Mr Wong Goes West (17 page)

‘Discreet. Always this word—discreet.’

‘Yeah, well it’s important to the British.’

‘You are not British.’

‘I’m American.’

‘Why you follow me?’

‘I was checking you out, trying to get a feel of what sort of person you were—and your partner, Ms McQuinnie. You see, we’re interested in using you to do some work for us—some serious investigating for us.’

‘But Mr Manx already asked me. He wants me to do feng shui for the family members, for Buckingham Palace and all that.’

Jackson shook his head. ‘That’s not what I mean. That’s something separate. That’s some cockamamie scheme that the—that another member of the family has thought up, to try to get all the weir—I mean—get some unusual, er, esoteric sorta people to use their skills to help improve things. It’s not what the Prince of Wales asked me to do.’

‘He ask you to do what?’

‘A man was killed on board Skyparc yesterday morning. A young person, Paul Barker, a member of an activist group called Pals of the Planet, has been charged with the murder.’

‘So?’

‘Pals of the Planet has a number of major sponsors, some of whom are public, some of whom are discreet. It may be that the Prince of Wales has an interest in the group.’

‘You mean he is secret sponsor of it?’

‘I didn’t exactly say that. But Prince Charles was told immediately about the arrest on Wednesday and was upset about it. He believes that Mr Barker is innocent. I’m an envoy of his, and happened to be part of this mission. He asked me to see what I could do. I asked around and heard about your reputation with criminal cases. I understand that you are doing some feng shui work on Skyparc, and that Ms McQuinnie is a supporter of Pals of the Planet. We would like you to discreetly do an investigation and find out who killed the BM Dutch
Petroleum executive. So that Mr Barker can be released and Pals of the Planet cleared. Before anyone gets negative ideas about that organisation and traces connections upwards to its sponsors. We want to avoid trouble at all costs.’

Wong nodded. ‘I see. So why you following me?’

‘Like I said, I just wanted to check you guys out. When you were described to me, you sounded, well, a bit kinda flakey…know what I mean? I decided I shouldn’t just hire you, but would try and check you out.’

‘Flakey.’

‘Yeah. It means, er, eccentric. Not in a bad way. Just, uh, offbeat. You know. Distinctive, if you like.’

Wong thought for a moment.

‘Not interested. Sorry.’ He turned to leave.

‘No, wait, wait, wait. Don’t you want this case? I thought that’s what you did.’

‘Very busy. Soon going to be working for the Queen, Queen of England, Queen of Australia, and so on and so forth.’

‘We can pay you.’

‘I think your boss not as rich as the Queen. The Queen is one of the richest human being in the world.’

‘Mr Wong.’

‘Yes.’

‘The Prince of Wales is heir to the throne.’

‘Air?’

Jackson racked his brain to find the right words. ‘Heir. Like, you know, eldest child. What you would call Number One Son.’

Wong was listening.

‘Yes,’ said Jackson. ‘He is Number One Son of the Queen. He will inherit everything the Queen has.
Everything
. He will be the next King, as soon as she dies, or she steps down. She’s over eighty. It might not be long.’

Wong was intrigued. ‘He will inherit everything the Queen has.’

‘Yes. He gets it all. And he has his own fortune, as well.’

The feng shui master’s eyes flashed.

‘It’s really worth getting friendly with us,’ Jackson added.

‘So he can pay well?’

‘Whatever Manks has promised you for feng shuiing Buckingham Palace, we’ll pay you the same.’

‘How about double?’

‘Okay, double.’

‘No.’

‘Please.’

‘Triple?’

‘Triple, then.’

Wong nodded. Then, quick as lightning, his hand flicked upwards and tipped out the contents of one of the bowls.

Jackson screamed and tried to wriggle out of the way.

But the stuff that fell onto his genitals was from bowl number five, a soothing, cooling blue-white substance based on cream and vanilla essence.

‘Dear God,’ said Jackson.

Wong called over his shoulder as he left the room: ‘Enjoy the rest of your massage. Meet you in tea room afterwards.’

The pretty young woman from the reception desk approached J Oscar Jackson. She cracked her knuckles and smiled at him. ‘My turn.’

It had taken almost an hour to find a police station. Hong Kong was really badly signposted. Joyce was walking up the stairs to the main door when her mobile phone rang.

‘Joyce? Is me,’ said Wong. ‘I change my mind. I think very important we investigate murder in Skyparc. I think your friend innocent. He is good guy.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Mr Paul not guilty, I think.’

‘Is this a joke?’

‘No. Very sorry. I make a mistake. I am thinking about it. I am thinking, oh, Joyce’s friend, very good man, very innocent, no problem at all. He must be not guilty. We must save him.’

‘What are you not telling me?’

‘Nothing, nothing. It is important to save not guilty persons. He is not guilty, so we must save him.’

‘Is someone offering you money to investigate Paul’s case?’

‘No, no, not at all, definitely not, no way, indeed.’

‘Who is it? How much money?’

‘No one. Just a bit.’

Joyce put one fist to her hip and snapped sternly into the phone: ‘Look, I don’t know what you’re up to, CF, but this is no joke. Paul’s going to be done for murder. I think I need to go to the police. Tell them what I think. He was on the top deck, not the lower deck. He won’t talk to anyone. I’m the only person he’s told. I’m the only person who has been given that bit of information. Someone needs to investigate that angle. This is a big deal.’

‘No! Don’t go to the police. Just let us do it ourselves. I forbid you to go to police.’

‘I don’t work for you any more, remember? I quit.
And
you sacked me.’

‘No, that was only a small joke. You are my number one staff.’

‘Now this is really fishy.’

