Read The Fireman for Free Online Page B

like Howard would probably be scared shitless that somebody young and keen like Sally would steal some of his precious strings.
    ‘Her copy was good,’ he said. ‘She was a hard worker, all right, she’d take any job that was going. Any job that would get her a by-line. Seemed happier freelancing, because there were plenty of people more than willing to give her a staff job.’
    ‘You socialize with her much?’
    ‘Occasionally. And she rang me up a few times for help on stories. She was relatively new so I was a good source of background for her.’
    ‘Did she have any problems, anything that was worrying her?’
    ‘Not that I know.’
    ‘What about enemies?’
    Howard didn’t answer, just shrugged.
    ‘What do the police think? Was it an accident?’
    ‘They just don’t know, laddie, they just don’t know.’
    ‘Where is she now?’
    ‘Kowloon Public Mortuary.’
    ‘I want to go there. And to the hotel. And I want to speak to the police.’ I’d written down the name of the inspector who’d phoned me in London and I handed the piece of paper to Howard. ‘That’s the guy I’m to see.’
    ‘I know him,’ he said. He walked over to the bed and picked up the phone, dialling the number from memory. He fixed up an appointment for us and five minutes later the turbaned Indian was opening the door to a taxi. In flawless Oxbridge English he asked me where I wanted to go and Howard told him.
    The Indian spoke to the driver who nodded and crashed the taxi into gear and we moved out into the traffic with a series of gut-wrenching jerks.
    ‘Where do they learn to drive as badly as this?’ I asked Howard, only half-joking.
    ‘Practice, laddie. It takes years of practice.’
    We were early, and the bastards made us wait. Howard and I sat on a wooden bench while a fan circled slowly overhead. I’d taken my jacket off and rolled up my sleeves and loosened my tie, but was still panting like an overweight Labrador.
    An old man hobbled past and slowly lowered himself onto the wooden bench next to ours, using a rubbertipped steel walking stick to steady himself. His skin was as brown and wrinkled as an autumn leaf and what little hair there was left on his head was short, stubbly and white. His toes peeped through holes in his slippers and the nails were black with dirt or age. The face was a blank mask, thin bloodless lips and impassive eyes, the eyebrows had all but disappeared. He was clinging to life as tenaciously as a pensioner to a bargain in a church hall jumble sale. I don’t know why he bothered.
    ‘Probably a triad boss come to give himself up,’ whispered Howard, and nudged me in the ribs with his elbow. The old man cleared his throat and then sucked up the phlegm from his nasal passages with a guttural sound like a drain being cleared. He rolled whatever he’d dragged up around his tongue, breathed in through his nose and spat noisily at the wall opposite. The green and white mass of saliva hit the plaster with an oily splat and began to dribble down slowly, fighting gravity every inch of the way. I felt sick but I couldn’t take my eyes off, as it smeared itself to the floor.
    ‘Jesus, Howard.’
    ‘You get used to it, laddie. Just be glad he didn’t aim at your foot.’
    A door at the end of the corridor opened and a young Chinese in a green uniform and shiny black belt walked out, his well-polished boots clicking on the stone floor. He beckoned to Howard and me with his hand, and ushered us into the room.
    ‘Very polite,’ I whispered to Howard.
    ‘He doesn’t speak English,’ he replied.
    ‘How do you know?’
    He pointed to the chrome numbers stitched onto the shoulders of the green shirt.
    ‘The ones that can speak English have a red strip of material under the numbers,’ he said. ‘Not that that means anything – the little bastards will still send you in the wrong direction just for the fun of it.’
    The youngster pointed to a pair of old wooden chairs in front of a rusting metal