Mann nodded his thanks, picked up his drink and wandered over to Fat Harry’s table.

Mann looked Harry over. His shoulders were broad, his arms large, once muscled, and his neck was thick. He deserved his name now. He had several chins hanging beneath his babyish face and even more massive stomachs bursting the buttons of his plain calico shirt. His face was red, babyish. His silver hair was thinning and swept back by oil or by sweat, Mann couldn’t decide. Harry filled most of the circular seat meant for four people. His head came high above the others around him. He must be at least six three, thought Mann. He reminded him of Jabba the Hutt.

Fat Harry spoke to the girls who were sitting with him, all clad in matching white miniskirts and black strapless tops. They squeaked their goodbyes to ‘daddy’, giggled their girly hellos to Mann, and left to make room for him to sit.

Fat Harry did not stand as Mann approached, and Mann did not expect him to. This was not England or Hong Kong. Etiquette was not top of the list here; con geniality was. And Fat Harry was Mr Congenial. He smiled non-stop. He waved to the party on a neighbouring table. They had a hostess lying on the table and were taking turns drinking vodka shots from her naval. He laughed so enthusiastically that his stomach reverberated.

‘Regulars…’ he said, raising his beer to them. ‘Come back here every year. Nice to see a new face, though. I am the proprietor of this den of feckin’ iniquity. What’s your name, fella?’ Fat Harry’s voice still had a hint of Ulster brawl to it.

‘John, John Black. I must congratulate you—you have a good business here, Harry.’

Fat Harry studied Mann. He obviously liked the cut of Mann’s clothes. He looked at Mann’s wrist to see what make of watch he had. It was one of several that Mann owned—a Pateek Philippe. He was obviously passing Fat Harry’s test. A fellow policeman was always going to keep an eye on small details.

‘You here on business, John?’

Mann shook his head. ‘My wife will kill me if I answer yes to that…I’m here on honeymoon. Why, is this club for sale?’

Fat Harry laughed. ‘I like you already—a straight-talker—a man after my own heart. And no, this club is not for sale, although I could probably point you in the direction of one that is.’

Mann picked up his glass. ‘Cheers to your good health.’

Fat Harry picked up his beer bottle and clicked it against Mann’s glass. ‘And yours.’

‘So, what business are you in, John?’

‘All sorts.’ Mann grinned. ‘This and that. I have a few investments. I own a few language schools in London and Manchester. A couple of massage parlours and a few other things that I’d rather not admit to.’

Fat Harry laughed. ‘Language schools, huh? Who are your main clients?’

‘From Asia, mostly: China, Japan.’

‘What about the girls in your massage parlours?’

‘Well, not surprisingly, we have a fair few Filipinas but mainly Eastern Bloc girls. I recruit them through the school.’

‘Good business, huh?’

‘There will always be girls looking to make money and always men looking to spend it.’

The table next door had moved on to watching the girl perform a sex act with a specially designed ice-cream cone. There were loud appreciative hoots and claps. Fat Harry waited for the antics to be finished before he tried making himself heard again.

‘You don’t have any problem with the girls, they don’t mind working?’

‘A few of them do take a bit of persuading. Some of them owe money for their passage over, they’re working it off—you know the kind of thing, I am sure. The young ones need to be controlled, shown who’s boss.’

Fat Harry’s greedy eyes fixed on Mann’s face. Mann could see that he had taken the bait.

‘How long are you staying here in Puerto Galera, John?’

‘Just a couple of nights. We have friends in Manila; we’ll go there after here. We fly home to London in a week.’

‘Would you be interested in meeting one of my business partners? Bob English? We may have something you’d be interested in, and he’ll be very keen to know more about your UK businesses.’

‘Sure. Why not? I’m always open to offers.’

‘Give me tonight to organise it. I’ll call you in the morning; let you know what I’ve managed to set up.’

Mann hoped that Shrimp had done a good job on his and Becky’s new identities. Fat Harry would be scrutinising it tonight. And they would want Mann dead by the morning if Shrimp hadn’t.

56

‘Hurt, ma’am?’

The evening had come in fast. The sunset had arrived in smoky plumes of billowing purple cloud against a backdrop of turquoise. That was just a few minutes ago, now it was as dark as midnight and the first stars were appearing. Becky sat in the middle of a row of five chairs inside the Paradise foot spa. Her feet were in a wooden bowl of warm water, being soaked and washed whilst another woman massaged her shoulders. She was drinking sweet ginger tea. Outside there were a dozen open-air stations for massaging backs and feet.

She was thinking about what had happened with Mann. They had become such good friends in so few days that it felt like forever. They laughed at the same things and they cared about the same things—basically he was a soul mate. Becky shook her head at that revelation—her

soul mate!

That’s what she had thought Alex was at one time. But, more than that—Mann made her feel like a sexy woman again. Then there was the kiss.

‘A little,’ she replied, thinking to herself that these women had developed incredibly strong fingers as they brought her back to reality and she felt the innermost muscles of her shoulders twang.

Becky had come into the spa, which seemed to be the largest women’s workplace on the beach, thinking that if anyone would know what was new, they would. The women were all wearing black shorts and pink T-shirts with

‘Paradise’

written on them. The masseuse who was washing Becky’s feet was pregnant. She squatted in front of Becky, resting her bottom on a short-legged stool, her round stomach protruding so far that Becky wondered that she could still see her customer’s feet in the bowl. She looked like one of Gauguin’s Tahitian women. She wore a red flower tucked behind her ear and her hair fell over her shoulders in a thick black glossy sheet. Her face was broad and flat, as was her nose. She had a calm, earthy beauty. When her hair fell in front of her busy hands, she flicked it away in a move that was slow, deliberate and elegant. She wore a name badge with

‘Rosario’

on it. Despite her beauty, she looked very sad, thought Becky.

‘Why you no grow you hair, ma’am? Colour like gold.’ Tina, the masseuse kneading Becky’s shoulders, spoke.

Two other masseuses came in to get their feet done whilst they were not busy outside. One sat on the end of the row, whilst the other fetched the bowl. They all nodded their agreement with Tina.

Becky had just come from the Internet café. She’d heard from the team back home. More of the victims’ identities were coming to light. Two of them had been traced to this area. It seemed that they had been brought together and shipped over to Hong Kong, then on to the UK.

The evening was only just beginning to get busy. People were still passing by in purposeful mode, off either to eat or drink. They were not chilled enough to think about a foot massage yet. At midnight the spa would be packed. Then the girls would set up camp beds in the sand opposite and give massages to passers-by. For now, the half a dozen girls whose job it was to tout, took it in turns to come and get their nails done, whilst outside the masseuses with the leaflets joked with people passing, made idle conversation with those they knew along the sandy parade. Becky wondered how so many women managed to eke out any kind of living from the spa.