The Trophy Taker (12 page)

Man Po forced his lorry into first, slammed his foot onto the accelerator, and laughed out loud as the lorry shuddered, belched diesel, nearly stalled, then lurched forward to begin its long and slow ascent, leaving the commotion at the restaurant behind.

He liked making his meat deliveries on these fresh sunny days. Days when the forest buzzed and the birds sang. The cheeky monkeys ran alongside him, screeching from the sides of the road. He made faces at them, daring them to come within arm’s reach, but they didn’t. They were frightened of his deathly cargo. They screamed at the dead pigs in the back of the lorry, at the black throats gaping and trotters shuddering. They shrieked at the smell of death. But Man Po didn’t care. He laughed at the silly monkeys and stuck his large head further out the window at them. Dribbling from the corner of his mouth, he sucked the saliva back up spaghetti style before banging his hand on the side of the cab to scare the jittery creatures even more.

He loved his job because it allowed him to drive his lorry all through the countryside, visit all sorts of places, and talk to lots of pretty girls. But, most of all, Man Po loved it because of the pigs. He loved scratching the coarse hair between their ears, patting their broad rumps and touching their wet snouts. He made special trips to the pig farms to take them treats. He liked to watch them fight over the tasty morsels he brought them. He liked to watch them being killed. They squealed and squealed as they were forced into a pen, then trussed, ready for slaughter, and hung while their throats were cut. Man Po liked to stand close enough to be hit by the spray as the blood spurted from the pigs’ throats. He delighted in watching the last twitchings of the dying animal, its muscles keeping on moving long after it was dead. But his favourite thing of all was cutting up the carcass.

A look of panic came across his face as he remembered that he would have to look for a new job soon. He couldn’t bear to think about it. Sometimes it just popped into his head and he was forced to imagine it for a few minutes until he could chase the thought away. His brother said he mustn’t think about it. He mustn’t worry. It would all be all right. He would find something else. But he did worry. What would he be without the pigs?

Curse the owner for selling up. What did he expect Man Po to do? If he wasn’t a delivery man, if he couldn’t truss up the carcass, carry it on his strong back; if he couldn’t carefully, so skilfully, cut it up? What was he to be? But then Man Po smiled to himself and laughed out loud. His brother was right – he didn’t need to worry, Man Po was much more than that. He was a very important person, and one day people might find out just how important he
really
was, and the things he had done. He chuckled to himself.
If only they knew
…

He thought about the New World restaurant and reprimanded himself. He should have found out what it was about, all that commotion, all that fuss at the restaurant and that smell! He knew that smell all right. One of the fridges at work had packed up once, and no one had realised until it was stinking the place out. But he couldn’t find out what the fuss was about. He had wanted to, but he hadn’t been able to; that car had been in his way and he couldn’t turn in. Otherwise he would have done so. The restaurant workers knew him – he often delivered there – they would tell him what was going on.

Now he must
make
up a story ready for his return home. It would have to be a good one to entertain his old dad, Father Fong. He had time: he was in no hurry. Father Fong would be dozing in his chair right now, crouched over like a tortoise. He slept for hours every day waiting for his sons to come home. Then, when they did come back, Max would have to tell him of the streets he had travelled in his taxi – the fares who had sat in his cab – and Father Fong would imagine himself sat next to his son, driving along forgotten roads and half-remembered streets, transported back in time; back to the Hong Kong of his youth and the happy times when his first wife was alive. And Man Po would tell his father of the pigs: their funny habits, the slaughterhouse, the squealing, and about the people he met on his deliveries.

Father Fong was greedy for his stories. He eagerly awaited each instalment.
Has she got the sack yet, the
new one who’s related to the chef
?
Or,
Does anyone know
who the father of the quiet one’s baby is
?
But it took Man Po so long to tell his account of other people’s lives that his father became so excited and impatient that he pecked at Man Po –
and then and then and
then
… – until he forced the gossip out of Man Po’s mouth like regurgitated food from a gull.

Max was still dozing when his brother came in that evening, making the most of his rest before his shift began. The two brothers shared a room. They slept in bunk beds in one of the bedrooms while their father slept alone in the other. But Max was so weary he felt nauseous and too tired to sleep properly. There was a brooding weight in the atmosphere, a heavy charge in the thick air. The summer was hanging on. Max wanted the ‘cool season’ more than most. The summer heat and the incessant rain drove him mad. The thunder and lightning made him agitated.

Today he felt that breathless claustrophobia as he lay in the heat and dust in an airless flat, trying to breathe in a small space, and he thought his lungs were about to collapse – and, something else – that his world was about to implode.

The chatter of the two men and the noisy canary, trying to make its small voice heard above everyone else’s, woke Max up from his fruitless, fitful nap. He lay on his bunk for a few minutes, straining to hear what the clamour was about. It would be the usual nonsense, he supposed. Man Po would be talking tittle-tattle, anything to punctuate the old man’s day with a little excitement. But then Max heard the mention of police cars and tape and crowds and commotion.

He waited by the door, until he heard the sound of Father Fong’s slippered feet shuffling away across the linoleum towards the kitchen to prepare his sons’ dinner. Then he emerged.

