Czytaj książkę: «The Year of Dangerous Loving»

JOHN GORDON DAVIS
THE YEAR OF
DANGEROUS LOVING

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1997

Copyright © John Gordon Davis 1997

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

John Gordon Davis asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780007574377

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2014 ISBN: 9780008119331

Version: 2014-12-19

Dedication

To Buck and Diana Buchanan

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Part Two

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Part Three

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Part Four

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Part Five

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Part Six

Chapter 27

Part Seven

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Part Eight

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

Part One

1

‘Send a policeman to arrest me – I’ve just shot my husband!’

That was the dramatic announcement Elizabeth Hargreave made when she telephoned Jake McAdam at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club that hot Friday night. McAdam thought she must be drunk and he asked to speak to Hargreave.

‘He’s driven himself to hospital,’ Liz said, and hung up.

Then McAdam took it seriously. He went back to the bar and asked Max Popodopolous to go to her immediately and keep her away from the police while he went to look for Hargreave.

McAdam traced him at the Jockey Club Clinic. Ian Bradshaw was in attendance, and said that Hargreave would be all right: the bullet missed the lungs.

‘Thank God for that. How did you get involved in this?’ McAdam asked. Ian Bradshaw was an expensive surgeon who did not hang around casualty departments of hospitals.

‘Called me at the yacht club – he refused to let a government doctor treat him, he doesn’t want any official reports. You can’t see him, he’s still under anaesthetic.’

‘Did he tell you how it happened?’

‘Says it was an accident. Gun went off unintentionally. Don’t say anything to the police. Nor to the press.’

‘Of course not. But the press are going to love this.’

‘How embarrassing,’ Ian said. ‘Did you know the marriage was rocky?’

‘No.’ McAdam added in Liz’s defence: ‘She sounded as if she’d been drinking.’

‘Al had been drinking too. We all drink too much in this town but we don’t wave guns at our spouses. He doesn’t play around, does he?’

‘No,’ McAdam said, ‘nor does Liz.’

‘What will the police do about this?’

‘Nothing, if it was an accident.’

‘But pointing a gun at somebody is a crime, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but it’s the sort of thing that can happen in a marital row. The police can’t do anything if Alistair doesn’t lay a charge – which he certainly won’t; he’ll want it hushed up.’

‘I hope you’re right, I like Liz. And Alistair. Amazing, isn’t it, what can go on in a marital bedroom without anybody else suspecting? Just goes to show, marriage can be one of the most stressful of undertakings. Well, I’ll go’n finish my dinner. You can see him in the morning.’

McAdam then telephoned Hargreave’s apartment. Max answered.

‘Okay, she’s gone to bed with a sleeping pill, the neighbours have been looking after her. I’ve fended off the cops, told them she’s not in her sound and sober senses and can’t make a statement.’

‘Any press around?’

‘Somebody alerted them; they’ve been clamouring at the door. I fended them off too.’

‘And what’s the scene-of-crime look like?’

‘The bullet hit the book Alistair was reading before hitting his chest. Another bullet-hole in the wall above the bed.’

‘Jesus, she fired two shots?’

‘After the first shot Al grabbed the gun, they struggled for possession of it and it went off a second time, hitting the wall.’

‘Al was reading?’

‘Apparently he was lying in bed, pretending to read, ignoring her. They’d been quarrelling.’

‘Did you find out what about?’

‘Not really, she was crying. Bits about how infuriating Al is, how he used to be life and soul of the party, now he doesn’t want to go anywhere, just work work work, et cetera.’

‘So she pulls a gun on him? There’s more to it than that.’

‘Oh, she’s convinced he’s seeing another woman, that’s all I got out of her before she passed out. She was furious because he was drinking in Wanchai this afternoon – she found lipstick on his ear. And he disgraced himself at the Chief Justice’s dinner party by falling asleep. They were both the worse for drink probably, Al’s been hitting the bottle of late – overwork. Do you think there’s another woman involved?’

McAdam sighed. ‘No. Al’s too honest a soul to lead a double life. Too much of a worrier.’

‘But how did he come by the lipstick?’

‘In Wanchai? Easy. I’ve come by a bit of it myself down there over the years. He probably picked it up dancing.’

‘Al dance? In Wanchai? Come on. Anyway,’ Max sighed, ‘I’ll spend the night here to make sure she doesn’t blab to the police when she wakes up. Will you look after Al in the morning?’

‘Sure, first thing.’

‘And Jake? Don’t go back to the club now, you’ll only be asked a lot of questions by the press boys.’

History is confused on the earlier events of that afternoon, avid gossip making hearsay more confounded.

One version of the story has Alistair Hargreave carried shoulder-high into the Pussycat Bar in Wanchai by the police after the jury returned a verdict of guilty in the big heroin case he had just successfully prosecuted; another is that the police even instructed the manager to get the bar-girls out of their beds to entertain the Director of Public Prosecutions because Wanchai does not warm up until night; another is that he was so drunk that he took several off to bed at once; yet another is that his wife found him in bed with one of them and shot him in flagrante delicto.

None of this is correct. The truth is that, after the jury returned their verdict, Hargreave went with the police investigation team to have a Chinese meal in Wanchai to celebrate; that a good deal of booze was drunk and that later they adjourned to a nearby bar called the Pussycat to have just one more; that the place was jumping, despite the comparatively early hour, because a shipload of American tourists had arrived; that Hargreave met some of his journalist friends there and had several drinks; and that he somehow acquired some lipstick on his ear whilst successfully resisting the blandishments of a bar-girl. When he finally emerged into the garish Wanchai sunset, he couldn’t remember where he’d parked his car and ended up taking a taxi home. His wife was very angry because he was late for a dinner party, because he had been drinking in Wanchai, because he was drunk, because he had lost the car, and she became angrier still when she discovered the lipstick. They arrived in a borrowed car at the Chief Justice’s party when everybody was already seated, and Hargreave promptly fell asleep, because he had been up most of the previous night preparing his closing address to the jury. He had to be kicked awake several times before his wife took him home in disgrace: and then, ten minutes later, two shots rang out.

The next morning the front-page headline of the South China Morning Post read: LEADING LAWYER SHOT.

Mr Alistair Hargreave QC, the Director of Public Prosecutions, last night drove himself to the Jockey Club Hospital suffering from a gunshot wound to his chest.

Friends immediately rushed to the Hargreave home where a spokesman for the family, Mr Max Popodopolous, also a lawyer, refused to allow Mrs Elizabeth Hargreave to answer questions from either the press or the police. At the hospital another spokesman for the family, Mr Jake McAdam, told both police and the press to ‘get lost’.

Police enquiries continue.

Mr Alistair Hargreave is a former Commodore of the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club, a fine tennis player, and a leading member of the legal community. Last year his yacht, Elizabeth, won the Hong Kong–Manila race under his captaincy in record time in very bad weather …

The front pages of the Hong Kong Standard and the Eastern Express were in similar dramatic vein. Hargreave had them all on his bed when McAdam arrived the next morning.

‘Thanks, pal,’ Hargreave said, ‘for pulling me out of the soup. Max too.’

‘How you feeling?’

‘Just a flesh wound, Ian says I can go home next week. Home …?’ He snorted softly.

‘You can stay with me,’ McAdam said, ‘until this blows over, whatever it is.’

‘Thanks, but I don’t think it’ll be necessary. Just before the fireworks she announced she was going home to the States forthwith.’

McAdam sat down in a chair. ‘What’s the story?’

Hargreave slapped the newspapers. ‘The police were here earlier. Told them to take a powder, it was an accident. They didn’t believe me but there’s nothing they can do if I won’t testify. She won’t blab anything to the cops, will she?’

‘No, I’ve just spoken to Max on the phone; Liz is all weepy and remorseful. The cops have called again and Max fended them off.’

‘Remorseful?’ Hargreave closed his eyes. ‘What’s Max talking to her about?’ He shook his head. ‘No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to hear what a shit I am.’

‘You’re not, you’re a hell of a nice guy.’

‘Sure.’ Hargreave was silent a moment, then: ‘Old Liz, you know, she’s not such a bad old stick. In fact she’s a very good old stick. She’s just unhappy.’

And she’s not an old stick, McAdam thought, she’s damned attractive. He waited, then said: ‘Why’s she unhappy?’

Hargreave sighed. ‘Don’t want to talk about it. You playing marriage counsellor?’

