Yin Yang Tattoo (37 page)

Viewed from a window seat in a tea house on the first floor of a crumbling city centre block, a little corner of night-time Seoul spread out in front of me like a drunken ant farm.

Jong-gak district in the centre of the capital sits shadowed by tall glass towers lining broad city avenues. Behind the modern towers smaller blocks from the sixties and seventies host hundreds of little businesses that exist to feed and refresh the tens of thousands of office workers who converge on downtown daily.

The old city's main east-west axis of Chong-ro lay fifty yards away and choked with buses and taxis, horns blaring incessantly. The aggression and competitiveness innate to the Korean psyche turns city streets into barging, horn-blaring never-ending confrontational chicken sessions. In front of me a narrower lane that ran parallel to the main drag was just as clogged with pedestrian life, almost as raucous but infinitely less threatening than the neighbouring motorised chaos. Restaurants of every stripe lined the thoroughfare, from wood-and-vinyl
pojang-macha
hand-carts to exclusive upmarket Japanese establishments, windows curtained and air-conditioners humming. The lane shone with coloured signs advertising bars, small stores, fried chicken joints, bars, donut shops, coffee shops, bars, barber shops and more bars. Koreans like their bars, and it is not for nothing that they are known as
the Irish of Asia.

Pairs of office girls hurried towards bus stop or subway station with arms entwined, shoulders rubbing and faces close enough to touch as they giggled their way homewards. Male colleagues more seriously intent on making the most of what was left of the evening drew meandering trails from restaurant to bar to
pojang-macha
. A gap in the buildings framed a grid-fenced enclosure where men faced automatic pitching machines that spat baseballs at frightening speeds. The metallic ding of bat on ball drew cheers from friends huddled behind fences. I watched them for a few seconds before I looked away, memories and bruises from men with baseball bats all too fresh.

In an odd shaped expanse of open ground between the tea shop and Chong-ro loomed a symbol of the city's ancient origins. The Po-shin Gak Pavilion was a classic gathering of sweeping tiled rooflines propped upon towering red pillars that housed a massive bronze bell rung only at Lunar New Year.

I looked up as Detective Kwok took the seat across from me and sent the waitress scurrying for another glass of ginseng tea. From beside the ashtray he plucked a matchbox with the name of the tea shop on it and lit a cigarette. He leaned back in the chair and stared, anger and uncertainty bubbling near the surface. When he spoke, smoke billowed from his mouth.

‘My seniors are very unhappy that I have not brought you in for questioning.'

‘The same seniors sent my picture around the country with me labelled a sex-murderer. Now when I solve the case for them they're pissed off? To hell with them.'

‘You are right.' Kwok leaned back in his chair, and his slim features wrinkled in what might have been amusement. ‘Off the record, I thank you for the DVD.'

I sipped at the ginseng tea. Bitter but sweet, like what Kwok was swallowing right now. He spoke again:

‘I have just come from Yonsei University Hospital. It seems your banker friend Martinmass had an unfortunate accident.'

My attempt to suppress a smile almost certainly failed.

‘An ambulance was called to Itaewon. He was found in an alley, very badly beaten. He claimed he had too much to drink and fell over – several times, it would seem.'

Whatever he had in mind I would soon find out.

‘His jaw was broken in four places, most of his front teeth were gone – and he has bootprints all over his face.' He changed tack with practiced abruptness. ‘When did you last see Martinmass?'

‘I didn't touch him.' It was the answer to a different question, but it was the truth. Kwok shook his head, and went on:

‘We were looking for him, so when the Itaewon station informed me that he was on his way to Yonsei Hospital, I stopped in to speak to him. He was not very cooperative.'

‘I hear he is protected from prosecution.'

‘He
was.
' Emphasis on the second word. ‘Not any more.'

