Black Horn (A Creasy novel Book 4) Read online

  He nodded solemnly.

  ‘If that’s what you’d like . . . As to your second question: of course I’m not Rambo, but I have been well-trained.’ He reached under his jacket and pulled out a large pistol, I know how to use it.’

  ‘Have you ever killed anybody?’

  ‘No, but if anyone breaks into this house tonight, I will kill them.’

  ‘I will sleep easy then’ she said. is there any news on the case?’

  ‘There is . . . I had a long fax from the Police Commander in Zimbabwe who is handling the Coppen/Manners case. Very informative and interesting. I’ll tell you about it over dinner.’

  She surprised him by cooking a traditional English dish of roast lamb. She knew how to do it because one of her early boyfriends had been a chef at a smart English-style restaurant in a hotel in Causeway Bay. She had shown interest and he had taught her several traditional dishes.

  Colin Chapman was massively impressed, especially because she had not overcooked the meat and she had made the perfect mint sauce. She explained that she had cooked it for him because, although she knew he liked a wide variety of Chinese food, she also knew he sometimes had to eat too much of it. Her father had enjoyed good wine and she took a bottle of Château Margaux from the storeroom. They drank it both before and during the meal, and it went so quickly that she fetched another bottle, and by the end of the meal she was feeling light-headed.

  As she brought in the coffee, he pulled out the fax from Zimbabwe. It ran to several pages. He said, ‘This is from Commander John Ndlovu, Head of the Matabeleland CID. He headed the investigation. He is clearly intelligent and articulate. He mentions that he was under great pressure from the US Government through his Ministry. Obviously, the mother of the murdered girl pulled powerful strings. Ndlovu reached a dead-end. No motive, no tracks, no weapon . . . nothing.’

  ‘But you think the motive could be connected with the death of my family? Have you replied to his fax?’

  Chapman shook his head and then smiled at her.

  ‘This afternoon, I took a decision. Tomorrow, after the red alert is over, I’m going to pull in Tommy Mo for questioning. It’s never happened to him before and it was a decision I took only after consulting the Commissioner . . . it’s time Tommy Mo came under the hammer.’

  ‘Will it serve any purpose?’

  ‘It will hurt his dignity . . . he will lose face. We will arrest him at his usual restaurant, which we are sure he secretly owns. It will be full of people. I will personally frogmarch him out.’

  ‘To what purpose?’

  He took a sip of coffee and said, ‘I’ll have to let him go after a night in the cells, but it will unbalance him, and when criminals are unbalanced they sometimes do stupid things.’

  ‘So it’s just a faint hope?’

  ‘Faint, yes . . . but still a hope.’

  ‘And if he does nothing stupid . . . what then?’

  He sighed, gave her a speculative look, lowered his voice to a serious tone and said, ‘You must go to Zimbabwe. I would like to go myself, but it’s impossible.’ He tapped the pages in front of him. ‘What’s happening down there is interesting. Gloria Manners, the dead girl’s mother, has arrived by chartered jet, together with a man simply called Creasy and his son Michael, who is apparently adopted. They are both mercenaries. There was also a man called Maxie MacDonald, whom Ndlovu informs me is an ex-Selous Scout, which was an elite Rhodesian unit in the War for Independence.’ He tapped the papers again. ‘According to Ndlovu, Creasy and MacDonald are going into the bush in the area of the murders.’

  ‘Will they find anything?’

  His answer was measured, ‘I wouldn’t have thought so, but then, at the end of the fax, John Ndlovu mentioned that he made an enquiry to Interpol, both about Creasy and Maxie . . . not that they are criminals, but since the mercenary activity in Africa in the sixties and seventies, all intelligence information on mercenaries has been filed and collated by Interpol. Obviously, they charge a fee for their information and the fee has a scale of three, ranging from very brief details to their complete file.’ He read from the fax: ‘“Chief Inspector Chapman, my budget is such that I could only afford to obtain brief details on the subject Creasy, which I enclose. Since your budget must be greater than mine, perhaps you might wish to extract the full dossier from Interpol on both men. If so, I would be grateful for a faxed copy. I will keep you informed of any developments here and will be grateful for the same from your end. Signed, John Ndlovu (Commander CID)”.’

