He waited until he was sure there was no one around, then straightened up and hurried on his way, keeping close to the buildings so that he could throw himself into the shadows if anyone approached. He came to a junction. A car had swerved and crashed into a bollard. It was completely smashed up, its horn blaring. Matt could see the driver, half hanging out of the front door, pinned in place by his seat belt, his head and chest covered in blood. No one was coming to help.
A street sign. Matt looked up and read two words directly above him. Harcourt Road. The name meant something.
Paul Adams has returned to Wisdom Court… It is here, on Harcourt Road.
He remembered Han Shan-tung, talking to him in the study, pointing it out on the map. Suddenly he knew what he had to do. Somehow he had stumbled onto the right road. If Paul Adams was at the flat, maybe he would let him in. At the very least he would have somewhere to stay until the break of day.
“Help me…”
The man in the car wasn’t dead. His eyes, very white, had flicked open. He seemed to be crying, but the tears were blood. There was nothing Matt could do for him. He turned away and began to run.
The road seemed to go on for ever. Matt went past more shopping malls, a hospital, a huge conference centre. He didn’t see any more police cars but he heard them in the distance, their sirens slicing through the air. At one point, a taxi rushed past, zigzagging crazily, on the wrong side of the road. He turned a corner and came upon a tram, parked in front of an office building. It was an old-fashioned thing. Apart from the Chinese symbols, it was like something that might have driven through London during the Second World War. And it was full of people. They were just sitting there, slumped in their seats, unmoving. Matt didn’t know if they were alive or dead and he didn’t hang around to find out. He guessed they were a mix of both.
Somehow he found his way to Wisdom Court. He had only glanced at the map when he was in Macau and he’d got no more than an overview of the city. But there it was, suddenly in front of him, the name on a block of stone and behind it a driveway leading up to a fountain, a wide entrance and, on each side, a statue of a snarling lion. The building was very ordinary, shrouded in darkness, but there was one light burning on the twelfth floor – Matt counted the windows – and he thought he saw a curtain flicker as somebody moved behind.
The driveway hadn’t been swept. It was strewn with dead leaves and scraps of paper. The fountain had been turned off. As he walked up to the door, Matt got the feeling that the whole place, apart from that one room on the twelfth floor, might be deserted. There were no cars parked outside. He put his face against the glass door and looked into the reception area. It was empty. The door was locked but there was a panel of buttons next to it, more than a hundred of them, numbered but with no names.
Was this really a good idea? He stood there for a few seconds, cold and wet, and tried to work out his options. Han Shan-tung had suggested that Paul Adams might have been working with the Old Ones. He had been there when Scarlett was taken prisoner. But could he really have sentenced his own daughter to death? Surely not.
At the end of the day it didn’t make any difference if Matt trusted him or not. He was freezing. He had to get inside, off the street. He had nowhere else to go.
He began to ring the bells, one after another, beginning with 1200 and moving along, waiting briefly for each one to reply. There was silence until he reached 1213, then a crackle as a voice came over the intercom.
“Yes?”
“Mr Adams?”
“Who is this?”
“I know it’s very late, but I’m a friend of Scarlett’s. I wonder if I could talk to you.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Could you let me in?”
A pause. Then a buzz and the door opened.
As Matt walked into the reception area, he became aware of a stench – raw sewage. A pipe had burst. He could hear it dripping and the floor was wet underfoot. There was just enough light to make out a staircase leading up, but once he began to climb he had to feel his way in total darkness. He counted twelve floors, sliding his hand along the banister, pressing his shoulder against the wall as he turned each corner. It really was like being blind and he felt smothered, afraid that at any moment something would jump out and grab hold of him. But at last he arrived at a swing door, pushed it open and found himself at the beginning of a long corridor. Light spilled out from an open door about half-way down. Scarlett’s father was waiting for him, but Matt couldn’t make him out because the light was behind him and he was in silhouette.
“Who are you?” Paul Adams called out.
“My name is Matt.”
“You’re a friend of Scarly’s?”
“I want to help her.”
“You can’t help her. You’re too late.”
Matt walked down the corridor, afraid that Paul Adams would go back in and close the door before he could reach him. But Adams waited for him. He reached the door and saw a small, unhappy man with grey hair and glasses. Scarlett’s father hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, nor had he washed. He was wearing a blue jersey which might have been expensive when he had bought it but now hung off him awkwardly, as if he had been sleeping in it. And he had been drinking. Matt could smell the alcohol on his breath and saw it in the eyes behind the glasses. They were red with exhaustion and self-pity.
“Mr Adams…” Matt began.
“I don’t know you.” Paul Adams looked at him blankly.
“I told you. My name is Matt.”
“You’re soaking wet.”
“Can I come in?”
Matt didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed his way past and entered the flat. The place was a mess. There were dirty plates stacked in the sink and on the kitchen counter. Everything smelled stale and airless with the sewage creeping up from below. It was as if someone had died there… or maybe it was the place itself that had died. Once it had been luxurious. Now it was sordid and sad.
Paul Adams closed the door. “Do you want something to eat?” he asked.
“I’d like some tea,” Matt said. The man didn’t move so he went into the kitchen and began to make it himself. He looked in the fridge for some food. There were only leftovers but he helped himself anyway. It was only now that he realized how hungry he was. A clock on the oven showed twenty past four. Six hours had passed since he had left Macau.
Paul Adams sat down. He had a glass of whisky and he drank it in one swallow, then refilled it. “You’re English…” he said.
“I was at your home in Dulwich,” Matt said. He was rummaging through a cupboard for a tea-bag. “I tried to find Scarlett there. But she’d gone.”
“They’ve taken her.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“No.” He drank again. “I know who you are!” he exclaimed. He had only just worked it out. “You’re the boy they’re all looking for. You’re the reason why they wanted Scarlett.”
Matt didn’t say anything. The kettle boiled and he made himself the tea, adding two spoons of sugar.
“Matt Freeman. That’s who it was. Matt Freeman!” He got up and went over to the kitchen, weaving his way across the carpet. Matt didn’t know whether to be saddened or disgusted. He had never seen anyone so utterly lost. Paul Adams leant heavily against the side of the counter and suddenly there were tears in his eyes. “They lied to me,” he said. “They told me she’d be all right if I helped them. I was the one who caught her! She’d have got away if it hadn’t been for me. But I only did it to protect her. They said they’d kill her if I didn’t help them.”
“Did they take her to The Nail?” Matt asked.