A Million Reasons Read online

  He waited while it rang, then was greeted by a female voice in Cantonese. Ignoring the Cantonese, John switched to English.

  “Hello, I have an inquiry about my account.”

  The bank employee switched languages, “Good morning Sir. How can I help you today?”

  John sighed and started again. “There seems to be an error with my account balance. There is a deposit in my account that shouldn’t be there.”

  “Okay, sir, first I will need to verify a few details. How can I address you?”

  “My name is John Hayes,” he replied, then answered the rest of her questions—his date of birth, Hong Kong ID number, and mailing address.

  “Please wait, sir, while I check your account.”

  He stood and waited as a delivery truck rolled slowly past before stopping outside one of the bars. The driver and his co-driver jumped out, both stripped to the waist, a sheen of sweat glistening over the brightly colored tattoos that covered their backs. John watched as they unloaded crates of Carlsberg and New Zealand wine onto the footpath.

  John loosened his tie with his left hand and tapped his foot as he waited. His shirt stuck to his back and a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead.

  The girl’s voice came back on the line. “Okay, I see your account now. How can I help you?”

  “Well, someone has deposited one million dollars into my account in deposits of fifty thousand. It’s not my money, and I don’t know where it has come from.”

  “But Mr. John, the records show cash deposits. Are you sure you haven’t forgotten? A payment for something? Or maybe some friends have put it there?”

  “I don’t have many friends, and those I have don’t have any money. There is no way I would forget a deposit of that amount.”

  “What do you want me to do, Mr. John?”

  “Well, can you find out where the money came from and tell them they put it into the wrong account?”

  “Yes, Mr. John, I can try, but with cash deposits, it’s difficult to know who put the money in. I will see what I can do and get back to you. But Mr. John, it will take a few hours.”

  “That’s okay, just call me back when you find out.”

  “Yes, Mr. John. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

  “No, that’s more than enough. Thank you.”

  “Thank you for calling the Oriental Banking Corporation. Have a nice day.”

  6

  John walked back into the office and sat down at his desk. He shivered as the chill from the air-conditioning cooled his sweat-soaked shirt.

  The boss had arrived while he had been out and glared at John from inside his office, pointedly looking at his watch. John ignored him. He couldn’t stand the arrogant arsehole and avoided contact with him as much as possible. John opened his email inbox and went through his emails, but he couldn’t concentrate. His mind kept going back to the money in his account. Why would someone make such a big mistake? He allowed his mind to wander, to entertain thoughts of keeping the money. It wasn’t a large fortune, but it would solve his current problems and allow him to make a new start. He sighed and shook his head to clear the idle thoughts. There was no point in fantasizing about what wasn’t his. He focused on his email again.

  It was late afternoon, just before closing when the bank called him back. John asked them to hold for a minute, muted the call, and walked out of the office, his boss’ eyes drilling holes in his back. He skipped down the stairs to the toilet and locked himself in before unmuting the call.

  “Hello. I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “That’s okay, Mr. John. We have checked the deposits, and there is no way of finding out who put the money into the account as they are all cash deposits. Each deposit was in a different branch, by a different person, and we don’t have the means to track them down.”

  John frowned. “But that's crazy!” His heart raced. “Don’t you require identification when someone is making a cash deposit? I thought the banks were strict now. Aren’t you all worried about money laundering and terror financing?”

  “Yes, Mr. John, strict regulations are in place, but the Hong Kong Monetary Authority only requires us to identify the customer if the deposit exceeds one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. All these deposits are well under the limit. I’m sorry, Mr. John, but I don’t know what to suggest.”

  John turned, and with trembling hands, flipped the toilet seat lid down and sat on it. He couldn’t believe what was happening.

  “Mr. John? Are you there?”

  “Yes, sorry. I was just thinking.” He took a deep breath and composed himself. He spoke out loud the thought he hadn’t dared to entertain earlier. “So, are you saying the money in my account now belongs to me?”

  “Yes, Mr. John.”

