The roads glittered with the unexpected rain and a thick halo ringed the moon. Luke drove as if they were in a jeep, in high gear with hammer changes on the corners. Fumes of whisky filled the car.
‘What have you got, for Christ’s sake?’ Jerry demanded. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Great meat. Now shut up.’
‘I don’t want meat. I’m suited.’
‘You’ll want this one. Man, you’ll want this one.’
They were heading for the harbour tunnel. A flock of cyclists without lights lurched out of a side turning and Luke had to mount the central reservation to avoid them. Look for a damn great building site, Luke said. A patrol car overtook them, all lights flashing. Thinking he was going to be stopped, Luke lowered his window.
‘We’re press, you idiots,’ he screamed. ‘We’re stars, hear me?’
Inside the patrol car as it passed they had a glimpse of a Chinese sergeant and his driver, and an august-looking European perched in the back like a judge. Ahead of them, to the right of the carriageway, the promised building site sprang into view, a cage of yellow girders and bamboo scaffolding alive with sweating coolies. Cranes, glistening in the wet, dangled over them like whips. The floodlighting came from the ground and poured wastefully into the mist.
‘Look for a low place, just near,’ Luke ordered, slowing down to sixty. ‘White. Look for a white place.’
Jerry pointed to it, a two-storey complex of weeping stucco, neither new nor old, with a twenty-foot bamboo-stand by the entrance, and an ambulance. The ambulance stood open and the three drivers lounged in it, smoking, watching the police who mined around the forecourt as if it were a riot they were handling.
‘He’s giving us an hour’s start over the field.’
‘Who?’
‘Rocker. Rocker is. Who do you think?’
‘Why?’
‘Because he hit me, I guess. He loves me. He loves you too. He said to bring you specially.’
‘Why?’
The rain fell steadily.
‘Why? Why? Why?’ Luke echoed, furious. ‘Just hurry!’
The bamboos were out of scale, higher than the wall. A couple of orange-clad priests were sheltering against them, clapping cymbals. A third held an umbrella. There were flower stalls, mainly marigolds, and hearses, and from somewhere out of sight the sounds of leisurely incantation. The entrance lobby was a jungle swamp reeking of formaldehyde.
‘Big Moo’s special envoy,’ said Luke.
‘Press,’ said Jerry.
The police nodded them through, not looking at their cards.
‘Where’s the Superintendent?’ said Luke.
The smell of formaldehyde was awful. A young sergeant led them. They pushed through a glass door to a room where old men and women, maybe thirty of them, mostly in pyjama suits, waited phlegmatically as if for a late train, under shadowless neon lights and an electric fan. One old man was clearing out his throat, snorting on to the green tiled floor. Only the plaster wept. Seeing the giant kwailos they stared in polite amazement. The pathologist’s office was yellow. Yellow walls, yellow blinds, closed, An airconditioner that wasn’t working. The same green tiles, easily washed down.
‘Great smell,’ said Luke.
‘Like home,’ Jerry agreed.
Jerry wished it was battle. Battle was easier. The sergeant told them to wait while he went ahead. They heard the squeak of trolleys, low voices, the clamp of a freezer door, the low hiss of rubber soles. A volume of Gray’s Anatomy lay next to the telephone. Jerry turned the pages, staring at the illustrations. Luke perched on a chair. An assistant in short rubber boots and overalls brought tea. White cups, green rims, and the Hong Kong monogram with a crown.
‘Can you tell the sergeant to hurry, please?’ said Luke. ‘You’ll have the whole damn town here in a minute.’
‘Why us?’ said Jerry again.
Luke poured some tea on to the tiled floor and while it ran into the gutter he topped up the cup from his whisky flask. The sergeant returned, beckoning quickly with his slender hand. They followed him back through the waiting room. This way there was no door, just a corridor, and a turn like a public lavatory, and they were there. The first thing Jerry saw was the trolley chipped to hell. There’s nothing older or more derelict than worn-out hospital equipment, he thought. The walls were covered in green mould, green stalactites hung from the ceiling, a battered spittoon was filled with used tissues. They clean out the noses, he remembered, before they pull down the sheet to show you. It’s a courtesy so that you aren’t shocked. The fumes of formaldehyde made his eyes run. A Chinese pathologist was sitting at the window, making notes on a pad. A couple of attendants were hovering, and more police. There seemed to be a general sense of apology around. Jerry couldn’t make it out. The Rocker was ignoring them. He was in a corner, murmuring to the august-looking gentleman from the back of the patrol car, but the corner wasn’t far away and Jerry heard ’slur on our reputation’ spoken twice in an indignant, nervous tone. A white sheet covered the body, with a blue cross on it made in two equal lengths. So that they can use it either way round, Jerry thought. It was the only trolley in the room. The only sheet. The rest of the exhibition was inside the two big freezers with the wooden doors, walk-in size, big as a butcher’s shop. Luke was going out of his mind with impatience.
