The Water Dragon

By Andrew Woodward

It's Hong Kong in August and DI John Chambers is feeling the heat. The trail of the murder suspect he followed to Hong Kong has gone cold, his boss wants him back in London and another dead body has turned up in Mong Kok. Meanwhile, his attraction to Detective Lucy Li is not helping his usually impressive powers of deduction.

While a killer documents details of elaborate preparations, murders and subsequent media coverage of several gruesome crimes, DI Chambers, seconded to the Hong Kong police, has teamed up with local Detective Li to search for the prime suspect in London murder case. However, the pair inadvertently discover a link between a seemingly random number of deaths in Hong Kong. These victims include a young man bludgeoned to death in Kowloon Park’s aviary, a minor Triad found drowned in his bathtub in Mong Kok surrounded by dead rats and the body of a retired soldier discovered on a secluded beach in Lantau Island near a herd of feral water buffalo.

Chambers and Li have to find the killer before he strikes again at the celebrations marking the beginning of the forthcoming Chinese New Year – the year of the Water Dragon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Woodward
• Release date: Jun 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466060562

Andrew Woodward

A Former editorial director for a leading publishing house, Andrew Woodward has worked in Europe, the Middle East and Australia in a variety of senior publishing roles. The Water Dragon is this London-born author's first novel. He now resides in Hong Kong with his two dogs. Andrew is currently working on a follow up novel, The Fire Walker, due for release at in July 2012.

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THE WATER DRAGON

by

Andrew Woodward

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Andrew Woodward on Smashwords

The Water Dragon

Copyright © Andrew Woodward 2011

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‘So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their ending.’

John Ronald Reuel Tolkien

Chapter 1 – Rice-spoon Head

Thursday 3rd February 2011

I have to say it was easier than I thought it would be. The murder, I mean. The rest of it, making sure that I hadn’t left any evidence and the distribution of a ‘clue’ or two was a bit more time consuming, but on the whole I thought it went very well. I’d planned it as much as possible. Well, as much as you can plan the murder of someone you’ve never met. You see I have this thing I need, no, not need exactly, more like this thing I want to do. It’s been inside me for a long time, slowly distilling, all the time gathering momentum. It was like an epiphany if you will, how I finally figured out what I would do, I felt filled with a dynamic energy something I had never experienced before. Everything in my life became clear. Everything that had happened to me, I now understood. These things were necessary, they had happened for a reason, and that was to get me to this point in my life. To where I am right now. I knew what I needed to do and just how I needed to do it. For the last few weeks I’ve been actively preparing for this day. And as I said, it was much easier than I thought it would be.

***

I had taken the Xui Ze, the 3.30pm boat from Central Pier 5 to Mui Wo on Lantau Island. The ride over on the First Ferry Company’s orange and white open-deck passenger ferry took about 35 minutes, the only concern I had at that stage was that the vitally important contents of my bag remained in situ. The boat had the usual mixture of loud locals, bloated expats plus a host of Filipina and Indonesian helpers all going busily about their futile existence, ordinary people doing ordinary things. I was glad I was no longer part of this pointless way of living, people moving blindly through an uneventful life to their inevitable demise. Not for me, not now, because my life has a purpose. I always knew I was different, but I had finally realised what my raison d’ être was, what my full potential could really be. I’m destined for fame, of that much I’m certain.

I had dressed casually, but warmly, as it was a relatively cool winter’s day. I wanted to blend into the crowd as we disembarked from the ferry at Mui Wo pier. Although no-one’s going to look twice at a man coming off the boat wearing standard hiking gear with a medium-sized black rucksack. Why would they? Mui Wo is a popular entry and exit point for hikers looking to explore the high hills of Lantau Island, but you’d never guess it from the ugly and depressing concrete mass that confronts you on arrival. I headed across the sprawling grey bus depot leaving most of the recently disgorged ferry passengers waiting for their connections to more remote parts of the island. I crossed the road past a few rundown restaurants and walked along the footpath that curves around the bay that embraces a wide stretch of sand. The only people visible were a man with a young boy and their dog walking along the water’s edge. There was another passage that ran perpendicular to the beach alongside a small water channel. I followed this through a dilapidated village and on to the disused silver mine. The distance between the traditional three-storey village houses was already beginning to increase. While the number of locals, who all seemed to ride around on pushbikes, was becoming equally sparse. I was already fairly ‘off the beaten track’ as I rounded a corner past several buildings that must have dated back hundreds of years, awaiting the return of their rightful owners who, like their offspring, are long dead overseas.

