Slipping into Shadow

Slipping in to Shadow

A Kenneth Aubrey and Patrick Hyde Novel

Craig Thomas

for

Daw Aung San Suu Kyi

and

The National League for Democracy

with admiration

CHARACTERS

Alder, Robert: US Congressman

Aubrey, Sir Kenneth de Vere: Retired chair of Joint Intelligence Committee and former director of British Secret Intelligence Service (MI6)

Aung San Suu Kyi: Burmese politician, diplomat, author, and a 1991 Nobel Peace Prize laureate

Cass, Philip: British Intelligence field agent in Burma

Cobb: Employed on security duties by Ralph Lau

Davenhill, Alex: Senior British civil servant, Foreign and Commonwealth Office.

Evans, Colin: Former British field agent, posted to the High Commission in Kuala Lumpur

Feng, General: Chinese People’s Liberation Army officer

Fuller: British Representative in Penang

Godwin, Tony: Consultant; Former British Intelligence officer.

Hyde, Patrick: Field agent

Grainger, Peter: British Member of Parliament

Henderson: Australian policeman

Hyde, Patrick: Former British intelligence field agent

Jessop: Former British Intelligence agent, working on security duties for Ralph Lau

Lal, Rabindur: Father of Syeeda, Midlands restaurant owner

Lal, Syeeda: Burmese émigré

Lau, Ralph (Yen-Chih)Cousin of David Winterborne; CEO of Winterborne Holdings

Lim: Burmese minister

Mung Thant, Major General: Minister for Hotels and Tourism, Burma

Pearson, Bruce: Managing Director, Straits Royal Hotel Group

Pyott, Marian: Member of the UK Parliament (MP); daughter of Giles Pyott

Pyott, Sir GilesFormer British intelligence officer; father of Marian Pyott

Salter, Sir Maurice: Head of Far East and Asia department, FCO

Scudamore: Former Special Branch officer

Wang Wei, General: Chinese People’s Liberation Army officer

Winterborne, Clive Sir: Father of David Winterborne and old friend of Kenneth Aubrey

Woode, Ros: Businesswoman and partner of Patrick Hyde

Yao Fan, Colonel: Chinese army officer

PRELUDE

… the young are lost forever. Yet someone hears on high …

Aeschylus, Agamemnon, 11.60–1

Across the river, the high-rise banks were like scorched, blackened trees against the sear of the lightning. Patrick Hyde flinched instinctively against the nuclear light of the glare, then at the tropical thunder which followed. The humid, hot night air smelt of ozone. Then the halo of light around the arrogant figure of the Raggles Statue died away, and he blinked and stretched the glare from his retinae and focused on the small group of men around the base of the statue.

The two Chinese were no more than bodyguards, one of them leaning on the railing, the river behind him, the second a shadow on the pavement twenty yards away. The river gleamed with the city’s reflected neon and the strung-bead lights of tourist and restaurant junks. His man was half crouched in conversation with a Malay and a white man, between the statue and the river. The noise of the thunder rolled away towards the Malaysian mainland. He recognised the Malay as the usual supplier; the white man, the one this half-a-cock operation had been designed to draw out, was a stranger to Hyde.

The whispered, urgent conversation between the three men tickled in the earpiece of the surveillance equipment.

The receiver and its tiny recorder were under his armpit. The harness was tight, sweat-making, across his chest and back.

Hyde raised the SLR camera and its long, Minimodulux night-vision lens to his eye, resting the barrel of the telephoto lens on the parapet of the bridge. He adjusted the focus, and the features of Henderson, the crooked Sydney cop, appeared like a clear, sharp residue. The Malay was almost face-on to him; the white man was bending his profile obligingly into the frame. Hyde pressed the button noiselessly, and the film moved on silently. He took two more pictures. Their conversation had once more stuttered to a halt. Hyde could see black sweat stains on the armpits of Henderson’s suit.

Lightning walked brutally along the edge of Singapore city, out near Changi airport, succeeded by deafening thunder. The humidity, having parted like an enveloping curtain for a second or two, pressed back around him. He listened in the returned silence to the hot, tense absence of words between the three men.

