Greg waited. He understood the ways of the Triad. So much remained unspoken.
‘Thank you, Gregory,’ Kwan continued eventually. ‘We may well be in touch. Meanwhile, please don’t worry about anything, will you?’
Greg shook his head. In spite of the fact he was worried sick about almost everything.
Mr Kwan took him by the hand and bade him farewell. But as Greg turned towards the door, Kwan spoke again.
‘If there is anything I can help you with, Gregory, you will let me know, won’t you?
Hard intelligent eyes stared at Greg. Kwan’s voice was heavy with an inference the Englishman didn’t quite understand.
He thanked the Chinese and fled.
Once outside the building he realized he was sweating profusely even though it was a cool night. And he was shaking. He bought more cigarettes from a late-night shop and lit one as he walked home, inhaling greedily, just to calm his nerves he told himself.
The meeting with Kwan had not gone the way he had expected, but then the Chinese gang boss was always full of surprises. That was part of his mystique, part of the way he maintained his power. Never the direct attack; when Kwan came at you he came from left of centre, always had done, Greg reminded himself.
Nonetheless the offer of help at the end of the meeting had been totally unexpected, as had the manner in which it was delivered. The Triads always looked after their own, and were proud of doing so. Just as they dispensed their own retribution when they deemed it necessary. But Kwan had given the impression he believed Greg needed help with something, and that he was available to assist, which indicated that Kwan and his people were not responsible for the incidents that had so unnerved Greg. Or did it?
Greg gave himself a telling-off for being naive. It was just another smokescreen, surely?
Kwan was responsible all right. He had to be.
Greg’s big regret in life was that he had ever become involved with Tony Kwan. It had all been long ago, and since then Kwan had left Greg alone, or more or less alone, for years. Until very recently.
When Greg married Karen, Kwan had told him that he respected his decision to back off and become a family man. He’d even sent round an ornate congratulatory bouquet of flowers to Karen. The gesture had thoroughly disconcerted Greg, as it had reminded him of the elaborate floral tributes prevalent at Mafia funerals. After that, there had been no contact aside from an occasional visit from one of Tony Kwan’s men, just popping in for a chat. Lest Greg should forget that he would always remain beholden to the Soho gang boss, and that Mr Kwan retained the right to call on him at any time. And also a reminder of all that Kwan had on Greg. Stuff Karen had no idea about.
Greg had been a fifteen-year-old schoolboy when he’d agreed to join the Woo Sang Wu youth Triad, of which Kwan had then been leader. Like many other pupils at inner-city comprehensives in the early to mid nineties, Greg was recruited at the school gates, lured to sign up to WSW by the promise of adventure, training in martial arts and participation in mysterious secret ceremonies. He quickly became immersed in a subculture of controlled violence and intimidation, accepting without question the orders of his leader, even when this meant pursuing courses of action, always unscrupulous and sometimes quite horrible, that he would otherwise never have considered.
The involvement of WSW in the killing of head teacher Philip Lawrence in 1995, just a year or so after his recruitment, brought Greg to his senses. Ultimately it would lead to a reduction in the scale and influence of the youth Triad, but it did not impede the rise of Tony Kwan; Greg’s Triad mentor ascended to a position of startling power within the worldwide network of these secret gangs. Much as Greg wanted out, that was not an option. He had a Triad past, and although he backed off to the best of his ability he’d always known he would never be able to get out. Not entirely.
Kwan had not called upon Greg to become actively involved again until around the time the Sunday Club incidents began. Two of Kwan’s boys had delivered a message from the Triad boss. He had a little job he’d like Greg to do. Braver than he’d thought himself capable of being, Greg had declined. He’d sent his thanks to Tony Kwan for the offer, but said he had to think of his family now and he knew Mr Kwan would understand.
Kwan’s boys had seemed relaxed about it and told him not to worry. If anything, they’d been a little too relaxed for Greg’s liking. He’d been on edge from the moment he closed the door behind them. And when, a couple of weeks later, he’d discovered his vandalized vehicle there was no question in his mind as to who had been responsible.
Until his fellow Sunday Clubbers had made the suggestion, it hadn’t occurred to Greg that there could be a connection between his slashed tyres and those comparatively playful incidents. And he remained unconvinced that the more serious matter of Marlena being injured and the two dogs being killed could be anything other than unpleasant coincidences.
No, Greg was quite sure the events were unconnected. There was no element of prank about the tyre-slashing and the brick thrown through his window. That had been payback for turning down Tony Kwan’s proposal, a reminder that Greg could not escape his Triad past.
Over the years, Greg had thought about going to the law and coming clean about his past. As if in doing so he could erase not only the hold Kwan had over him but the memories that haunted him. But he knew it would only make matters worse. Even assuming Kwan didn’t get to hear about it from his informers within the police force and silence Greg before he had a chance to testify, there was the fact that for all he was still a schoolboy at the time Greg had been over the age of criminal responsibility. The crimes he had participated in merited a lengthy jail sentence. And Greg couldn’t stand that. Plus the Triads would probably see to it that he didn’t survive long in prison. Either way, his kids would grow up without him being around. Like Karen, Greg knew what that was like for a child. And it wasn’t going to happen to his kids.
Thus Tony Kwan’s hold over Greg remained as strong as ever. And Greg now had no choice but to accept that and to act accordingly. It seemed ridiculous that Kwan still wanted him on side. But Greg understood the pride and protocol of the Triads. As with the Mafia, the big boys never let the little ones go — that was the source of the organization’s power. Once they had you, you were theirs for life.
Kwan’s henchmen hadn’t mentioned a specific job. It was possible there was no job. Kwan may have simply decided the time had come to remind Greg that he was still a Triad and must jump when he was told to.
Sooner or later — probably sooner — Kwan would demand Greg’s services. That was a racing certainty now. And whatever he was asked to do, however dangerous, however unsavoury, Greg would have to comply.
There was no alternative.
That same evening Alfonso waited for Vogel in the pleasantly appointed coffee shop he’d suggested. He had already bagged two squashy armchairs in a discreet corner when the detective came in, ordered himself a double espresso and joined him.
It struck Vogel that Alfonso Bertorelli, who spoke English with a slight Essex accent, having been brought up and probably born in the UK, was nevertheless unmistakably Italian. He was also extremely personable and answered questions fluently, as one might expect from a senior waiter at the Vine. After all, the staff there were presumably required to make conversation with all sorts of people. But Vogel suspected that, beneath his smooth facade, Alfonso was jumpy. He even slopped some cappuccino into his saucer, something of a giveaway surely, for a man at the top of his profession.