‘You’ve got a bullet wound – we don’t want you to get any more.’

Hargreave sighed again, eyes still closed. ‘Accident. Won’t happen again.’ There was a silence; then he continued with reluctance, ‘She’s unhappy because the marriage has been going downhill for several years. And that’s my fault.’

Downhill for years? The Hargreaves had always presented a solid matrimonial front to the world. McAdam waited again, then asked, ‘How is it your fault?’

There was another silence. Then: ‘Oh Lord, how can one summarize marriage failure in a sentence? Don’t want to talk about it.’ He sighed. ‘It’s my fault because I’m bored with life here, because I don’t want to have anything to do with the bullshit Hong Kong social scene any more. So she’s bored, because I’m boring. The marriage is therefore boring. Worn out. Don’t do anything together any more. And that’s all I want to say.’

‘You’re not boring.’

Hargreave snorted softly. ‘I even bore myself. I’m bored, Jake. I’m bored with the Law. Been there, done that, every case is just more of the same old guff. I’m bored with lawyers and most of all I’m bored with His boring Lordship. I’m bored with witnesses, with juries. I’m bored with Hong Kong.’ He sighed. ‘About the only thing I’m not bored with is booze.’ There was a pause: then before McAdam could say anything Hargreave continued: ‘What else is there at our age? Got all the money we need – even if we’d like more — but we’ve got enough. We’ve got the success we strove for. So what else is there?’

‘Climbing the Andes? Sailing round the world in your yacht? Buying that ranch and raising those cattle?’

‘But that’s several years down the line, till I’ve recovered from my last stock market misadventure. Meanwhile I have to soldier on.’ He grimaced, eyes closed: ‘And that’s why old Liz pulled the gun on me. To shake me up, give me a fright. It went off, that’s all there is to it. Don’t want to talk about it.’

Like hell that’s all there is to it, McAdam thought. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘boredom happens in marriage.’

Hargreave did not open his eyes. ‘Does it? Or just happens to me? I think it just happens to me. Out there all the other guys who’ve been married twenty years are still happily screwing their wives every night. And old Liz, you know, she’s a very attractive woman.’

Oh dear, McAdam thought – so this is it? He ventured: ‘I doubt all those married men out there are still doing it every night, Al, I was married once myself.’

‘And evidently I’ve got unhealthy appetites. Like booze and gambling.’ He paused. ‘How can you make love to a woman who’s always fed up with you? Always telling you what a washout you were at the dinner party last night, you don’t tell funny stories any more, all you talked about was politics.’

McAdam wasn’t sure what to say. ‘Well, maybe you should spend more time together, take her out for a few romantic dinners.’

‘Bit late for that – don’t feel very romantic with a bullet in my chest.’

‘But you love her.’ He added: ‘Don’t you?’

‘Ask me another one. Right now I’m angry, mortified. Whole town knows. Wish the earth would swallow me up.’

‘Do you think she loves you?’

Hargreave snorted again. ‘She’s too angry with me for that. Fed up with me. This fed up –’ He indicated his chest – ‘even though it was an accident. When people do that, raise their hand to strike, or pick up a weapon, it means they’d really like to do it, even if they stop themselves.’ He sighed grimly. ‘I almost wish she’d had an affair, maybe that would have made me less intolerable.’

‘You told her to have an affair? Last night?’

‘No. She accused me of having an affair. Oh,’ he shook his head, ‘I don’t want to talk about it. Utterly untrue. God, who with? Friends’ wives? Don’t want a guilty conscience as well as being bored.’

McAdam hesitated: ‘Apparently she found some lipstick on your collar?’

Hargreave groaned and opened his eyes. ‘Oh Christ. That was just some Wanchai whore trying to be persuasive. Nothing happened, didn’t even buy her a drink. The cops were with me, they’d bear me out.’ He closed his eyes again. ‘But Liz was furious, yes, accused me of having it off down there, accused me of all kinds of womanizing for years.’ He sighed angrily. ‘Utterly untrue.’

‘So what happened with Elizabeth? You told her you were innocent. Then?’

Hargreave sighed. ‘Furious with me for being late for the CJ’s dinner party. And drunk. I wasn’t really drunk, just exhausted after the case. Fell asleep at dinner. Snored, apparently. Gave me hell coming home, particularly about the lipstick. I refused to fight, went to bed, started to read while she ranted on about Wanchai whores. Next thing she’s standing at the end of the bed with the gun shouting “Answer me!” Then, bang! Bullet knocks the book out of my hands and hits my chest. I sat up with a certain alacrity. Couldn’t believe it.’

‘Jesus. So?’

‘So I leap off the bed, spouting blood. Grabbed the gun. We wrestle for it. Thing goes off again, punches a hole in the wall. She runs to the telephone and calls you. Drama. Then the neighbours come rushing in. While I stagger out and drive myself to hospital. Now the whole fucking town knows.’ He slapped the newspapers. ‘What did she say to you?’

McAdam hesitated, then said, ‘“Send a policeman to arrest me, I’ve just shot my husband.”’

Hargreave groaned. ‘Drama. She knew the cops weren’t necessary – that gun’s got a light trigger.’

‘I didn’t know you had a gun.’

‘Hangover from our days in Kenya. When we were seconded there ten years ago I bought a gun in case of burglars. It’s quite kosher, fully licensed.’

‘Where is it normally kept?’

‘My bedside table. Didn’t notice her get it, she was striding up and down giving me a bollocking.’ Hargreave sighed. ‘She didn’t intend to shoot me – just being dramatic.’

‘Okay, but this doesn’t look good from a police point of view. She fires, then she struggles to retain possession of the gun? That would sound like serious intent to the jury.’

Hargreave took a deep, tense breath. ‘No jury, no cops. Natural reaction to struggle over a weapon once you’ve produced it to be dramatic. I just hope she goes back to America and cools off.’

‘Well, when I spoke to Max an hour ago he said she was packing her bags.’

Hargreave opened his eyes and raised his head. ‘Really?’

‘But it might be bravado. Want me to go around there and pour oil on troubled waters?’

Hargreave looked at him, then slumped back. ‘No,’ he said tremulously. ‘It’s for the best. Let her get out of this bloody awful town for a while …’

2

In the Hong Kong summer your skin is oily, your hair is oily, the sun beats down oily maddening hot on this teeming city on the South China coast: on the frantic money-making, the towering business blocks and the apartments crowding along the manmade shores and up the jungled mountains; on the myriad of resettlement blocks and the squatter shacks, beating down on the sweeping swathes of elevated highways and byways and flyovers and underpasses, on the buildings going up on the mountains that are chopped down to make more land for teeming people, on the mass of factories and the shops, the jampacked traffic carbon-monoxidizing everywhere, the narrow backstreets and ladderstreets and alleyways, the jostling sidewalks, and the signboards fighting each other up to the sky. It blazes down upon the mauve islands and mountains surrounding the teeming harbour, with its container ships and freighters from around the world, and its cargo junks and sampans and jampacked ferries, beating down on the noise and work and money-making. But it is China’s money-making that comes first and foremost in this clamorous, anachronistic, capitalistic, British colony on the crazy-making China coast: Hong Kong is Communist China’s capitalist colony – it is only Great Britain’s in name. Hong Kong is a very unusual, dramatic place.

And this year it was even more dramatic because the question on everybody’s mind, the question everybody had to answer was: ‘Shall I go or shall I stay? Shall I leave this crazy place and start life over again, or shall I take a chance on China and trust in the Lord?’

Ten years ago they had trusted in the Joint Declaration – in which Great Britain and China agreed that ‘only the flag will change’ when the territory reverted in 1997 – ten years ago they had trusted in China’s avowed policy of ‘One Country, Two Systems’, trusted in the internationally-binding agreement that the new Special Administrative Region of Hong Kong that would come into being would be autonomous and governed democratically, that British law would continue to apply, trusted in the Basic Law which China had drawn up enshrining these principles. Ten years ago there had been hope, and that hope had got stronger when Communism collapsed in Russia and eastern Europe, stronger yet when Premier Deng of China declared that ‘to become rich is glorious’. In those days even Alistair Hargreave, who trusted Communists only as far as he could kick them, had resolved to stay after 1997. And then had come the massacre in Tiananmen Square, Beijing, where thousands of Chinese were gunned down by the People’s Liberation Army tanks for demanding democracy; Hong Kong’s hope was trampled into the blood of Tiananmen.

