The Inspector Walter Darriteau Murder Mysteries - Books 1-4 by David Carter (best finance books of all time .txt) 📕

her sat the agent who was playing her Uncle. He glanced across at her and saw her filthy face. She looked the part; that was undeniable. They sat in silence for a second, then he started the car and pulled out into the lighter Hong Kong night-time traffic. They were heading for the harbour and the bar where he hoped the traffickers might be.

He drove to the drinking den down by the sea. There was a small car park there with space for eight or ten cars. During the day finding a space was almost impossible, but at that hour, twenty past midnight, according to the Japanese clock on the dash, it was easy. There were just three vehicles parked up. A saloon, a van, and a 4x4. He pulled the car softly to a stop and pulled on the handbrake.

‘Any last thoughts?’ he said.

‘None,’ she said. ‘I am ready.’

‘Once I take you in there you are on your own.’

‘I understand.’

‘It is not too late to change your mind.’

‘I will not change my mind.’

‘Tell me the contact telephone number you memorised.’

‘The telephone number is strictly secret. I cannot say.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘But you do remember it?’

‘I do.’

‘And you will not forget it?’

‘I will not.’

‘I wish you all the luck in the world.’

‘The success or otherwise of this operation will not come down to luck.’

Uncle nodded slowly. ‘What will decide it?’

‘Professionalism,’ she said, and they glanced at one another and he knew she was right. She usually was. He nodded again. The kid was as professional as it was possible to be.

He glanced up at the run-down bar ahead. The external advertising lights were off, but the low internal lights were on. Someone was at home; someone was enjoying a late drink, maybe someone was watching, and perhaps they might be interested in doing a little late night business. Hong Kong was a trading centre, always had been, and some said, the greatest trading centre in the world.

Beyond the bar was a small jetty, and beyond that, shipping on the harbour could be seen, all different sizes, some close, some far off, all lit up, all with a story to tell.

‘Come on,’ said Uncle, and they both stood out of the car. He clasped his hand around her right wrist and led her toward the bar. It was a balmy still night and the water was flat and gently swaying. They could hear warm sea lapping against the jetty, and could smell the sea and late night cooking coming from some all-nighter café not far away. The man led her to the door and knocked six times, three quick, three slow, just as arranged. The door opened, a young man in jeans and a grubby vest peered out, looked at the visitors, said over his shoulder, ‘It’s them.’

Stood to one side and beckoned them in.

Uncle stepped inside and dragged the girl in after him. She glowered and glared at the three guys there. The older one was standing behind a small bar, a glass of Japanese whisky set up in front of him. The other two, younger, drinking Australian lager from cans, both in jeans and vests and trainers, and all three of them stared at the girl, assessing the goods.

They didn’t seem impressed.

‘This her?’ said one of them.

‘Yes,’ said Uncle.

‘And you want a thousand dollars US for that?’ said one of the vests.

‘Yes. If you don’t want her I have a man in Macao who will take her off my hands. I’ll take her there tomorrow if we can’t do business tonight.’

‘I’m not going anywhere with these twats!’ the girl spat out.

Uncle let go of her wrist and slapped her hard across the cheek.

‘You will do as you are told!’

The vests liked to see that, a bit of discipline was always a good thing. The whore’s cheek was dirty, filthy, and now it was humming red too.

The older man laughed, a rough, forced laugh.

One of the vests closed on the girl. She was rubbing her cheek hard. She glared at him. He sniffed her scruffy blouse.

‘Fuck me! She stinks! You could have had a wash.’

‘Fuck off, you piece of pig-shit!’ snarled Lily Sang.

‘What’s a bit of a smell? Some men might like it,’ said Uncle, smirking and leering, and the older man laughed again.

‘I don’t think so,’ said one of the vests.

‘I am not paying a thousand dollars for that!’ said the other one.

‘Just give her a shower,’ said Uncle. ‘Have you got a shower here?’

‘We have,’ said the older man, ‘but she is not going anywhere near my bathroom. She’s probably got lice and heaven knows what else. Not a chance!’

‘Right!’ said Uncle, ‘she needs a wash, I’ll give her a fucking wash right now,’ and he grabbed her wrist and tugged her outside.

‘Let go of me, you filthy bastard!’ but Uncle was fit and strong, Hong Kong Police Force Allcomers Karate Champion, to be precise. Ample silver cups and medals at home to prove it. She struggled all she knew to get free, but could not. He began dragging her down the jetty. The three guys followed, laughing at the entertainment. Uncle picked her up by the waist, held her over the end of the jetty, and dropped her.

The men yelled with glee.

There was a plopping swish as she fell into the warm swaying sea. The water was dirty, oily, filthy, as harbour waters invariably are, for flotsam and jetsam and oil and sewage are always attracted to jetty legs. It was debateable as to whether she’d come out cleaner or dirtier, if she came out at all. In the darkness and filth they couldn’t see her beneath the surface. Jun Woo was an excellent swimmer. She’d stay under for a little while yet. Then she burst the surface just below where the four guys were standing.

‘Help! Help!’ Lily Sang screamed. ‘I can’t swim!’

There was a long boat hook in a wooden frame fixed on the side of the jetty, or was it there to hoik out fallers