7

At about six o’clock that same evening Iain and Lee arrived at the Hospital St. Lourenco. The mortuary was below-stairs in a bright, low-ceilinged anteroom. The skull-white walls were adorned with charts of the human nervous-system and pictures of the Virgin Mary. On the lime-washed shelves were specimen jars containing livers, hearts and intestines swimming in formaldehyde, together with numerous sets of grinning faceless teeth mounted on wood. In one corner hung a pig carcass suspended from a meat hook. On its rump, stamped in blue ink, were the Chinese words ‘slaughterhouse approved. 60% lean meat’. The hairy snout brushed the smooth floor. The room was very cold.

Following his meeting with the police commissioner, Iain and Lee had been given special dispensation to be present at the autopsy. They were accompanied by a police detective named Poon.

‘‘You will need this,’’ said Lee, handing Iain a tiny red-and-gold tin of Tiger Balm. ‘‘For the stinky. Put under each nose hole.’’ Iain applied the camphor ointment.

Seconds later, the refrigeration unit hissed as the autopsy room door slid open, emitting a strong smell of sulphur dioxide and ammonia.

‘‘Mr. Sutherland? Mr. Lee? Det. Poon?’’ asked a short Chinese man in a laboratory coat.

‘‘Yes,’’ they replied.

‘‘My name is Koh. Please come this way. Oh, and forgive the pig, my niece is having her moon-yuet celebration tomorrow. Only place to keep it fresh.’’ He took a few neat little steps forward. ‘‘I was informed that you are not a policeman, Mr. Sutherland. Very rare for us to have a civilian present at our PM’s, you know.’’

‘‘So I gather. I’m here representing HM Government Hong Kong.’’

‘‘Yes, very hush-hush and classified. Don’t worry, as witnesses your names will not appear on the paperwork.’’

The autopsy room was equally bright, lit by a series of overhead bulbs, its floor liberally covered with sawdust. At its centre was a metal operating table fitted with twin grooves on either side to allow for the drainage of blood and other bodily liquids. On the nearby worktop Iain saw a sink basin, a hot and cold tap, a pedal for a shower hose, electric sockets, and a range of stainless steel tools – scalpels, bone saws, sheers, toothed forceps, needles, skull chisels and rib cutters.

Iain folded his arms over his chest.

‘‘Is this your first forensic autopsy, Mr. Sutherland?’’ asked Koh.

‘‘Aye.’’

‘‘Lo baan was in the army before,’’ said Lee. ‘‘He not scared of dead people.’’

‘‘Actually, ever since the war I’ve been a little uncomfortable around corpses.’’

Another man entered the room. The refrigeration unit hissed again, excreting additional odours of sulphur and ammonia. ‘‘This is Ah-Kuen,’’ said Koh, ‘‘he is what we call in our business the diener. He will move the body, photograph the subject and take samples of hair and skin scrapings.’’

Ah-Kuen went over to a tall white cabinet and opened up one of the hatches to the cold chamber. Inside, Iain saw trays of bodies stacked three-levels high. Koh looked at his notes. ‘‘Ah, yes, number B188. One of our long-staying residents.’’

Iain took a step back. Ah-Kuen transferred B188 to a wheeled stretcher and brought it to the autopsy table. After cleaning the body, Ah-Kuen left the room.

Koh started making visual observations. ‘‘Male, aged early thirties. Race: Chinese stroke Macanese. No visible birthmarks. Mole on right upper leg. Right foot stripped of all flesh up to the ankle, first to fifth metatarsal bones intact. Flesh of lower leg corrupted in parts. All distal and proximal phalanxes appear undamaged. Lateral cuneiform has signs of indent. Evidence of external interference – possible bite and gnaw marks. Looking further up, we see a wound to the throat and an entrance wound to the chest. Scar-tissue consistent throughout. Tattoo on left forearm. Both wrists have noticeable abrasions, probably caused by ropes or handcuffs.’’

‘‘What kind of tattoo?’’ Iain asked.

‘‘An image of a red pole carrying a blue lantern, and the number 426,’’ said Lee, leaning forwards to see.

‘‘What does that mean?’’

‘‘It means he a member of a secret society. Wo Cheung Wo triad. The red pole and number confirms he a ‘fighter’. The blue lantern confirms he loyal to his leader.’’

Ah-Kuen returned with a camera and started taking photographs. The flash popped several times.

‘‘Now I will make an internal examination,’’ said Koh.

Ah-Kuen came forward and placed a body-block under the spine of B188 so that the arms and neck fell backwards. ‘‘This pushes the chest upwards, elongating the skin,’’ said Koh with a smile. ‘‘It helps to facilitate the cutting.’’