  Colin looked up and said, ‘So I sent a fax to Interpol for full dossiers on both men. You may or may not know it, but Interpol is not a police force as such. It is simply an office with some bright men and women and sophisticated computers. They correlate information from just about every police force in the world and, in some cases, such as this one, from intelligence organisations. The information on these two men came back within an hour.’ He passed her over a sheaf of faxed papers, ‘I think you should look at them.’

  She read the pages, and when she looked up he saw the glint of excitement in her eyes. She said, ‘So, Creasy is the lead man. MacDonald works for him. A few years ago Creasy wiped out an entire Mafia family down the length of Italy.’ She pulled the last page in front of her and read out the words. ‘The subject is not in the mould of the normal mercenary profile. Although he works for money, he is extremely discriminating about whom he works for. There is no knowledge of him ever having been involved in criminal activity or acts of terrorism or atrocity. From tragedies in his personal life, he appears to have developed a particular abhorrence for organised crime.’

  As she spoke the last words, Colin smiled, and then said, ‘Yes, Lucy, you could definitely describe Triads as organised crime. But from what you tell me, you don’t have the money to hire such a man and the team he would certainly need.’

  ‘It’s true,’ she said sadly. ‘But if Creasy finds something out in Zimbabwe, it’s possible there may be a connection which you could use here.’

  ‘Yes. It’s why I think you should go — and soon. I’ll phone John Ndlovu and ask him to give you his co-operation.’

  She gave him a hard look.

  ‘Are you suggesting that I go to Zimbabwe just to get me out of danger here in Hong Kong?’

  ‘Of course I want you out of danger here, but I have to admit that I’ll miss your company. The simple fact is, Lucy, I’m convinced that the two cases are linked, and if this man Creasy discovers something in Zimbabwe, we might get something on Tommy Mo. The Commissioner would never let me send one of my officers out there on pure speculation, but I think you should go and make contact with the man and with Mrs Manners.’

  She looked at him across the table and said, ‘So, you’ll miss my company?’

  He nodded firmly.

  ‘Understand something. I’ve spent years studying Chinese culture and languages and, of course, I’m surrounded by Chinese police officers, and count several as good friends. But I’ve never had much to do with Chinese women. I’m not one to go to the bars in Wan Chai or Kowloon, Yet, these last few days, I feel that in a small way, I’ve managed to cross the culture gap.’

  She nodded in agreement.

  ‘I feel the same, but we Chinese stick to our own. Being a modern Chinese girl in Hong Kong is not always simple. Within my race there is still a great deal of prejudice towards gweilos. Many still refer to you people as Sun Ging Fang Gweilos — barbarian foreign devils. Even among the educated. A woman in my position is forced to make a choice early on. If she goes out with a gweilo, then she is sort of contaminated in the eyes of Chinese men. The first man I ever went out with was an Englishman and although I took that decision, I have always felt somehow uncomfortable.’ She smiled. ‘But not with you, Colin. The other night in the restaurant, when you spoke to the waiter in the Fukien dialect, I was very proud to see the respect in his eyes. So somehow, for me, you have crossed that radical divide. I also enjoy your company. I know that I put on
a strong face, and some people I know are amazed that I show no emotion about what has happened to me. They cannot understand how I continue to stay in this house where my family were murdered. They don’t understand that I cannot bear to leave it, because I feel their spirits are still here and will remain here until I go far away. But inside of me there is terrible emotion. I loved my family, and I feel as though part of my heart has been cut away. Your concern and your friendship have been more important to me than I can put into words.’

  It moved on from there. They went into the lounge and Chapman phoned the office to check on the status of the red alert, which, he was informed, was still in effect. The cruise liner QE2, on her round the world trip, was due to berth at the sea terminal in the early hours of the morning, and Intelligence had suggested that it might be the target of a terrorist attack.