It was all too last-minute to allow any confidence. He had turned Henderson only a week earlier, photographing him handing over—out of the boot of his car, its number plate sharply in focus in the shots—a consignment of Burmese heroin in Sydney’s King’s Cross district to a known dealer, a Vietnamese. Henderson, when confronted with the incriminating evidence, had crumbled, and agreed to force a meeting in Singapore with someone higher up than the Malay who usually supplied him. It had been an act of desperation, and unofficial. Australian Security and Intelligence, who had co-opted Hyde into the undercover team investigating police corruption and involvement in drug dealing, had been about to pull the plug on the operation. Just at the moment when it seemed to be widening and deepening. The politicians, in an election year, wanted only so much corruption, a show trial of the half-dozen crooked detectives they had exposed. Hyde, furious as a denied child, had wanted more.

So Henderson had been forced to arrange a meeting, ostensibly to try for an increase in supplies of Burmese heroin, and had to wear a microphone taped to his body. Be photographed. Provide enough evidence to force Sydney to allow the undercover operation to continue, to widen its brief. Six crooked cops didn’t account for the hundreds of kilos of Burmese heroin flooding into Oz every year …

Henderson himself knew little, next to nothing. He and his corrupt cronies collected the heroin from various Chinese or Malay bag men, in either Singapore or Macau—while staying free of charge at a five-star hotel or resort and playing the casinos with unlimited credit—then brought it into Oz by means of a brown-envelope job with two bent Customs officers at Kingsford Smith airport. The heroin would be in their hand luggage, which was never X-rayed, never searched. It had been happening like that for three years. Sometimes Henderson or one of his mates took the heroin up to a Queensland resort, sometimes they passed it directly to Sydney dealers.

Hyde shivered into attentiveness as Henderson said: ‘We can handle more, I tell you. It’ll be no sweat, sport …

We can guarantee the stuff can be got in—two, three times as often, three or four times as much—in complete safety …’ He could hear Henderson’s arrhythmic breathing, stifled, harsh. Being wired turned everybody into a bad actor.

The white man, tall and slim, grey-suited in the humid night, seemed unimpressed. The long fingers of his right hand stroked his narrow chin. Hyde could not avoid the suspicion that he was assessing Henderson’s performance. Did he suspect he was wired?

Again, Hyde cursed the electrics failure that had delayed his flight from Sydney for eight hours. Cursed more violently Medhev Kumar’s scribbled note, left for him at his hotel with the surveillance equipment he had asked for something about his mother being ill; Kumar, his invaluable local help, had bolted back to his godforsaken Burmese village without even organising local backup for Hyde.

Although he had not told the Sydney cop, he was on his own. If anything went wrong, he couldn’t do a thing to help Henderson.

‘We’re satisfied with present arrangements,’ the white man murmured. The accent was Australian, but ironed out and cushioned by money or habitual authority. The two Chinese remained posed in apparent unconcern, but the Malay seemed to hover a step closer—

Lightning lit the air again, irradiating the group near the statue and startling Henderson; Hyde viewed the scene, clearly through the camera. In the moment before the thunder deafened him, he heard the man’s breathing leap, his heartbeat race in the earpiece. Felt his own tension mount. The light died behind the tall office blocks marshalled like glass and concrete sentries on the opposite bank of the river. Then the humid darkness returned with Singapore’s night-time glow.

The Malay had moved still closer to Henderson, and the white man was bending towards him. Henderson didn’t know the man, that much was obvious and hugely disappointing.

‘It wasn’t necessary for me to be here,’ he observed languidly, his words muffled by Henderson’s rapid breathing. Hyde could see, through the camera lens, the sheen of sweat on Henderson’s forehead. He looked as pale as a corpse. ‘You asked for this meeting, Inspector, with someone who could authorise—you seem nervous?’

It had changed. The situation had teetered off-balance, and now it had stumbled.

‘What’s the matter, Henderson? What’s wrong?’ the white man asked.