Yessss.
Kwok saw my delight, and played to his audience:

‘His Caribbean employers are in the final stages of negotiations with one of the Korean
Chaebols
to build a harbour and casino complex to attract giant cruise liners out of Miami. Such visits will create hundreds of permanent jobs that are much-needed on the island. The project's funding is from a collaboration of Korean banks underwritten by my government. It took one ministerial-level telephone call to have his immunity revoked, and I assure you he will be charged with very serious financial crimes. Did you know that a few years ago, he gambled heavily on dot-com start-ups and lost everything?'

I didn't know that but it explained the desperation to keep his share of the GDR profits. Kwok's investigative powers were proving to be a surprise.

‘What about Miss Hong?'

‘After I saw the DVD, we went back to the Hyatt security camera footage. Schwartz slipped in through an entrance by the swimming pool and later appeared briefly in an elevator that stopped at your floor. He and Miss Hong were observed in the car park getting into a Hyundai registered to K-N Group.'

‘What does that tell you about our scene with the telephone books?'

‘So far as I and my colleagues are concerned, that never happened, though you are, of course, welcome to try and prove otherwise. In any case, I only did what I thought was necessary.'

‘Or what you were told to do.'

The amusement evaporated and I pressed on:

‘Somebody in your department has been keeping Chang informed all along.'

‘If there is a problem in my office I will deal with it.'

It was as near as I could expect to an admission of culpability. It never happened but whoever did it, Kwok would take care of it in his own way. He looked grim. I didn't envy anyone on his watch who was guilty of leaking information to K-N.

‘I sent copies of the video to the British Embassy as well as the media.'

‘I know. Eric Bridgewater called my superiors. There is to be a press conference tomorrow at noon in the British Council Building.'

‘Nice of him to tell me.' I wasn't thinking straight. Bridgewater had no way of contacting me. ‘And Rose Daly?'

‘Her involvement in this matter is over. We no longer wish to talk to her.'

Kwok took a final long drag at his cigarette before grinding it to shreds in the ashtray.

‘Before you ask,' he said, smoke trailing from the corners of his mouth, ‘According to his office, President Chang is in South America seeking urgent medical attention. My friends at Immigration believe he is presently in Tokyo and in perfect health. It is not unusual in this kind of situation.'

I understood. Chang wasn't the first business leader to disappear overseas pleading a mystery illness that coincided with his company hitting the skids.

‘Any word on Schwartz?'

‘We are doing our best, but it is difficult. We discovered that he has a second passport, an Irish one. A significant number of Americans do, it seems.'

Kwok sipped at the tea, his dark eyes wandering the room. Primary-coloured embroideries and monotone watercolours fought for crowded wallspace. Next to the entrance, an
ajimah
in acrylic pink hovered cross-legged behind a cash desk, proprietorial antennae on high alert. The old dame could spot a cop the second he crossed her threshold, and the possibility of any kind of ruckus had her visibly on edge.

‘Immigration are watching for him and searching their records but, so far, nothing. Where are you staying?' Another abrupt change of tack. He pulled a fresh cigarette from his top pocket and lit it.

‘With a friend.'

‘Not at the Hyatt?'

‘You know the answer to that. Thanks to Schwartz and company, I owe the Hyatt too much money already.'

‘I need an address. For my superiors.'

‘Do what I would do.'

‘What is that?'

‘Make one up.'

I left him staring into space through a cloud of cigarette smoke. One thing continued to bug me. I still had no idea why Schwartz had chosen to involve me in all this.

 

Talk about running the gauntlet. To get to the British Embassy I first had to get past the British Council Building where the press conference was to be held at noon. The narrow pavement was crowded with journalists and camera crews. I directed my taxi driver to go past them, all the way to the heavy Embassy gates. The moment the cab stopped I threw money at the driver and jumped out and spoke urgently at the Korean security man in the Embassy gatehouse:

‘My name is Brodie and I have an appointment with the ambassador.' I looked over my shoulder to see a mob of TV cameramen, soundmen with boom mikes and journalists with tape recorders swarm towards me. Not so much a well-oiled Press machine as a careering cloud of hornets.

‘These people are going to block your entrance.'