  They sat on the settee together and watched CNN news. After that catalogue of worldwide disasters, she put on some classical music, which she knew he liked. As Chopin’s Nocturnes drew to a close, she found her head resting on Colin’s shoulder and her mind both emotional and — for the first time in a long time — very relaxed.

  His arms slid around her shoulders. She lifted her face and they kissed. Her first thoughts were that, although he could read and write eighty thousand Chinese characters, he was not exactly an expert in kissing. But somehow his clumsiness was endearing. After a minute, she pulled away and, for something to say, remarked on how nice he smelled. He immediately looked embarrassed.

  ‘It’s aftershave lotion,’ he said, ‘I don’t usually wear it.’

  ‘It’s nice. What is it?’

  ‘Versus by Gianni Versace.’

  ‘Hmm, that’s expensive . . . a present from a girlfriend?’

  He looked discomfited and shook his head. ‘No . . . well . . . actually, I haven’t had a girlfriend in a long time.’

  She put her hand on his cheek and smiled.

  ‘Did you buy it yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Well . . . this afternoon.’

  She laughed. Not at him but with him. ‘Did you plan all this?’

  ‘Well, no . . . Let’s say it just happened. I put on Versace and you put on Chopin’s Nocturnes, which always make me romantic.’

  They moved to the bedroom. He admired the bed and she explained that it had been passed down through her family for several generations. It was a massive four-poster opium bed, ornately carved out of mahogany and ebony. She told him it was so heavy that when they had moved it into the house, twenty years ago, it had to be dismantled and then reassembled inside the bedroom.

  As they undressed each other he asked, ‘And do we get to smoke opium in it?’

  ‘Certainly not. First of all, I would never offer opium to a Chief Inspector of Police and, secondly, opium diminishes the sex drive.’

  She led the lovemaking. He ran his eyes and his hands over her slim body in silent wonderment, and then stroked the thin band of silky black hair between her thighs. Gently she pulled his head down to guide his lips to kiss her there. His body was impatient. He was breathing quickly. She slid under him and guided him into her and within minutes he was gasping with pent-up relief.

  She was not disappointed. Her instincts told her that it must have been weeks or months since he had last made love. But he was intensely embarrassed. She used the necessary words to comfort and reassure him, and then she slipped out of the bed, went into the bathroom and ran the hot tap over a small towel and took it back and gently wiped his genitals.

  They lay side by side in silence and just before she fell asleep, he murmured, ‘En goi ne’ . . . ‘ I love you’ in Cantonese.

  She gave him a feathery kiss but did not answer.

  She woke up three hours later, and lay with her head on his chest, and looked across at the bedside table, where he had left his shoulder-holster and gun. It seemed incongruous. She could not imagine him firing a gun. She could not imagine him as her lover, but she had no regrets about being in bed with him and lying in his arms. She felt not love, but a warm glow. She would leave in the morning for Zimbabwe. Maybe she would not come back. Maybe destiny would find a new life for her. She smiled at herself, thinking of destiny. She and Colin had discussed it a few times. He was very interested and knowledgeable about the myriad superstitions and beliefs in Chinese society, ancient and modern. He could understand how it might dominate the lives of poor people, but not modern, highly educated Chinese. She explained that, no matter how Western-orientated a Chinese might be, he always kept his ancient superstitions. Her father was a Western-educated scientist, but when he had built this house, he employed a Feng Shui expert together with the architect, and the two men had worked together so that the spirits, inside and outside the house, would be calm.

  Colin laughed and shook his head in surprise and asked, ‘Do you also believe in such things?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Very much. I believe the spirits affect the destiny of all of us.’

  It was ten minutes later when the window shattered . . . ten minutes after midnight. The light was still on and her eyes still open. She saw the oblong black object arcing across the room and, although she had never seen one before, she recognised it as a grenade. It hit the far wall, bounced off the white Tientsin carpet and rolled under the bed.

