HONG KONG WAS LIKE NOTHING MATT Daley had ever seen before.
He considered himself a man of the world. Not in the James Bond sense, obviously. No one could call Matt Daley sophisticated; still less, suave. Most days he considered it an achievement if he remembered to go out wearing matching socks. But neither was he some Midwestern farm boy who’d never been exposed to other cultures. Matt might have grown up in a small town, but he’d lived in New York and traveled extensively in Europe and South America when he was in his early twenties. Even so, Hong Kong filled Matt Daley with genuine awe.
Central, the island’s main commercial district, was packed with towers so impossibly tall they made Manhattan look like Lilliput. Lan Kwai Fong, the nightlife quarter and red-light district, glittered and screamed and stank, its narrow streets packed with some of the weirdest specimens humankind had to offer: juggling midgets, armless dancers, blind transvestite hookers and the ubiquitous, wide-eyed U.S. servicemen on shore leave, drinking it all in. It reminded Matt a little of Venice Beach, multiplied to the power of a thousand. Come to think of it, the whole of Hong Kong was like that. Intensified. The grass out in the New Territories was so green it glowed like a cartoon. In New York and London, shopping streets were crowded. Here they were overrun, infested, alive with humanity like a rotting corpse riddled with maggots. Matt’s overriding impression was of a place where everything happened in excess. Noises were louder, scents were stronger, lights were brighter and days were longer, apparently endless. Forget New York. Hong Kong was the real “city that never sleeps.” After a week Matt still couldn’t decide whether he loved it or hated it.
Not that it really mattered. He wasn’t here on vacation. He was here on a mission.
It had seemed such a simple proposition on the phone to Danny McGuire. Danny’s division at Interpol was now “actively assisting” the Hong Kong Chinese police. In practice, this meant little more than that the two organizations were exchanging information. There was no talk of a response team on the ground or anything like that. But McGuire at least now had the legitimate Interpol-endorsed go-ahead to devote time to the case, including delving deeper into the prior murders “where relevant.” Matt’s job was to fly out to Hong Kong, meet with Lisa Baring, the widow of the latest victim, and find out whatever he could. He would then feed that information back to Danny—strictly off-the-record, of course.
“If my bosses found out I was using civilian contacts in the field, or meddling in a member country’s domestic investigation, I’d be canned faster than a dolphin in a tuna net.”
Ignoring Claire’s handwringing injunctions to be careful, Matt had hopped on the Qantas flight to Hong Kong with high hopes. So far those hopes had shown no sign of realization. Making contact with Lisa Baring was proving to be mission impossible. Miles Baring, her husband, had been Hong Kong’s Donald Trump, and his murder and the sexual attack on his stunning young wife were front-page news on the island. Media interest in the case was heightened by an almost total lack of available information. The Hong Kong police ran a tight ship and were not prone to giving press conferences merely to satisfy the curiosity of a salacious public. Miles and Lisa Baring had always fiercely guarded their privacy, and Mrs. Baring clearly saw no need to break this habit simply because her husband had been slaughtered in cold blood. Ensconced in the Queen Elizabeth Hospital on Gascoigne Road, she had made no public statement and apparently had no intention of doing so. Thanks in part to Interpol’s warnings, the hospital building was surrounded by armed police. Other patients’ visitors were strictly monitored, and not even deliverymen or medical staff came and went without a daily grilling. As for Mrs. Baring herself, the only people allowed access to her were her doctors and Chief Superintendent Liu, the Chinese detective in charge of the local investigation.
Unable to use Danny McGuire’s name, or claim any connection with Interpol, Matt had fallen back on tried and tested telephone ruses.
He was a reporter with 60 Minutes, putting together a piece on the wonderful efficiency of Liu and his team.
He was an attaché from the U.S. embassy, paying a courtesy visit to a fellow citizen in distress. (Lisa Baring was American by birth, a New Yorker, if the papers were to be believed.)
He was a lawyer bearing vital documents that only Mrs. Baring was permitted to sign off on.
The answer was always the same: “No visitors.”
