The Inscrutable Charlie Muffin (14 page)

‘Superintendent Johnson told me he had sought assistance from you,’ said Charlie.

‘He wants the man returned to the colony.’

‘And that’s not possible?’ probed Charlie gently.

‘It might not be thought wise.’

‘I wouldn’t need his return, to fight Lu in the English High Court,’ Charlie assured him.

‘How, then?’

‘Give me an entry visa to China,’ said Charlie. ‘Let me interview the man, in the presence of your officials and someone from the British embassy in Peking who can notarise the statement as being properly made and therefore legally admissible in an English court.’

He’d been involved in British espionage for two decades, reflected Charlie. And in that time used a dozen overseas embassies. There could easily be an earlier-encountered diplomat now assigned to Peking who might recognise him. He would, thought Charlie, spend the rest of his life fleeing through a hall of distorted mirrors and shying away from half-seen images of fear.

Kuo indicated the teapot, but Charlie shook his head. The man added to his own cup, apparently considering the request.

‘You must tell me one thing,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘If we make this facility available to you … if he makes a full confession about what happened, can you absolutely guarantee that Lu’s claim will be publicly discussed in an open court, so that the man will be exposed for the fraud he is?’

Now Charlie remained unspeaking, balancing the demand. It was impossible to anticipate what the cook would say. Or his statement’s admissibility in court, despite the attempted legality of having a British embassy official present. It would be sufficient to beat Lu. But more probably in private negotiations with lawyers, rather than in an open court challenge.

‘It would mean Lu’s claim against my company would fail,’ predicted Charlie.

‘But not that the man would be taken to court, for everyone to witness?’

‘I cannot guarantee that.’

‘I respect you again for your frankness,’ said the legation head.

‘You knew that, without my telling you,’ said Charlie.

‘Yes,’ said Kuo. ‘I knew it.’

Charlie controlled the almost imperceptible sigh: another test passed.

‘I would try to ensure that my company made a public announcement of any withdrawal by Lu,’ promised Charlie. ‘And that would by implication show the claim to be false.’

‘But isn’t it sometimes a condition of out-of-court settlements that there should be no publicity?’

‘There appears little you haven’t considered,’ said Charlie.

‘No,’ agreed Kuo. ‘Very little.’

‘Does that mean you can give me an immediate decision about a visa?’

Kuo shook his head at the eagerness.

‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘I have to refer to Peking.’

‘So there could be a delay.’

‘There normally is.’

‘But this isn’t a normal case,’ said Charlie.

‘No.’

‘So when would you expect to get a decision?’

‘What would you say if I asked you to return this time tomorrow?’

‘I would say that you seem to have been expecting me.’

Kuo laughed, his face fully relaxed for the first time.

‘We were,’ he said. ‘In fact, I’m surprised it’s taken you so long.’

The wind began to freshen in sudden, breathy gusts as it always does before the summer downpours in Hong Kong and the priest started to hurry, frowning above his prayer book at the clouds bubbling over the Peak. Why shouldn’t he? thought Charlie. Despite a congregation of only one, the man had persisted with a full service, even the fifteen-minute promise of the glory awaiting Robert Nelson compared to the unhappiness of the life he had known. So why should he get wet? From the left the gravediggers hovered, shovels in hand, as anxious as the priest that the grave should not become waterlogged.

Charlie shook his head, refusing the invitation to cast the first sod down upon the coffin.

The priest smiled slightly, happy at the saved minute.

‘And so,’ he intoned, ‘I commit the body of Robert Nelson to the earth and his soul to Heaven …’

He turned expectantly to Charlie, who was unsure what to do. Finally he backed away, realising it was over. The priest fell into step beside him.

‘Surprised at the turn-out,’ he said genially.

‘Yes,’ agreed Charlie. He’d worked methodically through the bars of the Wan Chai and then Kowloon, trying to locate Jenny Lin Lee. And got shrugs and blank faces and assurances that she was unknown.

‘Particularly for someone so respected in the community.’

Charlie looked sideways. The priest smiled back ingenuously. The man didn’t know, decided Charlie. But then, how could he?

‘Perhaps they were busy,’ said Charlie.

The priest frowned.

