“You still want to see the people called to rehearsal, sir?”
“And the actors last to leave the theatre that night.”
“I’ve already arranged that.”
“Good. What about that Shakespeare expert?”
“His contact numbers are on your desk.”
“Good.”
Chen divided up assignments among his men and headed out, leaving Fong alone with Lily. “You can tell Chen that he’s allowed to look at you in these meetings. He’s your husband.”
“Chen is very formal. You are his superior officer, Fong. I may be his wife but this is a business meeting not a cocktail party.”
“True, Lily,” and without a beat of segue he asked, “What kind of paint was used in the theatre?”
“I don’t know offhand. You want the paint used on the platforms or on the thing that . . . ”
“The proscenium arch?”
“Yeah, you would know the name for that.”
“I would. It’s called the proscenium arch.”
“Fine. So you want to know the kind of paint used on the arch?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. I’ll check.”
“Good. Then would you check if it matches the smudge of paint on Mr. Hyland’s right shoe?”
Lily looked at him with a wry expression on her face. “Sure, I can do that.”
“How long to get that information, Lily?”
“Not long.” Suddenly she shifted and leaned forward. “How are you managing, Fong?”
“Okay,” he said, very uncomfortable to be talking like this.
“You miss Xiao Ming?”
“Yes. But I get to see her almost as much as I did when we . . . ”
“Were married, Fong. You’re allowed to say that.”
“Yes.” Fong began to pack up his things. “You look happy, Lily.”
“I am Fong.”
“I’m glad. I’ll be on time picking up Xiao Ming Sunday.”
“If this case is solved by then.”
“Yes, Lily, if this case is solved by then.”
Fong stopped packing up.
“Something I can help you with, Fong?”
“Yes. But I don’t know what just yet.”
“You’ll let me know?”
“I will. . . . Lily . . . ”
She stared at him closely, “What Fong?”
“What happens to people when they lose a sense of purpose?”
Fong went directly to his office. Captain Chen was waiting there. “Who’s that, sir?” Chen asked, pointing at Shrug and Knock who had stationed his desk across the hall from Fong’s door. Fong ushered Chen into the office, closed the door and explained the who and what, if not the why, of Shrug and Knock. Chen nodded. “Men like him are a reality in the politics of this place. If you want to work here, you have to deal with the politics as well as the job but if you look at things closely, almost every situation can lead to either problems or opportunities. It’s all a matter of seeing the possibilities.”
Chen nodded. “Can I have a word, sir?”
“Sure, take a seat.”
Chen sat then began without preamble, “So you believe this is not a suicide, sir?”
“Yes. I believe this was a murder made to look like a suicide.”
“Are you sure, sir? How do you keep a noose on a man’s neck, make him walk up ten steps of a ladder then kick the ladder aside. There were no signs of any real struggle. No defensive wounds, no . . . ”
Fong cut him off. “Mr. Hyland never climbed that ladder. It was placed on the stage after Mr. Hyland was dead. Get me six men, access to the man who pulls those fly ropes and a hundred-and-eightypound dummy and I’ll show you how it was done.”
“Now?”
Fong looked at his watch. The theatre would just be opening. He had other things he could do before he proved his point, so he said, “No. Tomorrow. Get us in there tomorrow first thing.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Joan Shui assumed she had been chosen because she was new to the movement and hence probably not known to the authorities. Authorities like her. Being a cop was probably another reason they had chosen her. She’d been a member of the Hong Kong constabulary for almost ten years. Before that, she’d done an advanced degree in chemistry. It was that degree that allowed her immediate entrance to the elite Hong Kong arson squad. Her father, the first fireman in her life, had been so proud. For a moment, she wondered if he would be proud of what she was about to do. “We can hardly please the living, how can we hope to please the dead?” she asked the emptiness of her office.
She looked out her office window. The deterioration of Hong Kong was subtle but it was there. It had started quickly after the mainland took back the British protectorate in 1996. At first it was just little things, neon signs that didn’t flash, stores with shorter hours, vacancy rates rising, but of late the rot was threatening to break into the open. No longer was it just cosmetic. Something in the heart of Hong Kong could be dying.
That was why she was a supporter of Dalong Fada. She did believe in the exercise regime, but it was the fact of opposition to the Communists now that Hong Kong was no longer free that drew her to the movement. Without some form of opposition, Beijing would run even further amok then it had already. Dalong Fada was the only credible opposition in the entire country.
Her initial steps toward Dalong Fada had seemed so natural. A flirtation with a high-ranking member. A contact with an American-Chinese man. A series of discreet meetings and she was – a part of it.
Now there was a message and an assignment. For the briefest moment she wondered if this was what an al-Qaeda freak felt like. One moment a normal working stiff, the next a man with a bomb. Then she shook that off. She was not involved with bombs. Nothing that she was doing had anything to do with hurting people. She was a member of Dalong Fada because China needed a real opposition to the Chinese Communist Party – period, the end.
The phone on her desk rang. Joan let it ring as she remembered a call at almost exactly this time two days ago – when life was considerably simpler, a different reality. It had been a young lab technician with the results from her investigation of a fire on Peak Road. Insurance companies were taking a bath as fear of Beijing’s control gripped Hong Kong and drove land values down. Many fashionable buildings were no longer financially viable. Better to burn them down and collect the insurance than to declare bankruptcy and face the shame, even in a financial centre like Hong Kong, that accompanied monetary failure.
Joan had nodded as she jotted down notes from the lab. Traces of accelerant had been found in the apartment building’s basement. No planch was discovered, but the burn pattern was nothing if not suspicious. She thanked the technician and made a series of further requests for data. She sensed his hesitancy. “What?” she asked. The young man hemmed and hawed then finally said, “Are you doing anything Saturday night?” His question was no surprise to Joan. She was an attractive, unmarried, educated woman in her mid-thirties. She had a good job, beautiful if hard facial features and curves that attracted many eyes. What was she doing Saturday night? It was Wednesday. Did any who, who was any who in Hong Kong, have any idea what or who they were doing three days ahead? No. “Give me your cell number and I’ll get back to you,” she said to get him off the line. The young man evidently couldn’t believe his good fortune. He had thanked her more than he should have and gave her not only his cell number, but also the apartment number of the place he shared with three men and even his mom’s phone number.
The phone on her desk stopped ringing. Joan found the silence that followed strangely unnerving.
She pulled open a drawer of her desk and found the scrap of paper on which she’d scribbled the lab tech’s numbers. He was clearly either too young or too stupid or both for her to date, but he might be just perfectly equipped to account for at least some of the days she’d be out of Hong Kong.