Initially Matt stayed at a little guesthouse on the Peak. But the proprietress asked him to leave after a sinister-looking unmarked car with smoked windows took to parking outside the building day and night, leaving only when Matt did. Matt told Danny McGuire about the car.
“Do you think the Chinese might be watching me?”
Danny sounded worried. “I don’t know. It’s possible, although I can’t think why. Be careful, Matt. Remember, the killer may still be local. While Lisa Baring’s in Hong Kong, there’s a good chance he’s sticking around, biding his time till he can spirit her away like he did the others.”
“You think he tricked the other widows into leaving?”
“I think it’s possible, yes. Maybe he had an accomplice, someone who lured the women away from the safety of their own homes and police protection so he could finish them off too.”
Matt wasn’t convinced. “If he wanted the wives dead, why not just kill them at the scene? Why go to all the trouble of two separate murders?”
“I don’t know,” said Danny. “Maybe as far as he’s concerned, it’s no trouble. Maybe he enjoys it.”
Matt shivered.
“All we know for sure about this guy is that he’s dangerous as hell and he doesn’t mess around. If he suspects you’re on to him, you could be in real danger.”
Matt moved to the Marriott, a large, faceless hotel downtown, and the dark car disappeared. Occasionally he still had the eerie sensation that he was being followed, on the DLR, Hong Kong’s subway, or on his way to the Starbucks next to the hospital, where Lisa Baring remained under armed guard. But he never saw anyone, or had anything concrete to report back to Danny.
With his funds running low and still no nearer to talking to the elusive Mrs. Baring, Matt was seriously contemplating flying back home empty-handed when an e-mail arrived from Danny McGuire’s personal Gmail address.
“Delete this as soon as you’ve read it,” Danny wrote. “Liu sent it through today. I thought it might give you some leads.”
The next word of the e-mail sent Matt’s heart rate racing.
Deposition
Lisa S. Baring
16/09/2006, Queen Elizabeth Hospital, Hong Kong
I confirm that my name is Lisa Baring, and that I am the wife of Miles Baring, deceased. I confirm that I was with the deceased on the night of his death, 04/09/2006, at 117 Prospect Road, Hong Kong. I confirm that the account given below is a true and complete record of events, to the best of my knowledge and memory.
Miles and I were at home as usual. Anita, our cook, had made a dinner of chicken and rice and we shared a bottle of red wine. I would not say that either of us was intoxicated. After dinner, we retired upstairs to our bedroom, where we watched television—CNN global business news—and made love. We turned out the lights at around 10:30 P.M. and both went to sleep.
I woke to find a masked man holding a knife to my throat. I saw Miles move toward the panic button beside our bed, but the man shouted at him to stop or he would cut my throat. Miles did as he asked. The man tied me up first with rope and placed me on the floor. He said if either of us made a sound, he would kill us. Miles asked him what he wanted, but he did not reply. Instead he moved toward Miles. Miles tried to fight him off, and that was when the man stabbed him.
I know I screamed. I was not aware of Miles screaming, only of his being stabbed again and again. There was a lot of blood. I felt certain that one of the servants would have heard something by this point, but no one came. I must have passed out.
When I came to, the man was raping me. He cut me with the knife on my back, buttocks and legs. Miles was lying on the floor bleeding. I do not know whether he was dead or not. I think he was. After approximately five minutes the man stopped raping me. I don’t think he ejaculated. He produced a gun, which I had not seen before. I remember thinking it was strange that he had chosen to use a knife to subdue us when he had a gun all along. I assumed he was going to kill me, but instead he turned and fired a single shot into Miles’s head at close range. It was very quiet. Then he dragged Miles’s body over to me and tied the two of us together with the same rope he had used on me before. He covered my mouth with duct tape. And he left.
I did not see him steal or attempt to steal anything from the room. He did not ask either me or Miles at any time about the safe. I have no idea what happened after he left the room, how he escaped from the property. I lay on the floor for a further five hours until one of the maids, Joyce, discovered us early the next morning and called the police.
