Murray Bailey

Chapter One

Cold. The first waking sensation was an ache that felt like death crawling through his bones. His muscles and tendons were tight, his skin goose flesh. The cold was all around, soaking through his skin.

Water. I’m lying in water.

He felt its movement. Small, regular waves that rocked his body.

Opening his eyes, he saw darkness. Details gradually appeared. He was on his back, looking up at layered clouds, pewter gray and oppressive. Night with no stars or moon, just an ambient glow and distant pinpricks of light.

His leaden arms moved until his hands felt rough wood beneath his body. A platform. He was lying on a platform.

Part of his mind told him to stay there. He could get used to the cold. The sensation was already fading, becoming less important. He was so tired, so achy. The water and darkness could take him.

But then another part of his brain kicked in.

Move!

Without debate between the two, he flipped onto his front and pushed up. Muscles in his chest and arms screamed, but he kept pushing and then brought up his legs. He knelt and paused and breathed. Calming breaths sucked warmth into his chest.

He was looking straight across the water now. He could see the island.

Hong Kong, he told himself. Of course, Hong Kong. I’m opposite the island… Stonecutters. Then to the right: Kowloon. The peninsula.

He blinked as the thoughts rapid-fired in his head. The scattered lights in windows highlighted an imposing structure. Williamson Building. Behind, rising to the Peak, were odd spots and shapes, the mansions of the elite.

Who am I?

The sudden, alarming question shattered the less important thoughts that were crowding in. He’d been distracted, avoiding the big ones. Who the hell was he and why was he here?

He sucked in air and strength and forced himself to his feet. He swayed and went down on one knee. The wooden platform was an unstable, submerged jetty.

With clenched teeth and hands, he pushed up again and held his ground. Two breaths later, he was turning carefully, forcing his legs to move, focusing on his balance.

A dark wharf was only five paces away. That was his guess, but he shuffled and staggered, losing any sense of the time and distance.

Two stone steps at the end took him up to the quay. On dry land, he sat on the edge, his shoes lapped by the water. His clothes clung to his body, heavy with their wetness. He was wearing a jacket and took it off.

His back brain screamed panic that he couldn’t remember anything. Despite being wet, he sensed the jacket was too heavy. Would he find ID? A search of the inside pockets yielded nothing.

The left-hand pocket was also empty, but the weight lay in the right.

And there he found a knife.

Images flashed in his mind. Chaos. Blood. Lots of blood. A feeling of desperation and lack of control washed over him, and his head lurched. He jerked forward and back, fighting darkness, fighting unconsciousness.

Acid burned in his throat. He tasted bile.

Breathe.

He could hear a voice telling him to inhale to the count of three, exhale to the count of five. A woman’s voice. It was in his head. A memory. He liked her. She was smart and attractive. Who was she? Her name escaped him, but he remembered she’d told him to breathe and focus.

Gain the control.

Doctor Swift. Georgina. Yes, that’s her name.

He remembered what else she’d said.

Find focus.

She had a statuette in her office. It was a funny thing made of silver, six inches tall and ugly. An elf or goblin or something. It was hard to know. That was part of it, she’d said.

“Look at it and study the detail. Use your senses. Let that bring back the reality.”

Bring back the reality.

That’s what he needed. He was lost in his mind. Confused. He needed to come back to reality. And then he’d remember.

He stood and gripped his sodden jacket. The water squeezed through his fingers, dripping. The water was cold. His fingers tingled, electricity warming them. He clenched and unclenched. He felt the stitches in the cotton.

Breathing in, he focused. There was the tang of the sea but there was also a faint whiff of rotten fish and smoke.

He listened and heard the lapping water, but now he could also hear distant sounds, creaking timbers on boats. The rumble of an engine. No, three engines, one to the east and two inland. Cars.

Car. There’s a car.

He looked up and down the quay. The wharves loomed large and dark. He closed his eyes and pictured where he was.

There’s a car. I came in a car. Where is it?

Instinct took him west and then between two godowns. There was a road on the far side that fed the docks. The smell of rotten fish was stronger here. It felt wrong. He got onto the road and turned right, back on himself.

Smoke wafted along the dark road, twisting and turning in the breeze, like lost ghosts.

He kept going, looking left and right, trying to remember, trying to picture the car. And then he found it. A black Austin was tucked between the buildings, hidden away.

The car was empty but unlocked.

When the door opened, a tiny light came on.

He climbed in but left the door ajar, imagining the light’s faint heat. He smelled leather and stale cigarettes.

Is this my car? He didn’t think so.