From here it was unlikely I’d see more than a handful of hikers on a busy day and even less chance this late on a Thursday afternoon. I took the Olympic Way, the steep concrete path that bisects Lantau Island and goes all the way across to Tung Chung. It was on this path I passed the last person I would see before my victim, a young man heading back in the direction of Mui Wo. The hood of my jacket was up and I diverted my eyes, appearing to be suddenly very interested in the grove of banana trees on my left. I continued steadily uphill, occasionally having the odd moment of concern about the precious and dangerous cargo that I was carrying on my back – if it got out it would be perilously close to my neck.

On my left Sunset Peak loomed up out of the low cloud that seemed to permanently shroud its summit. A small break in the low trees on the top of the ridge indicated another, less travelled, route. I turned right onto it and headed through the woods. From here the hiking path heads up along another ridge line out of the tree line and eventually to Sunny Bay and Disneyland. I always find it amazing that in such a populous place as Hong Kong, there are so many places where you can be completely alone with your thoughts – whatever those may be.

I’d walked up here a lot when I was younger and liked to return from time to time, it was a great place to escape my shitty life at home, and it was a place where I always felt free. I’d come up here with my dogs, they loved the open space, running in the long grass without a care in the world. I envied their simple lives. Here I would sit down on the top of piles of rocks and watch as eagles soared overhead, the occasional wild dog standing boldly on a distant outcrop, and depending on the season and weather, there was a selection of brightly coloured insects. I loved the solitude and would often stay up here for hours before heading back to the lousy existence I knew would be waiting at home, as it always was. You realise there is something wrong in your life if you think a dog has a better existence than you have. I suppose if I had to point to a moment then I’d say that’s where it all really began for me.

I stopped to make one last check of the contents of my bag: the bulky Timberland shoebox containing the naja atra was still sealed and the air holes were clear. I took a long drink of water and put the bottle back at the bottom of the bag. I removed my jacket and also placed it in the bag. I donned my black Thinsulate gloves, as the temperature was beginning to drop, and although it never gets that cold, when you’ve lived in the tropics for so long, you become a bit more susceptible to the weather. I noted the time was nearing 5pm as I put my watch in one of the side pockets of the rucksack. I took out my Swiss army knife and also removed an item that I had bought at Toys ‘R’ Us in Causeway Bay the week before. I wanted everything to be at hand when the time was right.

I continued along the path until it skirted the golf course that ran along the lower plateau. Here the trees became scarcer, while the path headed sharply upwards. I kept an eye out for what I needed and it wasn’t long before I found what I was looking for at the edge of the path. I carried on for several hundred metres until I found my ideal viewing point. This was where I waited for my victim. I had come up the weekend before, to refresh my childhood memories and to see where the best place would be. I had my Canon Sx200 camera with me, so I could capture the location; I also took a panoramic record on the movie setting so I could review it at my leisure at home to confirm this was the best location with the best view of the surrounding area. On weekends there are always a few hikers out and about, and it’s not uncommon for people to be up there taking pictures, as on a clear day the view from up there is amazing.

I scrambled up a nearby boulder that was about 20ft in diameter, so I could see back down the way I had come, but I was still a long way out of sight and hearing range of any golfers finishing off a late round. The course had looked fairly quiet when I passed by earlier. From here I could see along the plateau to the north in the direction the path continued and where my victim would have a fifty percent chance of approaching from. To the East, it was clear enough to make out planes taking off from and landing at Chek Lap Kok Airport with a comforting regularity. The site is a fascinating testament to man’s triumph over nature as the whole structure is built on reclaimed land; it’s an amazing feat of engineering. I sat on a nearby rock and watched the planes for a while, occasionally scanning the surrounding barren slopes for any sign of life. As there were no trees up here on the ridgeline, just the long, dry, brown grass swaying on the plateau, it would make any human traffic easy to see. The sun was gradually moving to the horizon offering the first intimations of the orange hues that would later become a deep and vibrant red. After an hour or so I made out a figure approaching from the way I had come. I was a little surprised, I don’t know why, but I had just assumed they would come from the other direction. It’s funny how you see things in your imagination; you just expect that’s how it’s going to be.

He was still too far away to notice me as I hopped over a couple of smaller boulders, putting me on the plateau side of the ridge. I arranged the items I’d removed from my bag earlier, rolled up my trouser leg and lay down flat on my back to wait. My new position afforded me a clear view along the path ahead, so I could see if anyone was approaching from the other direction, in case I needed to abort. After several minutes of waiting and listening to the gentle rustling of the grass, and going over what I’d say and what I planned to do again and again in my head, I finally heard the sound of heavy footfall on the sun-baked earthen path. I began to make fairly low moaning noises while keeping my body movements to a minimum. I took a quick look towards the direction of the sounds and saw the top of a head come over the crest. I quickly looked away to shield my face from his view and continued to moan softly.