Iain instinctively turned his back to the proceedings.

‘‘You ok, lo baan?’’ Lee asked, standing close.

‘‘No.’’ Iain swallowed. ‘‘I saw a lot of death in the war. I don’t like being reminded of it, regardless of what form it comes in.’’

‘‘Hey, but you big army man. Scottish Dragons. Why you scared?’’

‘‘I’m not scared, Lee.’’

‘‘Then how come you look as white as octopus?’’

‘‘It’s the memories.’’

‘‘My Ma-Ma says that best way to not scared of memories is to talk about them.’’

Koh said, ‘‘Now I am making a deep Y-shaped slit from left shoulder to breastbone to right shoulder.’’

Iain heard the quiet tearing of skin and flinched. After a few seconds he said, ‘‘Lee, let’s wait outside. We don’t have to see this. Det. Poon can supply the details.’’

Iain laid a hand on the door handle. The door hissed open and he stepped into bright, low-ceilinged anteroom. He stood amongst the jars of livers and hearts feeling tired and off-centre.

Inside a minute, Lee had joined him and was now staring dumbly at the pig, as if hypnotized. The two men treated each other to a long period of silence.

Eventually, Lee spoke. ‘‘Pigs always remind me of my fadder. He used to work in the abattoir,’’ he said, prodding the hog’s snout with the tip of his shoe. ‘‘Every evening he come home, stinking of bwud. His clothes were always dirty and stained from his work. When he come to my bed to kiss me goodnight, I used to push him away.

‘‘Then one morning, a temple day, he put on his best shirt and cleanest trousers to go bai sun and give respects to his ancestors. He carried two oranges in his hands. I thing he was late or something. Anyway, he get hit by car. In those days there were very few cars in Macao. He was not used to crossing the road. The police give my Ma-Ma back his glasses, his shoes and his two oranges. You not the only one, lo baan, who has been angry with the Gods.’’

Iain drew in a breath. ‘‘But I saw a lot of it, Lee. Far too many of my friends …’’

‘‘Maybe it worse when they die by accident, like my fadder, because you not expecting it.’’

‘‘Maybe,’’ Iain said. There was a long pause.

Through the door, Iain thought he could hear the sounds of sawing.

‘‘You ever kill someone during the war, lo baan?’’

‘‘I’ll kill you if you don’t stop with these questions.’’ Iain wiped his face with a handkerchief. ‘‘Look, let’s change the subject. What do you know about the Golden Tiger triads, Takashi’s outfit?’’

‘‘Them big in gambling and drug distribution. Mainly pen yan, opium.’’

‘‘Are they in direct competition with the Wo Cheung Wo?’’

‘‘I thing maybe.’’

‘‘Do you think we have a gang war on our hands?’’

‘‘I thing so.’’

‘‘Do they usually dump bodies out in the open?’’

‘‘No, usually someone just disappear. Tied to rock and thrown to bottom of sea or hide undergownd.’’

’’And why stuff his mouth full of rosaries?’’

‘‘Maybe it a Catholic symbol?’’

‘‘Maybe it means get the fuck out of Macao.’’

‘‘Hey lo baan, we have to be careful, you know, or they maybe kill us too.’’ He raised his eyebrows at Iain. ‘‘But you no worry, before I learn hung kuen!’’ He made a fist. ‘‘And also I know crane kung-fu.’’ Lee stood on one leg and stretched his arms out to form a crucifix.

‘‘I feel reassured already,’’ said Iain. Behind the door came a nauseous, gurgling sucking: the sounds of a hydro-aspirator at work.

‘‘What the hell do you think Koh’s up to now?’’

‘‘I thing he taking fluids out of lungs.’’

‘‘Look, when this is over we’re going to meet up with Costa. The fat man talked with Lazar this afternoon. Let’s see whether he has any additional insights.’’

The seconds passed.

Finally, Koh reappeared with Poon at his elbow.

‘‘What?’’ asked Iain.

‘‘The man died of drowning,’’ said Poon.

‘‘I could have told you as much,’’ said Iain.

‘‘But he didn’t drown in salt water, Mr. Sutherland,’ said Koh. ‘‘The police report said he was discovered floating in the sea, yet we found his lungs were filled with fresh water not salt. Strange that, don’t you think?’’

 

Later that night, having met with Costa, Iain returned home. He walked along the Rua Central with Lee in tow.

‘‘So you thing the man was drowned in the sewers?’’

‘‘Yes. It would explain how the rats got to him. Costa’s going to ask for permission from the PWD so that we can take a look at the storm drains. There may be something down there.’’

