A couple of layers of dry brown paper covered the contents. She tore them away, revealing again those things she had seen as a child. The pile of old photo albums, the jewellery box, an old rusted deed box, a shoebox filled with loose photographs — her mother as a child on holiday with her parents somewhere. A beach, an old-fashioned guest house, faces Lisa had never seen. Faces of people long dead. A fox terrier being cuddled lovingly by a small girl with hair tied back in ribbons. She put the box down, and lifted out a bundle of old, faded newspapers, which she laid aside without a second glance.
Then she took out the first of the albums, her mouth dry as she opened it. A confusion of more strange faces looked back at her. People standing in awkward groups grinning at the camera. Men in ill-fitting morning suits hired for the day. Her mother in white, smiling, almost beautiful. Lisa hardly dared look at the face of the man standing proudly beside her. A young, shy face, smiling nervously. A tall man with short dark hair, leaning slightly to one side, awkwardly holding the hand of his bride. Lisa’s father.
She suffered a feeling of anticlimax. And, yet, what had she expected? He was in army dress uniform, a very ordinary-looking man. She noticed several more uniforms among the guests as she flicked through the pages. Bride and groom cutting the cake. Then a full-sized close-up of the happy couple, arms linked, each with a glass of champagne. She examined her father more closely. He looked no more than twenty or twenty-one. There was something, she thought now, familiar about the face. Something about the eyes. Piercing, looking straight into hers. Then, quite suddenly, she felt every hair on the back of her neck stand up, her scalp tightening, the shock of it bringing the sting of tears to her eyes. Staring back at her, in the yellow light of the torch, was the face of the man she’d seen standing under the trees in the churchyard. A tear splashed on to the page. Her whisper filled the dark. ‘He’s alive!’
Four hundred miles away in a small, darkened room on the top floor of a building off the Falls Road in Belfast, Elliot’s face was drawn from a large beige envelope. The face was older than in the wedding photographs, and had by now acquired its distinctive scar. The photograph was placed in the centre of a bare wooden table. There were three men seated around it. The man who had taken the print from the envelope turned it through ninety degrees in order that the others could see it clearly.
‘John Alexander Elliot.’ He spoke with a thick Belfast brogue. ‘Ex-British army. Now freelancing. He killed McAlliskey. And O’Neil.’ He paused. ‘We want him dead.’
Chapter Four
Elliot pulled up his collar against the cold London night and turned into Dean Street. He found the Korean restaurant halfway up on the right. A pretty oriental girl in a long black skirt approached as he entered. ‘A table for one?’
‘I’m meeting someone. Mr Ang Yuon. He booked the table.’
‘Thank you very much. He is waiting for you.’ She took his coat. ‘You follow me, please.’ She led him through the bamboo and ricepaper partitions to a black, lacquered table in a discreet corner at the rear of the restaurant.
Ang Yuon rose to greet him. He was a small dapper man, black hair streaked with grey. His face was pale, cheeks peppered by ugly pockmarks, but remarkably unlined. Elliot thought him about forty, though he looked younger. Fine slender hands. Manicured nails. He smiled, but only with his mouth. The eyes remained dark and impenetrable. Elliot thought he detected in them a deep sadness. ‘Mistah Elliot. I am happy you could come.’ The trace of an American accent. His handshake was clammy.
Elliot nodded. ‘Mr Yuon.’
‘No.’ He smiled again. ‘Mistah Ang. In Cambodia first name is last, last name is first. Please sit.’ Elliot felt uncomfortable about this encounter. The call had come from his usual contact, but the circumstances of the meeting were unusual.
‘You know Korean food?’ Elliot shook his head. ‘Shall I order?’
‘Sure.’
Ang waved the waitress over and ordered something called boolkogi with steamed rice, and yachi bokum. Then he smiled again at Elliot. ‘You are very ruthless man, Mistah Elliot.’
Elliot remained impassive. ‘Is that so?’
‘Oh, I know all about you. Shall I tell you?’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
Ang shrugged. ‘You know nothing of me.’
Elliot clasped his hands under his chin. ‘You’re a wealthy Cambodian, Mr Ang — politician or businessman. Probably corrupt. You’re about forty, and you’ve never done a day’s physical labour in your life.’
Ang raised an eyebrow. ‘And how would you know that?’
‘That you’ve never worked the paddy fields? Your hands, Mr Ang. Hands tell you a lot about a man.’
Ang glanced at his hands then looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Corrupt?’
‘Nobody ever got wealthy in Cambodia without being corrupt. And I’d say you probably did well out of the Americans.’
Ang’s expression hardened. ‘There are worse things than corruption — or Americans.’
Elliot said evenly, ‘The Khmer Rouge would never have taken power if the Americans had not brought down the Prince.’
Ang was irritated now. ‘I did not ask you here to argue politics, Mistah Elliot.’ He paused to collect himself. ‘And wealthy?’
Elliot inclined his head in a slight ironic gesture. ‘The manicure, the cut of your suit, the quality of your English. And if you didn’t have money you couldn’t afford me.’
A waitress brought small round dishes of soy sauce and spring onion, a large dish filled with strips of raw marinated beef, and a hotplate which she placed on one side before lighting a gas ring beneath it.
‘Chopsticks?’ Ang asked Elliot.
‘Sure.’
The girl smiled and brought them each a pair of finely engraved ivory chopsticks. She returned with a bowl of shredded Korean vegetables, soaked in a bitter dressing, then started arranging the meat on the hotplate with a pair of wooden chopsticks. The beef sizzled and spat as she moved it around, and the air was filled with a delicious aroma of exotic spices. Two bowls of steamed rice were brought before she served them the cooked meat, bowed and took her leave. Elliot tried it. Ang watched.
‘Good?’
Elliot nodded. It was. ‘Excellent.’
They helped themselves to rice and vegetables and Ang arranged more meat on the hotplate. Two small jugs of warm sake arrived. Ang poured them each a cup and raised his. ‘To a profitable relationship,’ he said.
Elliot sipped his sake. ‘I’ll wait till I hear what the deal is.’
Ang drained his cup in a single draught. ‘What do you know about Cambodia, Mistah Elliot? Or should I say, Democratic Kampuchea?’ He could not hide the bitterness in his voice.
Elliot shrugged. ‘Since the Khmer Rouge took over, not much. Except that they seem to be killing a lot of people.’
‘Not a lot, Mistah Elliot. Millions.’
‘An exaggeration, I think, Mr Ang.’
‘No. The stories have been confirmed by the refugees coming across the northern border into Thailand. And they have come in their thousands. I know. I have spent a lot of time in the refugee camps there, Mistah Elliot, off and on for more than three years.’