  “And they can’t take it back?”

  “No, Mr. John. It’s in your account. They can’t take it back.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” She lowered her voice, “Mr. John why worry about it? You are very lucky. Just keep the money. Whoever did it has made a mistake, but it is their problem, not yours.”

  “Hmmm, I suppose you are right,” John nodded, forgetting she couldn’t see him. He still couldn’t believe it.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you today?”

  “No, that’s all, thank you. Thank you very much.”

  John sat in shock. By some weird stroke of luck, he had more money in his account than he had ever had before. It wasn’t a fortune, but even when he worked in the bank, he never had that much cash available. Everything he earned had gone for expenses and his lifestyle. His mind raced, filled with possibilities, but he didn’t know what to do next.

  The outer door handle wiggled as someone tried to enter. He ignored it. Finally, he was financially free again. He couldn’t contain his excitement and jumped up off the toilet seat and punched the air with delight.

  ”Yes, yes, yes!”

  “Hey, open the door. Let me in.”

  John slipped his phone into his pocket and unlocked the door. Steven from Marketing stood outside, looking annoyed.

  “All yours, mate,” John said with a laugh as he slapped him on the back and skipped up the stairs. He walked inside the office to his desk. He grabbed his bag, glanced around the office, then with a wave at his frowning boss, walked out the door without looking back.

  7

  Tuesday

  John woke late, almost ten a.m. He hadn’t been able to sleep, tossing and turning until three a.m. before he finally drifted off. Thoughts on what to do with his newfound wealth, his financial freedom, had filled his mind. There was one thing that was definite—he wasn’t going back to that dead-end job anymore.

  Climbing out of bed, he stretched, then walked into the kitchen, opening the cupboard, removing his French Press. He took a packet of coffee powder from the fridge and measured coffee into the French Press before pouring a small amount of hot water over the ground coffee. He waited thirty seconds for the coffee to bloom, then poured in the rest of the hot water. He set his timer for four minutes and with a coffee mug, carried the French Press into the living room, placing it on the two-seater dining table. He stared out the window at the hillside that rose steeply behind his apartment building while he waited for the coffee to steep. A hiker was climbing the steep trail to the top of the hill, and John watched him, but his mind was elsewhere. He thought of the money and how Charlotte should have been there to enjoy it with him. The things they could have done together. The timer going off brought him back to the present, and he pressed the plunger on the coffee press and poured himself a mug of steaming black coffee while he thought about his next step. Should he buy something? He didn’t actually need anything, and his wants weren’t much. He had always wanted a nice car, perhaps a Porsche, but the traffic in Hong Kong and the cost of parking made that impractical, and it would just tie him down. More than anything, he wanted to be free. Free to make his own choices, to travel when he wanted
, to do what he wanted when he wanted and not be bound to a job, chained to a desk like a modern-day slave.

  He sat back in his chair and grinned. That’s what this money would give him. Freedom. He drank the rest of the coffee and headed for the shower. For the first time in over a year, he was excited about the future.

  8

  Showered and dressed, John picked up his phone from the bedside table and powered it on, more out of habit than necessity. It wasn’t like he was expecting any calls or needed to be in touch with the office anymore. He wasn’t going back to work that was for sure.

  The phone vibrated with message alerts, and he glanced down at the screen, scrolling through the messages and emails—a couple of spam messages selling Viagra and an email notifying him someone in Nigeria wanted to give him some money. He chuckled, amused at the irony of the situation. There was a message from his boss, asking him where he was. Just reading the message irritated him, the thought of going back to the office filling him with dread. He deleted it and moved on to the next message in the queue. It read ‘number withheld,’ more spam he thought as he tapped on the message window and it opened.

  We’ve paid you. Now it’s your turn to do something for us.

  Strange. John sat down on the edge of his bed and looked at the screen again. Who was this, and what did they mean? Paid me? An uneasy feeling came over him. He thought for a minute, then typed:

  Who is this?

  He sat and waited tensely. A minute later, his phone vibrated in his hand. He opened the message.

