The Inscrutable Charlie Muffin (18 page)

‘Certainly the X-rays show there’s no fracture,’ said the white-coated man cautiously. ‘But there’s undoubtedly concussion. I’d like to keep him under observation for a few days.’

‘Tomorrow,’ insisted Charlie. There was an uncertainty in his mind, a doubt he could not even formulate. Little more than instinctive caution. But it was there, nagging more intrusively than the pain. And there was something else. The danger of the ambassador’s memory. And Jones’s curiosity.

‘That might not be wise,’ protested the doctor. ‘You’re lucky not to be more seriously hurt.’

‘How lucky?’

Charlie put the question to Johnson. The policeman stared back at him curiously.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘How long was it before the border guards got to me?’

Johnson made an uncertain movement.

‘We don’t know. They didn’t see the beginning of the attack, obviously. By the time they got there, you were unconscious and there wasn’t a sign of anyone who’d attacked you.’

‘Or the briefcase?’

‘Or the briefcase,’ confirmed Johnson.

‘One of the men had a knife,’ said Charlie. ‘The one who did the talking.’

Johnson looked at the doctor.

‘Nothing but head injuries,’ insisted the man. ‘And minor grazing consistent with being knocked to the ground.’

‘There was a knife,’ insisted Charlie. ‘I saw it.’

They didn’t understand, he thought.

‘So they obviously got the briefcase without having to use it,’ said Johnson easily. ‘We can get it all down in the statement.’

‘I wish you’d give yourself more time,’ said the doctor.

They thought the knife was a hallucination, decided Charlie.

‘I can sign myself out, as I could in England?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said the doctor.

‘I’ll agree to stay overnight,’ promised Charlie. ‘But tomorrow I’ll leave.’

It would be ridiculous even to try tonight, he knew. He’d collapse and lengthen the period in hospital.

‘You’ve had at least four severe blows to the head,’ said the doctor.

‘But there’s no fracture.’

‘Concussion can be as bad.’

‘A night’s rest will be sufficient.’

‘Why don’t I call tomorrow?’ suggested Johnson, moving to intercede. ‘To see how you are.’

‘At the hotel,’ said Charlie finally.

The doctor’s hostility spread to the nurse who remained after everyone else had left. She moved jerkily around the room, showing her irritation in the briskness with which she moved, tidying up after the policemen.

‘Would you like a sleeping draught?’ she asked.

‘Please,’ said Charlie. Without help, he knew, he’d never rest.

She returned within minutes with some brown liquid in a tiny medicine glass, waiting by the bedside until he swigged it down.

He relaxed back upon the pillow she plumped for him.

‘Good night,’ she said.

‘Good night.’

‘Something is not right, Charlie,’ he said to himself, after she had gone. But what the hell was it?

He began to feel the approach of drowsiness. He turned on the pillow, looking towards the door through which the girl had just left.

Jesus, he thought, as sleep overtook him, I hope that girl is not a gambler.

The ache was still there, but far less than the previous night. Little more than a hangover discomfort. And he’d endured enough of those. The growing belief that he knew what was happening helped. Always the same excitement, the awareness that he had realised something that no one else had. He needed more, though. A damned sight more. But at least he had found the direction in which to look for it. At last. And Charlie’s Rules, too. Not Judge’s.

‘I wish you’d stay,’ said the doctor.

‘There are things I must do.’

‘What?’

‘Reports to be made to London, apart from the statement to the police,’ he said glibly.

‘Nothing that couldn’t wait.’

‘I’ll be careful,’ said Charlie. And would have to continue to be, no matter what happened.

The doctor moved his shoulders, abandoning the attempt.

‘These might help,’ he said, handing Charlie a phial of pills. ‘And if you start vomiting, get back here immediately.’

‘I will,’ promised Charlie.

The nurse of the previous day entered, frowning when she saw that Charlie was already dressed.

‘Damned glad you don’t play mah-jong or follow the horses,’ Charlie greeted her.

The girl stared at him.

‘What?’ she said.

‘Forget it,’ said Charlie.

‘Sure you’re all right?’ demanded the doctor.