I confirm that at no time did I recognize the man who attacked us, either from his voice or any other physical characteristic. I confirm that our infrared security system had been disabled, but I have no knowledge as to when or how this happened.
Signed:
Lisa S. Baring
Matt read the statement again and again, his mind crowded with questions. So much of what Lisa Baring said didn’t make sense. Why had the servants not heard anything, or seen the man once he entered the house? There must have been scores of them there that night. How was a sophisticated security system disabled without anybody realizing? Why would Miles Baring, an intelligent man in his late seventies, decide to physically challenge an armed assailant rather than press a panic button? He must have had opportunities to reach for the button while his wife was being tied up. Why, as Lisa Baring herself pointed out, did the attacker use a knife when he had a gun with a silencer?
Matt Daley didn’t sleep that night. Instead he lay staring at the ceiling of his hotel room, his mind refusing to shut down. He realized he was starting to think of this killer as a shadow, unreal, like a character in some kind of potboiler mystery. But of course, he wasn’t a shadow. He was human, flesh and blood, and he was out there tonight, sleeping and eating and thinking and living his life, despite the series of horrific crimes he had committed. Lisa Baring knew that man, not by name, but in a far more intimate, more real way. Lisa Baring had touched him, just like Angela Jakes, Tracey Henley and Irina Anjou had all touched him before her. She had heard his voice, smelled his breath and his sweat, felt the weight of him on top of her, inside her. To Matt he might seem like an enigma, a ghost. But to Lisa Baring he was very, very real.
I have to do it. Somehow I have to meet Lisa Baring.
I have to get to her before he does.
INSPECTOR LIU CLOSED HIS EYES AND counted to ten. He had never much liked Western women. They were too opinionated, too stubborn, too arrogant. He couldn’t imagine why Miles Baring hadn’t chosen a more docile, pliable, Chinese woman as a wife. It would certainly have made his—Liu’s—job a lot easier.
“I’ve told you why, Mrs. Baring,” he repeated patiently. “Your life may be in danger.”
Lisa Baring continued packing her things into a Louis Vuitton overnight case, ignoring him. Her doctors had discharged her from hospital that morning and she was up and dressed for the first time in weeks, wearing clothes her Hong Kong housekeeper, Joyce, had brought from home: Hudson jeans that accentuated her long legs, a white muslin blouse from Chloé and her favorite Lanvin ballet pumps. Her dark hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, and simple Tiffany diamond studs gleamed at her ears and neck, illuminating a face so naturally lovely that no makeup could have improved it. Inspector Liu knew her to be in her midthirties, but as he watched her now, it was hard to believe. Her skin glowed like a teenager’s. Unfortunately, she was as headstrong as a teenager too.
“I appreciate your concern, Mr. Liu,” she said breezily, “but I have no intention of living the rest of my life like a prisoner, looking over my shoulder. I don’t want police protection.”
“You need it, Mrs. Baring.”
“Be that as it may, I refuse it. I decline it. I’m grateful for the offer, but my answer is no.”
Famed though he was for his equanimity, Inspector Liu felt a rare flash of real anger. “This isn’t simply about your own safety, Mrs. Baring. As you know, we understand from Interpol that whoever raped you and killed your husband has raped and killed before. He will almost certainly try to do so again. We have a duty to prevent that from happening, to protect possible future victims. Surely you can see that.”
Lisa’s perfect face looked pained. “Of course I can see that. No one is more eager to bring this bastard to justice than I am, Inspector, or to stop him from striking again. As I told you before, if he tries to make any sort of contact with me, or anything remotely suspicious happens, I will let you know immediately. But in the meantime, I must be allowed to live my life as I see fit. Miles and I have a holiday villa in Bali. It’s secluded and safe. I’ll be staying there until the media frenzy here dies down.”
Inspector Liu drew himself up to his full five feet four inches and said authoritatively, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Baring, but I’m afraid that’s absolutely out of the question.”
