They met as they always did, high above a butcher shop in Haymarket. The room smelled faintly of old blood.
He surveyed the men in front of him. The Butcher sat cross-legged on a spring mattress on the floor, like a monk in contemplation. The other guy lounged in the leather armchair; with careful accuracy, he worked on painting his fingernails black.
The Chef would arrive soon. He’d pant and blame his tardiness on a busy night at the restaurant. The usual.
He considered the two men. Things weren’t going to plan and the stakes had changed. He’d asked them to take Wendy Chan’s life and they’d done it. No questions asked.
A familiar pinch in his belly, clammy hands, the twitch of the muscle above his lip.
Why no questions? He’d ordered the murder to protect his business, but why had these guys jumped so quickly into action? The money?
Or did they also have something they needed to protect?
Rushed footsteps on the stairs. The door flew open. The Chef barrelled in. ‘Sorry I’m late.’ Little more than a mumble.
He nodded to a wooden chair beside the wall. The Chef collapsed onto it, mopped his brow with a handkerchief.
‘Busy night ahead?’
The Chef pulled a flask from his backpack. ‘The restaurant’s fine but the traffic’s a shocker.’ He flipped the lid on the flask, took a long drink.
‘Scotch?’
The Chef raised his drink in a mock toast. ‘Pu-erh,’ he said. ‘Scotch of teas.’
The other two men laughed but as usual he’d missed the joke. He hated tea, only drank water or booze. In this room right now he was supposed to be the leader, but as usual it was clear he remained on the outside.
A thought made his skin creep. These men were killers now. What if they decided to turn on him?
He opened his briefcase and removed a manila folder containing the photos he’d snapped in the early afternoon.
‘I’ve called you together to alert you to a potential problem,’ he said.
The men stirred, curiosity piqued.
‘Two problems actually,’ he said. ‘First, another one of our ladies, a beauty called Han Hong, has disappeared.’
He looked at each of the men, hoping to read something in their faces. The three sets of eyes gave nothing away.
‘The last I know is she finished a shift two weeks ago and went home,’ he said. ‘She hasn’t been seen since and I want to know where she is.’
Bored expressions. They either didn’t know and didn’t give a shit, or they had some information they weren’t sharing.
The Chef yawned. ‘Sounds like she’s done a runner,’ he said. ‘Not much point sending the substitute in for her any more, if she’s not bringing us in the bucks.’
True. But he needed to protect the system. If the girl had done a runner, they’d need to officially withdraw her from study. He’d need to talk to his contact at Central English.
‘The second part of the problem is that a young woman has started nosing around asking questions. She’s someone we need to deal with before everything unravels.’
The men sat up. He had their attention now. This was good. He passed around the photographs.
‘She’s an English teacher whose care and concern for her students can only be commended.’
The Butcher, sitting on the mattress, caught his eye and smiled.
‘Our problem is she’s a little too caring and a little too concerned,’ he continued. ‘She visited Central English this afternoon, looking to speak with Han Hong. Somehow this teacher has become aware that Han Hong is missing and she’s taken it upon herself to find her.’
The man with the nail polish blew on his left hand. ‘Did she find the substitute?’ he asked, as though talking about a point on a map.
‘I spoke to the substitute,’ he said. ‘Somehow this teacher had obtained a picture of our Han Hong and realised that the photo didn’t match with the girl in front of her. I can only guess that she’s suspicious.’
The Butcher stared deep into the photo. ‘Where’d you take this?’ he asked.
‘Outside United English. The scene of the suicide.’
At this, the Butcher flinched.
The Chef raised a hand. He’d looked at the picture only briefly. He leaned in to the group.
‘I know this woman,’ he said, his voice soft. The others stared back at him.
‘You have an idea how to stop her?’ Finally, luck on his side.
‘I know her weakness,’ said the Chef. ‘I know how to get right under her skin and drive her sick.’