‘Positive,’ insisted Charlie. It had been a bloody silly thing to say. Irrationally, it had been his first thought upon awakening and from it had come the conclusion that was exciting him.

‘You won’t change your mind?’

‘No.’

Charlie walked slowly to the hospital elevator, conscious of the movement against the corridor floor jarring up into his head. There was a slight nausea deep in his stomach, but he knew it was not from the head wounds. He was actually aware of the customary discomfort from his feet; that had to indicate some improvement.

He reached the hospital reception area and had just realised the need for a car when he heard the shout and turned expectantly.

‘Hi there,’ called Harvey Jones.

‘Hello,’ said Charlie. He’d anticipated the approach, but thought it would be back at the hotel. He’d underestimated the man’s keenness.

‘Heard you got mugged,’ said the American. ‘How is it?’

‘Still painful,’ admitted Charlie. ‘Who told you about the attack?’

‘Superintendent Johnson. I’ve been keeping in touch with him.’

‘Oh?’

‘Thought you might get into contact when you returned from Peking.’

‘You knew I was there, then?’

‘Sure,’ admitted Jones easily. He motioned towards the forecourt. ‘I’ve got a car. Can I give you a lift?’

‘Thank you,’ said Charlie.

He relaxed gratefully into the passenger seat, feeling the ache in his body now, as well as his head, and aware how much it had taken from him to travel even this short distance. The doctor had been right. He should have stayed.

‘How did you know I’d gone to Peking?’ pressed Charlie.

‘Kuo Yuan-ching told me.’

The American had been easing the car out into the jammed streets but he risked a sideways glance to assess Charlie’s reaction.

‘Quite open about it, was he?’

‘Why shouldn’t he have been?’

‘No reason,’ agreed Charlie. ‘Did you try for a visa?’

Again there was a glance from the American, to gauge any sarcasm.

‘Yes,’ he said shortly.

‘But he wouldn’t give you one?’

‘Said it might take months to process. That’s why I wanted to know the moment you got back.’

‘Why?’

‘We promised to pool everything we found, remember?’

‘I remember,’ said Charlie. ‘What have you come up with?’

The car was bogged in traffic and the American turned completely towards Charlie.

‘You smart-assing me?’

Charlie returned the look, his face open with innocence.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Why should I?’

The traffic moved and Jones had to look away.

‘We’re going to work together soon. And you’d better believe it,’ said the American.

Now it was a blatant threat, recognised Charlie.

‘I took a statement from the cook,’ he said, trying to turn the other man’s annoyance.

‘And?’

‘It confirmed everything we knew but couldn’t prove.’

‘So it wasn’t Peking?’

‘Definitely not.’

‘And you’ve got the statement?’

‘That’s why I was attacked. The briefcase containing the Chinese original and the transcript signed by an English embassy official were stolen. There was a photograph, too, identifying John Lu.’

This time it was Charlie who was studying the American, watching his expression. Jones continued staring straight ahead, moving his fingers lightly against the steering wheel in his impatience with the vehicles around him.

‘Lu’s men?’ demanded Jones finally.

‘He’d be the only man to gain by stealing it.’

‘That’s what Superintendent Johnson thinks.’

‘You must have had quite a discussion with Johnson?’

If Jones had known about the statement and its theft, why had he wanted him to repeat it? Some sort of test, supposed Charlie.

‘Johnson’s being very helpful,’ admitted the American.

‘Why?’

‘I think he believes it’s going to be tough to prove anything against Lu, even now … and that he’s going to need all the assistance he can get.’

‘And you can provide that assistance?’

Admit it, you bastard, thought Charlie, seizing the opening. You’ve hinted the Agency might help, in return for favours.

‘It’s possible,’ said Jones.

Charlie sat back, letting the discussion go. His headache was worsening. Even though it was difficult without water, he gulped down two of the tablets he had been given at the hospital, coughing when they stuck drily in his throat.

‘Anything wrong?’ asked Jones anxiously.

‘No,’ lied Charlie.

They gained the tunnel running beneath the harbour and the car increased its speed. How much had happened in the two weeks since he’d made the same journey with Robert Nelson, reflected Charlie. So many tunnels. So much misunderstanding.

