greasy and pock-marked. He was wearing grey jeans with darkened patches down the front of his thighs where it looked like he’d rubbed his greasy hands.

When he saw Mann he stopped, mid-shovelling. His eyes flicked to Becky then back to Mann. He lowered the bowl and wiped the chicken stock from his chin.

‘You wanted to see me?’ he said in English.

‘We were told you have top-quality bags. We haven’t found any yet.’

‘Sure. I have top quality, genuine, made same factory as originals. Follow me.’

He handed his noodle bowl to the old woman, who gave a disgruntled moan at having to involve a third party and lose part of her commission. Ponytail ignored her and led them through to a small room at the back. He closed the door behind them, turned and grinned at Mann.