‘Jesus, Rocker!’ he called across the room. ‘How much longer you going to keep the lid on this? We got work to do.’
No one bothered with him. Tired of waiting, Luke yanked back the sheet. Jerry looked and looked away. The autopsy room was next door, and he could hear the sound of sawing, like the snarling of a dog.
No wonder they’re all so apologetic, Jerry thought stupidly. Bringing a roundeye corpse to a place like this.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Luke was saying. ‘Holy Christ. Who did it to him? How do you make those marks? That’s a Triad thing. Jesus.’
The dampened window gave on to the courtyard. Jerry could see the bamboo rocking in the rain and the liquid shadows of an ambulance delivering another customer, but he doubted whether any of them looked like this. A police photographer had appeared and there were flashes. A telephone extension hung on the wall. The Rocker was talking into it. He still hadn’t looked at Luke, or at Jerry.
‘I want him out of here,’ the august gentleman said.
‘Soon as you like,’ said the Rocker. He returned to the telephone. ‘In the Walled City, sir… Yes, sir… In an alley, sir. Stripped. Lot of alcohol… The forensic pathologist recognised him immediately, sir. Yes sir, the bank’s here already, sir.’ He rang off. ‘Yes sir, no sir, three bags full, sir,’ he growled. He dialled a number.
Luke was making notes. ‘Jesus,’ he kept saying in awe. ‘Jesus. They must have taken weeks to kill him. Months.’
In actual fact, they had killed him twice, Jerry decided. Once to make him talk and once to shut him up. The things they had done to him first were all over his body, in big and small patches, the way fire hits a carpet, eats holes, then suddenly gives up. Then there was the thing round his neck, a different, faster death altogether. They had done that last, when they didn’t want him any more.
Luke called to the pathologist. ‘Turn him over, will you? Would you mind please turning him over, sir?’
The Superintendent had put down the phone.
‘What’s the story?’ said Jerry, straight at him. ‘Who is he?’
‘Name of Frost,’ the Rocker said, staring back with his dropped eye. ‘Senior official of the South Asian and China. Trustee Department.’
‘Who killed him?’ Jerry asked.
‘Yeah, who did it? That’s the point,’ said Luke, writing hard.
‘Mice,’ said the Rocker.
‘Hong Kong has no Triads, no Communists, and no Kuomintang. Right, Rocker?’
‘And no whores,’ the Rocker growled.
The august gentleman spared the Rocker further reply.
‘A vicious case of mugging,’ he declared, over the policeman’s shoulder. ‘A filthy, vicious mugging exemplifying the need for public vigilance at all times. He was a loyal servant of the bank.’
‘That’s not a mugging,’ said Luke, looking at Frost again. ‘That’s a party.’
‘He certainly had some damned odd friends,’ the Rocker said, still staring at Jerry.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Jerry.
‘What’s the story so far?’ said Luke.
‘He was on the town till midnight. Celebrating in the company of a couple of Chinese males. One cathouse after another. Then we lose him. Till tonight.’
‘The bank’s offering a reward of fifty thousand dollars,’ said the august man.
‘Hong Kong or US?’ said Luke, writing.
The august man said ‘Hong Kong’ very tartly.
‘Now you boys go easy,’ the Rocker warned. ‘There’s a sick wife in Stanley Hospital, and there’s kids -’
‘And there’s the reputation of the bank,’ said the august man.
‘That will be our first concern,’ said Luke.
They left half an hour later, still ahead of the field.
‘Thanks,’ said Luke to the Superintendent.
‘For nothing,’ said the Rocker. His dropped eyelid, Jerry noticed, leaked when he was tired.
We’ve shaken the tree, thought Jerry, as they drove away. Boy oh boy, have we shaken the tree.
They sat in the same attitudes, Smiley at his desk, Connie in her wheelchair, di Salis glaring into the languid smokecoil of his pipe. Guillam stood at Smiley’s side, the grate of Martello’s voice still in his ears. Smiley, with a slight circular movement of his thumb, was polishing his spectacles with the end of his tie.