‘Communism is dead,’ Hargreave had said. ‘Long live the fucking Communist Party!’

There was little hope after Tiananmen; thousands of business people left Hong Kong for Canada, Australia, England, America. And now, in that long, hot, maddening summer of 1995, Great Britain was timidly trying to enforce the Joint Declaration by holding the first fully democratic elections for the Legislative Council, and China had announced that she would destroy the new Council when she took over, Joint Declaration or no. There is no democratic nonsense in the paradise of the People’s Republic of China and there would be none in the Special Administrative Region of Hong Kong: there would be no independent judiciary and no freedom of the press either, Basic Law or no Basic Law, United Nations or no United Nations.

It was a bad time for Hong Kong, that long hot summer of 1995. Shall I go or shall I stay?

It was a bad summer for Alistair Hargreave, although it had nothing to do with China’s treachery. Within a week of being shot by Elizabeth he was back at work, showing a brave face, but he was very embarrassed. Lord, he hated the solicitude, the polite circumlocution, he hated people feeling sorry for him: most of them believed that Liz had shot him deliberately, that he had come by the lipstick the usual way. He went to work early, came home late and did more work with the help of whisky. He declined all social invitations. Occasionally he had to meet Jake McAdam or Max or Bernie Champion for a drink, and even those encounters were embarrassing: these guys were his closest friends and expected him to open up to them, but Hargreave did not want to open up to anybody, he wanted to turn his face to the wall. As they said, there were plenty of women out there who would be pleased with his attentions, but he could not bring himself to go through the bullshit involved; he would feel a fraud. And, oh yes, he missed Elizabeth, even though he knew the marriage was a certifiable failure now. Sometimes, in the long hot nights in the empty apartment he considered taking some leave and flying to California to see if they could try again: but in the cold light of hungover dawn he knew it couldn’t work. Finally, towards the end of that long bad summer he decided what to do: pull himself together, stop feeling sorry for himself, take early retirement after he had had his next annual leave and get the hell out of this bloody embarrassing town whether he could afford it or not, and start life anew somewhere. He felt better after he had made that decision. Then the letter from her Californian lawyers arrived.

It was the usual hostile stuff that lawyers prefer, advising him that they were instructed by Elizabeth Amelia Hargreave to institute divorce proceedings against him in the Supreme Court of Hong Kong, reminding him that in terms of the law of California, where the marriage was solemnized, the said Elizabeth Hargreave was entitled to half the matrimonial assets. The grounds for divorce were his ‘mental cruelty’, his ‘persistent refusal to lead a normal social life’, his ‘unnecessary dedication to work at the expense of his home life’, his ‘excessive drinking and gambling’, his ‘embarrassing attentions to other women’, his ‘unreasonable withholding of conjugal rights’ and his ‘mediocre performance of same’. No mention of her shooting him. Fuller particulars of his cruelty would be provided in the petition that would be served on him shortly: meanwhile it would expedite matters and reduce expenses if he would indicate whether he intended to contest the action.

Lord, it hurt him. And mortified him. But no way would he contest it – Unreasonable withholding of conjugal rights and his mediocre performance of same … No way could he wash his dirty linen in public; no way was he going to stand in the witness box and argue about any of it, let alone his lousy sexual performance. Anything rather than that – let Elizabeth take him to the cleaners, let the divorce slip quietly through undefended, just let the earth swallow him up, let him resign his post immediately, fold his tents and steal out of this bloody awful town.

That letter arrived on a hot Saturday at the end of that long, tormenting summer, six weeks after Hargreave came out of hospital. He had intended venturing out socially for the first time since the shooting incident, and had arranged to meet Bernie Champion at the horse races in Happy Valley, the first meeting of the season: but the letter changed that. He could not face his friends with that letter ringing in his ears, nor the yacht club crowd; but neither could he face the empty apartment. So that left only one place to go, to get the hell out of himself, out of this embarrassing town: Macao.

And so it was that Alistair Hargreave, on impulse, took a taxi down to the hydrofoil jetty and boarded a vessel to the Portuguese colony of Macao, forty miles away, on the other side of the River Pearl: and his life took a very serious turn.

Many events in life are mere coincidences, in that something happens only because something else has just happened to happen. Had the lawyer’s letter not arrived that very day Hargreave would have gone to the races in Happy Valley, not to Macao, and he would not have made a fistful of money by betting recklessly on greyhound races – he knew nothing about greyhounds and didn’t bet on animals whose form he had not studied. Had that letter not arrived that Saturday he would not have got drunk in the process of making a fistful of silly money and he would not have gone on to the clamorous floating casino to blow it. Hargreave, being a cautious, serious gambler, believed in quitting when he was ahead, and furthermore he eschewed games of pure chance. Had he not gone to the casino he would not have found himself throwing silly dice at the crap table, winning more money, and standing next to the beautiful Olga Romalova. Had the letter from Elizabeth’s lawyer not arrived that very Saturday, had Hargreave gone to Macao the following weekend to drown his sorrows, even if he had ended up at the very same floating casino, he would not have met Olga Romalova, for her work permit expired that week and she would have returned to Russia. Had he not been winning silly money, the beautiful Olga would not have followed his bets, jumping up and down in excitement and planting a big fragrant kiss on his cheek. Had she not done that he would not have rubbed the dice against her for luck and felt her magnificent femininity as she hugged him in delight when he won yet again, he would not have been emboldened to invite her for a drink. Had he not done that, his life would have been very different.

Despite all the whisky inside him Hargreave was surprised that she accepted: he had presumed that elsewhere in the clamorous casino was a husband or a boyfriend about to reclaim her. When, at the noisy bar, she looked into his eyes and said she was totally unattached, Hargreave thought it was his lucky day. What a beautiful, magnificent girl … So when he invited her to dinner, thinking that beat-up Alistair Hargreave had made a conquest, her reply disappointed him greatly.

‘Thank you, that would be very nice, but I am a singer at a night-club so we must first go there so you can arrange to take me out.’

Bitterly disappointed, was Hargreave. A prostitute – what kind of night-club singer can you ‘arrange’ to take out? So it wasn’t his lucky night – it wasn’t true love after all. A prostitute, a smashing girl like this … But night-clubs, and prostitutes, were simply not Hargreave’s scene – he had not been to bed with a bar-girl in twenty years. So he mumbled an excuse and watched her walk away to work with regret.

It was watching her walk away that did it: those long golden legs, her silk dress sliding over her beautiful buttocks, her tumult of blonde hair down her back, the dazzling smile and cheery wave she threw over her shoulder: she was pure sexuality. If he had not watched her walk away, if he had shrugged off his alcoholic disappointment and gone back to the crap table, his life would have been very different: but for the next hour, while he drank another row of whiskies midst the Chinese clamour, that image of her sexuality steamed in his mind. Maybe she really was a singer, not a prostitute? Maybe arranging to take her out meant nothing more than advising the manager she was going to be absent for a while, perhaps it simply meant rescheduling her performance? And when he finally scraped together his drunken resolve and set out into the teeming Macao waterfront to look for her, coincidence continued to play a vital part, for he did not know which night-club she worked in. He could have wasted hours looking in the Troubadour or the China Nite or the Pearl, and given up: but he went first to the Heavenly Tranquillity because it was a well-known place he remembered hearing about over the years. And if he had been even five minutes later he would not have found her, because she was a very popular prostitute.

‘Hullo, Alistair,’ she murmured behind him as soon as he had sat down at the crowded bar in the glittery tourist joint, ‘so am I very lucky tonight?’

Even then Hargreave had no actual intention of trying to go to bed with her, despite the drink: he had looked for her only out of an intoxicated desire to see that female sexuality again, and maybe to hear her sing, to admire her, to lust after her from afar. But when he turned and saw her again, that lovely face, those big blue eyes and the sparkling smile, those perfect breasts, those long golden legs, he was lost: if she was a prostitute he simply had to have her, he simply had to possess that magnificent body just once.

‘Olga. What a surprise!’

‘Is it? You didn’t look for me? I am disappointed.’

‘Will you have a drink?’

‘Will you have a dance with me first?’

Oh yes … Alistair Hargreave was not a dancing man, but he had to feel this glorious woman close against him immediately, he just had to hold her in his arms.