It was like watching a very familiar movie, where Hyde already knew the next snatches of dialogue, the actors’ expressions and movements. He watched, beginning to be appalled. It was going wrong, it was blown. Unless Henderson—

—lightning lit the unfolding scene once more—it instantly became a tableau like that in a horror movie. Henderson’s features were crumbling into fear, the scene almost colourless through the night-vision lens, the tall banks standing out like mausoleums across the silvered water. The Malay moved closer to Henderson, the cop protested feebly, the light died away. The Malay exclaimed as his quick hands discovered that Henderson was wired—

—all noise became drowned by the tropical thunder.

As the glare faded from Hyde’s retinae, he made out a still, single form lying in the shadow of the Raffles Statue, other running shadows making for the long black limousine parked a hundred yards away on Parliament Lane. As the thunder retreated, he heard the car’s engine catch and then accelerate away. A gleam of brake lights. He lowered the camera from his eye and the scene diminished, snatched away from him as certainly and violently as Henderson had been. Hyde pulled the silent earpiece from his ear and flung it away, glancing inside his cotton jacket at the webbing of the harness that held the receiver and recorder, as at some malignant tumour that moment confirmed.

‘Shit,’ he breathed. The humid air stifled other words.

He stood upright on the Cavanagh Bridge. At that distance, Raffles’ statue was man-sized, and the prone shadow of Henderson’s body was no larger than a patch of rainwater that hadn’t yet dried. He banged his hands on the parapet, scenting the first food stalls beside the river, flaring with fires as small as pistol flames. Then he stared down at the sullen, light-flecked water flowing beneath the pedestrian bridge.

He wanted to blame Kumar, who had disappeared and left him stranded, unable to protect Henderson with local help. Knowing that it was really he himself who had got Henderson knifed to death. He’d become greedy for what he imagined Henderson could lead him to—new faces like that of the white man, connections with the hotel chain whose casinos must be laundering operations for the heroin profits … Hyde shook his head. Banged his palms once more on the parapet. He had wanted to stop the undercover operation being closed down, had wanted to see where it would lead … and had sacrificed Henderson, without authority, for the sake of his curiosity and anger. And a theory that ASIO and the Commissioner of Police didn’t believe.

Dead end. There was nothing more, no other way of going on with it.

He unscrewed the lens from the camera and dropped them both into the sports bag at his feet. Took off his jacket and tugged at the Velcro holding the harness tightly around his sweating back and chest. Threw it all into the bag. Someone laughed on the deck of a tourist junk passing beneath the bridge. Lightning exposed the shape of Henderson’s corpse. Then the returning darkness and the noise of thunder.

There’d be a show trial of the five surviving corrupt cops to reassure the public. The politicians and the businessmen would hear their heart rates subside, their breathing become easier. It was so bloody big, the Burmese heroin trade, that no one wanted to know the real truth.

Hyde picked up the shoulder bag. There was no point in going anywhere near the body and perhaps being seen. Henderson was dead.

He walked back across the bridge towards the tunnel of food stalls and Parliament House, not glancing once at the statue of Singapore’s founder and the small stain of the body lying at its base.

Using her pencil with an angry weight, Marian Pyott scored through the man’s name, amused by the image of castration that flitted through her imagination. Leaning back carefully in her chair to avoid aggravating the customary ache in her back and side, she lit another cigarette and blew smoke at the yellowing ceiling. The rain dribbled on the window of the constituency office like saliva on a geriatric chin. She shivered. Early October was already cold, and the central heating had not been serviced; the electric file smelt of singed dust and was inadequate to the task of warming the big, drab room in which she held her Saturday-morning surgeries.

She snorted smoke at the memory of the man’s telephone call. Get me off this drink-driving charge, there’s a good girl … When she had refused his threats and bragging pleas, it had become a question of didn’t know why he’d ever voted for her, wouldn’t do it again, what else was she there for? The police had breathalysed him in a pub car park. His contributions to party funds, the use of his lawn to erect a tent for a fundraiser apparently had been enough to ensure her interference with the course of the law.

‘I haven’t time to help you,’ she announced to the rain smeared window.