The man called out, he was obviously quite shocked to see me. He quickened his pace and soon his face was looming over me. I could smell beer on his breath, while his thinning, mousy brown hair was matted against his brow with his own sweat. His cheeks were ruddy from his exertions or the cold. His eyebrows were knitted in anxiety, and his pale, slight lips pursed in an exclamation of concern. Little did he know it was his own safety that he really needed to be concerned about.

‘Are you ok? What happened?’ His voice sounded odd, a mixture of apprehension and confusion.

‘Snake’ I whispered, ‘bitten’, I slurred and let my head loll in the direction of where the man would have headed had he not met me. This allowed me to keep an eye on the path to make sure no one was coming from that way.

‘Help me,’ I rasped and nodded carelessly at some stones about 10 metres away.

‘Threw stones, think it’s dead.’

‘Christ,’ he called out as he looked off towards the rocks ‘is that a … is that a snake?’ He took several slow and measured steps towards the metre or so of thick, black, rope-like object close to where several fist-sized stones were strewn.

‘Careful,’ I croaked, ‘it’s poisonous’. My real fear was that he was an amateur herpetologist or that he had keen eyesight.

‘Jesus!’ The man called out. He had a telescopic metal walking stick that he had extended to its greatest length and cautiously began reaching out to poke the body of what he must have assumed was a dead or badly injured snake. As I sat up watching the man, I had a sudden realisation that the setting sun could upset my carefully laid plans. I hadn’t factored on this as when I had come here a few days previously, it had been much earlier in the day. He still had his back to me as I got up, picking up the large rock I had collected on the way up, and in two quick steps covered the distance between us. He appeared to notice something and took a step back, whether it was the huge shadow my body cast that he saw stretching out over the grass in front of him, or the simple fact that he realised the snake was actually made of rubber, I guess I’ll never know. I like to think it was a combination of both.

My memory of the entire day is crystal clear, so it’s easy for me to write about, but for some reason I can only recall the next part in single frames, like one of those early attempts at movie making. I can see him standing up. He begins to turn. His mouth opens. I hit him on the temple with the stone. He slams to the ground. I hit him again. He lies still. Then it’s like the slide show finishes and the film whirs back into real- time action. I checked the paths in both directions, and felt relief that there was no sign of life, only the wind blowing patterns into the tall grass on the plateau. My heart was pounding as I pulled out a plastic bag from my pocket and slipped it over his head, tying it as tight as I could around his head. I could see from the condensation that formed in the bag that he was still breathing, but at least it helped to contain the blood that was seeping from his head wounds. I needed to act quickly. I carefully removed the shoe box from my bag and placed it down next to the inert body. I rolled up the leg of his jeans. Now came the tricky part.

I took the elastic bands and the tape off the box and slid the lid off. The real snake was coiled in the box. As I slowly moved my hand towards the snake, it flicked its tail. Not a lot but enough to make me step back. This part was essential to my plans and couldn’t be overlooked. After several minutes of trying I eventually managed to grab the snake by the back of the head. I used my free hand to untie the string that bound its nearly two metre body and it whipped its tail at the freedom its body had been awarded. The tip from the pet shop owner in Mong Kok had been a huge blessing. His binding of the snake had rendered this deadly Chinese Cobra relatively harmless. Well harmless to me anyway.

I squeezed the back of the snake’s head to force it to open its jaws, revealing its curved, grooved sharp fangs. As I pushed the head towards the victim’s leg, I could feel the muscles of the snake’s hood trying to expand in my grip. I made the snake bite the exposed flesh, holding the head there as the fangs pierced the skin. After several seconds, enough time for the poison to enter the bloodstream, I lifted the snake clear and walked back a few metres and off the path to my left. I then bent over and carefully released the snake into the undergrowth, keeping a careful eye on it to make sure it slithered away from me, pleased that it had decided against coming back to trouble its malevolent captor.

I returned to the body. He was still breathing, just. I looked at the snakebite; there were two smallish red piercings on his left calf. I pulled down the leg of his jeans and, with the corkscrew blade of my Swiss army knife, punctured the fabric of his trousers, making two small holes, to correspond to the bite marks on his leg. I just needed to do one last thing. I took out a box of matches, struck one which the breeze quickly blew out. I then placed the dead match in the hem of his trouser leg and folded it twice. I then turned up the other trouser leg to align them both. I put the matchbox back in my trouser pocket.

