Bloody Foreigners by Neil Humphreys

Author:Neil Humphreys
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Muswell Press
Published: 2021-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 22

Low turned his head to the side. The girls were already losing interest, half watching the cherubic South Koreans on TV. The bespectacled boy still had his gun trained on Low’s chest area. A novice. He’d hit the fat man first.

Seconds passed. Low felt his fear dissipate. The fireworks faded. The fat man wasn’t going to shoot him, not in this expensive apartment, presumably rented. Not in Chelsea. You can’t drag a dead Chinese detective along the streets of Chelsea. It was the wrong postcode.

‘Why haven’t you shot me? What are you waiting for?’

The sudden change in accent confused the fat man. Ah Lian had vanished, leaving behind a different man with a different body shape. Low was more upright, less hunched and monkey-like. He was no longer fidgeting. He wasn’t even moving, just monitoring faces, taking stock of the mood in the room. Low liked Ah Lian. He loved the gangster’s impulses. But he was a distraction. Low lost focus whenever Ah Lian was around.

‘So now you are the Singaporean policeman?’

‘Only if you are Chen.’

Chen lowered the gun, but didn’t step away, not yet. He had to be sure.

‘I’m Chen.’

‘Then I’m Low. Now that’s settled, we can stop fucking around and your bookie can make me a cup of tea.’

Chen edged away, falling back into his armchair. Low followed, sitting on an armchair across from Chen, as if preparing for an uneasy political summit. The teenage cash-counters and a sofa stacked with shopping bags sat between them.

‘Go and make him tea.’

The bespectacled bookie registered his displeasure. He hesitated.

‘Go on,’ Chen ordered.

Reluctantly, the younger man dragged his weary body away from the sofa like a hormonal teenager. ‘What do you want?’

‘Milk and one sugar. The best thing about England is the tea. Everything is bloody Lipton’s in Singapore. You ever have Lipton’s tea?’

No one was interested in the question.

‘Shit tea. But no choice: it’s got a monopoly, a bit like you in Chelsea.’

Low gestured towards the Tesco plastic bags filled with £50 notes. He waited for the stroppy one to leave the living room, still studying the betting odds on his phone, the gun held limply against his leg.

Low noticed a whiteboard propped up against an antique cabinet with the weekend’s matches scribbled in marker pen.

‘Is that why you picked Chelsea?’

‘What?’

‘For the football.’

‘No. There’s a casino near here. Very quiet, owned by Genting.’

‘Ah, Genting. Malaysian. So Asia controls the casinos around here now.’

‘Asia controls everything around here now.’

‘I can see,’ Low said, pointing at the plastic bags. ‘Eastern Europe?’

‘Albania.’

‘Of course. They take all the risk, right? Smuggling. Dealing. Whatever. They fail. You don’t care. They succeed. They come to you. The tea boy out there keeps an eye on the banks. Interest rates. Exchange rates. The pretty girls here with the cute siew mais do the pick ups in car parks. They get caught. You don’t care. Plenty of hostesses in Soho. They succeed. You and your China backers get paid. Everyone closes one eye in London. They need your investment, no matter where it comes from.

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