There were constituents waiting in the outer room, silent but for the noises of a child playfully tormenting a dog. She looked down at her list. Four more cases. It was already eleven thirty. She had only the sketchiest details of whatever had interrupted their lives sufficiently for them to need their Member of Parliament’s help on a rainy morning in autumn when they would normally be shopping. She had already dealt with six cases. Dealt? Listened, soothed, upbraided, offered advice or assistance—but not solved. Most of them expected their problems to appear within the week on a televised Commons programme, at the heart of a ringing speech on justice, freedom and the rights of the individual; momentary celebrity where there was no real solution.

An old woman terrorised on a council estate abandoned by the police and social services to the depredations of muggers and burglars … the wife whose vanished husband the CSA were too busy or incompetent to trace … the Managing Director of a local company swallowed by a conglomerate and whose workforce were now having their jobs exported to Mexico.

Her left leg ached as she shifted her weight in her chair. Must be the weather. She still walked with a slight limp. There was a neat scar behind her left ear and one on her neck; other and larger weals on her pelvis, stomach and arm—all of them tangible reminders that David Winterborne had tried to have her murdered in Brussels a year ago. Marian shivered at the recollection, then lit another cigarette and smoked it noisily. The child and the dog continued to bicker in the waiting room.

She had visited David once in prison—a large country house in Kent. In his first-floor room he had his hi-fi, his books and computer, and nothing but trust kept him within the prison grounds. He continued to run his business empire from what the Home Office was pleased to call his confinement. His father, Clive, had assumed non-executive chairmanship of Winterborne Holdings. She had gone there to show him she was walking, breathing, that the scars were covered by her hair and clothes … and to gloat, just a little. Instead, seeing his fax machine, his computer, the small bank of telephones, the deference of the prison officers, it had been she who had been outfaced and humiliated. David had laughed at her, sensing her motives and their disappointment.

In exchange for his pleading guilty to the misappropriation of European Union funds, the Crown Prosecution Service had dropped all other charges and abandoned their investigation into murder by proxy, the ruin of an American aircraft company, the sabotage of two airliners. The Home Office had refused to extradite him to face charges in the US. He would be free in another ten months without a stain on his character. The limp, the nightmares and the blinding headaches would all last longer than David’s term of imprisonment.

Once more she snorted smoke at the ceiling. Bugger David, she decided savagely, grinding out the cigarette and pressing the buzzer to summon the next constituent on her list. Road-widening in a village on the edge of the constituency, where the city and its satellite market town struggled out into Warwickshire. A farmer and a newcomer had joined forces to protest, the latter middle class, articulate and Green. Whose car had they come in? she wondered, recovering her humour. Her dissatisfaction with David Winterborne’s exposure and sentence was—she occasionally admitted—no more than a motif for a deeper vacancy and discontent; for something missing in her private world, a sense of empty space in her personal life.

She heard the woman’s sharp voice raised in protest in the waiting room, then the farmer’s bass lilt, and an Asian voice, young and female, that she recognised. The temperature of the voices was becoming that of a quarrel. Marian scowled and pushed back her chair, moving awkwardly, then more easily as the cramp in her left leg eased. Her agent’s secretary must have popped out. She usually kept better order.

She opened the door.

Three actors and a small audience. The farmer and his Green conscience in her denims and Burberry waterproof. And Syeeda Lal, rain speckling the shoulders of her raincoat, water dripping on to the scuffed and worn carpet from her umbrella. All three turned to her as if on cue.

Marian held up her hands.

‘Mrs Topping has popped out, I see. Please!’ she insisted. ‘One at a time.’

The Green conscience evidently felt that the Burberry conferred precedence. She was about to speak when Syeeda burst out:

‘Please, Marian—! This is an emergency, really! I have to talk to you now!’ Her huge eyes were stained beneath as if with kohl. Her quivering mouth seemed only able to approximate to her words and breathing. Marian could not ignore the hunted expression on her face.

Ostentatiously, she looked at her watch.

‘Five minutes,’ she announced. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Rainsford, I’m sure you understand—’ She ushered Syeeda into the office and closed the door on the Rainsford female blustering at the offence to her importance and convictions.

Marian lost all interest in the traffic problems of a gentrified village. Syeeda looked like an escapee caught in a bright searchlight, frightened and bewildered.

