The Year of Dangerous Loving. John Davis Gordon

      Hargreave wanted to laugh. ‘And it’s arranged?’

      ‘Vladimir agrees, and the police will agree. Vladimir will telephone the boss in Russia tomorrow. Oh darling –’ she jumped up and down – ‘I am so happy! And you?’

      Yes, he was recklessly happy. Fuck the money! ‘But Olga – I will pay the thousand cumshaw.’

      She turned out of his arms, her palm up. ‘No. Not fair.’

      Okay, thank God. ‘And you think Vladimir’s boss will agree?’

      ‘Why not? But I will pray!’

      He grinned: ‘You’re religious?’

      She put on a mock frown, placed her fists on her lovely hips. ‘What do I look like? A Communist?’

      Hargreave threw back his head and laughed.

Part Two

5

      All the next week it seemed he could not get the image of her out of his mind. Her glorious nakedness, the sweet smell and taste and feel of her, and the memory of her standing at the immigration gates at the hydrofoil jetty that Monday morning, midst the clamour and jostling, the smells of diesel, of China, smiling all over her lovely face, her hair still wet from the shower, waving energetically: ‘Goodbye – goodbye …’ Hargreave went aboard the hydrofoil and slumped back in his seat. He could not wipe the smile off his face as he sat back in the air-conditioned first-class cabin skimming across the hazy South China Sea. And when the distant islands of the British colony loomed on the horizon, the myriad of ships from around the world at anchor, then the skyscrapers rearing up along the harbour front of Hong Kong and Kowloon, the most expensive real estate in the world with its mad money-making and its dense traffic and swarming people, it seemed he could not bear to wait to get back to sleepy little Macao next Friday, to Olga. He did not care what the weekend had cost him.

      He disembarked at the ferry terminals, queued up to pass through the congested immigration barriers, then joined the sweating crowd along the walkway above Connaught Road. He hurried along the raised thoroughfares, past the marbled stock exchange with its fountains, where he had lost so much money the year before, past the elevated turn-offs to teeming Central with its hotels and shops and alleyways and towering business houses, until he descended through the crush towards Statue Square. Lord, give me sleepy Macao every time. Statue Square was teeming with pedestrians hurrying to work, cars and taxis and buses pouring out pollution around it. He hurried past the grand old Legislative Council building that used to be the Supreme Court, through the park that was the cricket club in the good old days, and crossed into roaring Queensway with its sweeping flyovers. Three hundred yards ahead the Supreme Court building reared up bleakly amongst the skyscrapers. He reached the basement parking area and rode up in the elevator to the first floor. He crossed the big atrium and entered the Crown Prosecutor’s chambers.

      He was almost an hour late. There was the usual Monday morning bustle, his lawyers heading off for the courts in their wigs and gowns. He hastened down the long corridor, greeting his staff, and entered his chambers. There were several policemen waiting to consult him, and both his secretaries were speaking on telephones. He signalled to Miss Ho, entered his big office and closed the door. He slung his overnight bag on the long conference table and went to his desk. There were half a dozen telephone messages from policemen asking for an appointment, his in-basket high with files.

      Miss Ho entered. ‘Good morning, Mr Hargreave.’

      ‘Morning, Norma. What problems?’

      ‘No problems, Mr Hargreave. Nobody sick.’

      What a wonder! Over a hundred lawyers to worry about, and this Monday nobody was sick – it had to be a good omen.

      ‘Well I’m sick, Norma, sick and tired of this job, so treat me gently today.’ He slapped the pile of files. ‘I’ve got all this to read. Those policemen out there – send them to Mr Downes and Mr Jefferson and Mr Watkins, and if you’re stuck send them to Timbuktu.’

      ‘Yes, sir,’ Norma said, ‘but what about Superintendent Champion? He’s just telephoned for an appointment.’ She added: ‘The uranium case?’

      Hargreave sighed. ‘Okay, I’ll see Mr Champion, but nobody else today.’

      ‘Where were you on Saturday?’ Bernie Champion complained, big and sweaty in his suit. ‘You said you’d be at the races. And I was going out for a Chinese chow last night, thought I’d invite you, I wanted to pick your brains.’

      ‘Which you’re doing now?’

      ‘Which I hope to do now. You look like death, where were you?’

      Hargreave felt wonderful. ‘I was sailing.’

      ‘Like hell, your boat was in the yacht club all weekend, large as life. Who is she?’

      ‘I went to Macao.’ Hargreave smiled.

      ‘Macao, huh? Hope you wore a condom. How’s the chest?’

      ‘Healed very well. What’s the problem with the uranium case?’

      Champion sighed. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘you don’t want to talk about it, but I’m your friend and I’m asking you seriously, how are you?’

      Hargreave hated this solicitude. ‘I’m fine, Bernie.’

      Champion grunted. ‘Haven’t seen you around for a while, that’s all. Max, Jake and I, we were expecting you at the races, said you’d come.’ He raised his eyebrows: ‘And Liz?’

      ‘She’s fine too. She’s divorcing me, I got the letter on Saturday.’

      Champion looked at him. ‘Divorce? I heard she was coming back.’

      ‘What?’ Hargreave stared.

      ‘Rumour at the yacht club. She phoned somebody and said she’s coming back, don’t know who. But listen, pal.’ He sat forward. ‘If you want her back, fine, I’ll play violins. But I’ve seen plenty of domestic strife in my thirty years in the cops, and if there’s going to be any more, don’t have the gun around. We nearly lost you. Imagine if she’d really hit you? You’d be six feet under and she’d be in jail. We don’t want that, for either of you.’

      Oh God … Hargreave massaged his forehead. Liz returning, just when he was starting to feel he could show his face again? ‘She’s not coming back, it’s just a rumour. Her lawyer’s letter was only written last week, and it was very explicit.’

      Champion said sympathetically, ‘And how do you feel about a divorce?’

      ‘Please, I don’t want to talk about it, Bernard. Now what about this case?’

      The uranium case – Hargreave was sick of it. It wasn’t a case, it was a big amorphous file of theory and hearsay, mostly Investigation Diary reporting rumours which came to little. But it was Bernie Champion’s pet investigation. The only hard evidence was that a year ago the German police had arrested an elderly man called Wessels at Munich airport carrying a small sample of radio-active weapons-grade uranium in a glass jar. Enriched uranium is the basic ingredient in the manufacture of nuclear weaponry. Mr Wessels had just arrived from Moscow when he was arrested, and he had been about to board an aircraft to Hong Kong. He had refused to tell the German police how he had acquired the uranium in Russia, or to whom he was going to deliver it in Hong Kong: then, whilst being interrogated, he had died of a heart attack, leaving everybody none the wiser. The German police had sought the cooperation of the Hong Kong and Russian authorities. The Hong Kong police suspected that the notorious Chinese Triad societies were involved, intending to purchase large quantities of uranium to re-sell to terrorist organizations or warmongers like Gaddafi of Libya or Saddam of Iraq: but no evidence was uncovered, only rumours. A certain