As they emerged, Charlie looked across to the Lu office block.

Guessing where Charlie’s attention lay, Jones said, ‘He’ll be worried sick.’

‘Will he?’ said Charlie.

The American laughed at the caution.

‘The whole damned thing is about to come down around his ears,’ he insisted.

‘I wish I were as sure,’ admitted Charlie. ‘A signed statement was tenuous enough. Now even that’s gone.’

You’re a shit, Charlie, he thought. But he’d never made the pretence of being anything else. Except a survivor. And that’s what he was doing now. Surviving. He hoped. Please God that he’d got it right.

Jones eased the car into the edge of Connaught Road and Charlie got out unsteadily in front of the Mandarin Hotel.

‘We’ll keep in touch,’ said Jones, leaning across the passenger seat.

‘Yes.’

‘And take care.’

‘I shall,’ Charlie assured him.

19

Because of the time difference between Hong Kong and London, Superintendent Johnson had left his office late. He had been held up awaiting confirmation that a copy of the Peking statement would be despatched to him as soon as it arrived from China in the diplomatic bag. Just as he reached his apartment on the Middle Level, the first contact came from the station inspector.

When he learned it had been an anonymous telephone call to police headquarters, Johnson refused to over-respond. But he listed his instructions carefully, ordering that the forensic and photographic sections should be alerted, in case it were genuine. And that his official car should be sent back.

Then he sat, still in uniform. Waiting.

The second call came within thirty minutes. There was positive confirmation, the duty officer reported. Nothing was being done until his arrival, as he had insisted.

Johnson had been trained at Hendon. And sometimes even here he referred to the long-ago lectures and notes. Remembering them now, he sat in the back of the car as it made its way towards Stubbs Road and the Peak, eyes closed, consciously trying to clear his mind of any preconception and suspicion about the fire and the courtroom murders and the claims of a down-at-heel insurance investigator.

He’d need an open mind, he knew. It was going to be a difficult one; the most difficult ever. Particularly now the Foreign Office in London was involved. The sort of thing he tried so hard to avoid. He gripped and ungripped his hands, a frustrated gesture. It was all so damned vague, like imagined shapes in the fog. And the lectures had told him to ignore things that weren’t clear. He needed facts. Just plain, straightforward facts.

He stirred, moved by another thought: whatever he was driving towards, it certainly seemed that he had been wrong about the fire and the men who had admitted responsibility. Which was going to be bloody embarrassing. Yet the facts had been there, as obvious as the fingers on his hand. Too obvious. And he’d made a mistake. Superintendent Johnson, who was well aware that had he remained in England he would never have risen above the rank of ordinary inspector, didn’t like making mistakes. He worried that other people would realise his limitations and laugh at him.

He nodded with satisfaction at the road block established half a mile from Lu’s mansion on Shousan Hill, acknowledging the wave as his recognised car swept through. But it would be the only one allowed past, he was confident. He’d repeated the instruction during the second call. It was the sort of routine at which he was very good.

An inspector was waiting at the already opened gate to Lu’s home.

‘Well?’ demanded Johnson, getting from his car.

‘Everything as you asked, sir,’ said the man. ‘Nothing’s been touched. Servants and guards assembled in one spot, so they couldn’t interfere with anything.’

‘How many?’

‘Fifteen. John Lu is one of them.’

‘Yet they heard nothing.’

‘Lu apparently relied upon an extensive electrical system.’

‘So what happened to it?’

‘Here,’ the inspector invited him.

Johnson followed the man to a corner of the surrounding wall. It was topped all the way by thick wire mesh.

‘Normally enough electricity going through that to kill an elephant,’ said the inspector.

‘What stopped it working?’

With a nightstick, the inspector indicated an obscured corner, near brickwork which swept out to begin the imposing entrance through which one had to drive to reach the house.

‘There’s a conduit box there,’ he said. He waved an impatient hand and an officer in one of the waiting cars gave him a light operated from the vehicle’s battery. ‘It’s been bypassed, so that there was no current passing through this section here …’

In the light of the torch, Johnson could see avoidance leads clamped by their bulldog clips to the live wires, and beyond them the hole that had been carefully cut through the mesh.