Detained (22 page)

He lived in a one room hovel to preserve his cash. He hired Bo, who was a taxi driver at the time, to teach him Shanghainese, and discovered he had an ear for language. He read everything about business he could get his hands on. Pete was constantly sending him parcels of books and complaining about the cost of it.

He talked a big game and he chased introductions. He fudged about his experience and hustled for connections. He slept with the daughter of a steel mill manager, and got a fancy office, and a decent suit.

He got his first parts order made and shipped back to Australia. He discovered Confucius. He got his second order made and shipped. He broke up with the girl, but his production contract with her father survived her heartbreak. He picked up new orders based on long stretches of the truth and short memories. He made money, but it was never quite enough. He got more orders. He hired an agent and opened markets. He modified the patent. He worked twenty hour days, and got used to not sleeping much. He told Pete to learn Mandarin and study import export laws, and not to get too attached to England.

And then he had trouble with cash flow and paying the rent. Such a small problem in comparison to the world he was building. So he did a deal with his gangster landlord, so his newly constructed house of enterprise wouldn’t fold down around him like a pack of cards, just when it was all starting to hang together.

And he kept his word on the deal and paid up what was agreed. But he baulked at paying more, and he’d underestimated the prize he’d become and left himself wide open.

Will had never taken Feng’s threats seriously. He didn’t take them seriously that night outside his upgraded hovel with attached bathroom either. He’d watched the knife, heard the kill word and seen red. He didn’t have to think about it. He only had one standard response for physical threats. He’d learned it nineteen years ago, under the heel of Norman Vessy’s boot, under the cut of his belt buckle and the burn of a fence post across his ribs. Neutralise them.

He’d killed Feng Kee with his punches just as sure as he’d watched Norman Vessy die. Both men were weasels, the only difference was Norman deserved his end. Kee just picked on the wrong guy, on the wrong dark night.

By the time his cellmates got back, full of smiles, broken words and pantomimed bits of movie action, he knew what he needed to do.

He could save Parker Corp, save Pete, if he took back control. That meant the next time he was hauled in for interrogation he’d confess. Not that it would be legally binding but it would speed things up. It would force Pete to face the facts, he was a murderer and after years of freedom he was finally where he was supposed to be.

“He who knows all the answers has not been asked all the questions.” — Confucius

Bo pulled up in a car that’d seen better days. Much better. It was missing an entire front fender, one rear window wouldn’t close, and the air-conditioning no longer worked. Apparently it was mechanically sound. Darcy had no idea and no option but to take Bo’s word for it. He refused to take Will’s Audi, or any of the other cars in the Parker garage.

After three days planning this, Robert freaked out and very nearly reneged on coming. He kept muttering, “Death trap, how is this car even on the road? Death trap,” until Bo explained the only way they’d get people in Feng’s village to talk to them was if they didn’t blow into town looking like capitalist pigs.

“But I am a capitalist pig,” Robert said, “and she,” he pointed at Darcy, “is a dead giveaway we aren’t ordinary tourists. So what’s the plan, Stan?”

“We go there. We make a small noise, not a big one. We listen more than we talk and we find out what we need to know to help Will.”

“Yes, Grandfather,” Robert said with mock gravity and rolling eyes, but he got in the car.

To get to Tengtou village they had to drive for two days in this hot, uncomfortable car, but Bo was right, it could do good speed on the open highways out of Shanghai.

They stayed overnight at a modest hotel, ate at roadside stalls and made good time. Still, Darcy felt exhausted by the journey, if not by the task ahead. She was grateful to Bo and Robert; doing this alone wasn’t viable. Not the travel, or the part where she was supposed to look trustworthy, and least of all the part where she understood what was going on.

And what was going on was a fight for Will’s freedom. Perhaps even his life, one his Spiderman brother didn’t seem to understand well enough to accept their help.

The morning they hit the road, Darcy’s first freelance story ran. She’d sold a profile on Will Parker to an international news agency service. It covered his small town Australia origins, his difficult childhood as a foster kid, his struggle to overcome dyslexia. She had paragraphs on his early years in China, his success engineering farm equipment, then car parts, and eventual expansion into steel production and construction. She talked about his cultural and sporting sponsorships, his private charity. She mentioned he was an eligible bachelor, proficient in several languages and enjoyed reading.

