Yin Yang Tattoo (21 page)

‘That bit confused me, too. I must have been set up by Schwartz, who knew I'd been to North Korea. The pictures from those trips ran all over the bloody place.' Bobby watched me closely, showing no sign of any effect from the beers. I took another deep breath. ‘K-N's North Korean factories are completely out of reach of the Due Diligence investigation. So they need someone who has been to North Korea to back up K-N's assurances about the factories they are supposed to have built.' I stopped for a drink.

‘Don't tell me. Last time you were up there, you just happened to get pictures of these factories?'

‘The idea is I took the pictures because I was working for K-N up there, too.'

‘Only one thing wrong with that.'

‘I know. I wasn't working for them in the North, and I didn't photograph any modern factories – no journalist gets to see that kind of thing up there. But Chang and Schwartz had thought of that.'

‘And?'

‘And I photographed the factories this week.'

‘Eh?'

‘In Cholla-do.'

Bobby's face went slack. ‘The other night, at the reception, you asked about K-N factories in Cholla province.'

‘You told me there were none, and you were right.'

He looked incredulous. ‘They've got you faking evidence?'

‘Exactly.'

‘Why?'

‘Why? You're the Stock Market whiz, Bobby, you told
me
the Group was in trouble – '

‘I know why
they
would do it, but why the fuck would you cooperate with them? We're talking fraud on a scale that could get you put away for years – '

‘I already told you why. I'm being blackmailed.' I let out a long sigh. There was no point in keeping it to myself any longer.

‘They've got me framed for murder, Bobby. Murder. No matter what way I turn here, I'm fucked.'

Bobby called for more beer, but I declined. Despite my best efforts and six aspirin and two large beers, the hangover was making a come-back.

I told him the whole story. Dinner with Chang, the nights with Miss Hong, my resistance to going along with the GDR scam and the late night delivery of her belly-button. Detective Kwok and the Polaroids, the confrontation with Schwartz and Martinmass in Chang's office. The stock photographs of North Korea, the phoney North Korean factory in a warehouse in Cholla province, and the ultimatum from Chang: cooperate or we feed you to the police for the murder of Miss Hong. I only kept quiet about Jung-hwa – and the video camera and tape I had sneaked off to Mr Cho.

He sat with two big hands around his beer mug and stared towards the brightly-lit windows. Now he looked confused.

‘They already have you in a corner, but still they're leaning on me and my family?' He took another pull at his beer. ‘They've seen you and me talking more than once. I work in the Market, so if I heard even a whisper of Due Diligence fraud, K-N would likely end up under investigation, and the three of them could get locked up. They can't get any more leverage over you than they have already, so they play safe and put the shits up me with the early morning call threatening my wife and kids.'

‘Sounds about right.'

‘Ironic, isn't it?'

‘What?'

‘They're worried about what you're leaking to me, while the whole time it's me who's filling
you
in.'

I sat with my hands open but idle, wishing I had ordered that last beer.

‘All of which makes sitting here a very dumb move.' He looked worried again.

‘Christ, here we go.'

Nethers Hollands, Geoff Martinmass and Joss, the banker's big pal from last night, were being led through the tables by a waitress. They stopped next to us, and Hollands spoke first.

‘Afternoon, Brodie. Heck of a night that. Good one. Overdid the old pop, though. Bit of a head. Sore. Very sore.'

Joss nodded sagely, and Martinmass angled a wafer-thin smile at Bobby.

‘How's things?'

‘OK.'

‘Family fine?'

‘Perfectly fine.' Bobby's stare never left Martinmass's face.

‘Great. If you'll excuse us, we better go put on the nosebags. I promised the lads a briefing over lunch.'

They crossed the restaurant to a reserved table next to the window. Bobby's gaze threw daggers at Martinmass's back.

‘You did the right thing, Bobby. Playing it cool was the only thing you could do.'

The look he drew me said he was not convinced.

A phone rang quietly. Bobby patted the pockets of the jacket that lay crumpled on the seat beside him, pulled out a mobile phone and thumbed the tiny green button. A high-pitched unbroken stream of words leaked from the earpiece. Bobby held it close, cutting off the sound. His face grew dark.

‘Calm down, and tell me exactly what happened.' He listened. ‘Where are you now?'

‘Get people to look in all the friends' houses and play areas and shops. I'll be home in half an hour.'

Standing up, he plucked at his jacket, thought about it for a second, put it back down, and walked away. Nethers, Joss and Martinmass looked up as he approached their table. The smirk on Martinmass's face evaporated as Bobby reached down, grabbed him by the lapels and wrenched him from his seat. The banker's nose exploded like rotten fruit on Bobby's forehead, and his bulky frame went limp. Bobby let him fall face-down on the table, and when Joss made to jump to his feet, took him out with a short right, the entire weight of his upper body behind it. Joss hit the seat back, arms flailing, blood spraying from his mouth. Nethers sat in shocked disbelief between two unconscious dining partners, his palms out in surrender. Bobby walked quickly back to me, wiping blood from his forehead with the back of one hand.

‘Fuck playing it cool. That was Myong-hee on the phone. There was a change of plan at her sister's, so they went home earlier than expected. Now Min-tae is missing. Another kid saw two men leading him to a car that drove off.'

Min-tae was the younger of Bobby's two sons. Seven years old and unfailingly good natured, he had learning difficulties that made him seem younger. Across the restaurant, a waiter splashed cold water on Martinmass's face. I called out to Bobby to wait for me.

The taxi driver launched his cab into traffic like somebody's life depended on it. Maybe it did. Bobby slouched low in the back seat, strain written all over his face. He sucked distractedly at weeping gashes that sliced through the first two knuckles of his right hand, wounds so deep they would need stitches to close them. If Joss still had two front teeth to call his own I would be surprised. I dipped into my pocket for a clean handkerchief, and Bobby wrapped it around his fist without comment.