Man Po was sat on the edge of the sofa, his legs apart and his stomach hanging between them like a sumo wrestler’s. In front of him he had a collection of photos. It was Man Po’s hobby, photography. He spread the photos out onto the coffee table, picking them up and rearranging them – placing them in order. Max stood behind him, looking over the top of his brother’s misshapen head.

Man Po turned and grinned up at his brother as Max placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled forgivingly down at him. Max looked at the line of photos, laid edge to edge so neatly. He thought about the cupboard again and his stepmother’s cruelty and he smiled to himself. He smoothed his brother’s misshapen head. They had certainly made her pay for what she did to him, there was no doubting that.

Mann called in at the mortuary. He knew it was late but he also knew that Kin Tak would still be there. His finger hadn’t even touched the reception bell when the assistant burst through the plastic curtain to meet him.

‘Ah, Inspector! Good news! We have a complete victim. All we’re missing is a finger.’ He ushered Mann forward and through to the autopsy room. ‘There are two new victims,’ he said, while opening one of the heavy fridges, sliding a bag out and unzipping it. ‘This is one: two legs, dismembered at ankle, knee and hip. Been frozen.’

‘What does the pathologist think? Caucasian?’

‘Forward curve to the femur, length of limb. Yes, Caucasian.’

‘Any marks?’

‘Around her ankles – at first we thought it was where she was dissected but it isn’t – there’s evidence she was tied tightly at the feet and then dragged and hung, by the ankles, after death. There are abrasions also, on the back of her legs, from where she was dragged.’ He turned the legs over for Mann to see. ‘We have sent the debris off for analysis.’

Mann looked at the feet. Her toes were beautifully polished. Someone had taken the time to give her a pedicure before killing her, but her legs were thin, the skin slack.

‘Now,’ Kin Tak said, moving Mann on, ‘there’s not much to see on this one, but the other … now, that’s very different …’ He zipped the first bag back up and returned it to its slot in the fridge, slid out another, wheeled it further into the room and unzipped it.

‘This one’s in good condition.’

Mann helped him lift the body out, first the legs, arms, torso, and then the head of a Caucasian woman. She was small-boned with curly blonde hair and freckles.

‘Not frozen?’

‘No.’

Mann looked at her hands, perfectly manicured like her feet. But the index finger on her right hand had been amputated neatly at the knuckle. The soles of her feet were dirty, and she had scratches on her arms and legs.

‘Was she wearing anything?’

‘Just a crucifix. But she did have traces of animal hide on her body, we haven’t identified what yet.’

‘How long had she been dead, do you think?’

‘Twenty-four hours.’

‘Cause of death?’

‘Strangulation by ligature. A thick rope, with a knot to the side.’ He illustrated graphically. ‘Possibly killed by hanging. She was almost decapitated by it.’

‘Was she moved after death?’

‘Yes. Laid out somewhere cold for at least six hours, then moved.’

‘What else?’

They turned her torso over. ‘Extensive bruising and a burn made by a branding iron on her left buttock.’

Mann examined it. ‘It looks like an F. Anything else?’

‘Needle marks.’ Kin Tak turned her arm over to show Mann the puncture marks on the inside of her elbow. ‘We’re waiting for the results from toxicology, but it looks like she’d been taking heroin. And guess what else we found?’

Mann could see that this was the bit the assistant had been dying to tell him, had been patiently waiting to tell him for the last hour. ‘This killer, this man …’ The assistant’s small hands were shaking and he was showing more gum than teeth as he grinned up at Mann, a happy puppy. ‘He likes his women
dead
receptive,’ he said, giggling manically. ‘
Dead
receptive, get it? Get it? He likes his women with a touch of rigor mortis …’

‘I get it. DNA?’

‘No chance. They were cross-contaminated in the bag. But look, your detectives just faxed this through …’

He handed Mann a photo. The woman in the picture smiled provocatively out from a poor-quality modelling shot, permed blonde hair and pink pouting lips, hotpants and a crop top, and a big mouth.

Underneath, Li had written: ‘
Roxanne Berger from
Orange County, USA
. (
One of the photos you wanted of
the women in Lucy’s flat – the most recent occupant
.)’

Mann glanced back and forth from the dismembered head on the slab in front of him to the photo in his hand. SNAP.

Mann turned to see Kin Tak was busy taking photographs. ‘Do you need to do that? They’ll have taken a load at the autopsy?’ Mann asked.

‘I thought while she was out, I might as well take them. They are before and after shots. I am making a reference book of my own. Building up a portfolio – showing my work.’

‘You must have quite a collection of photos by now. How long have you been working here?’

Kin Tak stopped what he was doing. There was something about Mann’s tone that he didn’t understand – a hint of mistrust tinged with disgust.

‘Ten years. I’ve seen all types,’ he said, too excited to be embarrassed for long. ‘Don’t often get
Gwaipohs
, though.’ He went back to photographing, almost oblivious to Mann’s presence. ‘Mr Saheed says he’s never seen stitching like it – takes me ages. But I like to do a good job. I’m working my way up the ladder. I’ll get there. No one loves the job like me.’ He looked up and grinned. ‘I like to make them look pretty again.’