Her dress was mid-thigh length to show off her long legs, her lovely breasts swelled against the low-cut bodice, her smooth skin warm through the slippery silk. They danced close, and he could feel her body-heat against him, the warmth of her belly and thighs, he could feel the cleft of her buttocks under his hand, her mound of Venus pressed against him.

‘You want to make love,’ she whispered.

Oh yes please. Hargreave was smouldering with desire. He did not ask, ‘How much?’ He did not care how much.

3

It was very expensive: five hundred American dollars bar-levy to buy her out of the club for the night, plus five hundred dollars ‘for me’. Hargreave knew it was an outrageous sum, that he could have her for half if he protested, but it would be ungentlemanly to bargain with a lady. He paid unflinchingly at the bar, with his winnings. He had not had a woman for a long time, and he simply had to have this glorious girl splayed out beneath him tonight.

And what a wonderful night it was. When he woke up beside her in the Estoril Hotel that Sunday morning to the sound of church bells, hungover and exhausted, he felt no remorse. He was not concerned about having been recognized in the Tranquillity club: it was a well-known tourist venue and anyway there had been nobody he knew. He did not flinch when he remembered he had not used a condom, he felt no moral guilt at the sound of those church bells.

When he woke up he was thinking of her golden nakedness, the breathtaking beauty of her as’she had slipped the silk dress off her shoulders: her glorious curves, her jutting breasts, her soft hips, her long perfect legs. She was the most naked woman in the world. Then came the wildly erotic business of showering together, the glorious soapy feel of her, her breasts and buttocks and thighs gleaming, slippery: he had wanted her so much that he had not been able to produce an erection. That’s how come he had not used a condom: he remembered her leading him to the bed, her riotously golden hair splayed across his loins as her wide mouth did its magic on him. That’s when he had thrown caution to the wind, toppled her over and clambered on top of her nakedness, thrusting frantically up into the sweet hot depths of her.

No; no regrets. And when he woke up that sultry church-belled Macao morning with Olga’s sleepy nakedness against him there was no question about an erection. And after it was over, in a crescendo such as he had never known, he had no doubt about how he was going to spend today. Lying beside her, exhausted, he said:

‘Don’t go. Stay.’

She sat up, tousled, and beamed down at him: ‘Yes? Lovely!’ Then she added apologetically, ‘But I regret you must pay.’

Hargreave grinned. Of course she didn’t regret it, but the solemn way she said it was endearing. ‘How much?’ He did not care.

‘The same as last night?’ she said with an anxious little frown.

‘On a Sunday? Surely there’s a discount for a Sunday; no night-clubs do big business today.’

‘No,’ she said earnestly, ‘every weekend in Macao is high season. Monday to Thursday is low season, but Sunday is full price: I’m sorry, darling.’ It seemed she almost meant the endearment.

‘But the night-club won’t know – tell them you spent the day in bed with a headache.’

She said earnestly: ‘They know everything, and if I do not pay they will punish me.’ She widened her eyes, made a guttural noise and drew her finger across her throat.

Hargreave grinned. ‘And such a beautiful throat. Okay, but I haven’t got five hundred US on me.’

‘Credit-card!’ She scrambled up on to her knees and hugged his head against her glorious breasts. ‘I’m so happy!’ She reached for the bedside telephone, punched the buttons, and spoke rapidly in Russian.

They were lying squashed up together in the bubble-bath, drinking champagne sent up by room service, when there was a knock on the door. Hargreave heaved himself up and draped a towel around his waist.

A tall white man stood outside, smiling politely. He had slick black hair, was athletically built, and carried a briefcase. ‘My name is Vladimir. I have come about Olga, sir. I am the accountant.’ He walked in, opened his briefcase and pulled out a credit-card machine.

Accountant? Very fancy name for a pimp. He was the guy to talk to about discounts. ‘I get a different price on Sunday?’

‘Will Olga return to the club at seven o’clock?’

Oh, he wanted her tonight. ‘No.’

‘Then it is full price, sir.’ He ran the machine over the card, wrote ‘Goods’ on the slip, and gave it to Hargreave to sign. It was made out to Gorky Enterprises. ‘You are satisfied with Olga’s service, sir?’

‘Oh yes.’

Vladimir produced a visiting card, printed in English on one side, Chinese on the other: there was no address but it gave a Macao telephone number. ‘If you have any complaints, please call immediately. We have many girls, all very good, all speak English, sir.’

Lord, a thousand dollars. But Hargreave signed the slip without second thoughts.

‘Thank you,’ Vladimir said. ‘Have a nice day.’

It was a lovely day. Afterwards, when he was to look back, it seemed the happiest day of his life to date, the start of the happiest period of his life. After finishing the champagne in the bath – her happy, slippery nakedness all over him felt like love – they had a late breakfast on their balcony overlooking the waterfront and harbour, with another bottle of champagne, while downstairs the hotel’s casino hummed and tinkled.

‘So tell me about yourself, Olga.’

‘Where do you want me to begin?’ She grinned. ‘And what do you want me to leave out?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Not even about my profession?’ She added, with a twinkle in her lovely eyes, ‘You must not worry about Aids, you know. I always make love only with a condom. You were the first time I did not.’

He was thankful to hear that, though he had not thought about it since the sound of the church bells. ‘Why didn’t you?’

She clasped her hands under her chin. ‘Because … I wanted to do it like that. I wanted it to be natural. Because I like you. Because I was –’ she searched for the word – ‘reckless about you.’

He wanted to laugh, and squeezed her hand. ‘Yes, I also felt reckless. Because I like you too.’ He felt like a teenager.

‘Because you think I am sexy?’

‘Because you are very sexy, and very beautiful, and because you are a very nice person.’

‘How do you know? All I did was take your money and say let’s fuck, like a prostitute.’ She smiled: ‘Because you wanted me to be a nice person? Because you are unhappy with your wife?’

Her perspicacity surprised him. ‘How do you know I even have a wife?’

‘In my business you learn about people. You looked like a man who is not experienced in talking with prostitutes, you were very polite, so I thought you are probably a nice married man and such a man must be unhappy with his wife if he has followed me to my night-club when he should be at home with her.’ Before he could respond she added, ‘Is she nice, your wife?’

He was surprised that he wanted to talk to her about it: he had never confided in anyone except Jake McAdam, and for the last seven weeks he’d been too embarrassed about the shooting incident to show his face socially, yet here he was sitting over breakfast with a Russian prostitute and it felt as if he wanted to open his heart. But he only said:

‘Yes, she’s nice. However, she’s gone back to America now, we’re getting divorced.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She looked concerned. Then she snapped her fingers. ‘Of course! That scar on your chest – you said it was an accident. But she shot you, your wife! I read it in the newspaper.’

He was surprised and embarrassed. Even a Macao prostitute knew about his humiliation? ‘You read the Hong Kong newspapers?’

‘And your photograph, I recognize you now!’ She pointed a scarlet fingernail at him. ‘You told me you are a business man, but really you are a big lawyer!’ She swept both hands down over her golden locks. ‘That big English wig!’

Hargreave smiled wanly. ‘So you do read the papers.’

‘For my English. So,’ she smiled, ‘you are a lawyer. So your nice wife is asking for lots of nice money in her divorce?’

‘Something like that.’

‘And now you are spending so much money for me!’ She took both his hands across the table and sparkled mischievously: ‘So I will make it a very good day for you, don’t worry, darling! We will make love as much as you like. Any way you like! Tell me how you like to do it.’

Hargreave seemed to feel his loins turn over. He grinned.

‘Let’s check out of here and go to the Bella Mar Hotel, it’s more secluded. And I’d like you to go home and change into a daytime dress. Bring a bikini, they’ve got a nice pool at the Bella Mar. I’ll meet you there. Know where it is?’

‘Of course I know the Bella Mar.’

4

Of course she knew it – she was a Macao whore. But that did not trouble Hargreave – he was going to have a nice day for a change. A lovely day! Nor did it worry him that he might be recognized – in an appropriate dress Olga would be just another tourist. Nonetheless he checked the hotel register when he signed in and was relieved that all the guests were foreigners; nor was there anybody he knew in the bar or on the terrace.

The Bella Mar is a grand old Portuguese hotel on the knoll, overlooking the tree-lined esplanade and the Pearl River estuary. The floors are polished wood, the ceilings are high and a sweeping staircase leads up to airy, old-fashioned suites with ceiling fans. The blue swimming pool is on the terrace below the verandah.

