Trafficked

Her footsteps echoed as she ran flat-footed down the long, empty corridor, slapping the worn paving slabs with her heavy feet. She barged through the first set of fire doors and passed the paintings by talented fourth-formers. She turned side-on to the second set of doors and pushed her shoulder so hard against them that the right-hand door swung open and ricocheted off the corridor wall. She stopped to realign her bag across her shoulder before running on—past sports trophies and press cuttings that she never featured in. She was arty, they said—but Amy didn’t see any of her pictures on the wall.

She ran so fast that when she finally arrived at the man waiting for her at the end of the corridor, her face was scarlet with exertion and excitement and she was breathless. She tried to talk but her braces got in the way and she spat out a breathy hello.

‘Amy?’

Amy stared at him. She didn’t recognise him.

‘Yesh.’

Her tongue protruded like a panting dog on a hot day as she rested her hands on the tops of her knees and bent over to catch her breath.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

She looked up at him. She couldn’t help feeling disappointed—he wasn’t what she had expected at all. He was wearing a suit for a start! He looked like a teacher. This man didn’t look like he was ready to take her to Alton Towers, then shopping.

A group of girls in netball kit with swishing pony-tails and rustling gym skirts passed by on their way to tea. Amy and the man stood back to allow them through. The girls giggled and chatted to one another but none of them acknowledged Amy. It was as if she was invisible to them: the beautiful and the gifted.

‘Let’s be off, shall we?’ The man took her bag and placed his hand on her shoulder. ‘Let’s get you out of here and have some fun. Your father has insisted on it and we don’t want to disappoint him, do we?’

He steered her towards the side exit. Amy glanced back along the corridor to the glass-panelled oak doors that led to the old library. She could still hear the girls laughing and the kitchen staff putting out the plates ready for match tea. She could smell the pizzas cooking. She looked back at the man. Something told her not to go with him. Something told her to run as far away from him as she could.

‘Call me Lenny,’ he said, holding the door open for her. ‘We are going to be such good friends.’

4 (#u11811401-2769-528f-b9c7-9c3e2286b440)

Hong Kong

‘You got some colour—you look more like a wild man than ever.’ Sergeant Ng was there to meet Mann at Hong Kong’s international airport on Lantau Island. Ng was an old friend and he and Mann had worked together on and off for many years. But it was the first time Mann had seen him up and about for three months, since he’d got shot on the last case they’d worked on. Ng was a dedicated policeman who gave his life to the job and had almost lost it, in the line of duty, on more than one occasion.

‘Yeah, and you’ve lost weight, Ng. Getting shot suits you.’

They shook hands warmly. Mann picked up his bag, slung his jacket over his shoulder and followed Ng through the airport terminal to the car park.

‘Why the hell was I recalled? I was supposed to be having a vacation—just about to go surfing, for Christ’s sake! What was so bad it couldn’t wait a week?’ asked Mann.

Ng shrugged, walking faster than he wanted, to keep up with Mann’s long stride.

‘New Super ordered it. Forget surfing—take up golf. And don’t bullshit me—I know you were working. You couldn’t resist it. Did you find out who’s buying up all the property on the trafficking routes out there? Are the rumours true that there is a new super group muscling in?

‘Yes, and you know who I found? A few old friends. One was the Colonel, that self-styled God of Angeles, and the other was Stevie Ho, our old Triad friend and paid-up member of the Wo Shing Shing. Whatever he’s planning it’s definitely something big. Some major money is involved; Stevie wouldn’t have the clout to do this on his own. He’s trying to set up bases on the island of Mindanao. Most of the trafficked girls come from the poorer villages in the south of the island. He’s after somewhere on the coast, make the trafficking easier and faster—get the girls to the next link in the chain. But he hasn’t just been to the south; he’s putting the frighteners all even so far as Boracay—that’s cocky.’

Ng handed Mann a file. ‘Stevie’s whereabouts in the last six months.’

Mann stopped, flipped it open and scanned it.

‘He’s been a busy boy, our Stevie.’

They drove from the airport across to Hong Kong Island.

‘Where we going?’

‘The bureau got moved to Central.’

‘Nice office?’

‘Not bad. Don’t see you enjoying it for long, though.’

Ng grinned his lopsided grin and chuckled. ‘The new Super hates you.’

‘Who is it anyway? Last I heard it was still to be decided. I hope it’s the acting super.’

‘It’s not—it’s Peter Wong.’

‘Shit! He really does hate me!’

‘Yeah. Told you. But as they say—it is better to knowone’s enemies…’

‘Cut the crap, Confucius.’

They alighted on the seventh floor, straight into the reception area for the Organised Crime and Triad Bureau. A uniformed officer behind a desk checked their ID. Ng punched in a door code and led the way through to the department. Left, right, and left again down the rubber-studded corridors, past brand-new offices with polythene still on the door handles. The whole place smelt plastic. In the centre it opened out into a glass and chrome area with a rectangular bank of computers, surrounded by a glass screen. About fifty police officers were working at PCs and workstations. Smaller offices fanned out from the open-plan area.

‘Can’t they afford doors?’

Mann didn’t much care for the new premises—he loved the oak and brass of the old headquarters. They walked around to the far side and into one of the screened spaces—loosely termed an office. Inside were twelve workstations and PCs back to back, all occupied. He didn’t recognise any of the people there, then he saw someone he did know as the slight frame of Detective Li, aka Shrimp, walked in. An expert in computers and martial arts, the young man was also an experimental dresser. Today, a purple silk shirt was tucked neatly into drainpipe trousers. He beamed up from a face that looked as if it had been scrubbed with a wire brush. He shook Mann’s hand with an extra-firm grip that he’d been practising since the last time Mann had caught him out and nearly crushed his hand.

‘How’s it going, Shrimp?’

‘Awesome, boss.’

‘Huh!’ Ng rolled his eyes. ‘He’s lucky to still be here. He’s in trouble for letting you lead him astray.’

‘Is that true, Shrimp?’ Mann said as the three moved to the far end of the office so that they would not be overheard.

Shrimp shrugged and shook his head as he excused himself for a minute and walked away to fetch something.

Ng made sure no one was listening. ‘You nearly got him suspended after he was asked what he was doing on Cheung Chau when the man under investigation mysteriously disappeared.’

‘It was a tragic accident. He couldn’t swim—we weren’t to know that.’ A smile flickered up the side of Mann’s face.

Ng chuckled. ‘Yeah, justice comes in many forms.’

Shrimp reappeared and handed Mann a stack of mail.

‘You missed David White’s leaving do,’ said Ng.

‘Any good?’ Mann said as he scanned the mail then threw it all into a waste basket.

‘We had a great time…he didn’t show.’