‘Syeeda—please sit down.’ she insisted. The young woman seemed rendered savage, unused to rooms and furniture, by whatever had happened to her. ‘Please …’

She pulled the chair away from the desk and all but forced Syeeda Lal on to it, where she perched like a hunched, bedraggled bird, her hands twisting in her lap, the rain gleaming on her shoulders and sparkling in her black hair. Carefully, Marian regained her seat.

‘What is it? What can I do?’

Syeeda looked up from her hands. The strap of her shoulder bag fell to rest in the crook of her arm. The umbrella stained the carpet. Her huge eyes filled with tears, which began to stream helplessly down her cheeks. ‘He’s—dead.’ Utter bewilderment, the traumatic shock of a collision at high speed. ‘Medhev … the police. They came to see me at the restaurant—to tell me. Medhev is dead …’ Her suddenly husky voice seemed to be lost in her grief and despair.

‘Now—today?’ was all that Marian could offer.

She knew the boy, Medhev Kumar. She had been introduced to him some three or four months before, soon after he had arrived in the market town—from Burma, of all places. Syeeda managed the Jaipur restaurant for her father; the jewel in the crown of his small chain of Indian restaurants. Kumar was some kind of distant relative.

There was some concealed, even tragic reason for his leaving Burma.

‘Today?’ Marian repeated. ‘How?’

Syeeda nodded fiercely, then abruptly the gesture changed to one of vehement denial. Tears and rain fell into her lap.

‘They say it was … an overdose of drugs.’ She swallowed with an ugly, gobbling sound. ‘They asked me how long he had been an addict …. They asked me if l knew he was suspected of selling drugs!’ It was as if she was a medium for the dead boy, protesting his innocence.

The rain was chilly on the tugged glass of the tall, eighteenth-century window. Even the framed photograph of the former Prime Minister and Tory leader, despite its egregious, smirking expression, seemed unsettled by Syeeda’s outburst.

They’re saying that Medhev was … a drug dealer?

Surely they can’t think that—?’

‘They do!’ The tears were gone, and her eyes were darkly fierce. ‘They thought his connections with Myanmar very interesting! They said they had been watching him for some time—even that his asylum claim might have been a lie to help him stay!’

‘Burma?’

Kumar was from Myanmar—she still thought of it as Burma—and so was a great deal of the heroin finding its way into the UK. He had come to work in one of Rabindur Lal’s restaurants and had applied for political asylum. The grounds were his support for Aung San Suu Kyi and the democracy movement in Burma, and his opposition to the military junta. As far as Marian knew, his application was still being processed. Her few conversations with a junior Home Office minister on the subject had been reassuring. She had believed the boy’s story, guided his application. Had it been nothing but lies?

She masked her expression of doubt behind cigarette smoke.

Kumar had, a month before, become engaged to Syeeda. If his application for asylum failed, he’d be able to stay as her husband. Syeeda’s ever-indulgent parents had forgiven Kumar even his poverty and had blessed the engagement.

There had been an aloofness about Kumar, a prickly secretiveness that was almost contempt for Marian’s own protestations and articles in the cause of Burmese democracy. Almost as if he had regarded her as a complacent, bleeding-heart outsider. He had never discussed his tragic country with her. Was it her resentment of that that made it possible to believe ill of him now?

‘Was it—heroin?’

‘Yes!’ Syeeda snapped back, as if she had read Marian’s thoughts. ‘Marian—Medhev did not take drugs. I trained as a nurse; I would know the signs! I know what addiction looks like.’

‘You’re certain…? God, this is—terrible.’

He might have dealt in drugs, though. Marian, with a sharp, clear selfishness, did feel deceived. Syeeda’s face was bent towards her hands. The rain beat against the window. She heard the hum of traffic, the noises of feet on the wet pavement, the dog and the child in the waiting room Mrs Topping’s over-loud, over-cheerful voice startled them both out of their long silence. Back from shopping, Marian thought, her mind eager to berth at some great distance from the knowledge of the boy’s death and her suspicions of him.

Syeeda had been a nursing sister until the pressure of her parents’ son-less marriage had squeezed her into the role of heiress to the restaurant chain. She would have known if Kumar had been an addict. Not necessarily known whether or not he was a dealer …

The Union of Myanmar—Burma—was one angle of the Golden Triangle. Kumar had come from some obscure village in Shan state, in the north-east of the country, where the heroin trade was all-powerful, all-pervasive. Was he—?