Olga Romalova dived and swam the length underwater, her long blonde hair streaming silkily behind her. She broke surface at the shallow end, her hair plastered. ‘How much?’

‘Nine seconds. You’re improving.’

‘Once more.’

She climbed up the ladder, gushing sparkling water, and walked back to the deep end in her tiny bikini. Hargreave, seated at a table under a beach umbrella drinking a Tom Collins, watched her every movement. She was truly beautiful. There were other couples at other tables, all watching her. The Chinese waiters were watching her. They doubtless knew her, but Hargreave did not care: they didn’t know who he was and he was happy – surely every man here must envy him, every woman must surely envy her exuberant beauty. Olga came to the deep end of the pool, held up her finger and demanded, ‘Ready?’

‘Ready.’ Hargreave looked at his wristwatch.

‘Now!’ She dived in like a goddess and streamed frantically underwater, her feet kicking. She gushed up at the shallow end. ‘Yes?’

‘Yes – eight seconds flat.’

A man at a table clapped, then everybody was clapping good-naturedly. Olga climbed out of the pool, beaming, gave them a wave and flopped down in her chair under the umbrella. She picked up her vodka and grinned: ‘I am improving, last week my best time was ten seconds. It is because I have stopped smoking.’

‘You come to the Bella Mar often?’

She shrugged. ‘Sometimes. It depends.’

‘I wanted to be an athlete,’ Olga said, ‘a swimmer. Athletes make good money in Russia. But there was no pool on the collective, so I swam in the river. So cold. For a pool I must go fifty kilometres on the bus. So expensive. So I thought, I will be a gymnast. I could walk on my hands, do backward somersaults. At my school we had parallel bars, a springboard, climbing ropes. I practised like crazy. But my teacher told me I am too big to succeed.’

‘Can you still do backward somersaults?’

‘Yes. Want to see?’

‘Later,’ Hargreave grinned.

She continued: ‘My mother always told me that the farm is not good enough for me, I must leave when I grow up – so little money, so much work. She died when I was ten. So I looked after my father, he was a sick man – he was a foreman, a very good farmer, but he was always sick, with tuberculosis, he died when I was fourteen. My big brother, he left many years before to work in the mines. So I went to an orphanage. I wanted to study to become a vet, but there were many difficulties, so when I was sixteen I went to work in a factory in Yekaterinburg. Do you know where that is?’

‘No.’

‘In the Urals. Very cold in winter. Big city, grey skies, grey buildings. I worked in an aluminium factory. We made plates, cups, pots, knives, forks. Millions and millions. But nobody buys them because people do not like the taste of aluminium. But still we make them, because Gosplan says so, because of the mines and the big hydroelectric stations producing the power. You know Gosplan? It is our big ministry for economics.’

‘Yes.’

‘Nobody buys our aluminium plates. Our wages are very little, and always late. Then we heard that some KGB men are stealing our plates and cups and making them flat with a steam roller and selling it to the West for much money. We were angry. But still we went on making plates for the KGB to steal because Gosplan said we must. Then one day the factory director sends for me. In his office is a man I haven’t seen. He says, do I want to be an actress, because I am pretty.’

‘He was wrong. You’re beautiful.’

‘I said, “Yes, of course!” So immediately I go to Moscow. Many days by train. So exciting. In Moscow they say to me: “We are the KGB, Mosfilm does not really want you, we want you to be a diplomat.”’

‘A diplomat? How old were you?’

‘Eighteen. Of course I was not going to be a diplomat, they were cheating me from the start, I was going to be one of their girls who sleeps with foreigners to get information. And for blackmail. But I did not know then. They said: “To be a diplomat you must first learn how to dress nicely, Western ways.” So they began to train me.’

‘What did they teach you?’

She grinned. ‘Mostly how to make love. And I already knew that, most Russian girls learn that very young because there is nothing else to do. I was kept in a hostel like a student, but I was really a hostess for KGB officers. I was taught to cook and entertain, even to sing Western songs, how to dance, very sexy, but after the party – there were always many parties – after the party I had to go to bed with one of my trainers.’

‘How did you like that?’

She shrugged. ‘I hated it, but they said it was part of my training. One of them I liked, the others I didn’t like.’

‘Were you paid a salary?’

‘Yes, I was working for the state. Then after only six months Gorbachev disbanded the KGB. Everybody was very anxious, and angry also. Then my trainers told me I was being sent to Istanbul to continue my studies. But, of course, when I got there I had to be a whore.’

Oh, Hargreave was so glad to learn she had been tricked. ‘Istanbul? Did you protest?’

‘At first I cried and cried, and argued. But what can I do? They hit me. The other girls told me the KGB would kill me if I tried to run away. They said a girl called Natasha had been killed, as a lesson. And I had no passport, no money. No job in Russia. And we were kept in this big house with high walls, and there were guards.’

Hargreave thought, Oh, you poor child. ‘And? Who were your customers?’

‘Rich Turks. Rich Arabs. And some Westerners, businessmen, English, Italian, Germans.’

‘How did you feel?’

He felt a stab of anguish when she shrugged. ‘Afterwards I got used to it. It was a nice big house, nice rooms, nice bar, nice garden, good food. The madam saved your money for you, every month you got paid, you could send it home or buy things, or put it in the bank. So I thought, this is better than Yekaterinburg, better than the KGB hostel where I got fucked for nothing.’

Hargreave didn’t want to hear that. ‘Were you allowed out?’

‘Only when the KGB trust you. But if you run away they will catch you. And how can you run away without a passport?’

‘Did you try?’

‘Not then. Natasha tried. They killed her.’

Lord. You poor child. ‘So the KGB were still functioning despite being disbanded?’

‘No, the Mafia was controlling us. But many KGB are Mafia now.’

Yes, Hargreave thought, that was common knowledge. Right now the Hong Kong police were trying to deal with the Russian Mafia who were using Hong Kong as a staging post for international smuggling. And here he was sitting in the Bella Mar Hotel with one of the Mafia’s girls: in principle he was compromising himself. But he did not care, he was happy for the first time in a long while, he was having a lovely day with this exotic girl, and she had nothing to do with smuggling – prostitution in Macao and smuggling in Hong Kong were far removed from each other, the one almost legal, the other not. Nonetheless he said:

‘Please don’t tell any of your friends who I am.’

She smiled. ‘Of course not, darling. In my business you must be discreet. You would be surprised what important Hong Kong people come to us, but I won’t tell even you.’

Even him? That felt like a compliment. He said, ‘Vladimir, the guy who came with the credit-card machine this morning, he wouldn’t know who I am, he wouldn’t read the papers, would he? He’s got my name now.’

‘No. And even if he knew he wouldn’t do anything, he only wants business.’

‘Is he a big noise in the Mafia, or is he just a pimp?’

‘A pimp. He says he was KGB, a big man, but he is nothing.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Don’t worry, darling, I won’t let anybody hurt you, I like you.’

He liked her too, he just didn’t like a pimp knowing his name. But he put it out of his mind. For heaven’s sake, the Triad societies controlled most of the girlie-bars and brothels in Hong Kong, did that mean every government official who went to a girlie-bar in Wanchai was compromising himself?

‘And how long were you in Istanbul?’ he said.

‘Almost three years. Then I was sent back to Moscow. That is when I tried to run away. One of my girlfriends was from Estonia, which had become independent from Russia, she said it was nice there, we can make a new life. But I had no passport, the Mafia had it. So I bought a gun, and we went on the train and I tried to hide when we crossed the border. But the Estonian police found me and sent me back to Moscow. I was very worried. I got a job in a café but the Mafia soon found me. They punished me because they said I had not finished my contract, and they kept me in an apartment and made me work.’

‘Your contract? Had you signed a contract?’

‘Yes. I signed many forms when they said I was training for diplomatic work.’

‘For how long was this contract?’

‘Three years. But now I am on a one-year contract.’

‘And how did they punish you?’

‘They beat me with their fists. But not too bad because I had to be in good condition to work. But they said next time they would kill me. So I did not try to run away again.’

Oh you poor child. ‘So they made you work in a whorehouse?’

‘No, I was sent out to customers in the big hotels, like the Metropole. That is a famous Moscow hotel. But I always had a guard with me. Then, after two months, they sent me here, to Macao. As a “dancer”.’

What a sad history. ‘How do you like it here?’

‘I like it. Here we are free, because we cannot escape to China, or Hong Kong. I like Macao.’

