Hungry Ghost by Stephen Leather Read Free Book Online Page A

he examined all three cards again, turned them over and handed them back.
    ‘And what is that supposed to mean? Is it some sort of code?’
    Now it was Donaldson’s turn to be confused. What had gone wrong? He checked the cards, confirmed that he’d passed them over in the correct order, and put them back into the envelope.
    ‘Do you feel any different?’
    Howells snorted, the sound of a cat sneezing.
    Donaldson shook his head, trying in vain to clear away the thick smell of burning perfume. He weighed the second, bulkier, envelope in his hands and wondered whether it was worth giving it to Howells. The experiment had obviously failed dismally. Whatever Howells had been like before he now had the killer instincts of a pet rabbit. He dropped the sealed envelope on to the knees of the sitting man and walked dejectedly back to his own seat.
    ‘What is it?’ Howells asked.
    ‘It’s a letter. From Grey. My orders were to show you the cards and pass that envelope on to you.’
    ‘Mission completed,’ said Howells, opening the envelope.
    ‘I suppose so,’ said Donaldson. He watched Howells take out a sheaf of papers and what looked like a wad of currency. Howells sat and read in silence, once raising his eyebrows and snorting again.
    ‘I suppose I’d better be going,’ said Donaldson. ‘Can I call a taxi from here?’
    Howells shook his head without taking his eyes from the papers. ‘No telephone,’ he said. ‘Let me finish this and I’ll run you into town.’
    Donaldson settled back into his chair, toying with the strap of his travel bag. Eventually Howells finished. He refolded the papers and replaced them in the envelope and placed it, and the money, on the table alongside the remains of the meal.
    ‘Very interesting,’ he said. ‘And Grey expects me to do this for him?’ He got to his feet, shaking his arms by his side as if restoring the circulation to cramped limbs. ‘The callous bastard doesn’t change, does he?’
    Donaldson smiled nervously. ‘He doesn’t, but I think he expected you to have.’ He stood up and slung the bag over his shoulder. ‘Have you got a car?’
    ‘A jeep, round the back.’
    ‘It’s very kind of you.’
    Howells smiled and stepped forward, his right arm swinging quickly sideways and then twisting up, fingers curled back so that the heel of the hand made contact first, shearing off the cartilage that was Donaldson’s nose and driving it into the centre of the man’s brain. His legs gave way and he slumped to the floor, a trickle of blood running down his chin. It was a good clean kill, thought Howells, a move he’d practised ten thousand times but never used, until today. He felt a glow of satisfaction at how easy it had been, the feel of the nose breaking, the speed of the blow, the fact that Donaldson hadn’t had time to react or to make a sound. As he looked down at the body the glow turned into something else, something almost sexual, a shiver that ran down his backbone making him gasp. Like an orgasm. Only better. Howells wished he had more time, time to play, to prolong it, but the girls were in the bedroom and he didn’t want to disturb them. The tremor of enjoyment passed, as it always did, leaving him with a sense of loss, an itch that he wanted to scratch again. He opened the chest, hefted the body on to his shoulder and dropped it in. Later, when the girls were asleep, he’d bury it. But first, he was hungry. He wanted a steak, a thick one, medium-rare. It had been a long time.

    The road that Howells drove along to the airport was quieter than when Donaldson had arrived. It was light, but only just, and his jeep was the only vehicle to be seen. Hardly surprising, it was 4.30 in the morning, two hours before his flight was due to leave for Hong Kong. The rice fields were deserted, criss-crossed with lines of string to keep the birds away. Every hundred yards or so were small wooden platforms under roofs of reeds where farmworkers could shelter from the