She realised that Syeeda was shaking her head violently as she watched her intently. Her perm-frizzed hair swung as heavily as a cape about her small face.

‘It’s not true,’ she said. ‘You will help me find the truth, Marian—won’t you?’

Then she seemed to subside, some spring in her broken. The Monet print on the far wall, the grey filing cabinets, the posters and lists, the dusty leather sofa and the scratched desk all reasserted their habitual impression that nothing as serious as this could happen amid those surroundings.

Yes, she would ring the local police, a detective inspector she knew quite well. Perhaps even the Chief Constable. The matter could, at least, be clarified. She hesitated, then asked:

‘Did—did the police say they found drugs? On Medhev, at his—?’

Syeeda nodded angrily.

‘They say there was heroin hidden in his flat. Under the mattress on which he was … found.’ The words vanished into a tunnel of grief, her features collapsing into anguish. Marian glanced aside from the desperation in her eyes and picked up the telephone. Then Syeeda recovered her voice. ‘I hadn’t seen him for twenty-four hours. He rang in to say he couldn’t come to the restaurant, that he wasn’t feeling well—yesterday. Then, this morning’—surprisingly, she looked at her watch—’an hour ago, the police came. I’d just got back from the market, and they were waiting for me …’ She was no longer speaking to Marian but to herself.

Marian dialled the police number. Kumar—Burma—heroin … Syeeda’s beloved fiancé—an addict and a dealer…?

PART ONE

the golden river

A keen hound, this stranger.

Trailing murder, and murder she will find.

Aeschylus, Agamemnon, 11.1094–4

The Buddhist concept of law is based on dhamma, righteousness or virtue, not on the power to impose harsh and inflexible rules on a defenceless people.

Aung San Suu Kyi (1989)

CHAPTER ONE

the lotus eater

The pleasure of Ros’ mood increased as she entered the house that looked down from Sydney’s North Shore towards the Bridge and the Opera House—until she saw him standing at the open windows of the lounge, hands in the pockets of his Armani suit, shoulders slightly hunched, staring abstractedly down at the Harbour and the city. The Bridge was already a necklace of vehicle lights, though the spring day lingered in the soft air beyond the balcony.

Evidently flung angrily aside, a newspaper lay on the thick carpet near the window. Its front page blared the first day of the trial on corruption and drug charges of five officers of the Sydney police force. The set of Hyde’s body, back still towards her, was that of sullen, even baffled defiance. When he turned to her, his expression was grim, his disappointment obvious.

‘OK?’ he asked without any real interest, nodding at the briefcase and the big artist’s folder that she dropped on to the chaise-longue.

‘Fine!’ she returned, still hoping that his mood would evaporate. ‘Great!’ The words fell between them like unfilled balloons. ‘You’re ready early,’ she added, brushing her hair away from her cheeks.

The distant hum of traffic from rush-hour home-going reached her through the open windows. Hands still in his pockets, he seemed to study her and the context of the room as if he had that moment awoken in a strange place. Ros took the tumbler of gin and tonic from the housekeeper and raised it towards him. The room’s occasional tables and other polished surfaces were suitably littered with trays of canapés, bowls of nibbles for people to peck at. In the dining room beyond the lounge, the William IV table was laden with glasses and a cold buffet. She had glanced in and been satisfied. ‘Here’s to a good day’s work. Cheers, Hyde;’

‘I’m glad,’ he responded without enthusiasm. ‘You swung the contract, then.’

She shook her head, confidence undimmed by admission.

‘Not yet. But close—’

He followed her on to the balcony. The big house seemed to lean out over the water like a poised, confident diver. Sails speckled the Harbour, most of them as small as wave-flecks. She smelt the early evening’s first barbecue, heard the murmur of voices from a neighbour’s garden. She breathed deeply.

When she spoke, her tone was one of parental cajoling. ‘Never mind, you did well, there’s no need to be upset.’ The trouble with Hyde was the whole business had become an obsession. ‘Can’t you just forget it for this evening. Please—?’ She held his arm and squeezed it. ‘Ros, for Christ’s sake—!’

