The Chinaman (12 page)

‘Do you have a room?' Nguyen asked her.

She looked him up and down and then scrutinised the van over his shoulder, screwing up her eyes to read the lettering.

‘How long would you be wanting it for?' she asked.

Nguyen had difficulty understanding her accent but she spoke slowly enough for him to get the drift.

‘Two nights, that is all. A room with a bath.'

The old woman sucked her teeth and shook her head. ‘No baths in the rooms, but I do have one with a shower and a toilet. And a small wash-basin. It's right at the top of the house, very cosy.'

Nguyen said he'd take it and the woman seemed doubtful, but then he pulled his wallet from his jacket and offered to pay her cash, in advance, and she smiled and ushered him inside. On the way up the stairs she introduced herself as Mrs McAllister as the notes disappeared behind the apron. He told her his name and she tried to repeat it, but gave up. The room was small with a single bed, an old wooden wardrobe, a dressing-table with an oval mirror, and a bedside table with a brass lamp with a pink lampshade. There was an ornate crucifix above the bed and to the left of the dressing-table was a black-framed photograph of John F. Kennedy. The ceiling sloped down to a window overlooking the street. Opposite the window was a door leading to a tiny bathroom with a tiled floor, a shower cubicle, a wash-basin with a cylindrical gas heater on the wall above it, and a low toilet with a black plastic seat. It was perfect.

The two pirates stood by the bar, tapping their feet to the driving beat of a pop song that Woody only vaguely recognised as they sipped orange juice from tall glasses. One of the pirates was middle-aged with a greying beard and a black patch over one eye, the other was younger with curly blond hair and flushed cheeks, but they wore matching outfits, baggy white shirts, red scarves around their necks, tight black breeches, white socks and shiny black shoes with big brassy buckles.

‘Pirates?' said Maggie as she followed Woody to the bar.

‘Yeah, they're with the pirate ships,' said Woody, squeezing in between two stockbroker types and trying to catch the attention of the young barmaid.

‘They would be,' said Maggie, still mystified.

Woody pointed over her head, towards the large windows at the far end of the bar. ‘Pirate ships,' he explained. ‘They're a tourist attraction. A sort of cross between Madame Tussaud's and the Cutty Sark. Those guys are sort of tour guides, cross their palms with silver and they'll take you below decks and tell you bloodcurdling tales of life on the salty sea.' The barmaid finally saw his plaintive look and came over. She gave him a beaming smile which faded a little when she saw that he was with a girl. Woody tended to attract barmaids, but was never sure why. He was still good-looking, he knew that, though he had allowed himself to go a bit recently. It was his eyes, an old girlfriend had told him. ‘Your eyes make me go weak at the knees, they're hot. Really hot,' she'd said. Woody reckoned it wasn't anything to do with his looks, though. He thought it had more to do with the way he made them laugh. Sometimes he laughed them into bed before they realised what was happening. Woody winked at the barmaid, ordered drinks and carried them over to an empty table, close by the window so that Maggie could look at the sailing ships.

‘They're not real, are they?' she asked, sitting down.

‘I don't think so, they were built to pull in the punters to Tobacco Dock.'

He raised his glass to her and she smiled. He was glad he'd taken her to Henry's Bar in Tobacco Dock because at least they could sit in comfort. Standing at the bar was essential when you were with the lads, but Maggie demanded a higher standard of comfort. No, that wasn't right, she didn't demand it. She deserved it.

‘What are you thinking?' she asked.

‘Just thinking how pretty you look,' he said.

‘Why thank you kind sir,' she laughed. ‘You look exhausted.'

‘Yeah, I'm not sleeping well. It's the heat.'

She frowned. ‘It's not that hot at the moment,' she said.

Woody laughed. ‘No, it's my place. I've a bedsit in a house with about a dozen others, and mine is right next to the only bathroom. The landlord has fitted a hot-water tank as big as a Saturn rocket and my room is always in the high eighties. I have to have the window open even in winter.'

Maggie smiled and shook her head. ‘Why don't you move, you daft sod?'

Woody shrugged. ‘It's cheap.'

‘You're not short of money, are you?'

