Whispering Shadows (7 page)

“I know that I have to talk to them,” he said, loudly and clearly.

“That sounds better. Decisive.”

“Can I wait till after lunch?”

“The sooner the better. Do you know if Michael Owen has an apartment in Hong Kong?”

“No, but I assume he must have.”

“Can you ask his mother? And if he does, go and look at it today, if possible?”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“His mother must have they key. Think of an excuse.”

“What am I supposed to look for?”

“If he really was murdered, there are probably clues in the apartment as to why he traveled to Shenzhen two days ago and who he was meeting there, also whether he had friends or acquaintances in the city. And even if he's not the dead man, he's still missing. Maybe he threw himself off the Tsing Ma Bridge and left a farewell letter.”

“If he is the murdered man, shouldn't the Hong Kong police be searching the apartment instead?”

“They'll be doing that, yes. But I want us to be the first to look at it. I'll explain why to you later. Now, have you got Mei's cell phone number?”

“Yes.”

“Will you call me on that number from now on about this?”

“But why?” Paul couldn't help asking.

“Later, I'll tell you everything later. Will you call as soon as you have news?”

“Yes.”

“Enjoy your meal, then.”

Paul switched his phone off and put it in his jacket pocket. He would have liked to sink it in the sweet-sour soup that was in front of him. He did not want to call the Owens. Not now. And not later. He did not want to know whose child the dead young man was. He wanted even less, much less, to have to tell the man's parents that they had lost their son. He did not want to be moved by this sadness, this pain, this distress. He did not want to be moved at all. He wanted to have a meal with Christine and then, since he was in the city, to buy a few things he needed and then take the quickest route back to Lamma. His house, his plants, and Justin's rain boots were waiting there for him.

Paul sipped his tea, pulled his chopsticks out of their paper wrapper, and helped himself to a vegetable dumpling. Better than expected, he thought. What had he to do with the Owens? He dabbed a steamed shrimp dumpling in the red chili sauce. Wonderful. What did a dead body in Shenzhen have to do with him? The stuffed rice-
flour rolls were a little overcooked and the dough was too thick. A pity. The jasmine tea was extraordinarily good, though; strong, but not bitter. Christine was right: he should stay out of it. Not get any further involved. Just one more phone call.

Christine had followed his conversation with Zhang. She was now sitting opposite him, bolt upright, not touching the food.

“Are you not hungry?” Even as he was asking the question, he could hear how stupid it sounded, how ridiculous he was making himself. As if he did not know what she was thinking.

“No,” she retorted.

“I'll follow your advice. This situation is a matter for the police.”

“Do you really mean that?”

Paul nodded.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Christine helped herself to a pork bun. The finest in all Hong Kong.

———

Paul walked through the narrow alleyways of Wan Chai looking for a place where he could call the Owens. But no matter which street he turned into, which entryway he stood in, or which coffee shop he sought refuge in, the roar of jackhammers, construction machinery, cars and buses, and the clamor of the voices of passersby and street vendors made such a conversation impossible. He thought about the Grand Hyatt Hotel with its big, wide lobby; surely he would be able to find the necessary peace and quiet in a secluded corner there. Paul crossed Lockhart Road and Gloucester Road, passing the immigration authorities and Wanchai Tower before he arrived at the hotel.

———

“Mr. Leibovitz. I've tried so many times to reach you. Where have you been?”

“I'm sorry. I . . . my cell phone . . .”

Elizabeth Owen did not wait for his explanation. “Have you spoken to the man you know in Shenzhen? Do you know anything about my son's whereabouts?”

“No.” Paul had no idea how difficult it would be for him to tell this lie. He had thought he could be able to pronounce these two letters and put down the phone shortly after. Instead, they echoed through his head like dark, muffled drumbeats that did not die away but grew louder and louder.
NO
. You coward.

“I mean, of course I spoke to my friend. Several times, in fact, and he talked to his coworkers, but no one had heard of a Michael Owen.”
No cheating, Daddy. Tell the truth.
“So that's really a good sign, isn't it?”

