the way he’d come. And then he saw three red pinpricks of light – three glowing cigarettes at the entrance to the lane.
He stopped dead still and shrank against the wall to his right. All three cigarettes were thrown to the ground and stamped out in a brief shower of sparks. The darkness was almost complete.
In fact, Conan had a police issued weapon but he’d not bothered with it that evening. Now he had to deal with the consequences, hearing in advance the scathing criticism of Kenny Cook for not following protocol – presuming he’d be lucky enough ever to hear Kenny scathe again.
A motor bike went by the lane and the brief wash of light silhouetted three figures walking towards him, maybe thirty metres away. Not quite panicking, Conan considered the skip as a place to hide, but rejected it as too obvious. He groped along the wall and found a door which was partly open but didn’t move when pushed. He sensed the door had swollen with damp and might be forced open, but that would make a noise and alert his pursuers.
He could hear cautious muttering and knew he had only seconds to decide.
A torch flicked on and Conan threw his weight against the door, which flew open with a grating squeal. He had a brief glimpse of stairs in the torchlight and jammed the door shut behind him. Then, in pitch blackness, he groped for the rail and ran up the stairs through cobwebs and what felt like damp hanging laundry.
The door behind him banged open and the torchlight, two flights below, gave him just enough light to increase his pace. His chasers didn’t cry out but he could hear their steps and heavy breathing – always about a flight below him. After six flights the stairs ended at a T-junction and Conan went right while tearing his watch from his wrist. Then, just as his chasers reached the top of the stairs, he flung the watch back into the darkness of the left turn. The watch clattered along the floor and the torch light went left as Conan bolted to the right along a corridor with a hint of light through some upper windows. The corridor turned right then left and, his sense of direction completely gone, Conan was amazed to see two uniformed police sitting outside a door sealed with blue and white police tape.
He slowed as they glanced up at him, and Conan knew the immediate chase was over.
‘Good evening,’ he said, his heart hammering and sweat pouring off his brow.
‘Good evening,’ responded one of the coppers, neither of whom he recognised from earlier. Both looked Chinese.
‘This is Bruce and Michael’s place, right? I was here this morning with Loongy.’
‘With who?’ asked the taller of the two, a senior officer by his stripe.
‘Loongy … Edward Loong,’ said Conan, still trying to get his breath back and glancing back the way he’d come. It seemed the pursuit had ended.
The two coppers looked at each other and shrugged.
‘You guys know who I am?’ asked Conan.
Again they shrugged, and Conan produced his badge. ‘Agent Tooley from Sydney. I’m actually investigating these murders … or supposed to be.’
Their eyes narrowed, and understanding seemed to dawn.
‘So … any chance of opening up for me?’
Yet again the two glanced at each other, then Stripe said, ‘I suppose so … but there’s nothing to see.’
‘Let me be the judge of that,’ said Conan, his breath returning to normal and the sweat cooling under his clothes. ‘What are your names?’
Stripe got up from his chair and produced a key ring. ‘Senior Officer Greg Lee, and that’s Officer Wally Wong.’
‘Wally Wong,’ repeated Conan, unable to prevent a grin. ‘Sounds like you’d have your own postcode.’
Wally Wong stared impassively as Senior Officer Lee pulled away the police tape.
‘There really is nothing to see,’ he said, opening the door.
Conan followed him into the dead men’s flat and, when the light was turned on, just stared.
The room had been emptied.
• • •
‘Hey, Conan?’
‘Lucia? What time is it?’
Conan hadn’t found his watch – an old style watch he wore in addition to his OzBrace. He’d hunted unsuccessfully with a torch borrowed from Senior Officer Lee before he returned to his hotel. After two beers in the bar, he’d gone up to his room about midnight. And minutes after his head hit the pillow, his phone rang.
Lurching from sleep, he’d answered the phone before he’d properly woken and was struggling to make sense of the conversation.
‘I’ve traced your number.’
‘My number?’
Conan still didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. He lay with his eyes shut, forcing himself to be civil despite the delicious prospect of sleep.
And then he was wide awake.
‘Oh right … the cryp.’
He sat up and switched on the lamp – eyes burning – and found a notepad.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s a journalist,’ said Lucia. ‘Wang Li Kwai … also known as Ronny Kwai.’
‘Ronny Kwai,’ repeated Conan, writing it down.
‘He’s a football journalist known as The Keeper.’
‘A football journalist,’ mused Conan. ‘Why would Michael Wing Ho’s last call … just before he was murdered … be to a football journalist?’
‘Isn’t that your job?’ said Lucia. ‘… to find out, using your finely honed forensic brain?’
‘Ordinarily yes,’ said Conan, ‘but there’s something very odd going on up here.’
There was a silence as she waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn’t she said, ‘I hear Kenny’s got the shits with you.’
‘Kenny’s always got the shits with me.’
‘This is worse than usual. He’s getting heat from somewhere. Someone doesn’t want you sniffing around … someone important.’
Conan felt a sudden wave of affection for Lucia. She was taking a terrible risk in telling him.
‘Where are you calling from?’
‘Public phone … better not say where.’
There was another pregnant silence, then Conan said, ‘When I get back … maybe …’
‘Gotta go,’ said Lucia, and the phone was dead.
Chapter 7
Bang