Fifteen minutes later, in a blacked-out limousine on her way to Chek Lap Kok Airport, Lisa Baring spared a thought for the hapless Chinese policeman. He seemed like a sweet man, and he obviously meant well. But Lisa had seen enough cops in the past three weeks to last her a lifetime. Hong Kong was full of memories of Miles and what had happened, not to mention the media attempting to beat down her door. She had to get away.
At the North Satellite Concourse, the Barings’ G6 was waiting. Seeing it brought a tear to Lisa’s eye. Miles had loved that plane. It was his pride and joy.
“Welcome back, madam.”
Kirk, the pilot, welcomed Lisa aboard.
“I’m so sorry about what happened. If there’s anything I can do, anything at all…”
Lisa put a hand on his arm. “Thank you, Kirk. But all I want is to get out of here.”
“We’re next up,” he assured her. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Make myself comfortable, thought Lisa as the jet’s engines roared to life. Wasn’t it wrong to be comfortable with Miles lying dead on a slab somewhere, his cold corpse mutilated by knives and bullets? Fresh tears welled in her eyes. I can’t let myself think about Miles. I’ve got to block it out. Nothing’s going to bring him back.
It was easier said than done. As the plane lifted up through the clouds, reminders of her husband were everywhere. There was Miles’s office tower, nestled next to the giant Bank of China building like a baby hiding beneath its mother’s wing. If only it could have protected him! If only anything could have. She closed the window blind, but Miles was everywhere inside the plane too. The soft tan leather seats that he’d lovingly picked out himself when they upgraded the plane. His own seat, beside Lisa’s, still bearing the faint imprint of his body. Even his kindly eyes staring down at her from the portrait on the wall. Poor, poor Miles. What crime did he ever commit, beyond being rich and happy? Who in the world had he hurt? Who did either of us ever hurt? Miles had tried to make Lisa happy too. But not even the brilliant Miles Baring could achieve the impossible.
It wasn’t until they began their descent that it occurred to her. We came to Bali on our honeymoon. Suddenly, being here felt wrong. Disrespectful. But it was too late now. She’d told Inspector Liu that she would be in Bali. Until the case was closed, and the press lost interest in Miles’s murder, this must be her chosen prison.
That was all her life was in the end, she thought sadly: a series of prisons. Some of them had been luxurious, like this one. Others, long ago, had been cold and lonely and dark. But for as long as she could remember, she had never been free.
She knew now that she never would be.
As she closed her eyes, a memory came back to her. Or perhaps it wasn’t a memory? Perhaps it was a dream.
Italy.
Happiness.
A warm beach.
She let herself drift away.
POSITANO WAS BEAUTIFUL. SO BEAUTIFUL SHE had almost forgiven him for France.
The hotel was old and distinguished. Its clientele was exclusive, rich but not flashy, European aristocracy mostly.
“You’re a sucker for a title, aren’t you, darling?” he teased her.
She liked it when he teased her. It reminded her of the old days.
“What you wouldn’t do for a coronet on that pretty little head of yours, eh? It’d suit you too. You were born for it, I’d say.”
They were at the poolside bar, sipping martinis and watching the sun go down. She thought, I wish we could do this more often. Just relax. The barman smiled flirtatiously as he refilled her glass. He was handsome, olive-skinned and dark-haired, with mischievous almond eyes. For a moment she panicked, afraid that her husband had seen the smile, that he would be angry. It was strange how he could make her feel so safe, yet at the same time she remained afraid of him. But he hadn’t noticed anything. In fact he seemed more interested in the old man playing chess with his daughter at the far end of the bar than he was in her.
They finished their drinks and walked back to their room as the sun oozed into the horizon. Once they were inside, her husband locked the door and undressed, as unselfconscious as a savage in his nakedness. And why wouldn’t he be, with that body? Michelangelo couldn’t have sculpted a better one.
“I saw that barman looking at you.”
He walked toward her and she felt the hairs on her forearms stand on end.
“I…I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered. “No one was looking.”
He pushed her down onto the bed. “Don’t lie to me. You liked it when he looked at you, didn’t you? You wanted him.”
