Authors: Mark Dawson
She went into the kitchen, took a cucumber from the cupboard and sliced it. She took down a glass, collected her bottle of imported Hendrick’s gin and poured a double measure, filling the glass with tonic. She had no ice—she had no freezer to keep it in—so she did without. She took the glass and sat down with her back to the wall, staring at the pictures that she had fixed around the room.
She rested the glass on the floor beside her, undid the clasp of the locket she wore around her neck and opened it. She looked at the only picture that she had of Isabella. The photograph was from six months before she had been taken from her. She was happy, smiling widely, her father pulling faces behind the camera. Beatrix stared at it until she felt the familiar lump in her throat. She closed the locket.
She took out her bag of weed and a packet of papers and rolled a joint. She lit it, took a deep draw and rested it on the floor.
She reached for the gin.
And then she stopped.
What was that?
She listened.
She had definitely heard something.
There.
A scream?
She couldn’t place where the scream had come from and, in truth, it wasn’t unusual to hear the sounds of arguments. The windows of the flats were almost always left open for ventilation and sound travelled easily. The clamour of a violent struggle had woken her last night, and it was a regular occurrence to be disturbed by the neighbourhood cats who somehow made it up to the building’s roof.
She collected the glass and sipped the gin. She looked up at the photographs of all the girls who were not her daughter and let her mind drift, a thousand miles away to England and the memories of happier times.
She took the joint again and inhaled deeply.
#
THERE CAME a frantic hammering at the door. Beatrix licked her fingers and nipped the end of the joint. She got up, hurried into the bedroom and collected her Glock 26. They called it the Baby Glock; its size only allowed for a two-finger pistol grip, but its double-stacked magazine still carried ten rounds of 9mm ammunition. She held it in her right hand as she went to the door. She looked through the spyglass and saw the top of Grace’s head. The girl knocked again, harder, and then stepped back. She turned her head to look across the hallway to her own door and, when she looked back, Beatrix could see the terror on her face.
She used her left hand to unlock the door and, hiding the pistol behind it, she opened it a little.
Grace was halfway between the two doors. She was rooted to the spot.
“Grace?”
The girl turned. Tears were streaming down her face.
“What is it?”
“Please.”
“What?”
“
Please
. You must help me.”
“What’s happened?”
The words would have gushed out, but for her maladroit English. She panicked as she searched for the words, and more tears came. “The man… the man came… wanted sister… would not listen… tried to touch me.”
“What man?”
“The
man
,” she repeated angrily. “The
triad
.”
Beatrix felt her chest tighten with anxiety. The girl was frantic, her breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps. She was going to hyperventilate if she didn’t calm down.
Beatrix looked past her to the open door of the flat and knew that the thing she should do, the sensible thing, would be to tell her that she couldn’t help her, close the door and leave her to whatever fate was waiting for her. But, even as her knuckles whitened around the grip of the Glock, she knew that there was no way she could abandon her to that.
She was a girl, maybe not even in her teens. Whatever it was that had happened in her flat, it had ripped her natural reticence into pieces.
The Chinese were a proud people. To ask a
gweilo
for help? That would have been out of the question.
Whatever it was, Grace had nowhere else to turn.
The pistol was compact and weighed less than twenty ounces, even with the full ten shot load. Beatrix slipped it into the waistband of her jeans, covered the butt with the bottom of her T-shirt and opened the door.
“Come inside,” she said.
#
SHE TOLD Grace to stay in her flat, shut the door and crossed the landing. The door to the opposite flat still stood ajar and, as Beatrix edged up towards it, she thought that she could hear something. She paused, reached round for the pistol, and listened harder.
There.
She was sure now. It was a rasping inhalation, in and out, the sound of someone struggling for breath.
Beatrix raised the pistol, took a breath, and edged the door open with the toe of her boot.
It swung open.
She took it all in.
The flat looked like it was identical. There was the same tiny living space and the door to what must have been the bedroom. The furniture was cheap, but well cared for, and the place was clean and tidy.
She looked down. There was a man on the floor, scrabbling for the door. His rasping breath was evidence that the effort was difficult for him. Beatrix looked past him and saw the trail of blood that led back into the bedroom. He had dragged himself into this room, and was trying to make it outside.
There was a kitchen knife on the floor. The blade was slicked with blood.
Beatrix stepped all the way inside and pushed the door closed.
The man grasped ahead, managing another foot towards the door.
She crouched down.
“Hey,” she said.
The man raised his head and looked up at her.
He said something in Cantonese, but it was little more than a whisper and she didn’t understand it.
She knelt down and, holding the pistol up so that he could see it, gently rolled him onto his back.
She didn’t recognise him, not that she had expected that she would. He was in his mid-forties, tanned, his skin prematurely lined by a life that had, at some point, been lived outside. He bared his teeth as he gasped for another breath and she saw a mouthful of snaggled and blackened teeth. He was wearing a garish yellow tracksuit top, expensive denim jeans and white trainers. A triad. Beatrix’s attention was drawn to the jacket. There was an incision between his sternum and navel. A large bloodstain had bloomed there and was slowly expanding.
She unzipped the jacket. He was wearing a white T-shirt beneath it, the fabric pierced in the same place and saturated with blood.
She pulled up the T-shirt. The man was in bad shape. A sucking wound. Beatrix could see what had happened to him just by looking. The knife had punctured his lung. When he breathed in, the air entered the opening in the chest and when he breathed out, it was forced out of the thoracic cavity. The right lung had collapsed, and he was breathing with just the left. He was in grave danger, but it was possible that prompt treatment could save him.
He looked up at her.
“Help… me.”