Elizabeth Owen said nothing.

Paul heard nothing but a quiet rustling. He could not stand the silence, so he continued talking. “I'm sure that everything will be cleared up soon. Your son will turn up today or tomorrow. My friend in Shenzhen promised to call me as soon as he hears of anything. What does he actually look like?”

“Who?”

“Your son, of course.”

“Tall, blond, blue eyes. I don't know how I should describe him.”

“Does he have any distinguishing marks?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Any special marks. A liver spot on the forehead or something like that.”

“No.”

“A scar on the cheek?”

“No.”

“No old scars or injuries?”

“No.”

“From a car accident, perhaps? A fall from a bicycle?”

“No.”

Paul got up from his armchair. He had to move; he had to express the relief he felt somehow. He walked up and down, rocking
on his heels, with the phone pressed to his ear.

“That's great.”

“Michael was always a very healthy boy.”

“I'm glad to hear that. Very glad to hear that. Then I'm sure that everything will soon be sorted out, Mrs. Owen.”

“He always did a lot of sport.”

Paul did not want to know any more.

“He was a very, very good sportsman, you see. He was captain of the football team in high school.”

Paul wanted to end the conversation. A press of the button would suffice.

“He even got a sports scholarship from Florida State University.”

Fantastic. An amazing guy; no doubt about it. And why couldn't the story end right there? He did not want to hear any more.

“Mrs. Owen, I'll get in touch if I hear from my friend in Shenzhen, okay?”

“Florida State. You know what that means. Florida State! They have one of the best football teams in the whole of America. But then he had that stupid accident. After that he was never able to play football properly again.”

“What kind of accident?” Paul couldn't help asking.

“He was hit by a fellow player during a training session; it wasn't intentional, but Michael's ligaments got torn. He had to have three operations.”

“Where?”

“On his knee.”

“His knee? Which knee?”

“The left one. Why are you asking? Hello? Mr. Leibovitz? Are you still there?”

———

Michael Owen's apartment was on the thirty-eighth story of Harbour View Court, one of the condominium complexes typical of the Mid-Levels of Hong Kong, with its identical high-rise blocks
containing cookie-cutter apartments piled on top of each other like little shoeboxes. Elizabeth Owen was waiting in the lobby for him. In the taxi he had already felt his heart pounding harder and harder and his hands growing cold and clammy. How should he greet her? He had said nothing to her on the phone, and did not want to tell her anything now either. That was not his job. The police or the American consulate in Hong Kong or whoever it was should take care of it. He had come to Robinson Road because Zhang had asked him to do him a favor; he would take a look at the apartment, tell his friend about it, and then take the next ferry to Lamma.

Mrs. Owen looked him up and down and kept her eyes fixed on him as they walked through the lobby and into the elevator. As though any one of his movements or his gestures would shed light on her son's whereabouts. Did she know that he had been lying? Could she tell by the way he was avoiding her gaze, by the way, as they stood next to each other silently in the elevator, he was staring at his shoes? Or was she simply nervous? Had his request to see the apartment roused her suspicion? Her husband had been in the apartment yesterday and said that he had not found anything suspicious. Might he have overlooked something? A message? A note? A farewell letter?

Elizabeth Owen's hands trembled as she unlocked the door. With a brief movement of her head, she motioned for Paul to go ahead.

“Hello, is anyone home?”

No reply. He could only hear the sonorous hum of the air-conditioning. A jacket and a suit were hanging in the hallway, with two pairs of shoes beneath. It was cold and smelled strongly of disinfectant and cleaning agents.

“What did your friend say we should be looking for?”

“Nothing in particular. He just thought we should have another look just in case. Perhaps we'll find a clue of some kind.”

“What kind of clue?”

“I have no idea, Mrs. Owen. A travel itinerary? A hotel reservation?”