“That’s not true!”
Hands tightened around her neck. “It is true. Did you want that old man too, at the end of the bar? Hmm?” With his knee he forced her legs apart. “Let’s face it, he’s more your type. Old and rich.”
“Stop it!” she pleaded. “You’re the one I want. The only one.”
But the last thing she wanted him to do was stop. He was aroused for the first time in months. She reached for him, clawing at his bare back, squirming out of her bikini bottoms, desperate to pull him inside her. Please let him make love to me now. It’s been so long. But after a lingering kiss, he did what he always did. Wrapped his arms around her like a cocoon and waited until she fell into a fitful, frustrated sleep.
It was a long wait. Finally the regular rise and fall of her chest let him know it was safe to move. He slipped out of bed and down the hotel corridor. Outside it was pitch-dark, but he knew where he was going. Behind the main building, past the tennis courts to the low-built employees’ residence.
Two knocks. The door opened.
“I’d almost given up on you.”
“Sorry. I couldn’t get away.”
He kissed the almond-eyed barman passionately on the mouth. “Let’s go to bed.”
THE BARINGS’ VILLA, MIRAGE, ON THE north side of the island, was idyllic and as secluded as anyone could have wished. The perfect marriage of luxury and simplicity, with its Infinity pool, whitewashed walls and colonial dark wood floors, Villa Mirage was surrounded by thick jungle on one side and shimmering ocean on the other. Even so, Lisa had taken extra precautions, installing round-the-clock details of security men to circle the perimeter and two armed bodyguards inside the property, in addition to the housekeeper, handyman and butler who lived at the villa year-round. Not for a moment did she believe Inspector Liu’s warnings about her attacker returning to kidnap or harm her. That was preposterous. But the media attention was another matter. In the absence of any information, or a viable suspect on whom to focus their anger, the Chinese press had chosen to vilify Miles Baring’s much-younger American wife. Overnight, it seemed, Lisa had gone from innocent victim to calculating gold digger in the minds of most ordinary Hong Kong citizens. She knew from bitter experience that the paparazzi would stop at nothing to steal a picture of her, which the newspapers would no doubt twist to make it look as if she were living it up in Bali. As if she weren’t grieving Miles. Lisa wasn’t about to let that happen.
It was late when she arrived at the villa and she was tired.
“I think I’ll go straight to bed if you don’t mind, Mrs. Harcourt.”
“Of course, ma’am. I’ll have Ling bring you up some warm milk.”
Karen Harcourt, Villa Mirage’s housekeeper, was short and round and motherly. She wore her gray hair in tight curls and had always reminded Lisa of the sweet old grandmother from the Tweety Pie cartoons.
If only I’d had a mother like that, my life might have been so different. If only I’d had a mother at all.
“Thank you.”
Upstairs, Lisa’s bedroom had been prepared for her arrival. The mahogany four-poster bed had been turned down and draped with fine-mesh mosquito nets. Diptyque candles cast a warm glow over the room and filled it with the soothing scent of gardenia. The doors to the balcony were open, allowing Lisa to hear the soft lapping of the waves against the shore below. The only jarring note was the silver-framed pictures of her and Miles that were still propped up on her teak dressing table. Mrs. Harcourt probably thought I’d want to see them. To hold on to the memories. Lisa slipped them into a drawer and sighed.
Turning around, she froze. There was a man by the door, lurking in the shadows. Lisa couldn’t see his face, but she didn’t need to. He was a man. A stranger. In her bedroom. She screamed at the top of her lungs.
“Help! Guards! Help me!”
The man stepped into the light. “Please, stop screaming. I’m not here to hurt you.”
Lisa’s voice got louder. “INTRUDER! HEEEEELLP!”
He walked toward her. “Really, I didn’t mean to scare you. I only want to talk. I—”
He slumped, lifeless, to the floor. Behind him, Lisa’s housekeeper, Mrs. Harcourt, stood shaking like a leaf. Lisa stared at the heavy, blood-smeared frying pan in her hand and promptly fainted.