She nodded that she understood and, waiting for the gratitude in his eyes, she put the gun on the floor and reached both hands so that they were around his neck. His face washed over with confusion and then, as he realised what was about to happen, blind fear. She pushed down, squeezing as hard as she could, feeling his larynx and pushing down with her thumbs on it. His eyes bulged and his legs gave a buck, but Beatrix was above him and pushing down. He had no leverage and he was weak. The scant strength in his body dissipated and he finally lay still. He gave a final gasping choke as the life faded from his eyes.
Beatrix stood, collected the pistol and shoved it back in her jeans.
She turned.
Grace was standing in the doorway.
Shit
.
She hadn’t locked the door.
The girl was staring at her. Her expression was inexpressive. Emotionless.
Beatrix got up and blocked her view of the dead man. “What did you see?”
“You kill him.”
“I had no choice.”
“Good. He deserved to die.”
There was nothing at all on her face. Beatrix was lost for words. She didn’t know how to react.
“Out,” she said, ushering the girl onto the landing. She did as she was told, waiting for her there as she closed the door behind her. She pointed to her flat. “Go in there.”
“Thank you, Beatrix.”
“Go,” she said, waving her hand. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
She was in a spot, and she felt vulnerable and exposed. Where was the mother? If she came back and saw the dead man in her flat, what would she do? And the girl had seen her throttle the man. What was she going to do with her?
First things first.
She took her key from her pocket and locked the door as quietly as she could. There was no other way out.
She went back into the other flat. There was a cordless telephone on the table. She picked it up and dialled.
“Chau. It’s me. We have a big problem.”
SHE HAD to give Chau directions to the flat. That was annoying. It meant that she would have to move now. But she would have had to move anyway, she corrected herself. She couldn’t possibly stay here now that Grace had seen what she had seen. She had known that she wouldn’t be able to put down roots, but she had been comfortable here.
Oh, well.
Sharks had to keep swimming to stay alive.
She would keep moving.
She waited in the hallway, glad for the hard shape of the Glock pressed into the small of her back. She heard the lift rattle and jangle as it came to a stop on the twenty-fourth floor. She saw Chau’s face through the little window in the door. He was alone. She pulled the cage aside; Chau opened the door and stepped out. He looked around, taking in the details, his curiosity at the place his business partner had chosen for herself all too evident.
“Come on, Chau. Move.”
“Where is problem?”
She pointed to the flat.
He went through. Beatrix followed behind.
The man was just as she had left him. The blood had stopped flowing, and the puddle that had leaked around his body had started to congeal.
“What happened?”
“The girl who lives here. She stabbed him.”
Chau lowered himself to his haunches next to the man’s body. He tilted the head and pointed to the purple bruising around his neck. “What about this?”
“I may have helped him on his way a little.”
“This is not good, Beatrix.”
“I know that, Chau,” she snapped.
“Do we know who he is?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“But…?”
“She said he was a triad.”
“That is obvious.”
He released the man’s chin so that his head flopped back down again. He examined his face and the colour drained from his face.
“You know him?”
“Yes,” he said. “I do not know name, but he works with Mr. Ying. He is in charge of girls in Kowloon.”
“Makes sense. The girl said he wanted her mother. She’s a prostitute. Then she said he tried to touch her. I heard something going on. She screamed. He must have come on to her and she stabbed him.”
“This is very bad.”
“He was going to bleed out, Chau.”
“You could not have taken him to hospital?”
She laughed. “And then what happens to the girl?”
“The girl is not our problem!”
Beatrix put her boot on Chau’s chest and pushed so that he toppled over. She took a step until she was standing over him. “Listen to me, Chau. If you think we are going to abandon a girl to the triads, you’re wrong.
Dead
wrong. We are going to help make sure that, as far as everyone else is concerned, this
never
happened. I’ll do that with or without you. But if it’s without, then you need to know that we’re through. You understand?”
Chau sat up and carefully backed away from her. She had let her temper catch, just a little, and, knowing what he did about her, it had the effect that she expected.
“Yes,” he said. “I understand. I help.”
Beatrix reached out her hand and hauled him to his feet. “Thank you, Chau. I knew you would.”
He dusted himself down indignantly. “This whole room. It needs to be cleaned. Top to bottom. The blood, it needs to be gone. And we need to get rid of body.”
“What do you suggest?”
“We cannot take him down in the lift, can we? We need to cut him up, and then we need to clean up.”
“I need to speak to the girl—”
“I will do it,” he said. “Is there a key for door?”
Beatrix looked across the room to the low table decorated with a vase of peonies. She saw a keychain and went over to collect it. The key fit when she tried it in the lock.
“Where is girl now?”
“With me. I’ll look after her.”
“She must not come here when I am working. I know you understand that.”
Beatrix did. She knew exactly how Chau would be spending the next few hours. He was talented in removing evidence that might lead to the conclusion that a violent act had taken place in the location where he had been asked to clean. In situations like this, where it was not possible to remove the body from the scene without attracting attention, he would cut it into pieces so that it could be transported less conspicuously.
They had developed an efficient and effective working relationship, with a clear division of labour. Chau was the connection with Mr. Ying. She had insisted that there could never be any contact between her and him. Indeed, apart from Chau, who was only affiliated with the triad, and not strictly a member, the only people who had ever seen her face were dead.
They had been working for Mr. Ying ever since Beatrix had killed Donnie Qi six months ago. The business, and the money, had been steady. She didn’t like the arrangement, but she was not in a position to be picky. She needed a lot of money and she wasn’t good for anything else. She was a killer, for better or for worse. Mr. Ying had need of her services, and he was prepared to meet her price. That was the only thing that was relevant.
“You’ve got this?” she asked him.
“Go,” Chau said.
GRACE WAS sitting quietly in the chair. She looked up with alarm as Beatrix opened the door.
“It’s all right,” she said. “It’s just me.”