She wrote it from what Will had told her, and from Bo’s firsthand descriptions and information he dug up for her. She didn’t mention that he grew up in a shipping container, or his mistress, his temper, his scars or tattoos. She left out the scurrilous details of his first sexual encounter and his preference for Spiderman. There was certainly no detail on how he could tantalise with a touch, and make a person believe she’d found and lost something rare and wonderful in the space of a weekend.

She wrote him real, but she didn’t embarrass him. She’d done that already. The story was fifteen hundred words on the enigma of Will Parker. It asked, without spelling it out, why this man would murder anyone.

It was fresh, it was original content, and it was breaking news. Her wire service contact told her it would get broad pick-up and run internationally. He asked if there’d be more.

It earned her enough to finance their road trip and broke all of her agreements with Spidey. Peter Parker could sue her for all her leftover cash. It was the best story she’d ever written, and she was proud of it, even if one detail was off. There was no evidence in electoral rolls, council, social security or tax records that anyone called Parker ever lived in Tara.

Tengtou village wasn’t all dusty streets, lean-to shacks and skinny dogs. It was rural, pretty and prosperous. And it had already been raked over by every media organisation on the planet. As they drove in, a CNN truck was barrelling out.

Bo grunted as it went passed, “Big noise.”

From the windblown back seat Robert said, “What’s the plan now, Grandfather?” but he’d stopped being sarky. He and Bo had reached an accommodation.

“He who knows all the answers has not asked all the questions,” said Bo.

“Will there be much English spoken here?” Darcy asked. The further they’d driven from the city, the more a liability she felt she was becoming.

“Some,” said Bo. He glanced across at her. “They’ll come to you.” He pulled the car into a side street off the town centre and gestured over his shoulder. “You sit out there. They will see you. If they want to speak they will come.”

Darcy sighed. She was a novice investigative reporter on the biggest story of her life, and her role was to sit in the sun until some random local wandered up to say hi. How Brian would laugh. How Andy would scoff. This was a very long way from being able to help Will Parker in any shape or form.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to photograph buildings, and see what I can dig up,” said Robert, jamming a faded Sydney Roosters cap on his head. “I’ve trained for this
, Lin Gui
, remember.”

“I will talk to people about the village,” said Bo. “We don’t mention Will, okay. Learn more by being quiet.”

They split up
;
Robert going off with a jaunty whistle, his camera slung over his shoulder, Bo going to a restaurant and taking a seat. Darcy watched him settle at a common table and order. She turned away and wandered through the main village centre towards a park. She could see a children’s swing set and a slippery dip shaped like a dragon, but the park was empty. She’d driven for two days with two men she hardly knew in a death trap to sit in an empty park.

Behind her sunglasses her eyes watered. This was an insanely stupid thing to have done. Realistically, she’d already exhausted her ammunition in support of Will by writing the one story she could write, and the best it would do is start another feeding frenzy.

Tengtou had already been picked clean, and no doubt the media would be swarming all over Tara soon too. Someone with better resources and deeper pockets would solve the problem of the Parker name. And if Peter Parker and the Australian Government couldn’t secure Will’s release then it probably couldn’t be done.

She closed her eyes and images of Will flooded her senses. Will dancing with her pashmina, embarrassed but doing it anyway. Will laughing at her, egging her on to sing in the bath. Will touching her tenderly, roughly, completely. Will walking into her punch physically, emotionally, and mentally again and again and again.

She opened her eyes when tiny, sticky hands grasped her legs. They belonged to the cutest toddler in a pale blue bodysuit with Buzz Lightyear images printed all over it. He had enormous brown eyes and thick black hair that stuck up every which way. He was studying her as though she was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.

“Hello little man, where did you come from?” There was no one else in sight. “Where’s your mummy?”

Buzz boy gurgled and gave Darcy’s knee a good patting down. He didn’t seem in the least bit worried to be touring the town on his own. She looked around again, there’d be a frantic carer around somewhere. Meanwhile Buzz boy had run out of puff to stand. He plumped back on his bottom in the dirt and grabbed a handful of it. He had one fist in his mouth before Darcy was quick enough to react.