‘And the work?’ Please God she didn’t like the work.

She shrugged. ‘I am used to it. It means nothing now, to me it is just like being a gymnast, or being a tennis player. What else can I do?’

Oh dear. But it had meant something last night, and this morning, hadn’t it – all that hadn’t been faked, had it? ‘And how long will you stay?’

‘Until next Thursday. My Macao work-permit is finished then.’

Next Thursday? Hargreave stared at her. And what he felt was No … Oh, no, she couldn’t just disappear, this gorgeous girl.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Back to Russia. Moscow.’

‘And in Moscow you go back to work? Where?’

‘I don’t know. In the big hotels.’ She smiled. ‘Will you visit me, darling?’

Jesus. ‘But do you want to go?’

‘No. I would like to stay here.’ She grinned: ‘Then you can visit me every weekend?’

‘Can’t you get your work-permit extended?’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘The Portuguese police? They will want a lot of cumshaw to extend it. And Vladimir’s boss says it is important to change the girls every year.’

‘How much cumshaw will the Macao police want?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps a thousand US dollars.’

Lord, was he mad to be thinking like this? It was on the tip of his tongue to say ‘I’ll pay it’, but instead he asked, ‘And would Vladimir agree?’

She beamed at him. ‘Oh darling, do you really want to do it? So I can work –’ she made her eyes sparkle – ‘really work with you?’

Oh Lord, Lord … He grinned weakly. ‘Would Vladimir agree?’

‘Vladimir, yes, but I do not know about his boss.’

‘Who’s his boss – where is he?’

‘He is in Moscow, I have never seen him. But I think he will agree, why not? Oh darling!’ She squeezed both his hands. ‘Is this really true?’

Hargreave sat back. Oh God, what was he doing? He smiled.

‘I must think. It’s a lot of money.’ He hated saying it – a gentleman does not talk about money at a time like this. And that’s only the start of it, he thought, she would expect him back each weekend.

‘Yes, a lot of money, I understand. And now your wife, too.’ Then she brightened: ‘Do not worry, darling – we still have a whole afternoon and a whole night!’ She grinned: ‘And I am going to make it so wonderful for you that you will say yes! What do you want? Do you want handstands? Backward somersaults? Belly dancing?’

Hargreave threw back his head and laughed.

And, oh dear, it almost felt like love. He knew it was not, of course, but that was how it felt.

She did make it wonderful. Afterwards, lying on the big four-poster bed under the ceiling fan she whispered, ‘And you were wonderful. Last night you were drunk, and you had no dinner, but finally you were okay. This morning you had a big hangover, and you’d had no breakfast yet, but you were good. But this afternoon you had your breakfast and your lunch, and you were wonderful! I had a lovely orgasm, darling.’

‘Did you really?’ He felt very pleased. Mediocre performance of same, huh?

‘Yes.’ She leaned on her elbow and looked at him earnestly. ‘Didn’t you know? That was real. Oh, okay –’ she swept her hair from her eyes – ‘prostitutes always pretend, huh? To make the man finish quicker? Right, that’s what I do – but with you? No. That was real. You know why?’

‘Why?’

‘Because you are a very sexy man. And because I like you so much.’

Him, a sexy man? He grinned – he wished Liz’s lawyers could hear this. Olga flopped down beside him again. She snuggled against him.

‘I was going to say I love you. That is what I sometimes have to say. It is bullshit, of course, but that is what they like to hear, maybe. But I will not bullshit you. So I say, I like you, very much.’

He squeezed her golden shoulders. ‘And I like you, very much.’

‘Okay. So now I let you go to sleep, and when I wake up I give you another triple-A blowjob so you like me more, then I do a belly dance, then some backward somersaults, then we have a nice dinner. Oh …’ she squeezed him, ‘I do not want to go back to Russia.’

He woke up in the sunset. She was still asleep, spreadeagled on her belly, her hair flamed across the pillow, her lovely buttocks naked. And, no, he did not want her to go back to Russia next Thursday, never to be seen or heard of again. Looking at her lying there made him want to mount her again, it seemed he couldn’t get enough of her. Yes, but what about the money? It’s not the thousand bucks up front for the Portuguese police, that’s easy enough, what about every time you come to see her, even if it’s only twice a month – what are you letting yourself in for? How can you afford it, even once a month? Of course you shouldn’t do it – it’s crazy to even think about it, so put it out of your mind. But he looked at her lying there, and he could not put it out of his mind. He got off the bed carefully so as not to wake her, went to the bathroom and turned on the shower.

Fuck the money? You’ll make a deal with her? Live dangerously? Cross the bridges as you come to them?

Yes, and fuck Elizabeth’s lawyer as well, with his law of Community of Property? He stepped under the shower. Yes, cross the bridges as you come to them! Live dangerously! You’ve never lived until today!

When he emerged from the bathroom she was sitting on the bed with the telephone to her ear, speaking in Russian. She gabbled for another ten seconds then banged down the receiver, jumped up beaming, arms wide, and laced her hands behind his neck. ‘I have done it!’

‘An extension to your work-permit?’

She was delighted with herself. ‘At first I thought I make a deal with you – I give you a discount every time until you have got back the thousand dollars cumshaw for the police. Then I thought, no, this is my business not yours, so I will pay the cumshaw! And I will give you a discount every time! And so I telephoned Vladimir and told him!’

Hargreave wanted to laugh. ‘And it’s arranged?’

‘Vladimir agrees, and the police will agree. Vladimir will telephone the boss in Russia tomorrow. Oh darling –’ she jumped up and down – ‘I am so happy! And you?’

Yes, he was recklessly happy. Fuck the money! ‘But Olga – I will pay the thousand cumshaw.’

She turned out of his arms, her palm up. ‘No. Not fair.’

Okay, thank God. ‘And you think Vladimir’s boss will agree?’

‘Why not? But I will pray!’

He grinned: ‘You’re religious?’

She put on a mock frown, placed her fists on her lovely hips. ‘What do I look like? A Communist?’

Hargreave threw back his head and laughed.

Part Two

5

All the next week it seemed he could not get the image of her out of his mind. Her glorious nakedness, the sweet smell and taste and feel of her, and the memory of her standing at the immigration gates at the hydrofoil jetty that Monday morning, midst the clamour and jostling, the smells of diesel, of China, smiling all over her lovely face, her hair still wet from the shower, waving energetically: ‘Goodbye – goodbye …’ Hargreave went aboard the hydrofoil and slumped back in his seat. He could not wipe the smile off his face as he sat back in the air-conditioned first-class cabin skimming across the hazy South China Sea. And when the distant islands of the British colony loomed on the horizon, the myriad of ships from around the world at anchor, then the skyscrapers rearing up along the harbour front of Hong Kong and Kowloon, the most expensive real estate in the world with its mad money-making and its dense traffic and swarming people, it seemed he could not bear to wait to get back to sleepy little Macao next Friday, to Olga. He did not care what the weekend had cost him.

He disembarked at the ferry terminals, queued up to pass through the congested immigration barriers, then joined the sweating crowd along the walkway above Connaught Road. He hurried along the raised thoroughfares, past the marbled stock exchange with its fountains, where he had lost so much money the year before, past the elevated turn-offs to teeming Central with its hotels and shops and alleyways and towering business houses, until he descended through the crush towards Statue Square. Lord, give me sleepy Macao every time. Statue Square was teeming with pedestrians hurrying to work, cars and taxis and buses pouring out pollution around it. He hurried past the grand old Legislative Council building that used to be the Supreme Court, through the park that was the cricket club in the good old days, and crossed into roaring Queensway with its sweeping flyovers. Three hundred yards ahead the Supreme Court building reared up bleakly amongst the skyscrapers. He reached the basement parking area and rode up in the elevator to the first floor. He crossed the big atrium and entered the Crown Prosecutor’s chambers.

He was almost an hour late. There was the usual Monday morning bustle, his lawyers heading off for the courts in their wigs and gowns. He hastened down the long corridor, greeting his staff, and entered his chambers. There were several policemen waiting to consult him, and both his secretaries were speaking on telephones. He signalled to Miss Ho, entered his big office and closed the door. He slung his overnight bag on the long conference table and went to his desk. There were half a dozen telephone messages from policemen asking for an appointment, his in-basket high with files.

Miss Ho entered. ‘Good morning, Mr Hargreave.’

‘Morning, Norma. What problems?’