Paul pulled aside a curtain that separated the hall from the living room. It was a large room with a dark-wood floor, polished to a high shine, white walls bare of pictures, and floor-to-ceiling windows. The windows faced the harbor, but the view was almost completely blocked by new buildings. There were two black leather couches and a wooden trunk in the middle of the room, opposite an oval dining table with four chairs. Paul saw neither newspapers nor any kinds of papers, letters, or documents lying around. The Filipina housemaid had probably cleaned the place yesterday or this morning, and tidied up. He looked in the kitchen; everything there was also clean: no food remains, dirty breakfast dishes in the sink, or half-empty coffee pot or teapot on the counter. A narrow corridor, with the bathroom and two other rooms leaving off it, led to the back of the apartment. The bedroom was small and dark; there was hardly any space next to the bed—which was made—and a chest of drawers, on which a few ironed and folded shirts lay. The other room, however, was big and light and, unlike the rest of the apartment, untidy. There were several piles of papers, newspaper cuttings, and books on the floor and the shelves were full of document files. There were two flat-screen monitors on the desk, along with two cell phones, a notebook, a calendar, pieces of papers with handwritten notes on them, and a small pile of unopened mail. Under the desk was a large computer hard drive. At first glance, Paul could not tell what seemed suspicious or conspicuous. This was the typical Hong Kong apartment of a young person from Europe or America who lived for a few years in the city, often alone, in order to earn as much money for himself and for his company in as little time as possible, working as a banker or a lawyer. These business people were as interchangeable as their apartments. Paul tried to think if he had noticed anything personal in these rooms, any clue about a particular interest, a preference, a passion. Souvenirs from traveling? Photos of people who meant something to the occupier? Books or music that moved him? Noth
ing occurred to him.

Elizabeth Owen had followed him through the rooms like his shadow; now, she stood by the door and continued watching his every movement. Ever since they had entered the apartment, they had barely exchanged a word, and the silence had grown intolerable to Paul. She knew that he was lying, and if she did not know then she at least felt it, smelled it, saw it in the way he walked, in his eyes, in the way he shied away from her. He could not bear the fear in her face any longer; he turned away.

“If you knew something, Mr. Leibovitz, you'd tell me?

Paul was silent.

“Why don't you answer me?” Words that should have sounded like a decree, like an order, came out like a pleading entreaty.

“Answer me.” Her voice was now so loud and shrill that she stumbled forward. Paul turned around suddenly. Elizabeth Owen was standing directly in front of him, sobbing and trembling. He took her by the arm, a reflex; he could not do anything else except take her gently into his arms. He felt her body shuddering and shivering and heard her crying, a crying that knew no tomorrow, no hope, and no comfort. It was so familiar to him. He led her to the living room, laid her down on one of the couches, fetched a glass of water and a towel, and sat down next to her. She was holding a pill, one that looked like a Valium, in one hand, which she swallowed with the glass of water. Paul waited until she had calmed down and closed her eyes, and her quiet, even breathing announced that she had fallen asleep. Then he stood up, went back into the office, and rang Zhang.

“Michael Owen had a sports accident as a young man. He had three operations on his left knee.”

Paul heard Zhang sigh heavily. “I'm sorry. Have you told her anything?”

“No. And I won't be telling her anything.”

“Good. Where are you now?”

“In his apartment,” Paul said, describing the state every room
was in.

“Have you read through the handwritten notes?”

“No. There's a whole book's worth of them. Mrs. Owen could wake up any minute. How should I explain myself to her if I were to be rifling through her son's things?”

“Can you look in the chest of drawers in the bedroom or behind the files in the shelves?”

“Mrs. Owen would wonder what I was up to if I started searching the place.”

Zhang thought for a moment. “What about the computer? Can you take it with you without her noticing?”

“Impossible. It's a big machine.”

“Do you see a laptop?”

“No.” He pulled open the top drawer in the desk. “There's a small hard drive here. Perhaps he used it to back up his data.”