There were no keys in the ignition. There were no keys hidden where he might have secreted them.

He reached over and popped the glove-box. There was a wallet inside made of expensive leather.

He opened it and found a card alongside a wodge of cash.

Charles Balcombe.

He said the name out loud. It wasn’t his name, but it was.

It’s the name I use now. I’m a different person. I’m rich. I’m a playboy.

He smiled and then glanced in the rear-view mirror. He was dishevelled but good-looking. Like that film star, Errol Flynn, people said.

Then the smile froze. He touched his eyebrow and felt a stickiness that wasn’t sea water.

Blood.

The knife.

This wasn’t his blood. It was in his hair and smeared on his cheek. He looked at his hands and even the faint light told the truth. They’d been bloody. There was blood under his nails too.

He knew who he was, knew where he was, knew about the car, but this wasn’t his car.

He looked in the back. There was a satchel behind the driver’s seat. It had papers inside. Police paperwork.

And the name on the top sheet froze his heart.

Detective Inspector Munro.

What have I done?

Balcombe looked back in the mirror. He didn’t see the film star this time. He saw something much darker in those eyes.

He saw BlackJack.

Chapter Two

Two weeks earlier

It was a perfect day. The skies were clear and the air fresh. Charles Balcombe had spent two hours climbing the Peak’s crags. Now he strolled across Statue Square with his friend Roy Faulls.

There had once been an impressive statue of Queen Victoria inside a canopy the size of a house. The statue was now in storage on the island, although it had spent time in Japan intended for the furnace. The canopy had gone too, dismantled to allow for the tram and temporary buildings—which were becoming less temporary with each passing year.

On the island, the number of motor vehicles was increasing at a rapid rate. The rest of the square had become a parking space. This was definitely temporary because the government had announced plans. Work on reclaiming a vast area of land was progressing fast. There would be a new County Hall and car park. So far, Queen’s Pier remained, but within a year it would be gone, reassembled beyond the new block of land.

July 1954 and Hong Kong was changing, which in Balcombe’s opinion was a shame. At least the cenotaph and its garden remained. And the neo-classical buildings around the square, except for the temporary offices and towering banks, harked back a hundred years.

Balcombe and Faulls approached the much-vaunted Hong Kong Club. Faulls had become a member. Finally. Now he could hob-nob with the great and mighty whenever he chose. He was still a junior partner at Butterfield & Swire but saw this as a major steppingstone to promotion.

“Enjoy your lunch,” Balcombe said, patting his friend on the shoulder.

“I will.”

“There’s music and billiards at Cheero…” Balcombe grinned. “But if all you’re after is a boring conversation with old men…”

“There are waitresses,” Faulls said with a wink.

“Out of bounds, I’m sure.”

“Well…” Faulls was smirking.

“Well, what, Roy?”

“I hear that fifty dollars in the right place can get a gentleman”—he waggled his eyebrows suggestively—“a friend for the night.”

It was an open secret. Balcombe knew his girlfriends’ husbands didn’t need to stay over at the club. But they did. Regularly. There were other attractions, other arrangements.

He watched Faulls nod to the uniformed man on the door and disappear into the dark interior.

Good luck, he thought.

As he turned to continue along the front. He spotted a bottle-green Mercedes pull into a parking space. A smartly dressed man exited, followed by his wife. They were both in their thirties. He had money, she had good looks. And she had an interest in Balcombe.

He’d seen her six times before recently ending it. Each time, there had been no risk of in flagrante delicto. And she treated him like a paid gigolo. Is that what he was?

No. He’d decided. Julia Wendsley wasn’t for him. Little fun. No danger.

Two days ago, after their roll in the hay—or more precisely, their tryst in a hotel room—he’d told her it was over.

She’d laughed lightly, poured herself more champagne, and kissed him goodbye.

He was now down to four girlfriends, having finished with four and gained two over the past two months. Was the shine going off his affairs? When he’d arrived on the island eight months ago, he was amazed at how his new persona, and free time, worked wonders on the bored housewives of Hong Kong society. It had been fun, but he was now thinking that at least one of the others had to go. They got in the way of his social life and main hobby of free climbing.

“Charles, are you hiding from me?” He recognized Julia Wendsley’s voice immediately. Her husband was Polish—he’d changed his name from Wolenski—but Julia hailed from the West County as most evidenced by her occasional long r after a vowel. She tried hard to sound posh although regularly let it slip. In bed, her reference to Balcombe as her lover was both endearing and amusing at the same time.