“Oh baby, no, no, no, don’t eat that.”

Too late. He made a face, his tongue working between his lips, dirt and spit coating his chin. His eyebrow went up and stayed there, and he flapped his arms in annoyance. He looked at Darcy as though it was all her fault and started screaming.

“Oh hell!” She scooped him up, scanning for mum, dad, big sister, anyone who had the frantic look of lost kid. Once in her arms he stopped crying, his hands went to her sunglasses and he pulled them off her face, smiling when he saw her eyes, which he decided were a good target to poke.

She dodged his pudgy hands, and rescued her sunglasses from his grip. “Who owns you, baby? Did you run away? I understand that, sometimes life gets hard doesn’t it?” She spat on her fingers and tried to clean the dirt off his face and he twisted his head to get away. “You wait till you’re my age, and you’ve done something really dumb, and you end up a long way from home with no job, no prospects, and a hole in your heart. Then you’ll really know you’re eating dirt.”

Buzz boy looked at her and laughed. “Oh you think that’s funny.” Then his focus went over her shoulders and his arms shot out in front. His little body tensed and his face was wreathed in smiles. Darcy turned to find a relieved mum running towards them.

“Oh, sorry, sorry, sorry!” Mum’s arms came up and Darcy shifted a wriggling Buzz into her grip. He latched onto a stand of her hair and pulled as they exchanged his weight.

“Oh, sorry, sorry,” said the mother again. English words, even if on repeat.

“He’s okay, but he ate some dirt.”

The mother bumped Buzz to her hip and regarded Darcy. “Thank you.”

Darcy smiled, “He’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

She tried again. “What’s his name? How old is he?”

Buzz’s mum sat. “He’s called Michael, his Chinese name is An and he’s nearly two.”

Coming down from her shock—Michael’s mum’s English was perfect—Darcy sat beside her. Bo said they’d come. Maybe chatting about a toddler would be as good as it got.

“Is he your first?”

Michael’s mum nodded.

“He’s a handful.”

“He’s a little monkey who just gave me the fright of my life. I told my husband to close the door. I was in the other room for five minutes, that’s all, and he’s gone. I can’t wait to get back to the city.”

“You’re not from here?”

“My husband is. I was born in Shanghai. I hate it out here. They’re all inbred.”

Darcy laughed. Mum wasn’t much younger than she was.

“Why are you here then?”

“Visiting family. They’re like the big shots here. Big shots of nothing if you ask me.” She joggled Michael on her knee. “Are you a tourist?”

“Yeah. We drove in from Shanghai.”

“Reporter?”

Darcy hesitated. What did it matter if she told the women the truth? “Yes. But I’m late to the party. I’m Darcy Campbell.”

“Hah, place has been overrun by reporters since the story about Feng Kee came out.”

“I feel like I should apologise for that.” If only Michael’s mum knew how true that feeling was.

She smiled. “You look harmless enough.” She spat on her fingers and wiped at the corner of Michael’s mouth. He did the head twist thing again and both women laughed. “What do you want to know?”

Darcy was shocked. “What can you tell me?”

“My name is Jennifer Feng. Apart from my husband, the Feng men are liars and gangsters.” Jennifer had gone from worried witless mother, to relieved young cosmopolitan woman marooned in the rural backblocks, to deadly serious willing informant. Darcy’s heart was lodged in her oesophagus.

“But around here you’d think they shat gold bricks. I don’t want anything to do with them, and I don’t want them to have any hold over me or my family.” She hugged Michael until he squirmed and thumped his head against her chest.

“You sound angry.”

“I am angry. I’d never have married Shen if I’d known about them, how far they’d go.”

“How far have they gone?”

Jennifer looked away. Darcy had pushed too hard. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s your job isn’t it, prying?”

“Kind of. It’s my job to report what happens, to find out the truth.” Darcy closed her eyes behind her sunnies. She sounded like a Lois Lane cliché, all truth, justice and the American way. Like a woman who hadn’t just made news up and gotten a good man attention he didn’t deserve. Gotten a good man kidnapped and jailed.