leant on the side of the lift wall for just a few seconds and then lurched off towards the mall and was swallowed up by a thousand anonymous people.
‘What did you give her, an opiate blocker?’ asked Mann. They were joined in the lift by twenty others. Mann didn’t bother whispering; out of the nationalities in the lift probably just he and Shrimp spoke Cantonese. With them were three Africans, four Indians and some giggling Filipinas.
‘Yes. Naloxone. I got it when I was in the States. The other is epinephrine – adrenalin. If they’re still breathing you use one. If not, the other.’
They were crammed inside the lift with Africans, Indians and giggling Filipinas. Mann turned to see Shrimp staring at the Africans. They spoke English to one another because they came from different parts of Africa. They were stereotypical in their appearance, striking in their presence; they had ebony skin and bald heads and big muscular bodies. They brought a menacing presence to the area; they were mistrusted because of their colour, their size. Shrimp was still staring at them. Mann smiled to himself as he caught Shrimp looking at their feet. The Africans stopped talking. One of them followed Shrimp’s gaze to his feet and then waited till Shrimp’s eyes came back up to meet his.
Shrimp grinned, embarrassed. ‘Cool trainers.’
The African laughed, deep, guttural, but his eyes showed a menace, a mistrust.
The lift stopped at level three. A strip light flickered above their heads. A cockroach scuttled across the floor. The muted noise of the dishes clanging came from the direction of a kitchen to their right. The Indians got out and disappeared that way. The Africans and giggling Filipinas stayed put. Mann and Shrimp got out with the Indians. The smell of curry greeted them. The landing had three doors. Two were unmarked; the third had a glass panel and above it was a sign: The Delhi Grill golden on a red background.
‘Have you eaten here before, Boss?’ asked Shrimp.
‘Many times. I’m half British remember; we don’t go a week without a curry. But I haven’t been here for a coupleof years…’ Mann didn’t finish that sentence. It should have ended: ‘…since Helen died.’
The restaurant door opened and a tall, robust-looking Indian with a turban on his head and a handlebar moustache stood waiting to greet customers as they alighted from the lift.
‘Hello PJ.’ The two men had known one another for seventeen years since Mann joined the police force and PJ took over the restaurant on the third floor of the Mansions.
PJ came forward to shake Mann’s hand. ‘Welcome back, Inspector. It’s good to see you again.’
‘This is Detective Li,’ Mann introduced Shrimp.
‘Pleased to meet you. Please come inside. Try our speciality of the house – seafood tandoori – freshly made.’
He opened the door onto a chaotic scene. The small space, once intended to be an apartment, was now converted and filled with long, bench-style tables crammed with diners.
Mann held up his hand to thank him. ‘We don’t have time to eat unfortunately, PJ.’
They looked around sharply as the restaurant door opened and a lad, who Mann recognized as PJ’s son, appeared. ‘Go back to work. Go back to work, lad, there’s no trouble here,’ PJ addressed him affectionately.
‘This is one of your sons, isn’t it? Mahmud? He has grown up. Last time I saw him he was a boy.’
PJ summoned him forward. Mann shook his hand. The lad had not inherited his father’s stature; he was slight like his mother had been. His face had an intensity: large brown eyes, eyebrows that met in the middle, a serious face but handsome in a way.
PJ nodded and beamed with pride. ‘Yes. I have highhopes for Mahmud.’ Mahmud looked embarrassed, shy, bright. ‘He will be a doctor some day, an accountant maybe. Who knows? He is such a clever lad. Now go, my son, back to work; otherwise we will have no money to pay for university.’ He laughed,
‘What did you give her, an opiate blocker?’ asked Mann. They were joined in the lift by twenty others. Mann didn’t bother whispering; out of the nationalities in the lift probably just he and Shrimp spoke Cantonese. With them were three Africans, four Indians and some giggling Filipinas.
‘Yes. Naloxone. I got it when I was in the States. The other is epinephrine – adrenalin. If they’re still breathing you use one. If not, the other.’
They were crammed inside the lift with Africans, Indians and giggling Filipinas. Mann turned to see Shrimp staring at the Africans. They spoke English to one another because they came from different parts of Africa. They were stereotypical in their appearance, striking in their presence; they had ebony skin and bald heads and big muscular bodies. They brought a menacing presence to the area; they were mistrusted because of their colour, their size. Shrimp was still staring at them. Mann smiled to himself as he caught Shrimp looking at their feet. The Africans stopped talking. One of them followed Shrimp’s gaze to his feet and then waited till Shrimp’s eyes came back up to meet his.
Shrimp grinned, embarrassed. ‘Cool trainers.’
The African laughed, deep, guttural, but his eyes showed a menace, a mistrust.
The lift stopped at level three. A strip light flickered above their heads. A cockroach scuttled across the floor. The muted noise of the dishes clanging came from the direction of a kitchen to their right. The Indians got out and disappeared that way. The Africans and giggling Filipinas stayed put. Mann and Shrimp got out with the Indians. The smell of curry greeted them. The landing had three doors. Two were unmarked; the third had a glass panel and above it was a sign: The Delhi Grill golden on a red background.
‘Have you eaten here before, Boss?’ asked Shrimp.
‘Many times. I’m half British remember; we don’t go a week without a curry. But I haven’t been here for a coupleof years…’ Mann didn’t finish that sentence. It should have ended: ‘…since Helen died.’
The restaurant door opened and a tall, robust-looking Indian with a turban on his head and a handlebar moustache stood waiting to greet customers as they alighted from the lift.
‘Hello PJ.’ The two men had known one another for seventeen years since Mann joined the police force and PJ took over the restaurant on the third floor of the Mansions.
PJ came forward to shake Mann’s hand. ‘Welcome back, Inspector. It’s good to see you again.’
‘This is Detective Li,’ Mann introduced Shrimp.
‘Pleased to meet you. Please come inside. Try our speciality of the house – seafood tandoori – freshly made.’
He opened the door onto a chaotic scene. The small space, once intended to be an apartment, was now converted and filled with long, bench-style tables crammed with diners.
Mann held up his hand to thank him. ‘We don’t have time to eat unfortunately, PJ.’
They looked around sharply as the restaurant door opened and a lad, who Mann recognized as PJ’s son, appeared. ‘Go back to work. Go back to work, lad, there’s no trouble here,’ PJ addressed him affectionately.
‘This is one of your sons, isn’t it? Mahmud? He has grown up. Last time I saw him he was a boy.’
PJ summoned him forward. Mann shook his hand. The lad had not inherited his father’s stature; he was slight like his mother had been. His face had an intensity: large brown eyes, eyebrows that met in the middle, a serious face but handsome in a way.
PJ nodded and beamed with pride. ‘Yes. I have highhopes for Mahmud.’ Mahmud looked embarrassed, shy, bright. ‘He will be a doctor some day, an accountant maybe. Who knows? He is such a clever lad. Now go, my son, back to work; otherwise we will have no money to pay for university.’ He laughed,
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