The gatehouse guard raised one eye from the papers in front of him, shifted his gaze to take in the approaching horde, and triggered the electronic lock release. I slid around the gate, slammed it shut behind me and set off up the short driveway. The pack wailed through the gates, desperate for an image or a sound bite before the press conference got under way. If these were only the journalists covering the street, the main event was going to be a three-ring circus.

The heavy glass door hissed closed behind me and a figure from the wings leapt out with one arm extended.

‘So glad that you are able to be here. We are very eager to put your case to the media, to do everything we can to clear your name.'

Eric Bridgewater, cool as you like. I surprised him with an enthusiastic embrace of his dead-fish handshake.

‘I
do
hope you've changed your underwear, Eric.'

‘Derek Howell, Ambassador,' said a tall red-headed man in an expensive suit. He had a moustache that looked like caterpillars kissing, his handshake was businesslike, and his eyes looked through me as if I was not there.

‘
So
glad that justice is being done, at last. Been doing everything we can here, you know. From day one my people have exerted every available channel of influence.'

I wondered how many bare-faced lies the man could build into one short statement. We both knew my letters and the DVD had put a ferret down his trousers, and that this was all about damage control. He went on:

‘Sorry to say that I am unable to attend the press conference, but Eric will take the chair on the Embassy's behalf. If there's anything you need, simply ask.' He shook my hand again and disappeared. The grubby world of sex industry murder victims and corporate crime involving friends of the Embassy were not within the chosen domain of Her Majesty's envoy to Seoul.

Detective Kwok and four uniformed cops joined us as Bridgewater ushered me out the door.

‘It would be better to say nothing to this lot.' As he spoke, the compound gate swung wide and the media swarm fell into step in front of us, slowing our progress, shouting all at once.

I blocked out their questions and smiled towards TV camera lenses, looking every viewer in the eye. Nothing to hide, was my message. A stills photographer got under the heels of a TV cameraman and they tumbled backwards, expensive equipment crashing to the ground. Our escorts swerved us around them like sheep around a gatepost, and I glanced down to see the cameraman trying to film us while lying on his back. Squashed on the ground below him the stills photographer looked indignant.

Inside the building, Kwok leaned close to speak quietly in my ear.

‘I would like you to meet someone, a good friend, my alumni.' I remembered
alumni
, the odd ‘
Konglish'
term for a graduate of the same university. In Korea, ties between old university mates are unbelievably strong.

‘Who is he?'

‘
She
is the editor of
TWIK!
Magazine. Very powerful in my country.' I knew the magazine, a splashy weekly that specialised in investigative reportage and controversial exposés. Gaudy but well put-together, it was hugely successful.

‘She has an offer for you.' He looked pleased with himself and pulled me into a side room. A Korean woman of about thirty-five with spiky grey hair and wearing a blue-black pinstripe suit slouched against one wall, an unlit cigarette dangling precariously from a bright red slash of a mouth. Liza Minnelli in
Cabaret.
Several copies of
TWIK!
sat on the table in front of her. Kwok cut in:

‘Hurry, we have very little time. This is Miss Choy of
This Week Inside Korea!
Magazine. She wants to buy your story.'

This was so Korean. The lead investigator in a murder case helping the former prime suspect peddle his story to a rag edited by his
alumni
. Not long after I first arrived in Seoul, I was busted for teaching English while on a tourist visa. Before I left the Immigration office with a deportation order in my passport, the official who put it there fixed me up with a new job to come back to. At the language school of his
alumni.

It took me three minutes to cut a deal with Miss Choy. All Hyatt expenses for myself and Naz for as long as we remained in Korea, plus twenty million
won
in cash. About twelve thousand pounds. Miss Choy shook on the deal without bothering to take the unlit cigarette from her mouth. She hardly spoke a word. My kind of journalist.

Kwok opened the door for Miss Choy. I closed it behind her.

‘Thank you for this, Detective.'

‘The situation was unfortunate, and I knew Miss Choy could help.'

‘Thank you anyway.'

He nodded in understanding as we shook hands. In another life, perhaps we could have been friends.