Di Salis the Jesuit spoke first. Perhaps he had the most to disown. ‘There is nothing in logic to link us with this incident. Frost was a libertine. He kept Chinese women. He was manifestly corrupt. He took our bribe without demur. Heaven knows what bribes he has not taken in the past. I will not have it laid at my door.’
‘Oh stuff,’ Connie muttered. She sat expressionless and the dog lay sleeping on her lap. Her crippled hands lay over his brown back for warmth. In the background dark Fawn was pouring tea.
Smiley spoke to the signal form. Nobody had seen his face since he had first looked down to read it.
‘Connie, I want the arithmetic,’ he said.
‘Yes, dear.’
‘Outside these four walls, who is conscious that we leaned on Frost?’
‘Craw. Westerby. Craw’s policeman. And if they’ve any nous the Cousins will have guessed.’
‘Not Lacon, not Whitehall.’
‘And not Karla, dear,’ Connie declared, with a sharp look at the plurky portrait.
‘No. Not Karla. I believe that.’ From his voice, they could feel the intensity of the conflict as his intellect forced its will upon his emotions. ‘For Karla, it would be a most exaggerated response. If a bank account is blown, all he need do is open another one elsewhere. He doesn’t need this.’ With the tips of his fingers, he precisely moved the signal form an inch up the glass. ‘The ploy went as planned. The response was simply -’ He began again. ‘The response was more than we expected. Operationally, nothing is amiss. Operationally, we have advanced the case.’
‘We’ve drawn them, dear,’ Connie said firmly.
Di Salis blew up completely. ‘I insist you do not speak as if we were all of us accomplices here. There is no proven link and I consider it invidious that you should suggest there is.’
Smiley remained remote in his response.
‘I would consider it invidious if I suggested anything else. I ordered this initiative. I refuse not to look at the consequences merely because they are ugly. Put it on my shoulders. But don’t let’s deceive ourselves.’
‘Poor devil didn’t know enough, did he?’ Connie mused, seemingly to herself. At first nobody took her up. Then Guillam did: what did she mean by that?
‘Frost had nothing to betray, darling,’ she explained. ‘That’s the worst that can happen to anyone. What could he give them? One zealous journalist, name of Westerby. They had that already, little dears. So of course they went on. And on.’ She turned in Smiley’s direction. He was the only one who shared so much history with her. ‘We used to make it a rule, remember George, when the boys and girls went in? We always gave them something they could confess, bless them.’
With loving care Fawn set down a paper cup of tea on Smiley’s desk, a slice of lemon floating on the tea. His skull-like grin moved Guillam to repressed fury.
‘When you’ve handed that round, get out,’ he snapped in his ear. Still smirking, Fawn left.
‘Where is Ko in his mind at this moment?’ Smiley asked, still talking to the signal form. He had locked his fingers under his chin and might have been praying.
‘Funk and fuzzie-headedness,’ Connie declared with confidence. ‘Fleet Street on the prowl, Frost dead and he’s still no further forward.’
‘Yes. Yes, he’ll dither. Can he hold the dam? Can he plug the leaks? Where are the leaks anyway? … That’s what we wanted. We’ve got it.’ He made the smallest movement of his bowed head, and it pointed toward Guillam. ‘Peter, you will please ask the Cousins to step up their surveillance on Tiu. Static posts only, tell them. No street work, no frightening the game, no nonsense of that kind. Telephone, mail, the easy things only. Doc, when did Tiu last visit the Mainland?’
Di Salis grudgingly gave a date.
‘Find out the route he travelled and where he bought his ticket. In case he does it again.’
‘It’s on record already,’ di Sills retorted sulkily, and made a most unpleasing sneer, looking to heaven and writhing with his lips and shoulders.
‘Then kindly be so good as to make me a separate note of it,’ Smiley replied, with unshakable forbearance. ‘Westerby,’ he went on in the same flat voice, and for a second Guillam had the sickening feeling that Smiley was suffering from some kind of hallucination and thought that Jerry was in the room with him, to receive his orders like the rest of them. ‘I pull him out - I can do that. His paper recalls him, why shouldn’t it? Then what? Ko waits. He listens. He hears nothing. And he relaxes.’
‘And enter the narcotics heroes,’ Guillam said, glancing at the calendar. ‘Sol Eckland rides again.’
‘Or, I pull him out and I replace him, and another fieldman takes up the trail. Is he any less at risk than Westerby is now?’
‘It never works,’ Connie muttered. ‘Changing horses. Never. You know that. Briefing, training, re-gearing, new relationships. Never.’