  She felt Colin’s body jerk beside her, and then the massive bed lifted and tilted with the explosion. She lay stunned on the carpet, but within seconds he was on his feet, grabbing at the gun and pulling her down behind the bed which had lost one leg. Two more grenades followed. The first one shattered into shrapnel. She felt a sharp pain in her arm and heard a grunt from him. The second grenade exploded into white flame and for several seconds she was blinded. She heard several explosions in other parts of the house and then voices shouting in Cantonese.

  Chapman was at the broken window, standing naked, the gun raised and firing rapidly. The door burst open and Chapman ducked and turned. There was a black-clad Chinese at the door, holding a machine-pistol. The phosphorous grenade had dimmed but it still gave a faint glow. The Chinese man’s eyes were darting around the room, looking for targets.

  A second figure appeared, also clad in black and also holding a machine-pistol. Next to her, Chapman fired and one of the men spun away. The other pulled back into the corridor. Then in a blurred sequence, she saw Colin hurl his now empty weapon at the door. She felt his arms around her and heard his voice screaming, ‘Run!’ And then he had lifted her off her feet and flung her through the window that was no longer there.

  As she rolled over the grass lawn, she heard the staccato sound of firing from inside the bedroom. To her left, another black-clad Chinese was lying moaning, his hands clutching his belly. She started back towards the window and then she saw Colin’s face there, twisted in agony.

  ‘Run!’ he hissed, and then his head lifted as more bullets slammed into his back. His naked torso slumped over the window-sill among the broken glass, and she saw the blood all over his back. She heard more shouting from inside the house and from the other side of the garden, and instinct made her run. Instinct made her stop by the pool and told her that she could not run fast enough. She was beside the small stone structure that housed the filtration plant. She pulled open the old wooden door, crawled in beside the round orange filter and the pump, and pulled the door closed. The shouting went on for another two minutes, then she heard more explosions from inside the house. She twisted and looked through the crack in the door. All she could see was flames. She could only hear the crackle of those flames and the roar as cars revved up outside the gates. Then she heard the scream of spinning tyres.

  Two minutes later, above the roar of the flames, she heard the howling of sirens. She pushed open the door and fell out beside the pool. She lay there, naked, feeling the slight wound in her shoulder, feeling hatred consuming her mind and her guts.

  Chapter 15

  The Ambassador arrived at the Meikles Hotel half
an hour after they had checked in. He was tall, grey-haired and courteous. Gloria received him in the lounge of her suite. Creasy, Maxie and Michael arrived a few minutes later. Creasy immediately noted the change in Gloria’s attitude. She was being pleasant.

  After a waiter had served coffee and departed, the Ambassador glanced at Creasy and said, ‘Of course, I know what you are and who you are. So do the Zimbabwe police. In fact, Commander John Ndlovu tells me that some years ago you and he chased each other around the mountains in Mozambique.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ Creasy answered.

  The Ambassador said ‘Well, now he’s a very good policeman. And, from what I hear, not corrupt.’ He turned back to Gloria. ‘Mrs Manners, I assure you he carried out a thorough investigation. I don’t think he can be blamed for not coming up with the suspects.’

  ‘Will he cooperate with us?’ Creasy asked.

  ‘Yes, although with some reluctance. Under such circumstances, in a murder investigation, no policeman likes a bunch of outsiders interfering.’

  ‘What about the firearms permits?’ Maxie asked.

  The Ambassador’s smile was a little grim.

  ‘That too,’ he said. ‘But it took a lot of persuasion.’ He glanced again at Creasy. ‘Are you still an American citizen, Mr Creasy?’

  ‘No. Like many Foreign Legionnaires, I took out French citizenship after my first five-year stint.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear that. As American Ambassador here, I’d prefer not to have armed American mercenaries roaming the country, even if they do have police permission. What about your son?’

  ‘I have a Maltese passport,’ Michael answered.

  Maxie chipped in. ‘And I exchanged my Rhodesian passport for a British one after Independence.’

  The Ambassador was looking positively pleased. He turned again to Gloria. ‘Mrs Manners, I would have liked to invite you to the residency for dinner, but I understand that you’re only staying for one night. And, unfortunately, tonight I have to attend an official function. What are your plans from tomorrow?’