‘That’s not usually an obstruction among the European community here,’ he replied automatically.

‘At least he’ll never know how little they cared,’ said Charlie, jerking his head back in the direction of the grave.

The priest stopped on the narrow pathway, face creased in distaste.

‘That’s hardly respectful of the dead,’ he complained.

‘Neither is a business community ignoring the funeral of a man who’s worked here all his life,’ snapped Charlie. Wasn’t there ever a circumstance in which he did not have to weigh and consider his words? he thought wearily.

‘Quite,’ said the priest, immediately retreating. ‘Very sad.’

The path split, one way going back to the church, the other to the lychgate exit. The first rain splattered the stones as they paused, to part.

‘Goodbye,’ said the priest, grateful to have escaped getting wet.

‘Thank you,’ said Charlie.

He was almost at the covered gateway before he saw Harvey Jones. He stopped, careless of the downpour.

‘I startled you,’ apologised the American.

‘Yes,’ said Charlie.

‘I’m sorry.’

Charlie said nothing. He should have seen the man, he thought. Been aware of his presence at least. Perhaps his instinct
was
failing.

‘Hadn’t you better get under cover?’ said Jones. ‘You’re getting soaked.’

Charlie pressed under the tiny roof, turning back to look over the churchyard to avoid the American’s direct attention. The gravediggers were scrabbling the earth into the grave, careless of how they filled it. The poor bugger even got buried messily.

‘Arrived too late to join the service,’ said Jones, still apologising.

‘You’d have been lost in the crowd,’ said Charlie sarcastically. ‘Why did you come?’

‘Wanted to see you.’

‘Why?’

Because the man’s curiosity was increasing rather than diminishing, thought Charlie, answering his own question.

‘See how you’re getting on,’ said Jones.

Liar, thought Charlie.

‘You’d have kept drier waiting at the hotel.’

‘Nothing else to do,’ said the American easily. ‘Perhaps it was the rain that kept everyone away.’

‘He wasn’t very popular,’ said Charlie.

‘Certainly not with someone.’

Charlie ignored the invitation.

‘How’s the investigation going?’ asked Jones, forced into the direct demand.

‘Nowhere.’

‘Pity.’

‘Yes.’

‘Didn’t suggest a separate autopsy?’

‘What?’ said Charlie, forgetting.

‘Separate autopsy,’ repeated Jones. ‘Try to find something upon which Johnson could have worked.’

‘Decided it would be a waste of time.’

‘So what
have
you done?’

Spent all my time trying to avoid you, thought Charlie.

‘Poked about,’ he said.

‘And found what?’

‘Nothing. What about you?’

‘Nothing.’

It was as if his anxiety were forcing the breath from him, making it impossible for him to create proper sentences. It would not be difficult for Jones to notice the attitude. And for his curiosity to increase. The rain began lessening. Soon he would be able to escape.

‘Still might be better if we worked together,’ suggested the American.

‘I prefer to stay on my own,’ said Charlie.

‘Wonder what the Chinese think about it?’ said Jones suddenly.

Charlie made an unknowing gesture:

‘Why not ask them?’

‘Might well do that. Do they have representation here?’

‘I believe so,’ said Charlie, playing the game. So Jones had been out there somewhere in the crowd and seen him enter the legation. And wanted him to know. Why? An offer to identify himself, like wearing a school tie?

‘Yes indeed, I might well do that,’ repeated the American.

‘Let me know how you get on,’ said Charlie.

‘Of course,’ promised Jones. ‘
I’ll
keep my side of the bargain.’

Another invitation, Charlie recognised.

‘It’s stopped raining,’ he said, nodding beyond the lychgate.

‘Can I give you a lift?’

‘I’ve got a taxi waiting,’ said Charlie.

‘I’ll let you know what Kuo Yuan-ching says,’ promised Jones, as he walked from the churchyard.

‘Who?’ said Charlie, avoiding the trap.

‘Kuo Yuan-ching,’ said the American again. ‘I gather he’s the man to see.’