Mann headed for the bars and restaurants of Soho. This area catered for every taste. It would be the ideal hunting ground for the Butcher.

He looked up and down the street. It was time for the
Gweilos
to come out after work. Their existence in Hong Kong was never lonely – they belonged to an exclusive club of well-paid Caucasians, and, like the Chinese, they tended to stick together in their ethnic groups. Most serial killers killed within their own races – black on black, white on white. That was why, if this was a lone serial killer, he was most likely to be white. But nothing was certain. Rules could always be broken.

Mann walked into the Havana – a long, thin bar with a raised section to the left dotted with round tables and stools, an intimate section at the back with sofas and cushions, and a rowdy bar at the front. People stopped drinking and stared as he walked in. He was used to it. All his life he’d had to fight the prejudice of being mixed race.

Most went back to their drinks after a minute, but three white men carried on staring. The tallest one was bald. He had ‘LOVE’ written on one hand, ‘HATE’ tattooed on the other.
Should have written ‘UGLY’ and
‘FUCK
’
instead
, Mann thought. He would present the least problem, he decided. The second man, slightly shorter, also bald, looked like ex-army. He was muscle-bound; obviously still went to the gym every day – didn’t look like he ever got on the running machine, though. The third man, with a grade-two hair cut, was shorter, slighter, meaner, more damaged by life. He had plenty of chips on his shoulders and probably a knife pouch hidden on him somewhere.

They watched Mann walk up to the bar. He looked at them with a practised stare, then ordered a large vodka on the rocks.

Chip on his Shoulder stared straight at Mann. ‘Hey, banana boy? Your mama slip on a banana skin? She really got fucked over, didn’t she?’ His friends laughed. ‘Who was your daddy? GI? Squaddy? Who was your mama? Suzie Wong?’

Mann looked away.

‘Hey, banana boy – I’m talking to you.’

You’re going to be the first. Musclebound second, Ugly
Fuck last.

Mann looked back and smiled. ‘Hello boys. Here on holiday, are we?’ He glanced around the bar. He could take all three out and cause minimum damage. He would do it as a last resort, though.

He leaned his elbow on the bar. The barman brought him his drink, a look of concern on his face. Mann smiled at him and gave him a reassuring look.

Mann made sure he stared equally at each man – made sure they all took responsibility for what was about to happen; what they were about to get themselves into.

‘What’s it to you?’ Chip on his Shoulder’s eyes were gleaming – he knew he had the two baldies to back him up. He thought he could be as antagonistic as he liked. But then, the one thing he didn’t know – he didn’t know Johnny Mann.

Mann grinned. ‘Educational trip, is it, boys?’

‘Depends what you mean by educational … banana boy.’

The three men laughed. They didn’t take their eyes from Mann.

Mann smiled, studied each man, gave them the chance to back down before it was too late.

‘I can’t abide rudeness, racism, ignorance or base stupidity. And, guess what, boys? You tick all those boxes. Thought you might be here to learn some manners.’

The big bald duo shifted their bulk, took a small step towards him and flexed their muscles, ready.

Mann picked up his drink and walked past them.

‘Manners are my speciality. But I’ll have to teach you some other time.’

Someone had caught his eye, and she was smiling at him.

The barman leaned across to the three men.

‘You were very lucky. Keep out of Johnny Mann’s way for the rest of your holiday, unless you want to go home on a stretcher.’

‘’Avin’ fun with your friends, Johnny?’ said Kim, reaching up for a kiss. She was sitting at one of the small tables on the raised section. ‘Thought it was goin’ to kick off. Never was much of a fuckin’ negotiator, was you?’

Mann laughed. ‘Sorry – bit wired. How’s it going, Pussy – night off?’

‘Can’t decide whether to go in tonight. I’m definitely quittin’ the Bond Bar.’

‘Glad to hear it. What are you going to do instead?’

‘I used to be good with figures – accounts, that type of thing. I could go back to it. I’m always dreamin’ of doin’ somethin’ different.’

‘To believe in one’s dreams is to spend all of one’s life asleep, Kim.
Make
it happen if you want it to.’

‘I love it when you get all philosophical on me! Let’s go back to my place and discuss the works of Nietzsche, Plato, and who was that other guy? Aristotle Onassis …?’

He laughed. ‘Believe me, I’d love to – but I have to take a rain check.’

She frowned. ‘You look knackered. Ain’t you gettin’ any sleep?’

‘Not much. It’s a big case. Do me a favour, Kim. Take a couple of weeks off, at least. Stay home. Don’t work at the bar until we catch this guy. It isn’t safe. If you need money – let me know. Just stay away from the bar.’

‘Awww, Johnny – that’s so sweet. But I’m a big gal. I can take care of myself. You know what happens if I have to stay in? I turn into a caged animal!’

He kissed her cheek. ‘I love it when that happens. Okay, Kim … I’ll leave it to you – just look after your self … call me if you need me.’

Mann got up to leave. Kim held on to his arm.

‘Thanks, Johnny. I miss you. Would be nice to talk more.’

‘Sure – call me.’

As Mann walked out, he couldn’t resist one last grin at the three men.