‘No problems, Mr Hargreave. Nobody sick.’

What a wonder! Over a hundred lawyers to worry about, and this Monday nobody was sick – it had to be a good omen.

‘Well I’m sick, Norma, sick and tired of this job, so treat me gently today.’ He slapped the pile of files. ‘I’ve got all this to read. Those policemen out there – send them to Mr Downes and Mr Jefferson and Mr Watkins, and if you’re stuck send them to Timbuktu.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Norma said, ‘but what about Superintendent Champion? He’s just telephoned for an appointment.’ She added: ‘The uranium case?’

Hargreave sighed. ‘Okay, I’ll see Mr Champion, but nobody else today.’

‘Where were you on Saturday?’ Bernie Champion complained, big and sweaty in his suit. ‘You said you’d be at the races. And I was going out for a Chinese chow last night, thought I’d invite you, I wanted to pick your brains.’

‘Which you’re doing now?’

‘Which I hope to do now. You look like death, where were you?’

Hargreave felt wonderful. ‘I was sailing.’

‘Like hell, your boat was in the yacht club all weekend, large as life. Who is she?’

‘I went to Macao.’ Hargreave smiled.

‘Macao, huh? Hope you wore a condom. How’s the chest?’

‘Healed very well. What’s the problem with the uranium case?’

Champion sighed. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘you don’t want to talk about it, but I’m your friend and I’m asking you seriously, how are you?’

Hargreave hated this solicitude. ‘I’m fine, Bernie.’

Champion grunted. ‘Haven’t seen you around for a while, that’s all. Max, Jake and I, we were expecting you at the races, said you’d come.’ He raised his eyebrows: ‘And Liz?’

‘She’s fine too. She’s divorcing me, I got the letter on Saturday.’

Champion looked at him. ‘Divorce? I heard she was coming back.’

‘What?’ Hargreave stared.

‘Rumour at the yacht club. She phoned somebody and said she’s coming back, don’t know who. But listen, pal.’ He sat forward. ‘If you want her back, fine, I’ll play violins. But I’ve seen plenty of domestic strife in my thirty years in the cops, and if there’s going to be any more, don’t have the gun around. We nearly lost you. Imagine if she’d really hit you? You’d be six feet under and she’d be in jail. We don’t want that, for either of you.’

Oh God … Hargreave massaged his forehead. Liz returning, just when he was starting to feel he could show his face again? ‘She’s not coming back, it’s just a rumour. Her lawyer’s letter was only written last week, and it was very explicit.’

Champion said sympathetically, ‘And how do you feel about a divorce?’

‘Please, I don’t want to talk about it, Bernard. Now what about this case?’

The uranium case – Hargreave was sick of it. It wasn’t a case, it was a big amorphous file of theory and hearsay, mostly Investigation Diary reporting rumours which came to little. But it was Bernie Champion’s pet investigation. The only hard evidence was that a year ago the German police had arrested an elderly man called Wessels at Munich airport carrying a small sample of radio-active weapons-grade uranium in a glass jar. Enriched uranium is the basic ingredient in the manufacture of nuclear weaponry. Mr Wessels had just arrived from Moscow when he was arrested, and he had been about to board an aircraft to Hong Kong. He had refused to tell the German police how he had acquired the uranium in Russia, or to whom he was going to deliver it in Hong Kong: then, whilst being interrogated, he had died of a heart attack, leaving everybody none the wiser. The German police had sought the cooperation of the Hong Kong and Russian authorities. The Hong Kong police suspected that the notorious Chinese Triad societies were involved, intending to purchase large quantities of uranium to re-sell to terrorist organizations or warmongers like Gaddafi of Libya or Saddam of Iraq: but no evidence was uncovered, only rumours. A certain Colonel Simonski of the Moscow police had tried to trace the source of the uranium, without success: Russia was in chaos following the collapse of Communism but the government and all the personnel at nuclear sites insisted that none of their inventory had been stolen, every gram being accounted for and stored under tight security. Simonski had filed a detailed report to his superiors alleging, inter alia, that corrupt Russian bureaucrats were hand in glove with Mafia gangs to export nuclear material to Third World countries: he had promptly been removed from his post in the Organized Crime Squad and assigned to administrative duties. But his investigations were continuing, unofficially. There were some statements, forwarded to Champion by Simonski from Russian informers, who reported that this Russian crook had reported to this other Russian crook that this Russian bureaucrat at this godforsaken Russian nuclear plant had a deal with this unnamed Russian scientist who had not been paid his salary for six months to flog uranium for a staggering amount for export to Mr Gadhafi or Mr Saddam to blow us all to Kingdom Come in World War III. All serious stuff – but all hearsay.

‘So what’s new?’ Hargreave said.

‘Read the last page of the diary.’

Hargreave read it. More forgettable Russian names reporting rumours of a delivery of uranium to Moscow for shipment by air to the Far East.

Hargreave nodded. ‘Bad news. But where exactly are they going to ship it to?’

‘Right here,’ Champion said emphatically. ‘Hong Kong. Because we’re a huge duty-free port. For onward shipment to somewhere like North Korea, or the Middle East.’ He sat forward. ‘So I want your recommendation for more investigation money, I want to go to Vladivostok and Moscow and pay for information and get some statements from witnesses, so we can nail the Russian Mafia when they fly into Hong Kong. But the Commissioner of Police is worried this is a wild goose chase. However, he’ll allow me the funds if you recommend it.’

Hargreave was inclined to agree with the Commissioner. ‘But this is an offshore investigation so far, in Russia. How can I recommend paying out Hong Kong taxpayers’ money?’

‘Because,’ Champion said, ‘it ain’t offshore. Because when this stuff arrives in Hong Kong, who is receiving it, working with the Russian Mafia? The 14K. Terence Chang himself.’

Hargreave sighed. He’d heard all this before from Champion. Yes, everybody would love to nail the 14K, the biggest, strongest, nastiest Triad society in the world. And Terence Chang, the grand master. ‘But where’s your evidence?’

Bernie Champion tapped his head. ‘Trust me. Recommend the money and Simonski and I will get the witnesses’ statements in Russia, the plans for the shipment, who’s going to receive it in Hong Kong, the works. Then when that uranium leaves Russia we’ll do an Entebbe raid on the airport and catch everybody redhanded. Work backwards from there and uncover the whole murderous network – World War Three averted.’

‘Which airport will you raid?’ Hargreave demanded. ‘We don’t want radio-active uranium flying into Hong Kong!’

Champion said irritably, ‘How do I know which airport? I haven’t seen a Russian witness yet!’ He waved a hand. ‘Hell, man, this is the biggest, most important investigation imaginable – nuclear weapons to blow us all to smithereens, and you want to know which airport I’m going to catch the crooks at?’ He shook his fat face. ‘I don’t know, do I, until I’ve done the investigation with Simonski. But that takes money. Simonski hasn’t got access to police funds because he’s been removed from Organized Crime – and the Russian police have no money anyway.’

‘How much do you want?’

Champion pointed at the file. ‘It’s all itemized in there.’

Hargreave sighed. ‘Right, I’ll read the file again. But I’ll have to discuss it with the Attorney General.’

‘Why? You’re the Director of Public Prosecutions.’

‘Because he’s my boss.’

Champion snorted. ‘Notionally. Jesus, Al,’ he appealed, ‘can’t you see how important this is? Imagine if the Islamic Jihad or the IRA could build nuclear weapons!’

Hargreave put the file on top of his in-basket. ‘I’ll read it.’

‘How about dinner tonight?’ Champion said.

‘I won’t have an answer for you by tonight, Bernie.’

‘No, I meant just dinner. Haven’t seen you for ages.’ Champion looked at him appraisingly. ‘You need to get out of yourself, have some fun. You look exhausted.’

Fun? Hargreave had never had so much fun in his life – that’s why he looked exhausted. ‘Better not, Bernie, I’ve got a lot of homework to do and I need an early night.’

Which was certainly true. He was tired when he got home; all he wanted to do was have a few drinks and something to eat and hit the sack. But suddenly he was determined to do something about himself physically, to get into better shape. For Olga. So he went jogging.