‘Hyde! What’s the bloody matter with you?’

‘The Commissioner, what do you think?’

‘You got in to see him, then?’

‘Him and the bloody Director of ASIO—after banging on every door I could find for the last four months, someone heard me knocking!’ He walked away from her to the far end of the balcony. ‘They told me to piss off. The Commissioner thought my theories were more than a little fanciful, Mr Hyde. We’re grateful for your help, of course …’

Ros burst into laughter at his wickedly accurate impersonation of the Commissioner of Police. Hyde disgorged a tired grin in response.

‘You did your best, Hyde. Bugger the powers-that-be if they don’t want to listen … They don’t need the hassle. Having five blokes in the dock is enough for them. It reassures the public that the people they vote for are looking after them. I did—’

‘Warn me? Darling, you did.’ He raised his arms above his head in bafflement. ‘You even told me I was barking up the wrong gum, that my theories were crap. The first stages of paranoia.’ His impersonation of her was just as cuttingly accurate.

Behind them, the caterers moved as if on castors through the well-lit rooms, their voices whispers, their movements a reminder to Ros that she was a rich businesswoman, a charitable hostess, an arts patroness. That evening, after a brief cocktail reception at the house, a column of limousines would take them and their guests to a charity premiere of Don Giovanni at the Opera House. Supper would follow, back at the house.

‘I’m sorry.’ Her impatience bubbled despite her sympathy. Hyde was looking for something; his motive was dissatisfaction. ‘But you’ve come back here carrying the banner with the strange device, Hyde. On a crusade to clean up the whole bloody country.’ She moved closer to him and again squeezed his arm. He tossed his head in reluctant admission. She finished her gin and tonic, the ice clinking against her teeth. ‘I need a shower—and I’ve got ten minutes!’ she blurted, looking at her watch. Her plump hand patted his arm. ‘You’ll be all right—this evening, I mean?’

‘Just pissed off! I’ll be OK. I won’t misbehave.’

‘Ta. Anyway, now that you’ve signed off, you can come to Singapore with me next week. Or go and do Aubrey’s little errand first, and I’ll meet you in Penang. We’ll have a bit of a holiday—?’

‘OK. Sure—distraction’s OK, Ros.’

‘You can’t take this any further, Hyde.’

‘No, I bloody can’t, can I?’ he sulked. Then he smiled and raised his hands. ‘OK. They’ve blown full-time. I promise.’

‘Good.’

Ros, prepared to be easily satisfied, retreated from the balcony, at once calling out to the housekeeper and the caterers something about the time, the number of guests, the table setting.

Hyde continued to watch the flecks of the sails on the slowly darkening water of the Parramatta. Across the Harbour, the city went about tidying its glittering business day and anticipating its evening. Insects had begun to detonate against cold blue lights along the balcony and those scattered like mines over the terraced gardens below.

Ros was right, of course and as always. He knew he must acknowledge failure, four months after Henderson had been killed in Singapore. In reality, that had been the door closing; he just hadn’t heard the slamming noise. Since then, everything had been abortive, time-wasting—all the trips to Queensland, Singapore, Macau, the bank accounts of the arrested police officers, the hotel records that demonstrated that they had always forgotten to pay their bills, that they had been allowed unlimited credit in hotel casinos on their jaunts to collect the heroin … Everything growing bigger and cloudier all the time, and messier. The political joes didn’t like that. Ros was right again. They just wanted a nice little show trial and the votes it brought.

The Commissioner of Police and the Director of ASIO—who had flown up from Canberra for the meeting—had read his palm for him. Bugger off and leave this alone, was the unmistakable message. You’re becoming a nuisance. He’d stormed out like a tragedy queen, of course.

It had become an obsession. Nice two-year-old by boredom out of displacement. The dirty weekend with Dangerwoman was over, it was Monday morning …

Ros had flourished in Oz while he had quietly wilted. She’d inherited her uncle’s cattle stations and property interests, sold the former, invested wisely, bought up companies as if by whim rather than design, and Midas touched them, for the most part. The interior design agency she’d acquired had become a passion. Ros was having fun, discovering a talent for business, design, fundraising. She was utterly at home in Australia ….