I dragged the body back to the ridge crest. The path swung away to the left, roughly in the direction the snake had taken. I held the body as straight as I could; he was quite heavy, 85 to 90kg I guess. I ripped the plastic bag off his head and gave him a slight push, allowing gravity to take its natural course. I watched as the body dropped down the rock face, colliding with a few boulders before coming to an abrupt stop several metres below, in an awkward and painful-looking position. His blood-smeared face was looking away from me. The blood was almost a perfect colour match for his red polyester jacket.

If he wasn’t dead now, it surely wouldn’t be long. The bite from a Rice-spoon Head snake, or Chinese Cobra as it is more commonly known, was likely to be fatal. When combined with a bad fall landing head first into a pile of rocks, there was surely little chance of survival.

I retraced my steps. As I did so, I took the blood-stained bag and wrapped it inside another plastic bag. Before tying the end I picked up the fake snake from the pile of rocks and held it by the neck. It wasn’t a bad replica of a cobra, and it had certainly played its part well enough. I coiled it around my hand before putting it in the bag and tying up the end. I took my jacket and the water bottle out of the rucksack, put my gloves back in the bag, washed my face and hands off the side of the path and then put on my jacket. I surveyed the scene, picking up my equipment and packing it in my bag. The path was too hard to leave footprints or to leave any sign that a body had been dragged around. There was nothing to say I had ever been there, except the dead or dying man slumped down in the ravine.

The sun was close to setting as I hurried along the plateau. I wanted to take a turnoff that was located further ahead and it was easy to miss in the failing light. I didn’t want to be follow the main path down from Tiger Head as it was very steep, slippery and potentially dangerous in the dark. I found the turnoff in the long grass and made my way along a tight and twisting narrow path until it eventually led me out to a reservoir.

By now it was dark and the road was lit by streetlamps that led up to the golf course on the right or down into the Stepford Wives-like town of Discovery Bay to the left. I turned left and headed down the long and winding road back to civilisation, if you wanted to stretch reality and describe Discovery Bay using that moniker. More like another Hong Kong in a parallel universe. One in which the expat still proudly rules the city. I strode down the road accompanied only by the sounds of the chirruping cicadas and the nearby stream. About halfway down I walked past a couple walking their dogs and soon after a solitary runner pounded his way up the steep hill. The occasional golf cart went by, although none of these peculiar non-golfing drivers gave me a second look. As I approached the final stretch, the paved footpath ended abruptly and continued on the other side of the road.

I stepped out without looking as the night was whisper-quiet, and was inches away from being hit by a lycra-clad cyclist flying down the road with no lights. I felt a rage well up inside me and nearly screamed some abuse at the arsehole, but managed to contain my rage as the most important thing, I told myself, was not to draw unnecessary attention. When I got to the junction at the bottom of the hill, I took the quieter route to the ferry by avoiding the central plaza on the right. This was a more circuitous route that went past the fire station and came in to the pier from the other side. I took this way to avoid recognition from anyone at the bus station or exiting from the ferry.

It was now coming up for 7pm so the ferry coming in would be packed with commuters. I swiped my Octopus card on the reader, slipped through the barriers and found a quiet corner in which to wait for the incoming ferry to empty its load of passengers. I took my seat near the front of the boat and within 30 minutes I was getting off at Central Pier 3. As I strolled along the harbourfront, I opened my rucksack, took out the green plastic shopping bag and casually dropped it in a nearby rubbish bin. I zipped up my bag, headed towards the Star Ferry at Pier 7 and continued the rest of my uneventful journey home.

***

Chapter 2

Monday 15th August 2011

John Chambers reached for the air conditioner’s controller and jabbed furiously at the luminous button with the ‘up’ arrow. He wasn’t sure if you should press up or down. His drowsy logic told him you should press down because you wanted the room cooler, but then maybe you should press up for more cooling power. He bashed the button a few more times before dragging himself to the bathroom and running his head under the lukewarm water pouring out of the tap marked cold. How many more months of this could he take? Surely the humidity had to ease off at some point.

He grabbed one of the large soft white towels that were folded neatly on the metal rack, drying his hair as he sat on the edge of the bed. He could feel the damp sheet against his legs. His own sweat. He glanced at the alarm clock, the bright green numbers contrasting sharply against the dark background: 6.37am. The gloominess of the room was slowly dissipating as the first rays of the sunrise seeped in through a gap at the top of the curtains. He sat for a moment in his boxer shorts, idly scratching at his leg. Too late he became aware of what he was doing. As he looked down he saw he had woken two mosquito bites an inch apart on his calf.

