breathe through his nose as much as possible because he worried about catching flu or something. There must have been at least two dozen people within breathing distance and any one of them could have had something contagious, he thought.
Standing on the MTR and swaying as the train braked to a halt, he made the effort to concentrate his mind on the work that was piling up on his desk. There were at least ten cases that had to be treated as urgent, but there were two that he was particularly interested in. One was a complicated fraud case involving a small Chinese bank – a case of cheque kiting that involved three Hong Kong deposit-taking companies and banks in Texas, Geneva and the Cayman Islands. The stream of cheques, each one covering another, had totalled 160 million dollars before anyone had noticed, and the twenty-three-year-old cashier who looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth had netted herself a cool $12 million with the scam. Dugan was putting a case together and, just as importantly, was trying to track down the missing money. The girl was out on bail, her passport confiscated, and Dugan was sure that at any moment she’d disappear into the mainland or to Taiwan. God, what he’d give to go with her – and the money.
The other case concerned a company that sold computers and then stole them back a couple of months later. Over a dozen firms, most of them in Sha Tin, had been hit, the same computers in each case. Dugan reckoned there’d be a triad link somewhere and privately nursed the hope that it would bring him to the attention of the top brass in the anti-triad squad. He was getting bloody nowhere, though. How was he expected to, for God’s sake, when he was practically chained to his desk?
He brooded about the unfairness of it all as he got off the train and took the escalator to the surface of Wan Chai MTR station. The hot air took him by surprise as it always did when he left the air-conditioned station and stepped into the bright sunlight. By the time he got to his office he was sweating. He slumped into his chair, glared at the pile of pale green files on his desk and sighed deeply. Coffee, he thought, and wandered out into the corridor. His boss, a beanpole by the name of Chief Inspector Christopher Tomkins – Chief Inspector to his friends – was by the machine, gingerly removing a liquid-filled cup.
‘Why the hell does this machine always fill right up to the brim?’ he asked Dugan.
Dugan shoved a two-dollar coin into the slot. He pressed the button marked ‘black coffee with sugar’. The machine vomited dark brown liquid into Dugan’s plastic cup. It stopped half an inch from the top.
‘It likes you,’ said Tomkins, jealously.
Dugan took his coffee back to his laden desk and slumped down in the chair. It rocked dangerously; one of the wheels was loose – again. At least once a week he upended it and screwed the five castors in as tight as he could but it seemed to make no difference. Sometimes he worried that Tomkins might be sneaking into his office late at night and unscrewing them. As he sat down he realized that Tomkins had followed him. He seemed to have something on his mind, so Dugan looked at him expectantly.
‘The computer case,’ said Tomkins.
‘It’s going well,’ said Dugan. ‘I thought I might visit a few of the computer shops in Tsim Sha Tsui, rattle a few cages and see what falls out.’
‘Actually Pat, I’ve had a call from the anti-triad squad. They want the file sent over.’
‘What!’ Dugan snapped. ‘How the hell do they know about it?’ It was obvious from the look on Tomkins’ face that he’d told them. Dugan shook his head, lost for words. His big case. His chance to be noticed.
‘Come on, Pat, you’ve got a heavy case load as it is. You should be glad they want to help.’
‘Help?’ said Dugan. ‘You mean they’ll let me work on the case with them?’ Tomkins looked embarrassed at the hope in Dugan’s voice.
‘No,’
Standing on the MTR and swaying as the train braked to a halt, he made the effort to concentrate his mind on the work that was piling up on his desk. There were at least ten cases that had to be treated as urgent, but there were two that he was particularly interested in. One was a complicated fraud case involving a small Chinese bank – a case of cheque kiting that involved three Hong Kong deposit-taking companies and banks in Texas, Geneva and the Cayman Islands. The stream of cheques, each one covering another, had totalled 160 million dollars before anyone had noticed, and the twenty-three-year-old cashier who looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth had netted herself a cool $12 million with the scam. Dugan was putting a case together and, just as importantly, was trying to track down the missing money. The girl was out on bail, her passport confiscated, and Dugan was sure that at any moment she’d disappear into the mainland or to Taiwan. God, what he’d give to go with her – and the money.
The other case concerned a company that sold computers and then stole them back a couple of months later. Over a dozen firms, most of them in Sha Tin, had been hit, the same computers in each case. Dugan reckoned there’d be a triad link somewhere and privately nursed the hope that it would bring him to the attention of the top brass in the anti-triad squad. He was getting bloody nowhere, though. How was he expected to, for God’s sake, when he was practically chained to his desk?
He brooded about the unfairness of it all as he got off the train and took the escalator to the surface of Wan Chai MTR station. The hot air took him by surprise as it always did when he left the air-conditioned station and stepped into the bright sunlight. By the time he got to his office he was sweating. He slumped into his chair, glared at the pile of pale green files on his desk and sighed deeply. Coffee, he thought, and wandered out into the corridor. His boss, a beanpole by the name of Chief Inspector Christopher Tomkins – Chief Inspector to his friends – was by the machine, gingerly removing a liquid-filled cup.
‘Why the hell does this machine always fill right up to the brim?’ he asked Dugan.
Dugan shoved a two-dollar coin into the slot. He pressed the button marked ‘black coffee with sugar’. The machine vomited dark brown liquid into Dugan’s plastic cup. It stopped half an inch from the top.
‘It likes you,’ said Tomkins, jealously.
Dugan took his coffee back to his laden desk and slumped down in the chair. It rocked dangerously; one of the wheels was loose – again. At least once a week he upended it and screwed the five castors in as tight as he could but it seemed to make no difference. Sometimes he worried that Tomkins might be sneaking into his office late at night and unscrewing them. As he sat down he realized that Tomkins had followed him. He seemed to have something on his mind, so Dugan looked at him expectantly.
‘The computer case,’ said Tomkins.
‘It’s going well,’ said Dugan. ‘I thought I might visit a few of the computer shops in Tsim Sha Tsui, rattle a few cages and see what falls out.’
‘Actually Pat, I’ve had a call from the anti-triad squad. They want the file sent over.’
‘What!’ Dugan snapped. ‘How the hell do they know about it?’ It was obvious from the look on Tomkins’ face that he’d told them. Dugan shook his head, lost for words. His big case. His chance to be noticed.
‘Come on, Pat, you’ve got a heavy case load as it is. You should be glad they want to help.’
‘Help?’ said Dugan. ‘You mean they’ll let me work on the case with them?’ Tomkins looked embarrassed at the hope in Dugan’s voice.
‘No,’
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