After spotting her exit the Mercedes, he’d been staring absent-mindedly across the bay. There were Marine Police boats out there. One was coming to shore.

“Oh hello, Julia. With your husband?” he enquired, noting she was now alone.

“Gone into the club,” she said. “I’m alone for a few hours, Charles.”

He deliberately didn’t respond to the implied suggestion.

“Have you had lunch?” she said, standing very close. He could smell her scent. Not the one she’d worn for their rendezvous but alluring nonetheless.

“I’ve a meeting at the Cheero Club,” he lied.

“That downmarket place? Throw it off,” she said. “We could eat first or get a room and eat afterward. You choose.”

“Julia.”

“Yes?”

“Do you not remember our conversation? Two days ago? It’s over, I’m afraid.”

She pulled a half-grimace, half-smile and shook her head. “No, no. You weren’t serious.”

He took a step away. “I’m sorry, Julia. I was.”

Her eyes were wide, her face frozen.

“I must go,” he said and left her standing like a statue in the titular square.

He didn’t look back and focused on the water again. The police had been more active than usual over the past few days. They were moving the boat-people and cleaning up the bay. An American movie production company was in Hong Kong. Rumour was that they’d taken over half of the Peninsula Hotel with their actors and senior crew. The lowly crew were billeted at a boarding house on Cameron Road.

Balcombe recognized the tall figure standing at the prow of the approaching boat. Inspector Garrett. It tied up, and he was first off.

Previously, Balcombe had only seen him in plain clothes. He’d been the senior detective investigating the BlackJack murders. Although, he knew them as the Squeezed-heart cases. Today Garrett was wearing a tan-coloured uniform, shorts and short-sleeved shirt. Despite his unkept beard, he looked reasonably presentable.

Balcombe kept walking, but Garrett must have spotted him.

“Balcombe!” There was no friendliness in the hail.

Balcombe stopped and nodded politely.

“I see you’ve found your calling, Garrett.”

“It’s temporary.”

Balcombe shook his head. He hoped not. The inspector had failed monumentally in his hunt for the killer. He’d hounded Balcombe and subsequently blundered by arresting two upstanding members of the community. In the eyes of the chief of police, Garrett was a fool. At least that was Balcombe’s interpretation.

The inspector closed in; his mouth set in a snarl. “I’m on to you, Balcombe.”

“I beg your pardon?” Balcombe feigned innocence. “You’ll die young if you let prejudice eat at your heart. A Chinese doctor told me that once.”

“Prejudice?”

“An opinion without basis in reason or experience.”

Garrett leaned close. “I know what prejudice means!”

Balcombe could smell the man’s musty clothes and sour breath.

“Have you been eating rotten fish, Garrett? Tell me the name of the restaurant so I can avoid it.”

“You’re a funny man.”

“At least one of us has a sense of humour.”

He could imagine a miniature DI Munro on his shoulder, whispering, telling him not to bait Garrett, but Balcombe couldn’t help it.

Garrett stiffened and subconsciously swayed back an inch.

“I’m still watching you, Balcombe.”

“And trying to ruin your career even further.” Balcombe smiled politely. He knew the police commissioner didn’t like old cases. Anything not solved within three months was dropped in favour of the new. Too many crimes, too few detectives. The Squeezed-heart cases were now too old.

Garrett said nothing.

Balcombe shook his head and stepped away. “Good day to you, Inspector.” Then before he could stop himself, he added: “Keep up the cleaning work. We don’t want the Americans filming anything they shouldn’t.”

Garrett spun on his heel and marched away.

Julia Wendsley had been watching and sashayed beside him as Balcombe continued along Connaught Road.

“That was interesting,” she said with a tease in her voice.

Balcombe didn’t look at her.

She continued: “I’ve been thinking.”

“It’s over, Julia.”

“But I don’t think it is, Charles.” Pause. “You see, I know things. I know lots of things.”

He stopped and faced her.

She smiled. “I know your paramours, but more importantly, I know their husbands.”

“You’re suggesting you’d tell them about me?”

She kept smiling.

He said, “What about your husband? He’ll find out and—”

She laughed lightly. “He doesn’t care.”

“Maybe none of them care,” he said, although he doubted its veracity.

“It only takes one,” she said. “And I see you have an enemy. In the police, no less.” She paused and licked her painted lips. “Things could get very uncomfortable for you, my darling.”

He started walking. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “Meeting at Cheero.”

He glanced back and she finger-waved. “Think about it, Charles. Then let’s make plans.”

Damn. Was nothing straightforward?

It was not a perfect day after all.