He had not jogged for months and he certainly did not feel like it today, but he forced himself to do four kilometres round the mid-Peak roads, sweating in the sunset. It was agony but he kept it up. Olga was twenty-three, for God’s sake, and if he hoped to keep up with her he had to pull himself together, get some muscle-toning. Preserve the remnants of his youth. Tomorrow he would go to the gym. And he must do something about his diet – eat better: three meals a day instead of one and a half. He jogged doggedly to the supermarket at the bus terminus and bought some liver. He walked back to his apartment block with it. While the amah prepared it, he made himself go through the Canadian Air Force exercises that he used to do: press-ups, sit-ups, stretching. He was exhausted when he finished, sweating, but he felt good.

And virtuous. He showered, and he felt glowing. He looked at himself in the mirror. His pallor had gone. Forty-six years old – and she’s twenty-three. Oh, those breasts. Those legs. That creamy smile … You’ve got to get in shape or you‘ll just be another old guy trying to hang on to a young chick. No whisky this week – and get some vitamin pills tomorrow. He drank only two bottles of beer before dinner, and although he did not like liver, he ate it all. He went straight to bed afterwards. His last thought was of Olga, what she was doing. He groaned – he could not bear to think of her with another man.

The next morning he did more than buy vitamin pills, he telephoned Dr Bradshaw. ‘Ian, I want a tonic, can I come to see you?’

‘Sure, what kind of tonic?’

‘Something to give me a boost, I’m on a health-kick. Jogged four kilometres last night.’

‘Hell, take it easy,’ Ian said. ‘How do you feel now?’

‘Just fine. Stiff but good. And I want some advice on diet.’

‘Don’t overdo it on the exercise, we’re not as young as we used to be. What brought this on?’

‘And Ian – can you give me something to improve my sex-life?’

‘Hey!’ Ian said. ‘This is good news! Look, I’ll give you a course of vitamin B shots, but health is the best aphrodisiac. Good food – but watch the cholesterol. And watch the exercise at your age; don’t jog, buy a mountain bike.’

At his age. At lunchtime, instead of going to the Hong Kong Club for a beer and a sandwich, Hargreave went to the gymnasium near the Peak tram terminus, with Ian Bradshaw’s vitamin B shot buzzing in his system. He bought a season ticket.

It was years since he had been to a gym and he was not sure how to use all the equipment correctly, but he watched the next guy and followed suit. Lord, it was hard work. The gym was milling with sweating, muscled young men who knew what they were doing and Hargreave felt self-conscious: he was not flabby, but he was out of condition. And so pale – it was weeks since he had been sailing and he had lost his tan – and he wouldn’t be sailing this weekend, no sir. Then some older men came in, and he did not feel so bad – they were out of condition too. Then he felt worse – they knew how to use the machines, they weren’t sweating and puffing like he was. Hargreave watched them furtively as he doggedly slogged his way through the equipment. He was exhausted when he reached the end of the circuit, his legs and arms trembly. But by the time he got back to his chambers, after a hot shower and a nutritious lunch at the gym’s health bar, he felt great. He wanted to tell everybody where he’d been. Then the telephone rang.

‘A Miss Romalova for you, sir,’ said Miss Ho.

‘Put her through! Olga! Are you all right?’

She chuckled. ‘I am very well, except for my poor pussy. And my heart, my heart is very sore also.’ Hargreave was blushing. ‘Will my heart get better on Friday?’

‘Yes.’ Oh yes, he could not wait for Friday. ‘So your work-permit is okay?’

‘Yes, the police have extended for three months. And the big boss has agreed also.’

Oh, yes. ‘Well, I’ll be there on the seven o’clock ferry.’

‘Lovely! Which hotel do you want to stay in?’

‘The Bella Mar.’

‘So expensive. Why not another hotel, not so much?’

‘No, the Bella Mar.’ He had to have her in one of those airy, exotic suites, beauty like hers deserved the Bella Mar.

‘Shall I reserve? Maybe if I reserve I can get a small commission.’

‘Fine.’ Hargreave grinned.

‘I will give it back to you.’

‘No, you keep it,’ he laughed.

She seemed to accept that as reasonable. ‘I cannot meet you at the ferry, darling, because I must be at the club. But do not come there because then you must pay entrance, and the drinks are so expensive. Telephone me there when you are ready, and I will come to the hotel. But you will have to pay the bar-levy, I’m sorry.’

‘That’s all right.’ Talk of money made him uncomfortable.

‘But I will give you a discount for me, darling, don’t worry. And we will have a lovely weekend, I promise.’

Hargreave grinned, blushing: ‘And I promise you.’ He wanted to tell her about his health-kick but he felt silly.

‘Oh darling, I am so excited. I thought about you all last night at the club.’

Hargreave didn’t want to hear about the club. ‘I thought about you too.’

‘Did you really? I am very pleased. Okay, I must go to sleep now, I have to work tonight.’

Work. He did not want to think about it.

After he hung up he slumped back in the chair, and tried to make himself think about it. Lord, what am I doing, feeling like this about a …? Say it – a whore? Feeling possessive … romantic … smitten. Feeling … over the moon about her. Aren’t you making a bit of a fool of yourself? Don’t forget she’s a whore.

But I wouldn’t be the first man to get smitten by a whore. Whores can be fascinating. Exotic, romantic, even, you wouldn’t be the first man to fall in love with a whore.

Fall in love? What are you talking about, man? You’re not in love, you’re just in lust You’ve had a bit of a tough time with Liz, unloved, sex-starved, so it just feels like love, you just feel sorry for yourself. Whores are for fun, not love …

Okay, so have fun. Enjoy it, stop analysing it. Stop thinking about her ‘work’, and her ‘customers’, stop flinching about ‘discount’ and be grateful for it, grab every discount she gives you because this fun is going to cost you plenty if you keep it up. A three-month extension on her visa? How can you keep up with this for three months? And you won’t want to, you’ll burn the whole thing out soon and she’ll go back to Russia and you’ll be relieved. So be cavalier, just enjoy …

But cavaliers were fit, cavaliers could keep up with their lovers, they did not fall by the wayside just because they were forty-six. He felt tired when he got home from chambers, and he wanted a stiff whisky, but he made himself go out to jog again. But he only managed two kilometres before his heart and his knees told him to stop: the image of her nakedness could not beat the ache in his legs today. So, you gave yourself a workout at lunchtime, don’t overdo it. He walked back to his apartment block on Mansfield Road. He had one beer, one whisky, two boiled eggs, and went to bed. He was asleep before eight o’clock.

The next morning he could hardly stand. His knees were not swollen but they were giving him agony.

‘Cartilage inflammation,’ Ian Bradshaw said cheerfully on Wednesday. ‘From jogging – told you not to do it. Buy a bicycle, I said. Or an exercycle, one of those stationary things that executives use. And buy yourself a pair of proper running shoes – but don’t run, go for walks. Get the best, with springy soles. And for the next week that’s all you can wear on your feet.’

‘But I can’t wear running shoes to chambers.’

‘You’re the boss, aren’t you? Get a black pair, to go with your pinstripe suit, I’ll give you a medical certificate saying you’re a stretcher-case without them. Wear them to court, to cocktail parties, or you’ll have a cartilage removal operation – want that?’

‘No,’ Hargreave said sincerely.

‘Otherwise you’re in good shape,’ Ian said. ‘Heart fine. Got some colour again. Let’s look at my scar?’

Hargreave peeled back his shirt. Ian peered.

‘You’re healthy. Getting older, that’s all. I did a good job on that bullet, what’s left is pretty sexy. Tell the girls it was a jealous husband, makes them feel protective.’ He sat back. ‘What news of Liz?’

Hargreave pulled his shirt back on. ‘We’re getting divorced.’

Ian nodded. ‘Still in San Francisco?’

Hargreave buttoned his shirt. ‘I think so.’

‘No truth in the rumour she’s coming back to town?’

Jesus. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Yacht club. Don’t know the source.’

Hargreave’s heart sank. Just when he was going to have some fun. ‘I’ve just received her lawyer’s letter. If she’s coming back it’s just to pack the rest of her things.’

‘You can come and stay in my guest room while she does,’ Ian offered. ‘You don’t want any more scars. Did you marry under Californian law?’

‘Yes.’

Ian shook his head. ‘Same with me and Janet. Community of Property, half of everything you own. If Janet divorced me I’d be in trouble. Okay!’ He slapped Hargreave’s arm and stood up. ‘Just remember you’re forty-something, not thirty-something, come back for another vitamin B jab next week, and eat your wheaties. And whoever-she-is should have a smile all over her face. But no jogging. Buy an exercycle if you don’t want a bicycle.’