‘You must have been very young when you met him.’

‘Yes. I was eighteen when I started working as a window prostitute. I met your father about six months after I started. I didn’t feel young. I was a kid with problems. At that time heroin became very big here. It took Amsterdam over for a while and I was hooked. I grew up fast after that. And—despite the way it sounds—I liked being a prostitute. I liked the honesty in it. The window prostitutes are self-employed. No one tells them to work if they don’t want to. They look after each other. If there is any trouble they just press the panic button that’s in every window and the whole street will come running. For me, it was a good life and I earned good money.’ Her eyes were shining in the dark cold night as she stared at him—the streets were less busy now as they got further from De Wallen, only the odd inviting bar tempted Mann in as the chill seeped into his bones. ‘I would have been happy to stay working but your father wanted me to stop; he wanted to look after me.’

‘So what you’re saying is, you gave up a promising career in prostitution for my father?’

Magda looked shocked for a moment, then saw he was teasing her and she laughed, embarrassed as she held up her hands in surrender.

‘Sorry…sorry…It’s so hard for some people to understand, especially when they come from conservative backgrounds. They think prostitute…must be a bad person.’

‘My world is not in the least conservative, Magda. In Hong Kong it doesn’t matter how you get your money as long as you get it. It doesn’t matter whether your father was a peanut seller or a king, as long as you make your millions—everyone is equal in money. What do you do now?’

‘I work behind the bar at the Casa Roso and I help run the PIC—the Prostitute Information Centre. I give tours of De Wallen, show people what it’s like in the girls’ world, plus I go into schools and talk about sexual health, that kind of thing.’

‘Whereabouts is your apartment?’ asked Mann.

‘Not far, the end of the next street.’

‘Okay, I’ll catch you up.’

Magda looked at him curiously.

‘I have to see to something. I’ll be a few minutes. Take a detour; go round the block again.’

‘Okay.’ Magda understood the urgency in his voice. She lived with a policeman, after all; she understood that they thought in ways and at levels that no one else did. She walked across the street, took a left turn at the end. Mann continued on towards Magda’s road but the footsteps which had been following now disappeared. Mann stopped, looked back, then turned to hunt down the men who were following Magda.

6

Mann caught up with Magda, approaching her from the opposite direction. She was standing outside a block of flats that looked like it had been built in the fifties. Its yellow balconies jutted out over the street. Beside the metal-framed front door was a notice:

DON’T PISS HERE—PISS OFF

She looked relieved to see him and punched in the code and pushed the door open. Mann followed her in along with a noisy black cat with a pink collar around its neck. The hall light came on automatically as they made their way up the concrete flight of stairs.

They stopped on the third-floor landing. There were four flats in all. As he watched her find her keys he took the chance to study her in the light. Her ice-blue eyes were piercingly harsh and her square face broad, almost Tahitian-looking. Her toughness, her bare-faced attractiveness, was handsome but not pretty. But, no matter whether she was beautiful or not, Magda had meant enough to his father to keep him flying halfway across the world.

She unlocked the door at the end of the landing; the smell of weed being smoked drifted out. The cat walked straight in.

‘Alfie?’ she called out and looked down at the cat which was meowing and looking up at her expectantly. ‘It’s always hungry and it’s not even my cat. Jake always fed it,’ she said as she pushed the door wide.

‘Here!’ came the heavily accented reply.

A large man appeared in the lounge doorway. He had blond, collar-length tight curls. His face was so scarred by acne it looked like fermenting pizza dough. His eyes were set close together and the colour of burnt caramel, fringed with lashes the colour of straw. There was softness, a kindness and honesty about his big face, Mann thought. He had on sloppy jeans and a large eighties-style, big-shouldered black leather jacket with a shirt that was patterned with indiscriminate blue and cream splodges. In his left hand he held a fat joint. With his right hand he took Mann’s hand, shook it and he looked deep into his eyes the way that policemen always did—always looking beyond, below, never quite believing what they were seeing. He was older than Magda by a few years—Mann guessed mid forties.

‘Was nice?’ He grinned at Mann.

Magda stood between them, hands back in her pockets, looking a little embarrassed.

‘He means the show at Casa Roso. He didn’t think I should meet you there. I told him I knew you would appreciate it—anyway, I had just finished my shift.’

Alfie chortled and nodded his head as he dragged on the joint.

‘Was good?’

‘Was great.’ Mann smiled. There was something instantly likeable about Alfie.

‘Stop smoking that shit.’ Magda scowled at Alfie. ‘We need to talk…’

They walked into the L-shaped lounge, which looked like someone had hidden the mess rather than found a home for it. Alfie walked across the lounge and opened the balcony door. He took a few hard drags before blowing the smoke outwards and flicking the joint out over the side of the railing. Magda rolled her eyes.

‘You could hit someone on the head when you do that.’

Alfie chortled. ‘They expect that kind of behaviour from this house. We are the trashy end of the street, remember?’ Alfie disappeared onto the balcony for a few minutes. He came back in and looked curiously at Mann. ‘The street was busy when you came tonight?’

Mann nodded. Alfie studied him for a minute and then took off his jacket to reveal a still strong-looking man, but one who looked like he was on the cusp of loading on middle-age spread.

Alfie was about to throw his leather jacket over the sofa until a glance from Magda told him that he should hang it up in the hall where it belonged.

‘We will sit in the kitchen. I need to show you some maps.’ She gestured towards the door that led off from the lounge.

Alfie caught them up. The kitchen was organised clutter. Spider plants and saucepans on hooks. A collection of fifties cocoa tins. Kids’ drawings. There was no wall space left. Above the sink was a signed photo of Bob Marley—that had to be Alfie’s, smiled Mann.

The kitchen table itself was covered with maps dotted with sticky notes. On the wall above the table there were photos. ‘Is that Jake?’ Mann asked, pointing to a picture of two lads, one obviously Oriental looking, and the other tall, blond.

‘Yes. Jake and Lucas have been friends forever. They have known one another since kindergarten. They are like brothers. Lucas’s dad is a single parent. He’s had mental health problems, depression. Lucas lives here most of the time.’

Mann tried to make out what the boys were pointing to in the photos. ‘What’s that on their T-shirts?’

‘It’s a joke. When they were younger they loved to play the Super Mario game with the Budweiser advert in it. They say it to one another all the time—“Wassup”. We got some T-shirts done for them to take on the trip, just a joke, just something silly.’

Magda turned away, her face collapsing as she struggled to keep a hold on her emotions. Below the picture of the boys was an article about the kidnap that had been cut from a newspaper, and there were photos of the five kitted out and ready to set off. Mann looked at Jake standing with his friends. They were all smiles. He had his backpack on, jeans, ‘Wassup’ T-shirt—all ready for his journey of a lifetime. Mann moved in closer to study his face—Magda was right, he did look like him. He had the same high cheekbones and Chinese eyes. He looked very young, thought Mann. Too young to die.