‘Bastards,’ he said out loud to the empty room.

He stood up and walked over to the window, dragging the heavy curtain as wide open as the runners would allow. He instinctively put his hand up to cover his eyes as they adjusted to the bright sunshine that flooded the room, still aware of the intense itch radiating out from his calf.

The scene that unfolded below was truly breathtaking. He drank in the view of Victoria Harbour, already bustling with early morning activity. He let his eyes drift across the panoramic view and could make out islands off in the distance to his left, while across the harbour was the concrete jungle of the Kowloon Peninsula. He took in the towering building on the opposing shore and the ludicrous number of tall buildings that went back as far as he could see. He could just make out the ring of hills way off in the distance that gave the area its name, Kowloon – the nine dragons. His gaze drifted down to the water, revealing all manner of craft from enormous cruise liners to tiny sampans bobbing around in the wake of the plethora of passenger ferries criss-crossing the short stretch of water that separates Hong Kong Island from the mainland.

Chambers had been in Hong Kong for a week. Not long enough, evidently, to get used to the humidity. He recalled his introduction to the climate the previous weekend. He thought he had walked into a hot air dryer as he stepped beyond the automatic doors of the airport to find a cab to take him to his pre-booked serviced apartment in Causeway Bay. These few minutes that he spent in the morning enjoying the view were definitely his favourite time of the day since he’d been in Hong Kong, before the city’s combination of heat and pollution imposed its life-sapping drain.

He had to continually towel the sweat from his body as he looked out of the window. He thought about how the view from his flat at home didn’t really compare to this. His flat, he couldn’t get used to saying his ‘apartment’, like he’d noticed a few of his more upwardly-mobile neighbours calling theirs, was located just off the Goldhawk Road in Shepherds Bush in West London. It wasn’t a terrible view and was one that was fairly common for most Londoners. His second floor living room overlooked a street that was a mixture of terraced houses and small blocks of flats; his view was of his block’s small ‘private’ carpark. His place was on the right side of a U-shaped block so he could, if he so desired, look back across to his left into his neighbours’ windows. Or, if he looked to the right, watch the traffic coming up the narrow car- lined street and listen to the grind of an exhaust pipe as it scraped on the oversized speed bump that seemed to catch out every motorist who had the misfortune of taking this route.

Although his place was close to the action of nearby Shepherds Bush Green, it was actually fairly quiet. Most sensible drivers knew to avoid using it as a short cut as the amount of traffic control devices made any kind of time saving irrelevant, let alone the cost of repairs the speed bumps caused to the vehicle’s underside. Most of the traffic was made up of motorbike delivery drivers and couriers. But, more annoyingly, it did seem to feature as some kind of drunkard’s cut-through to and from the local area’s pubs and bars, so served as a noisy, late-night thoroughfare for the hordes of resident revellers. Plus the Tennessee Fried Chicken shop on the corner meant the hedge that surrounded his carpark was filled with all manner of greasy paper boxes dripping their congealed contents over the floor.

Chambers checked the clock and decided it was time to shower and shave. He turned and within two steps was in the small shower/toilet/bathroom. Everything at a cost he thought, the greatest view in the world, but you have to accept living in a shoebox to enjoy it. He turned on the shower and only waited for a couple of seconds for the water temperature to adjust before he stepped in. As he enjoyed the cool water he wondered if today would be the day he’d catch a break, something at least, to go on.

***

Chambers paused in the lobby, he wanted to maximise his time in the deliciously cold air pumping out of the a/c unit directly above the glass front doors. After almost 30 seconds he saw someone coming towards him from outside. He waited until the last moment before pulling the door open. The man and a blast of warm air came in simultaneously, both rushing past without acknowledgement. Chambers slowly left the chilled confines of the lobby behind him and set off towards his workplace. He thought momentarily about hailing a cab, but decided to walk for several reasons. Firstly, he was only a ten-minute walk away; secondly, the traffic on Gloucester Road was already quite heavy; and thirdly, he thought he might get a cab driver who spoke no English. This had happened a couple of times already during his short stay and it was quite frustrating for all involved, especially when the driver finally understood he only wanted to go a couple of blocks up the road – they usually, and completely understandably, weren’t too impressed. He added basic Cantonese to the growing list of things he needed to learn, as communicating with cab drivers was going to be imperative in this town. ‘Here, straight, stop, right and