We sat captive to our own thoughts, the car filled by a fizzing silence. Bobby's expression told of an explosive mix of anger and despair. I was angry too, but mostly I felt paralysed with guilt. Being a screw-up was something I had long since accepted, but now I was taking it to new heights. If Min-tae was harmed, it would be down to me. Somewhere in the middle of all this stood Ben Schwartz. Right now, fooling around with his wife didn't seem like such a smart move. I was screwing up on multiple fronts.

Fifteen-storey apartment towers stood at neat angles like hotels on a high-stakes monopoly board, rigid lines defined by crowded car parks, primary colour play areas and grey-green rectangles of worn turf and stubborn shrubbery. The entrance to the block was marked by a tight group of mothers, some still in aprons and kitchen slippers, talking behind their hands, faces lined with a mixture of concern and that thinly disguised look of schadenfreude humans wear when the unthinkable bypasses them to befall others. They turned together to watch two kids dragged towards the elevators by a mother terrified that whatever happened to Min-tae might be contagious. This was no time for rational thought.

Bobby jumped out of the taxi in a slick movement that belied his bulk, and a little security guard in crumpled navy uniform shuffled forward to meet him. I stood a few feet away as they talked in Korean that most of the time was too fast for me to catch, even if I was trying my hardest. Nor was I alone. Without a hint of shame the local wives edged closer, necks and ears straining, like extras in a pantomime. Bobby left the security man and walked over. The women looked galled when he spoke in a low voice, in English.

‘Myong-hee is still out looking. I didn't tell her about the phone call this morning because I didn't want her to panic. One of her sister's kids was unwell so they came home early. Min-hong always looks out for Min-tae, but he got wrapped up in some game with his mates, took his eye off the little guy for a couple of minutes and lost him. Another kid says he saw Min-tae going with two men to a ‘big' car that drove off.'

The security man was at Bobby's elbow. He broke in with a question, something about the police. Bobby thought for a moment, then nodded his assent.

‘Nae. Chon-wa-haechuseyo.'
Yes. Call them please.
I wondered how he could still be so outwardly calm, so polite.

Just as he said it the chatter from the local women rose sharply, hands pointing. Bobby and I looked along the path that ran between the car park and the front of the building to where Myong-hee reeled towards us under the weight of a heavily-built child who squirmed in her grasp. Even from a distance the boy bore a striking resemblance to Bobby. Myong-hee was of child-like build, but nothing short of her arms falling off was going to make her release Min-tae. She held his face to hers and as she cried uncontrollably, their cheeks ran with streaked mascara. Bobby lurched forward, swept them both off the ground in a giant, gentle bear-hug, and moved off along the path before softly putting them back down. He crouched and held Min-tae's face between his hands and kissed him on the forehead. They huddled like a basketball team, Bobby talking in a persistent murmur. At last, Myong-hee nodded and released Min-tae from her clutches. Bobby signalled to a young woman who hovered nearby, who took Myong-hee firmly by the arm and led her into the apartment building. He waited until they were gone before he lifted Min-tae and, with a flick of his head, motioned me to follow.

The three of us sat on a bench beside a deserted play area out of sight and earshot of the building entrance. Min-tae sat in the middle, looking very small.

‘I'm sorry, Daddy.' His head was bowed.

‘You don't have to be sorry, kid-oh.' Bobby thumbed tears from his son's cheekbones.

‘But Daddy told me.'

‘Told you what?'

‘Don't go with strangers.'

‘Listen, son, I'm not angry. You are alright, aren't you?' Min-tae nodded, uncertain.

‘But you have to tell me, did the men make you get in a car?'

‘2005 Hyundai Santa Fe five-door, black, alloy wheels and silver roof-rack and a factory ladder up the back door beside the spare wheel with a custom cover.'

Bobby looked at me.

‘He's absolutely obsessed with cars. Can name every model from a hundred yards.' His son was speaking again.

‘They said Daddy's buying ice cream, quick, Min-tae, get in the car. They said they would take me to Daddy.'

‘Korean men? Speaking Korean?'

‘Korean men,' he nodded again, gaze fixed somewhere between his swinging legs. So he was bilingual, too, learning difficulties or no learning difficulties. Where I came from, most kids made a pig's arse of one language.

‘So what happened next?' Bobby spoke softly, one hand resting gently on his son's shoulder.

‘We went to a shop for ice cream, but you weren't there.' Indignation overtook the little guy's innocent expression. ‘I told the men I wanted to come home, but we went for a drive – I saw a Mercedes, a CLK convertible with the roof down. When they stopped I got out and Mummy found me.'

I could read Bobby's mind. This didn't add up. The little guy had been missing for nearly two hours, so he had lost track of time. But without a threat or a message, what was the point? Bobby tried one more tack.

‘Did the men talk to you?'

‘They said stop crying Min-tae, we will take you home soon. But I didn't stop crying.'

‘Did they tell you to say anything to Daddy or Mummy?'

‘No.' He fingered the neck of his polo shirt. I put a hand on Bobby's forearm.

‘I think there's something under his shirt.' A look of horror crossed Bobby's face before he took a hold of the shirt tails and smoothly turned it inside-out as he hauled it up and over Min-tae's head, the practised move of a Dad well-used to tending to his kids.

Two blood-red lines of flowing Korean script crossed Min-tae's shiny-smooth chest. Bobby put a fingertip to the script then turned his hand. Dry. It was marker pen. Behind me, the local wives had come searching for us, shameless in a quest for threads on which to hang their gossip. Bobby flipped the shirt back over his son's head and hugged him tight. I tried to keep my voice low, but still it sounded like a scream.