Woody was immediately embarrassed because the answer was yes, he was bloody short of money. Always was. And always would be unless he got a staff job. The shifts weren't coming as often as they used to, he was overdrawn at the bank, yet he still had to stand his round at the pub while he brown-nosed his way back into the good books of the guys on the news desk. ‘No, it's convenient, that's all.' Sure, if you fancied an hour on the bus to get into work.

‘So is LA still an option?' she asked.

‘Sure. Sure it is.'

They drank and sat for a while looking at each other in silence. Woody spoke first.

‘Now it's my turn to ask what you're thinking about.'

Maggie pulled a face. ‘I was actually wondering why you didn't get a better job, why you waste your time on a comic like the
Sunday World
.'

He sighed deeply, and explained that he didn't even have a job with the
Sunday World
, that he was only a freelance, dependent on shifts, and that even that didn't pay particularly well, not since the print and journalists unions had been broken along with the dockers and the miners and any other groups that had once been able to withhold their labour. She listened patiently and then reached over and touched his shoulder, a friendly nudge that showed she understood. Maybe even cared. She asked him why he couldn't get a staff job. At first he didn't want to tell her, but she pressed, pointing out that he was obviously bright, she'd begun reading his stuff and she could tell that it was good, so what had happened? She wormed it out of him eventually, his time on one of the broadsheets, the investigation into high-level corruption within a north of England police force, the drive home along the motorway, the blue flashing light in his rear mirror, the two surly traffic cops and the discovery of two hundred grams of cocaine under the passenger seat of his office car.

‘They framed you?' she asked, wide-eyed.

‘Yeah. I managed to avoid being sent down, but I lost the job and for a few years I couldn't get any sort of work. The papers didn't trust me, partly because of the drug thing, but I know for a fact that the cops were putting the word around, too. I stuck with it, though, went to work in the West Country for a while, and then some of the nationals began taking my copy again and now at least I've got my foot in the door. I'm lucky to have that, I guess.'

‘Jesus, Woody, that's terrible. That's appalling.'

‘That's life, Maggie.'

She forced a smile. ‘I suppose the
Sunday World
isn't that bad,' she said sympathetically. ‘Do they let you travel much?'

‘Oh sure, we get around. There are always lots of freebies to be had.'

‘And do you get political stuff to do?'

‘Sure. That's one of the good things about working on a Sunday paper. They have small staffs so there isn't too much specialisation. I mean, I have to do a lot of showbiz crap and weird stuff, but we get to help out with the big ones too.'

‘What are you working on at the moment?' she asked.

Woody coughed.

‘Pardon?' she asked.

Woody looked shamefaced. ‘Vampire cats,' he said. Maggie collapsed into hysterics.

The man approaching the churchyard was short but powerfully built and even in the dark it was obvious he was not a man to get into a fight with, not by choice anyway. He was wearing a brown leather jacket, scuffed and cracked with age, and dark-brown corduroy trousers. He carried a small sack, tied at the end with a short length of rope, and in one of the pockets of his jacket there was a flashlight and half a dozen metal snares. He'd done a fair bit of poaching in his youth, but he wasn't looking for rabbits, the snares were just cover in case he was discovered. In the back pocket of his trousers was a short-handled knife with a wicked blade which he was quite prepared to use if anyone saw through the poacher's disguise.

Somewhere in the dark he heard a hedgehog snuffle then squeal and he stopped and listened but heard nothing other than the night sounds of the English countryside and an airliner rumbling high overhead, red and green lights flashing.

He swung easily over the wall and landed silently in freshly dug soil. He was standing within inches of a new grave, a gaping black rectangular hole that seemed bottomless. He breathed a sigh of relief, if he'd vaulted the wall just a couple of feet to the right he'd have pitched headlong into it and broken a leg, or worse. The luck of the Irish, he thought with a smile. He stepped off the mound of earth and used the sack to smooth away his footprints before moving on. He skirted around the church and headed for the five tombstones.

He knelt down and lifted the stone that covered the stockpile, pushing hard with his legs. He carefully leant it against the wall and then stood still, counting off sixty seconds in his head as he listened for anything out of the ordinary, because there was no way a poacher would be able to explain what he was doing lifting a gravestone, especially a gravestone that concealed IRA explosives. Still nothing, even the hedgehogs had fallen silent.