‘‘Did you ever see man drown during the war? I hear in trenches, everywhere was wet mud. Did soldiers get shot and drown in mud?’’

Iain remembered having to leap from corpse to corpse, stepping onto the backs of the dead, otherwise his boots would sink in the quag. ‘‘Lee, what is this bloody fixation you have with the war?’’

‘‘I no have fissation. I love action, I love American gangster films, excitement. That is why I take this job.’’

‘‘So, you’re a fighting man. Is that how you broke your finger?’’

‘‘What this?’’ He held up his crooked left digit. ‘‘Kung-fu! I was in big street fight against rival gang. The man I fight was master of drunken monkey kuen!’’

‘‘Oh, really.’’

‘‘Yes, really.’’ A moment passed. ‘‘No, not really. When I little boy I put string to finger and tie to chicken neck. Chicken was my pet. I like to take for walk. But then came a naughty cat and the chicken run like crazy. Wahh! So strong, almost pull my finger off!’’

Iain laughed.

They stopped in front of a dai pai dong, an open-air street restaurant, and ordered two bowls of wonton noodles. The smell of steamed char siu and roasted lahp cheung wafted from the stoves. They collected their wooden chopsticks from a bamboo receptacle and ate standing up.

‘‘You know, lo baan, I joke about kung-fu and everything, but we must be careful of the Wo Cheung Wo triads.’’

‘‘How so?’’

‘‘They are very dangerous, very well informed, some people say they have even in-few-trated the police. They like to intimidate their enemies. Scare them into submission. Only afterwards they try to kiw you.’’

‘‘I think I can handle it.’’

Lee pleaded, ‘‘Just promise me you keep your eyes open, ok?’’

Iain gave a resigned shake of the head. He fed thick filaments of noodle into his mouth. ‘‘Alright …’’

Satisfied, Lee tilted the bowl to his face, slurped the broth from the noodles. ‘‘I must not eat too much. My Ma-Ma cooking haam-yu-gai-faan tonight. My brudder is joining us. Hey, lo baan, you have brudders or sisters?’’

Iain paid for the noodles and together they crossed the road, approaching Lau Ming Street from the south. The tinny trill of Chinese opera music disturbed the hot night. Pungent incense bundles burned from shophouse shrines; some dedicated to local deities, others to Guan-Yin, Goddess of Compassion.

‘‘Two brothers.’’

‘‘Tell me story about them. Did they fight in war too?’’

Iain sighed and nodded absentmindedly. ‘‘I used to share a bedroom with them. James and Callum. We used to pretend that the scuffed carpet was our battlefield. James’ infantrymen and lancers against Callum’s fusiliers and my dragoons. We had over fifty of them.’’

‘‘Fifty of what?’’

‘‘Soldiers, which we kept in large Colman Mustard tins. James, the oldest, used a hunting knife to carve the figures out of green holly – there were pipers, battery gunners, infantrymen, Royal Scots, King’s Borderers, Bombay Lancers, and a general from the Duke of Connaught’s Own that we’d painted blue. Sometimes James wet the wood or immersed it in water and it was my job to dunk the figure in the tung oil which we got from the old man that ran the tackle shop on Strathnaver Street.

‘‘We played all morning if there wasn’t school. We were not from a wealthy family. There was no land to speak of; just a vegetable patch, which mother took care of, and three chickens that Callum looked after. James was great with his hands. A talented footballer too, an inside-left. He had trials for Aberdeen at seventeen. He died taking a bayonet to the chest in Verdun in 1916.’’

They walked along in silence.

‘‘I’m sorry, lo baan. I should not ask questions if answers are sad for you.’’

They got to the entrance of Iain’s building. ‘‘Do you want to come up for a nightcap? A dram of whisky perhaps?’’

‘‘No, I go home and talk with Ma-Ma. She cooking haam-yu-gai-faan.’’

‘‘See you in the morning.’’

‘‘Hey lo baan,’’ he said, looking up at the first floor window. ‘‘You leave light open in your house this morning?’’

Iain peered upwards and saw that a white pool of light was blazing within. He shrugged. ‘‘Might’ve done. Anyway, see you tomorrow, Lee.’’

He climbed the stairs. Somewhere inside the building a baby was crying. He was advancing towards his door and had started to extend his arm when he got a sense of being watched. He looked to his left, up the banister, along the line of steps to the next level. The fringes of shadow seemed to slide, to swirl very slightly. But beyond the darkness he saw nothing.

He inserted the key into his door and had only a split-second to recognize the shotgun shell in the rat-trap. The door activated the trip wire. He saw the springs trigger, the metal crossbar fall. Iain tried to duck his head. The shotgun shell went off.