down, and she’d want to be in his office by 9:00.
“That couch doesn’t open up into a bed. You’ll have to put the cushions on the floor. If you want to stay.”
“Oh, that’s real kind of you, Charlie. Real kind. I won’t make a sound once I’m settled.”
“There’s a bottle of vodka in the fridge, if you need it. It’s the only spirits I keep.”
She looked away with a grunt. “In the morning I’ll go straight to the identification bureau with your fingerprint samples. And the dental records. May as well take them just in case the prints are smudged.”
She was already making up her bed on the floor, kneeling andplacing cushions from the couch end to end. She lay down with a sigh. “You’re a kind man, Charlie. You don’t look kind, but you are. As one damaged person to another, let me give you one word of advice: You smoke too much. Good night.”
He lay on his bed, smoking. He could hear her snoring on the floor while he lay wide-awake. It was possible to envy her. His mind flicked from the case to other things. Angie, Sandra. What had the postcard said? “Not missing you at all.” That was because like all Chinese, he was emotionally stunted. She had been careful to explain that to him before she left. She would be surprised that a total stranger had called him kind.
13
A t his desk at Mongkok Police Station, Chan played with a black government ballpoint. As yet he had told no one about the American woman and her dental records except Lam, the odontologist. Ninety percent of detection was waiting. At his flat Moira Coletti was waiting too. On the other side of the office Aston sat at his desk, also waiting.
There was a knock on the door. Chan looked at Aston. In Mongkok nobody knocked.
“May I come in?”
Riley’s face was almost featureless, like a description by a myopic witness. On it he inscribed the mood of the moment. He was tall, slim, stooped with hands that flapped at the wrists.
“Good morning, sir,” Aston said.
“Morning, Dick.” Riley rubbed his hands together. “Morning, Charlie. Nei ho ma? ”
“Fine, how are you?” Chan did what he could to discourage the chief superintendent’s Cantonese.
“Ho ho.”
“What?”
“Ho ho.”
Chan looked at Aston.
“It’s Cantonese,” Aston explained, “for ‘good.’ ”
“Oh— ho ho. I’m ho ho too. Dick— ho ho ?”
Aston busied himself with The Murder Investigator’s Bible.
“I was just passing,” Riley said. “I thought I’d pop in.”
Chan waited. It was important to know which Riley one was dealing with.
“Heard you’re having a little trouble with the investigation. Perhaps a little brainstorming would help?”
Chan lowered his head in a controlled nod. “Sure.”
Riley stood in the middle of the room. Chan stared at him. He was not sadistic by nature; it was rather that self-doubt was the only part of Riley he could relate to. The temptation to draw it out was usually irresistible.
“D’you know what DNA stands for?” Chan asked with a smile.
“Deoxyribonucleic acid.” Riley smiled back.
Chan bit his lip: Never underestimate an Englishman in a quiz. “We already have the results of the PCR.”
“Good.”
“The heads fit the bodies in the vat.”
Riley’s face lit up. “That’s what the PCR says? Excellent! Bob’s your uncle! The crime’s as good as solved.”
“Not quite. All we’ve done is restore three heads to three bodies. Their ghosts can rest in peace. On the other hand, both the minced and the unminced share the same anonymity. Faceless, you might say.” Chan let a beat pass in case Riley wanted to change personalities. “The DNA doesn’t tell us their names, you see.”
Riley blinked. “Sure, sure.” He wrung his hands. “What about fingerprints?”
Chan scanned the room for a moment, saw that Aston was suffused with a sympathetic blush, then returned his attention to Riley. He held up both hands. “No fingers, no prints.”
Riley’s beam leaked
“That couch doesn’t open up into a bed. You’ll have to put the cushions on the floor. If you want to stay.”
“Oh, that’s real kind of you, Charlie. Real kind. I won’t make a sound once I’m settled.”
“There’s a bottle of vodka in the fridge, if you need it. It’s the only spirits I keep.”
She looked away with a grunt. “In the morning I’ll go straight to the identification bureau with your fingerprint samples. And the dental records. May as well take them just in case the prints are smudged.”
She was already making up her bed on the floor, kneeling andplacing cushions from the couch end to end. She lay down with a sigh. “You’re a kind man, Charlie. You don’t look kind, but you are. As one damaged person to another, let me give you one word of advice: You smoke too much. Good night.”
He lay on his bed, smoking. He could hear her snoring on the floor while he lay wide-awake. It was possible to envy her. His mind flicked from the case to other things. Angie, Sandra. What had the postcard said? “Not missing you at all.” That was because like all Chinese, he was emotionally stunted. She had been careful to explain that to him before she left. She would be surprised that a total stranger had called him kind.
13
A t his desk at Mongkok Police Station, Chan played with a black government ballpoint. As yet he had told no one about the American woman and her dental records except Lam, the odontologist. Ninety percent of detection was waiting. At his flat Moira Coletti was waiting too. On the other side of the office Aston sat at his desk, also waiting.
There was a knock on the door. Chan looked at Aston. In Mongkok nobody knocked.
“May I come in?”
Riley’s face was almost featureless, like a description by a myopic witness. On it he inscribed the mood of the moment. He was tall, slim, stooped with hands that flapped at the wrists.
“Good morning, sir,” Aston said.
“Morning, Dick.” Riley rubbed his hands together. “Morning, Charlie. Nei ho ma? ”
“Fine, how are you?” Chan did what he could to discourage the chief superintendent’s Cantonese.
“Ho ho.”
“What?”
“Ho ho.”
Chan looked at Aston.
“It’s Cantonese,” Aston explained, “for ‘good.’ ”
“Oh— ho ho. I’m ho ho too. Dick— ho ho ?”
Aston busied himself with The Murder Investigator’s Bible.
“I was just passing,” Riley said. “I thought I’d pop in.”
Chan waited. It was important to know which Riley one was dealing with.
“Heard you’re having a little trouble with the investigation. Perhaps a little brainstorming would help?”
Chan lowered his head in a controlled nod. “Sure.”
Riley stood in the middle of the room. Chan stared at him. He was not sadistic by nature; it was rather that self-doubt was the only part of Riley he could relate to. The temptation to draw it out was usually irresistible.
“D’you know what DNA stands for?” Chan asked with a smile.
“Deoxyribonucleic acid.” Riley smiled back.
Chan bit his lip: Never underestimate an Englishman in a quiz. “We already have the results of the PCR.”
“Good.”
“The heads fit the bodies in the vat.”
Riley’s face lit up. “That’s what the PCR says? Excellent! Bob’s your uncle! The crime’s as good as solved.”
“Not quite. All we’ve done is restore three heads to three bodies. Their ghosts can rest in peace. On the other hand, both the minced and the unminced share the same anonymity. Faceless, you might say.” Chan let a beat pass in case Riley wanted to change personalities. “The DNA doesn’t tell us their names, you see.”
Riley blinked. “Sure, sure.” He wrung his hands. “What about fingerprints?”
Chan scanned the room for a moment, saw that Aston was suffused with a sympathetic blush, then returned his attention to Riley. He held up both hands. “No fingers, no prints.”
Riley’s beam leaked
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