The Chinaman Read Online Free

catch criminals, not to act as some kind of messenger of death. And she’d done it so bloody well, sat them both down, made them cups of sweet tea, phoned their daughter and arranged for her to come round and look after them. She’d sat with them on the sofa until the girl came and then left them to their grief. All the time Edgington had stood by the kitchen door, feeling useless, but Griffin hadn’t mentioned it when they got back into the car.
    The next call had been at a small flat in Stockwell. No relatives this time, but a boyfriend who burst into tears and hugged the WPC when she told him what had happened. They were going to get married, he’d sobbed. She was pregnant, he said. She held him until the tears stopped and sat him down and asked him if there was anyone she could call, a friend or a relative. Did she suffer, he asked. No, she lied. The sergeant had told them that the girl had died screaming on the pavement with both her legs blown off. ‘No, she didn’t suffer,’ she said without hesitation.
    He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and she gave him a handkerchief while Edgington telephoned the boy’s mother. She said she’d be around in fifteen minutes and Edgington and Griffin decided that he’d be OK on his own until then. They left him hunched over a mug of tea which he clasped tightly between his hands.
    â€˜It’s coming up on the left,’ she said.
    The traffic crept along and eventually they reached the turning.
    â€˜Number 62,’ she said before he asked.
    He drove slowly, counting off the numbers. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
    She checked the computer print-out on the clipboard and nodded. ‘That’s what it says here.’
    He stopped the car and they both looked at number 62. It was a Chinese take-away, with a huge window on which were printed gold and black Chinese letters and above it a sign that said ‘Double Happiness Take-Away’. Through the window they could see two customers waiting in front of a chest-high counter.
    â€˜That’s it,’ she said, opening her car door. Edgington caught up with her as she reached the entrance and followed her in.
    Behind the counter was an old Oriental man shouting through a serving hatch in a language neither of them could understand. He turned and placed two white plastic carrier bags full of cartons of Chinese food in front of one of the customers and took his money. There was a loud scream from the kitchen and the man stuck his head back through the hatch and shouted and waved his arm.
    He came back to the counter and smiled up at Edgington and Griffin.
    â€˜What I get you?’ he asked. He was a small man, his shoulders barely above the counter. His face was wrinkled but the skin wasn’t slack, his cheekbones were clearly defined and there were no loose folds under the chin. It was hard to tell exactly how old he was, he could have been in his forties and had a rough life, or he could have been a well-preserved sixty-year-old. Griffin noticed how sad his eyes were. They were eyes that had seen a lot of suffering, she decided.
    â€˜Are you Mr Noog-yen?’ she said, and he nodded quickly but corrected her pronunciation, saying his name as ‘Newyen’. The single customer left at the counter stood openly watching and listening to the conversation. Edgington stared at him until the man’s gaze faltered and he studied the menu pinned to the wall.
    â€˜Is there somewhere we can talk?’ Griffin asked the old man.
    â€˜I very busy,’ he replied. ‘No staff. You come back later, maybe?’ There was a thud from the hatch and he went over and picked up another carrier bag. He handed it to the customer. ‘Come again,’ he said.
    â€˜I’m afraid we have bad news for you,’ said Griffin. She looked at the clipboard again. God, she thought, how do you pronounce these names? ‘Mr Nguyen, do you know a Xuan Phoung or