‘So? You agree? You not go to police, we investigate murder that your friend did not do?’

‘So I’m going to get my job back then? I want better pay and conditions.’

‘What pay and conditions?’

‘That’s just it. I get no pay and conditions to speak of. Things are going to have to change. I want a desk by the window.’

‘No room for you to have desk by the window. Very bad feng shui for you to have desk by window. You are a woman. Bad
shar
to give you a desk there.’

‘I’m going to the police. I’m actually already at the police station, just going up the steps.’

‘No. You have desk by the window, no problem. Bad
shar
energy, can fix easily.’

‘I’m going to speak to Mr Pun about my salary and holidays.’

‘I speak to Mr Pun about your salary and holidays.’

‘I’m speaking to him, end of story.’

Wong did not like the new assertiveness he could hear in Joyce’s voice. This tricky business was changing the dynamics between them. ‘If you go to police, no use. You have no evidence. Does not help your friend. I have some evidence. I went into room of murder victim on airplane today.’

‘You did? What did you find?’

‘Meet me. I tell you.’

Joyce lapsed into silence. She had to make a quick decision. Should she go to the police? Or should she trust Wong? She realised that if she was honest with herself, she was feeling very unconfident about explaining the whole business to the police. Paul had only told her that he was on the wrong deck at the time of the shooting, and he had delivered the news using an Obcom reference. What if the police officer she was talking to didn’t get it? Did people in Hong Kong listen to 1970s music anyway? Would they be familiar with the single ‘Changes in
Latitude, Changes in Attitude’? If Wong had found an easier way to prove Paul was innocent, that would be ideal. Yet she was suspicious. Wong’s change of attitude was bizarre. It could only be explained by one thing. Somebody had decided to pay him to prove that Paul was not guilty. Well, it didn’t matter who was paying who, or how much money was involved. If the outcome was that Paul was got off a murder charge, then it had to be good.

Joyce made up her mind. ‘Okay. I won’t go to the police… yet. Look, I’ll meet you back at the hotel in a couple of hours. There’s one more person I want to see. My friend Nina got me the address of Kaitlyn MacKenzie. She was the girl who sneaked Paul on to the aircraft. I want to know if there’s anything else she can tell us about what really went on on Skyparc. If we are really going to help Paul get off this murder rap, this woman may be able to tell us something useful.’

Joyce found Kaitlyn MacKenzie’s home easily, but there was no one home. It was in a small, old walk-up block close to what was officially called Soho, but which she thought of as Escalatorland, a settlement of restaurants and apartments on both sides of a long, open-air moving walkway that ran up the mountain which dominated the central part of Hong Kong island. She decided to wait. ‘I’ll give you half an hour, Ms MacKenzie,’ Joyce said to no one in particular, finding a step to sit on and shuffling up a podcast on her iPod. She’d downloaded a long interview with Stongo of The Rogerers the previous night and was happy to listen to it for the third time. His voice was soooo sexy.

Thirty-one minutes later, bored and tired, Joyce had just risen to her feet and dusted the back of her clothes, when an immaculately dressed young woman in her late twenties stepped out of a taxi on Staunton Street. She was laden with shopping bags.

‘Kaitlyn MacKenzie?’

‘Yeah. You are?’

‘I’m a friend of Paul’s. Paul Barker? The guy on the plane? I just wanted to thank you for what you did for him. I know it didn’t work out, but you were just trying to help—I realise that. I’m really grateful.’

‘Look. I can’t really talk. I’m kinda busy right now. I’m sorry about what happened. But I really just want to forget all about it.’

Joyce scanned the array of shopping bags she was carrying. ‘You’ve just been sacked and you’re shopping at Zara?’

‘Uh…yeah…just picking up a few things. Essentials.’

‘No, I totally understand. I’m just the same. When I’ve got no money and everything’s in the toilet, I go out and spend spend spend. I mean, I won’t go to Armani or somewhere really expensive, but Zara—I mean, you gotta have these things for your, for your, self-esteem.’

‘Yeah…Hey, I gotta go,’ said Kaitlyn, fumbling a key out of a pocket.

‘Let me help you.’ Joyce snatched the key out of her hand. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’

‘Look, I don’t think I can help you. I think you should—’

Joyce screamed. ‘
Iiieee!
Is that a Miu Miu Matelasse handbag?’

‘Yes, it—’

‘You got taste, girl.’

‘I needed a treat.’

‘You definitely did. You also need a cup of tea. This week must have been a total nightmare. I’ll make you one.’

Kaitlyn MacKenzie paused, and then decided: ‘Okay. Quick cup of tea. But then I have to pack. I’m really busy. I’m going on a trip.’

‘No worries.’

They took the lift upstairs in awkward silence. The temperature between them warmed when Joyce took several of the shopping bags and made wildly approving noises at Kaitlyn’s shopping choices: ‘Jimmy Choo, wow, you’re an A-grade shopper, I can see that.’

The apartment was small and rather untidy, but Joyce put that down to the shock of the past couple of days. Designer clothes were strewn on the floor. It kinda fitted, she decided. Kaitlyn was so immaculate on the outside, it made sense that she needed a place where she could slum it, let it all hang out.

‘’Scuse the mess.’

‘It’s okay. You weren’t expecting a guest. And it’s tidier than my place.’

The other woman lowered her shopping bags to the floor and went into the kitchen—actually a tiny indentation in the main room—to put on a kettle.

‘I’m sorry to seem unfriendly. It’s just that this is a difficult time for me.’

‘I can imagine. You just lost one of your colleagues. I mean, it must be awful to know someone and have that person lose his life. Especially with you having played a part in it, so to speak. I mean, how awful. You must feel that it’s partly your fault.’