Alone at last, Charlie stretched back against the seat as his car started its switchback descent towards the Central district. The tension made him physically ache. He blinked his eyes open, reflecting upon his encounter with Harvey Jones. Because he was tired, he was making mistakes. There was no reason why he shouldn’t have told the American of his visit to the Chinese official. All he had done was risk being found out in a lie and possibly arousing the man’s suspicions further. And he guessed Jones had plenty of doubts already.

‘You’re not thinking fast enough, Charlie,’ he told himself.

‘So he’s behaved exactly as you predicted?’ said the inner council chairman.

‘Yes,’ said Chiu. Modestly, he kept the satisfaction from his voice.

‘You will deal with him personally?’

‘I think it’s best.’

‘And ensure every preparation is made?’

‘Yes.’

‘I wonder how clever this Englishman is?’

‘It doesn’t really matter now, does it?’ said Chiu, the conceit audible.

‘I suppose not,’ agreed the chairman.

15

Charlie got off the train at Sheung Shui and looked towards the Shum Chun river that formed the border. Almost as far as the Lo Wu bridge there was a confused crush of people. He began to walk towards the crossing but immediately had to step aside for a herd of pigs which was being driven into the New Territories.

Impossible to control, remembered Charlie. That’s what Johnson had said about the border traffic. Difficult even to decide which way most of them were going.

There was no logical reason for any challenge, but Charlie still felt the involuntary stomach-tightening when he offered his passport at the British end of the control. The official glanced at him briefly, compared the picture, checked the visa and waved him on. Would he ever lose the apprehension? he wondered, walking on to the bridge towards China. Better if he didn’t. Frightened, he reacted quicker.

At the Chinese check, he offered not just his passport but the letter which Kuo Yuan-ching had given him earlier that day. Immediately there was a smile of expectation and at a gesture from the official another Chinese walked forward from a small room behind the passport booth.

‘My name is Chiu Ching-mao,’ the second man introduced himself. ‘I am to be your escort to Peking.’

He retrieved Charlie’s passport, waving to indicate that he should bypass the queue that stretched before him. Obediently the people parted and Chiu stretched out to take Charlie’s overnight shoulder grip and briefcase.

Feeling vaguely embarrassed at the special treatment, Charlie surrendered the bags and fell into step with the other man.

‘We expected you earlier,’ said Chiu. Like the men in the Hong Kong legation, he wore the regulation grey-black tunic. He was a thin, bespectacled man, with an intense way of examining people when he spoke, as if suspecting the responses they made.

‘I didn’t expect so many people,’ admitted Charlie. He nodded towards another herd of pigs. ‘Or livestock.’

‘Trade is extensive in this part of China,’ said Chiu watchfully.

The treaty guaranteeing British sovereignty was not accepted by Peking, remembered Charlie.

‘Of course,’ he said, wanting to avoid a political polemic.

The official seemed disappointed.

Once free of the immediate border, it was easier to move, despite the bicycles. They appeared to be everywhere, cluttering the kerb edges and thronging the oddly traffic-free roads.

Seeing Charlie’s look, Chiu said, ‘To cycle is to remain fit.’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. If he let the man get it out of his system, perhaps he’d stop.

‘We have a long way to go,’ said Chiu, looking at his watch.

‘I know.’

‘But we can still make our connections,’ added the Chinese. ‘We will go by train to Canton and from there fly to Peking.’

‘I appreciate very much the trouble you have taken,’ said Charlie.

‘My ministry regards your visit as important,’ said Chiu.

‘Ministry?’

‘I am attached to the political section of the Foreign Ministry,’ elaborated the man.

Different from normal, recognised Charlie. They really were going to enormous trouble.

At the station they appeared to be expected, bypassing the normal barriers with an attentive escort of railway officials.

The train seemed almost as crowded as the border bridge, but Chiu went confidently ahead of the railwaymen until he found the empty carriage he was apparently seeking and stood back for Charlie to enter.

‘Reserved,’ he announced.

So much for equality for all, thought Charlie. He sat back as Chiu dismissed the officials in a tumble of Chinese, staring through the window at the last-minute rush before departure. For the first time in almost a fortnight, he thought, he did not have the impression of being watched. It was a tangible relief.

He turned to the man opposite.

‘I am still surprised that my visa approval was so prompt,’ he said, sweeping his hand out to encompass the carriage. ‘And at all this assistance.’