Today her attitude was verging on hostile, mainly he thought, because she’d overheard him talking to Hari about the wisdom of bringing her back to Singapore, and because after the attack on the village she’d changed her mind about being ready to leave and for reasons of her own had wanted to stay on there.
Now they were well into the suburbs of the city, Lin was being forced to drive more slowly, being careful to look after his Mercedes in the heavy traffic. The car was a late-model CL500, bought with drug money, Coburn presumed, or with the profits from whatever other business the large man was in.
‘Soon we shall be there.’ Lin reached into the glove compartment and took out two small cardboard boxes, one of which he gave to Hari and the other to Coburn. ‘I bring these guns for you,’ he said. ‘They are gifts so you should not laugh at the calibre. At close range they are most effective. A round from a .25 will penetrate a man’s skull, but because it has not the energy to leave again it will go round many times inside his head.’
The guns were brand new Heckler & Koch pocket autos of a kind Coburn hadn’t come across before, nicely made and fully loaded, but unlikely to be of much help even in the confines of a hotel room.
Hari was of the same opinion. ‘We seek this man for questioning,’ he said. ‘We require to find out only what he can tell us.’
‘I understand.’ Lin smiled. ‘But if he will not say anything, by shooting him in the knees the guns will help you to persuade him. You wish me to go with you?’
Hari shook his head. ‘Since Miss Cameron accompanies us today, I would be grateful if you would stay in the car with her. We will not be away for long.’
‘Then you should get ready.’ Lin reduced speed and began searching for a place to park. ‘If you will look ahead you can see the hotel I photograph for you. It is called the Golden Butterfly and is on the right-hand side just before the intersection.’
The street was located in a seedy area of the Geyland district; dirty by Singapore standards, run-down and filled predominantly with Arabs and Malays, some of whom were eyeing the Mercedes with suspicion.
While Lin manoeuvred the car into a slot between a grocery van and a red Toyota pick-up, Hari turned to speak to Heather.
‘Let us hope things go well,’ he said. ‘But if the man proves difficult and we must take him back to the boat with us, it is best if you come to sit here in the front seat while we are gone.’
‘You’re still going to kill him in the end though, aren’t you?’ She looked at him. ‘Tell me.’
‘We shall see what we shall see.’ Slipping the handgun into his pocket, Hari got out of the car and waited for Coburn to join him on the sidewalk. ‘It is a pity she does not like me,’ he said. ‘But for you I am glad she allows you to share her bed.’
‘Yeah.’ Coburn didn’t bother to enlighten him. ‘What if this guy’s not by himself?’
‘Then we have these little automatics with which to defend ourselves.’ Hari grinned. ‘You are nervous?’
‘No.’ Coburn knew he should be, but he wasn’t — the result of being in a position where for once he had the upper hand, he thought, a welcome change after the events of the last few weeks.
In Lin’s photograph, the Golden Butterfly had a less than upmarket look about it. Viewed at close quarters it was a lot worse, a three-or four-storey ramshackle building behind an unpainted wooden façade in the middle of which was a door covered with graffiti and so many cigarette burn marks that it had a blackened band across it.
‘We should ask ourselves why anybody would choose to stay in such a place.’ Hari paused with his hand on the doorknob. ‘Perhaps as a cautious man he believes he is safer here than in a nice hotel downtown.’
The lobby of the Golden Butterfly was thick with smoke and the rancid smell of cooking oil, and although the place was reasonably clean, the impression was one of advanced decay and shabbiness.
An elderly Indian behind the desk had seen them come in. Lifting his head from the newspaper he’d been reading he removed his spectacles and coughed. ‘You wish for one room or two?’ he enquired.
‘I come for another reason.’ Hari placed the photo of the truck driver on the desk and put down a $50 bill beside it. ‘You can tell me if this friend of mine stays here?’
The Indian put his glasses back on and peered at the photo. ‘It is difficult for me to be sure,’ he said. ‘We have many guests.’
Hari produced another $50 bill.
‘I remember now.’ The old man took both of the notes. ‘He pays in advance for two weeks. Room 23.’
Hari leaned over the desk to look for a switchboard. ‘You can inform my friend that he has visitors?’
‘It is not possible.’ The man coughed again. ‘The rooms do not have telephones and guests may use the house phone only and must pay in advance for all outgoing calls before they are made.’
‘Of course.’ Hari smiled. ‘Then if I may have the key we shall go to surprise him.’
This time the Indian was more reluctant, shuffling his feet and waiting to see if another handout was in the offing before he slid the key across the desk.
‘You are most kind.’ Hari put it in his pocket. ‘I shall return this to you when we leave.’
By now Coburn was having second thoughts, wondering whether they were underestimating the occupant of room 23, someone with the resources to hire gunmen wherever in the world he went, yet who seemed to believe that by checking into a nondescript hotel in Singapore he’d be impossible to track down.
Hari was more confident. He set off for the stairs, but stopped at the landing on the second floor. ‘You think this is too easy?’ he asked.
‘Maybe.’ Coburn looked along the corridor. It was poorly lit, and the smell of cooking had been replaced by the odour of urine and what he thought was bleach. ‘Let’s go and see.’
Room 23 was a quarter of the way along with nothing to distinguish it apart from its number and a plastic ‘do not disturb’ sign hanging from the doorknob.
Coburn was wary of the sign. An invitation to be careless, he wondered, or at the very least a warning?
Hari had taken his gun from his pocket and was gripping it in one hand and holding the room key in his other. ‘Please to knock,’ he whispered. ‘But because you sound too English, allow me to do the speaking.’
After checking his own gun to make sure it had a round in the chamber, Coburn stood aside and tapped twice on the door with his knuckles.
‘A gentleman wishes to talk with you on the telephone,’ Hari called. ‘He says you will know who it is.’
The response was immediate — not from room 23, but from the one across the corridor where a baby had started crying and a woman was shouting obscenities in what sounded like Malay.
For a few seconds Hari listened. Then he inserted the key in the lock, twisted it as quietly as he could and threw his whole body against the door.
It had been a wasted effort. The room was unoccupied. Worse still, it appeared to have been unoccupied for some time.
The rubbish bin contained no scraps of paper, the bed was neatly made, no clothes were hanging in the wardrobe, and in the bathroom the towels were dry and the soap was unused, still lying in its cellophane wrapper.
‘Fuck.’ Coburn sat down on the bed, too disheartened to know what else to say.
Hari looked more angry than disheartened. He went to kick the door shut and began pacing round the room. ‘I am sorry for this mistake I make,’ he said.
‘It’s not your fault. For all we know, the bastard could’ve only stayed one night. Maybe we can run him down somewhere else.’