‘Did you work on the other kidnappings?’
‘Yes and no. We didn’t even know about them till after the event. When Amy Tang went missing we sent out an alert around the boarding schools with Chinese kids. We got some information back about the abduction of two others—both boys, from two separate schools on the outskirts of London. One was ten, the other was twelve. Both were released after the ransom was paid.’
‘Big money paid to release them?’
‘Two million US each.’
‘How did the ransom demands come?’
‘All the same way—by email, via one of those scam sites for claiming an inheritance that you never knew you had.’
‘Has it been traced?’
‘We’re still working on it. Someone knows his computers. He sent it around the world first. It came back with the logo of a bogus company plastered on it—BLANCO. We checked it out—there are a lot of companies called that, unsurprisingly. We traced it back to a Nigerian working in a taxi rank—he didn’t have a clue how someone got hold of his dodgy identity. We decided it was a red herring.’
‘Where was the money dropped?’
‘In all three cases it was a different route, but same method. In Amy Tang’s case it was dropped in a bin off Gerrard Street in Chinatown.’
‘By whom?’
‘By an employee of CK’s, apparently, no one knows who. Getting cooperation from any of the Chinese families has been very hard. They would rather just pay up and shut up. A local crack addict was then paid to pick it up; he gave it to a lad on a courier bike and we think the courier had it taken off him at some lights. I don’t know whether that was the end of the chain or not. It was elaborate and it worked. We lost it. We only got that much from CCTV footage.’
‘Did he use the same method of abduction? Was it always the same man?’
‘Hundred per cent it’s the same man, though he was more cautious with the first two abductions. But the emails were written by the same person. The collection was virtually the same.’
‘Were the other children able to give a description of him or where they were held?’
‘No, they said they were kept blindfolded and that they slept a lot. Must have been kept sedated.’
‘Did the others have triad links?’
‘Both kids were from Mainland China—mega-wealthy parents but no direct triad links that we could find. The usual suspect business partners along the way, but nothing obvious.’
Becky beeped hard at a green MG that cut her up. Mann smiled to himself—he could see that she loved her car. She whizzed in and out of the traffic and she drove it with a passion—like a man—hard on the revs, aggressive, unapologetically.
‘How’s the investigation going?’
‘We’ve drawn a blank. We’ve been out searching all vacant, newly rented properties in a ten-mile radius—so far, nothing. She could have gone anywhere from there. There are links to motorways north and south. She wasn’t reported missing until Sunday evening—that’s thirty-six hours after she left. She could be anywhere.’
‘She wouldn’t be being held where there are large groups of Chinese—she’s much too hot a property. There would be quite a few people eager to ingratiate themselves with CK and tell him who’s got her. She would be hidden somewhere nondescript, a bland mix of cultures. Maybe a satellite town or a new vertical village somewhere where people are anonymous. Do you have good undercover agents in Chinatown?’
‘One really good one called Micky. He’s infiltrated the Flying Dragons. He’s been undercover for two years now. He doesn’t break his cover for anyone and he keeps in touch by phone. I already talked to him, told him you were coming. He has no news about her whereabouts but says the feeling is that this isn’t a home-grown problem—it goes back to Hong Kong.’ Becky turned the radio off. She was perking up, the coffee had worked. ‘Were you born here?’
‘No. I am a Hong Konger, a Eurasian—half Chinese, half British. But I spent the best years of my life here, although you know that anyway—you’ve seen my stats.’ He grinned.
‘I only know the official stuff, plus I found out a bit on the grapevine. Micky told me a few interesting facts, he knew all about you. I guess as we are going to be working together for a while I will have plenty of time to fill in the gaps.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Mann.
She gave him a sidelong glance and giggled, embarrassed.
‘But, you’re kidding, the best years of your life, really?’
‘School—didn’t you like yours?’
‘Nope…Couldn’t wait to leave.’
‘Where did you grow up?’
‘Islington—where I still live. Bought a flat there three years ago—in Highbury. Went to a local girls’ school—I did okay, but I didn’t enjoy it. I was a sporty kid. We didn’t have the provisions for that in the inner city. I beat all the boys at their school when it came to cricket practice.’
‘I noticed the bowling action with the bun, back in the car park.’
‘Yeah, the trouble is all we ever did was practice. I did swim for the borough. I still keep my hand in—still go to the gym, swim a few times a week.’
‘Is that what keeps you sane outside work?’
‘Yes, plus I help out at a youth rehabilitation centre for young addicts and homeless women. I teach self-defence to the women. It’s a major problem for them on the streets. They get attacked all the time, raped. I try to teach them how to diffuse it and, if they can’t, how to defend themselves.’
‘How long have you been in the police force?’
‘Since I left uni. I did a degree in psychology. Then I joined the police force.’
‘Been married long?’
‘Ten years.’
‘What does your husband do? Is he in the force?’
‘Huh! That would never suit him. No, he’s one of those entrepreneurial types; never quite know what he’ll try next. At the moment, amongst a million other things, he is helping out a friend and running a language school. Don’t ask me what the other things are!’
No sticky fingers on the dashboard. The car was tidy, neat, uncluttered—no kids, thought Mann.
‘Actually, Al has a relative in Hong Kong.’
Mann looked at her and grinned.
‘You’re going to ask me if I know him, right?’
She gave that deep chuckle again; she still had a lot of the child left in her, thought Mann.
‘Maybe. And you?’
‘Marriage, you mean? Never felt the need. No kids. No commitment. Better that way.’ Mann closed his eyes for a few seconds and leaned his head back onto the headrest.
Becky put a CD on—a homemade compilation that was a strange mix of dance hits and soul—reggae and Leonard Cohen.
Helen came into Mann’s head. The film of her being tortured, the sound of her screams. His eyes snapped open.
‘Eclectic tastes,’ he said, nodding in the direction of the sound system.
‘Not mine—my husband Alex’s—he loves Leonard Cohen. I don’t—so miserable. The dance tracks are mine. We are…very different. God knows how we ended up together. Chalk and cheese.’ Her laugh disappeared into the air, ‘So, no wife hidden away? No long-term