He dug into the earth with his hands and pulled out three polythene-covered packages, working quickly but carefully. If he was surprised to see half of the Semtex explosive missing, his face showed no sign of it. He rewrapped the parcels, replaced the soil and dropped the stone back over the hiding place. He brushed the dirt from his hands, checked that the surrounding area was clean and then walked down the gravel path and out of the churchyard.

Beth McKinstry was on the telephone when Nguyen walked into the office. He stood in front of her desk and waited. He was wearing his only suit, a grey one that was starting to go shiny at the elbows. He had on a white shirt and a blue V-necked pullover with three white skiers across the front. He was holding a white carrier bag in both hands, clasping it to his chest like a baby. Murphy was sitting on the sofa reading a magazine and massaging his aching shoulder. He'd looked up when Nguyen entered, but immediately dismissed him as any sort of potential threat and carried on reading.

Beth watched Nguyen as she talked, frowning slightly. He smiled and nodded at her and she looked down. She didn't look up again until she'd finished the call. As she replaced the phone Kavanagh came out of Hennessy's office and quietly closed the door behind him. He barely glanced at Nguyen before sitting down next to Murphy.

‘Yes?' said Beth.

‘Please, I would like to speak with Mr Liam Hennessy.'

‘And your name is?' she said.

‘Nguyen Ngoc Minh,' he answered.

‘Can I tell him what it is about?' She couldn't even attempt to repeat his name.

‘It is very difficult to explain,' he told her.

She reached for the intercom button but stopped halfway. ‘Are you the man who phoned last week?' she asked.

‘I phoned many times,' said Nguyen.

Beth took her hand away from the intercom. ‘I'm afraid Mr Hennessy is very busy. He won't be able to see you.'

‘I must see him,' Nguyen repeated.

‘He's busy!' insisted Beth, raising her voice. Her cheeks flushed red.

Murphy and Kavanagh glanced up. The secretary was good-natured to a fault and rarely lost her temper. Nguyen said nothing, he just smiled.

‘If you leave your number I'll call you to arrange an appointment once I have spoken with Mr Hennessy,' she said.

Still Nguyen said nothing.

‘You must go!' she said. Murphy and Kavanagh got to their feet and walked over to Nguyen.

‘Best you do as the lady says,' said Murphy quietly.

Nguyen looked at Murphy and the Irishman could see there was no trace of fear in his eyes. ‘I must see him,' he said quietly.

Kavanagh put his hand on Nguyen's shoulder. ‘What's the crack?' he asked Beth.

‘He's been ringing up at all hours asking to see Liam. He won't take no for an answer.'

‘Yez heard the lady, Mr Hennessy doesn't want to see yez,' said Kavanagh, gripping Nguyen's shoulder and pulling him away from the desk. For a second Nguyen was off balance and he clutched the carrier bag tightly as if afraid that it might fall.

‘What have you got there?' said Murphy, for the first time regarding the man as a possible threat. It wasn't likely that the Loyalists would use a Chinaman to attack Hennessy, he thought, but these days you never could tell. He reached for the bag.

‘My shopping,' said Nguyen.

‘Let's see,' said Kavanagh. ‘Let's see what yez got there.' At first it looked as if Nguyen would resist, but then the tension in his wiry body eased and he handed the bag to Kavanagh. Kavanagh opened it. It contained two bottles of lemonade, a loaf of bread, a can of Heinz baked beans and a brown paper bag full of new potatoes. Seeing that he was satisfied with the inspection, Nguyen held out his hands for the bag, but Kavanagh kept it away from him.

‘Pat him down,' he said to Murphy. Murphy moved behind Nguyen and ran his hands expertly up and down his body, checking everywhere that a weapon could be concealed. There was a Swiss Army knife in one of the side pockets of the suit, but other than that there was nothing remotely suspicious – a small roll of Sellotape, a box of matches, some string, a set of keys, a pack of cigarettes and a wallet. The normal sort of pocket junk that anyone might have on them. ‘He's OK,' he said to Kavanagh, who handed back the carrier bag.