on his website and sat within earshot for a while as he talked, sometimes in Cantonese, sometimes in English, about the team and their prospects. Conan had little interest in the conversation – preferring cricket on the rare occasion he took an interest in sport. And even cricket had gone to the pack after the Americans had suddenly become so passionate about Twenty 20. Test cricket was dead.
It was a stinking hot day and, despite his indifference to the game, Conan was impressed with the players’ intensity as he sat listening absently to the journos and considering his position. He hadn’t bothered telling anyone about being chased, not least as he no longer trusted even his fellow police after finding the flat emptied. Also, he had finally read the email from Kenny Cook which told him, as he’d expected, to wrap up the investigation and get back to Sydney.
And yet all Conan’s instincts told him he was on the verge of something important. It was also clear that someone, somewhere, didn’t want him looking into the murders, which naturally made him determined that he should.
Still, no point pushing shit uphill if he didn’t have a lead. Conan had decided that if nothing came out of the Ronny Kwai interview he’d head back to Sydney and have a long overdue talk with Lucia.
Then training was over and the journos went onto the pitch to talk to a small selection of players who were carefully stage-managed through a boring process of scripted questions and answers, although Ronny seemed to have special status and chatted happily with FENG 9 for a few minutes before Feng went down the tunnel.
Ronny started to follow but Conan grabbed his shoulder. He was quite large, up close, and dressed entirely in black silk.
‘G’day,’ said Conan. ‘Ronny Kwai?’
‘Yes.’
‘Agent Conan Tooley … AFP. I’m investigating the Fong, Wing Ho murders.’
‘Who?’
‘Bruce Fong and Michael Wing Ho … about a week ago.’
‘I don’t know them.’
Once again, Conan felt his antennae tingling as he studied the expressionless face, half hidden by large sunglasses.
‘Okay … must’ve been a wrong number,’ he said.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The last number called by Michael Wing Ho was your number.’
‘Show me the number on his phone account,’ said Ronny. It was a comment that would only be made by someone operating an illegal cryp number, and immediately Conan knew Ronny was hiding something.
‘I suppose you do know,’ said Conan, ‘that it is possible to trace a cryp account … just a pain in the arse. But we’ve already linked Wing Ho’s account to yours so the hard work’s been done.’
‘I don’t know anyone called Michael Wing Ho,’ insisted Ronny, ‘… although many people use an alias in this town. Perhaps I knew this caller by a different name?’
Conan sighed. That also was a statement typically made by cryp users, and journalists in particular were notorious for having cryps to protect their sources.
Ronny smiled, as though perceiving he had the advantage, and said,‘Let’s just say, for the point of hypothetical conversation, that I really do have a cryp number – which I don’t, because I endorse the state’s right to scrutinise metadata for the purpose of security – but if I did, I wouldn’t link to an individual by name. I would use a code number.’
‘The metadata from your phone and Wing Ho’s phone are reciprocal and identical,’ said Conan. ‘You spoke with him for two hundred and forty-two seconds at 6.39pm on the 9th of January … approximately half an hour before he was killed.’
Ronny shrugged.
‘What can I tell you, Agent Tooley? I’m a journalist. I get calls all the time … often from people with urgent messages about breaking news. I suppose it’s possible that I did speak with a person at that time … but I don’t know any Michael Wing Ho and I don’t know anything about a murder.’
At that moment the sound of a roaring crowd came from Ronny’s pocket, and he grinned as he pulled out his phone.
‘Do you know the Feng Song?’ asked Ronny, peering at the screen. ‘Ah … excuse me.’
He walked onto the pitch to answer his phone. ‘Good morning, Major!’
Conan couldn’t hear anything further but strained his ears, wondering how many majors there were in Ord City.
Ronny seemed to stiffen and get slightly more animated, half glancing back in Conan’s direction. Then he walked further onto the pitch which was abandoned by all players and coaching staff, and spoke for another couple of minutes as Conan tried not to take too obvious an interest in him. The stadium was very impressive – built to the exact specifications of the Emirates Stadium in London, according to a plaque above the players’ tunnel – although mainly decked out in yellow as opposed to the Emirates’ red.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Ronny, his conversation over and suddenly much more friendly.
‘Where were we?’ asked Conan.
‘I was explaining that I couldn’t help your investigation,’ said Ronny, ‘but tell me Agent Tooley … ’
‘Tools.’
‘Tools,’ repeated Ronny with a grin. ‘Are you a football fan?’
‘Not really.’
‘You should be. Why don’t you come to the game tomorrow night … as my guest?’
Conan stared at the grinning Chinese, wondering what had changed in the last few minutes, his antennae sparking like Tesla tubes.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Conan. ‘I’d be happy to come.’
‘Good. I’ll be hosting drinks and dinner first, so come to Gate C at 5.30 and ask for Ronny Kwai’s private suite. I’ll have someone look after you.’
• • •
‘Absolutely not.’
Conan had finally bitten the bullet and called Kenny Cook.
‘Kenny … there is something very weird going on up here. I seriously think it needs looking into. We may regret it if we don’t.’
‘Regret what?’
‘I can’t say … but the murders are the tip of the iceberg. I’m certain of it.’
‘You’re certain … and yet you’ve made exactly zero progress on the Fong, Wing Ho case. How can you be certain of anything?’
‘I’m certain there are some pretty weird questions to be answered,’ said Conan. ‘Like, why was the flat emptied without me checking it out properly? Why is an AFP colleague being so obstructive? Who’s chasing me? What the fuck is the Epistola Clementis and why were Fong and Wing Ho so interested in it? And what is
