Shrimp grinned, embarrassed. ‘Cool trainers.’

The African laughed, deep, guttural, but his eyes showed a menace, a mistrust.

The lift stopped at level three. A strip light flickered above their heads. A cockroach scuttled across the floor. The muted noise of the dishes clanging came from the direction of a kitchen to their right. The Indians got out and disappeared that way. The Africans and giggling Filipinas stayed put. Mann and Shrimp got out with the Indians. The smell of curry greeted them. The landing had three doors. Two were unmarked; the third had a glass panel and above it was a sign: The Delhi Grill golden on a red background.

‘Have you eaten here before, Boss?’ asked Shrimp.

‘Many times. I’m half British remember; we don’t go a week without a curry. But I haven’t been here for a couple of years…’ Mann didn’t finish that sentence. It should have ended: ‘…since Helen died.’

The restaurant door opened and a tall, robust-looking Indian with a turban on his head and a handlebar moustache stood waiting to greet customers as they alighted from the lift.

‘Hello PJ.’ The two men had known one another for seventeen years since Mann joined the police force and PJ took over the restaurant on the third floor of the Mansions.

PJ came forward to shake Mann’s hand. ‘Welcome back, Inspector. It’s good to see you again.’

‘This is Detective Li,’ Mann introduced Shrimp.

‘Pleased to meet you. Please come inside. Try our speciality of the house – seafood tandoori – freshly made.’

He opened the door onto a chaotic scene. The small space, once intended to be an apartment, was now converted and filled with long, bench-style tables crammed with diners.

Mann held up his hand to thank him. ‘We don’t have time to eat unfortunately, PJ.’

They looked around sharply as the restaurant door opened and a lad, who Mann recognized as PJ’s son, appeared. ‘Go back to work. Go back to work, lad, there’s no trouble here,’ PJ addressed him affectionately.

‘This is one of your sons, isn’t it? Mahmud? He has grown up. Last time I saw him he was a boy.’

PJ summoned him forward. Mann shook his hand. The lad had not inherited his father’s stature; he was slight like his mother had been. His face had an intensity: large brown eyes, eyebrows that met in the middle, a serious face but handsome in a way.

PJ nodded and beamed with pride. ‘Yes. I have high hopes for Mahmud.’ Mahmud looked embarrassed, shy, bright. ‘He will be a doctor some day, an accountant maybe. Who knows? He is such a clever lad. Now go, my son, back to work; otherwise we will have no money to pay for university.’ He laughed, happy and proud, as he ushered Mahmud back into the busy restaurant.

‘I hear you’ve had some trouble here, PJ,’ Mann said. ‘A young girl was murdered the night before last at a Triad initiation ceremony. She was Indian, possibly from the Mansions. We think her father is a tailor here. Have you heard anything?’

PJ looked nervous as he stepped out into the corridor and allowed the restaurant door to close behind him. The din died down and they were left with the heat and silence of the corridor. He wiped his face with his apron. He shook his head and gave a small nervous laugh as his eyes swept the vicinity. ‘It is better if you mind your own business in the Mansions.’ He leaned towards Mann and kept the smile on his face but he looked nervous. ‘It will fetch worse problems down on my head if I don’t. We have problems with the Dalits – the untouchables. We are not used to so many coming into Hong Kong. Now with them crossing over from India to China every day, hundreds more arrive and the Mansions is where they come. They bring with them conflict and it’s not just them, now we have the Africans too. I worry about the way things are here. The Mansions have become a place of fear. The Triads are taking our children from us. The new Indians are causing trouble. The Africans are killing one another and raping our women and no one is stopping them. They are time bombs waiting to go off. They are attracting unwelcome elements into the Mansions. Some people are using it to their advantage. I am afraid for our future here. There’s talk about us leaving – being forced out.’

‘Who is saying it?’

PJ shook his head and glanced nervously back into the restaurant. The youngest of his sons, Hafiz, walked past in view of the door. He was dark eyed, pale faced; he had the look of Asian skin that never sees the sun. He had the look of a user.

‘There have been names mentioned. I do not want to repeat them. It will only go badly for me but I want you to know, Inspector…’ he stared hard at Mann, ‘…that I will pay whatever it takes to stay here. I am sorry for the family of the young woman. If I can help I will.’

Shrimp stepped forward. ‘Mind if I take a look inside? I have never eaten in here. It’s got a great reputation.’

‘Please…please. Take a look.’ PJ opened the door wide for Shrimp to see inside. Hafiz turned and looked at Shrimp before he quickly disappeared to the kitchen.

‘Such a fab place. Love the décor. I’ll definitely be back.’

PJ bowed his head. ‘Thank you. You will get a good discount.’

As PJ disappeared back into the furore of the Delhi Grill, Mann caught a glimpse of Mahmud waiting for news from his father. He watched PJ shake his head, touch his shoulder affectionately and the boy glance Mann’s way. PJ pushed past Hafiz and dismissed him with a wave of the hand.

Mann and Shrimp waited for the lift down. ‘We need to keep pressure on. PJ’s is the best restaurant in the Mansions. If a deal has been made it will be with him.’ The lift didn’t look like coming. ‘Let’s take the stairs,’ said Mann. ‘See if we can help in the search for the girl’s family. The tailors are all on the first floor.’

The echo of voices filtered up from the floor below, the sound of an Indian woman singing and sitar music. They overtook a young woman on the stairs; she had stopped to check her phone for messages.

It was Ruby.

Chapter 23

Ruby knew they weren’t Africans as soon as she heard their footsteps on the stairs; they weren’t wearing trainers. She turned and looked at their feet as they approached. Expensive shoes. Ruby knew then that they didn’t belong in the Mansions. They were strangers. She kept her eyes down until they had passed. She was wearing a curly brunette wig and the same simple big-belted black mac that could be bought in any shop in Hong Kong: fashionable, chic but nondescript. In her oversized handbag she carried another wig and a change of shoes. They were the two things that would transform her. Also in the bag was the tool kit hidden inside the rolled cloth bundle.

As the two men turned to go down the next flight of stairs she glanced over the railings. She recognized Mann but not the other officer. She smiled to herself when she looked at Shrimp in his suit – there was something about a man in a suit. Ruby hung back until she could no longer hear their leather soles on the concrete stairwell. She knew once they got to the first floor they would be swallowed by the sari sellers, the samosa stalls and thousands of people and they would never notice her following them.

She walked past the lift and took the stairs. She didn’t go in the lift on her own. Even though now they had cameras; cameras could be hidden, covered, cameras could have their recordings wiped if you paid the right person. It was all about knowing what someone wanted in exchange. Some people wanted sex. Some people wanted money but they all wanted something.

She kept her head down as she slipped quickly past the Africans who hung about the stairwells and doorways. They sat on the steps and watched the world. They sat in groups and talked of home. They walked up to the mosque and talked of Allah. But they were warm-blooded men. They watched the women walk by. They watched Ruby.