The Chinaman Read Online Free PDF

them.
    â€˜This will do me fine,’ he said, and drained it in one.
    â€˜Now I’ll have one of whatever they’re having, and one each for them, too,’ Woody said, mentally calculating how much he had in his wallet. They were drinking a ten-year-old malt the name of which Woody didn’t recognise but it was smooth and mellow and warmed his chest. He fell into amiable conversation with the couple, talking about the weather, about Docklands, about the Government, anything but what he’d seen that evening.
    They asked him what he did and he told them he was a journalist. Her name was Maggie and his was Ross, he sold fax machines and she worked for an insurance company.
    As the level of whisky in the bottle dropped Woody began opening himself up to them, about how unhappy he was in his job and his plans for a new life in Los Angeles. An old pal of his had gone out to LA a couple of years ago and had set up an agency specialising in showbiz features and oddball stories for the tabloids, and he’d been pestering Woody to go out and join him.
    â€˜You know, I think I will go,’ Woody said, and they nodded in agreement and Maggie bought a round. Some time later the man slapped Woody on the back and said he had to go. He kissed Maggie on the cheek, a brotherly peck Woody noticed, and left. Woody was surprised as he’d assumed they were married or lovers, but Maggie laughed and said no, just friends. He slid on to the stool vacated by Ross, even though he generally preferred to stand while drinking. He was quite taken by Maggie. She had shoulder-length red hair and grey eyes, and the freckles of a teenager even though she must have been in her early thirties. She spoke with a faint Scottish burr and laughed a lot and told jokes dirtier than even Woody thought was proper.
    â€˜Are you serious about LA?’ she asked, and Woody said he was. She told him that she had a friend living there, and that if he did go she’d put him in touch. She asked for his telephone number and he gave it to her. Eventually she said she had to go. Woody offered to walk her home but she thanked him and said no, she only lived around the corner. Woody shrugged and said goodbye, wondering how she’d react to a brotherly peck on the cheek from him but deciding against it. After she went he finished his whisky and left the pub in search of a black cab. Ten minutes later he was back for his raincoat. It wasn’t his night.
    Sergeant Fletcher’s heart sank when he saw The Chinaman walking slowly up to his desk. He kept his eyes down on his paperwork and wished with all his heart that he’d go away. Nguyen Ngoc Minh coughed quietly. Sergeant Fletcher ignored him. Nguyen coughed again, louder this time. The policeman knew he could put it off no longer. He looked up and feigned surprise.
    â€˜Mr Nguyen,’ he said. ‘How can I help you?’ His fingers tensed around his ballpoint pen.
    â€˜Sergeant Fletcher. Is there news about the bomb?’ said Nguyen slowly. He stood in front of the desk, his head bowed and his fingers clasped together below his stomach. He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn on his four previous visits to the police station, brown woollen trousers, a blue and green work shirt and a thick quilted coat with a hood. His dark-brown boots were scuffed and worn and if Sergeant Fletcher hadn’t known better he might have assumed that the man was a down-and-out looking for a warm cell for the night.
    The policeman shook his head slowly. ‘I am afraid not, Mr Nguyen. But we are doing everything we can, believe me.’
    The look in The Chinaman’s eyes suggested that he did not believe the sergeant, but he smiled nevertheless, his face wrinkling into deep crevices. It was an ingratiating smile, an eager-to-please look that for some reason made the sergeant immediately feel guilty.
    â€˜Do you know who exploded the bomb?’ Nguyen asked.
    â€˜As it says in