…while he was merely resident here. London was no longer home, while Oz, which he had left as a child, remained somehow alien and unreal; a holiday destination he had forgotten to leave before his airline booking was past its sell-by date. He wore the country like his Armani suit, as a disguise, an apparent identity, but without meaning. His sense of somehow being on a desert island like a lotus eater rarely left him. He was tied to London only by the unsold house in Earls Court and the cats, who he refused to collect and bring out to Oz. They remained in Earls Court, half adopted by Max, the ground floor tenant.

Ros was fixed now, as surely as any Ten-Pound Pom who’d come out in the fifties or sixties. He, too, was quartered safe in Sydney’s best suburb. There was no going from here. He could never leave Ros, ought to be content.

Wasn’t … Othello’s occupation’s gone, Ros had quoted at him. The mockery hadn’t worked. The undercover operation had been work, while it lasted. Something in the job centre for his peculiar talents. And it remained out there, unfinished … five crooked cops didn’t account for the heroin flooding into Oz from Burma. Straits Royal Group hotels had to be involved, otherwise why the free holidays for the cops and the unlimited credit in their casinos? Perhaps if Kumar hadn’t buggered off when he had, Henderson might have led them on, further into the maze…? Kumar had gone to England, working in a curry shop in the Midlands. No explanation in his one letter as to why he’d dropped everything and gone running back to Burma. Just hints that he was onto something big … daydreaming like Hyde himself while he adjusted to dull normality, in all probability. He hadn’t replied to the letter. He shook his head, then rubbed his curling hair angrily, as if rubbing out ideas, regrets. Then he stretched in the evening warmth. His ribs hardly even ached now from a beating he’d taken in the King’s Cross district from two of the suspect coppers and a dealer’s minder … Within an inch at that point—

He grinned. Sniffed loudly, as if scenting something on the breeze other than cooking smells and the perfume of flowers and shrubs. In a dark, wet, filthy alley, getting his lights punched out, the shit kicked out of him—who’d want that, after all?

He clapped his hands, startling a hovering member of the catering staff. The young man waggled a bottle of Chardonnay and Hyde nodded. Tonight, the Opera House, not the dark alley. He took the proffered glass and sipped the chilled wine.

Straits Royal Group had to be a vast laundering machine, with its five-star hotels, casinos and resorts scattered across Australia and South-East Asia. Moving into America and Europe, too. A perfect means of distributing Burmese heroin and recycling and washing the profits. He was convinced of it. He hadn’t a shred of proof, no one believed it, and even Ros laughed at the whole idea. It was no more than a gut feeling, instinct. Or was it paranoia? He must try to make it not matter to him. He sipped at the wine. He was like someone-at the door with an unwelcome revelation. A Mormon in a secular climate. He must opt for the holiday in Penang, where Aubrey, the old fart, had some crony who claimed he was being frightened off his property and feared for his life. Scudamore—part of Aubrey’s past, not his. As a favour to me, Patrick, Aubrey had written in the familiar, loved-and-loathed, neat handwriting. It was hardly any effort, so why not?

He suppressed the niggle of pointlessness.

‘Cheers, Hyde,’ he murmured, staring down at the city he had been asked to adopt as home.

‘Thank you, Roger—I’m glad you returned my call.’ Marian stared at the sunset beyond the lounge window as if at a painting, but unseeingly. ‘It all seems pretty conclusive—sorry to say.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I’ll try to soften the blow—’

‘Sorry my lads barged in in quite that way, Marian.’ The local detective chief inspector shared her distaste for his information, even understood her difficulty. How to tell Syeeda? She quailed at the idea. ‘But it was all pretty cut and-dried. As I said, the West Midlands Drugs Squad had had him under surveillance for a few weeks because of some rather suspicious friends he’d recently acquired—known dealers. And they found a stash of money at his flat, along with a serious amount of heroin. The pathologist’s report confirms it was an overdose … Doesn’t make your mission of mercy any easier, Marian. Sorry—’

‘Thanks, Roger.’ She wanted to be done with