  You don’t need to know who we are. Just know we have paid you, and now you must do what you have been paid for.

  John frowned.

  What do you mean? This is a joke, right?

  The phone vibrated again almost instantly.

  Do you think $1,000,000 is a joke? We are serious. You will do what you have been paid for, and if you don’t, there will be serious consequences for you!

  John stared at the phone. Shit. This wasn’t good. All the excitement about the future disappeared, replaced with alarm. Whoever this person was, if they were prepared to pay one million to get something done, it must be more serious than running a few errands. The phone vibrated again.

  We know everything about you, Mr. Hayes. Where you live, where you work, how much you earn. If you don’t do what we ask, you will wish you had never been born.

  A knot formed in the pit of John’s stomach—a fear he hadn’t felt since the incidents in Bangalore. He dropped the phone on the bed and stood. Fuck, shit, fuck! He paced around the bedroom, wishing he could rewind to the day before when he had no money in his account. What should he do? He would call the police, let them handle it. The Hong Kong Police were good—honest and efficient. They would sort it out. He paused and looked down at the phone lying on the bed. If he called the police, he would have to give up the money and go back to his shitty life. He glanced at Charlotte’s photo on the bedside table.

  “What should I do Charlie?” The photo remained silent.

  He remembered what he had gone through to avenge Charlotte’s death—the steps he had taken, the decisions he had made. Fuck it. I’ve been in bad situations before. It can’t be any worse than that. Only one way to find out. He crossed the room and picked up the phone.

  What do I have to do?

  A minute later.

  We knew you would come to your senses, Mr. Hayes. Wait for the next message.

  The phone vibrated again. A photo.

  He looked at the photo. A deeply tanned, middle-aged Westerner looked back at him, his hair expensively cut, grey at the temples. He looked familiar, full of confidence as he smiled at the camera.

  It was what was written under the photo that sent a chill down John’s spine.

  Kill this man by Sunday.

  9

  The face seemed vaguely familiar. Lean and tanned, the man in the photo exuded an aura of success. He faced the camera with self-confidence and an air of satisfaction with his position in life. All of this was registering in John’s subconscious, but his lizard brain, the one in charge of fight or flight, was in panic mode. He sat down again, his legs feeling weak, unable to support his weight. Was this a practical joke? It was definitely not funny. He looked at the message again. The number was withheld so he couldn’t even phone them and confront them.

  He typed another message.

  Is this some kind of sick joke? I don’t want your money. You can have it back. I will transfer it back straight away. You have the wrong person.

  The phone buzzed again.

  We have the right person, Mr. Hayes. You have two choices. Do what we ask and live a long life in comfort. If you don’t, you too will be dead by the end of the week.

  John would definitely call the police. No amount of money was worth killing anyone for. Yes, he had killed before. Those bastards deserved everything that was coming to them. They had taken the only woman he had ever loved and destroyed his life. But this was different. He had no idea who this guy was, and John had no reason to take an innocent person’s life even if someone gave him a million dollars. He could never enjoy the money, knowing someone had died for it. He would call the police, tell them everything. What was the emergency number in Hong Kong? 911? 111? He had never needed it so had no idea. Before he could work it out the phone buzzed again.

  Don’t even think about going to the police. We will know immediately, and your life will be over.

  John dropped the phone on the bed and stared at it. How did they know what he was thinking? He took a deep breath and walked out of the bedroom. In the kitchen, he grabbed a glass and filled it with cold water from the tap. His hands shook, spilling some of the water, so he put the glass down again. He took another deep breath, filling his lungs, then let the air out slowly, hoping to remove the tension. It didn’t work. His heart was pounding, and despite the air conditioning, he could feel sweat forming on his forehead. Who was this and why had they chosen him? Did they know what he had done in Bangalore? Did they know he had killed before? Fuck! John banged the edge of the sink with his fist. If they did know, then he couldn’t go to the police. That would be the end. Shit, shit! What should he do? His fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the bench top as he stared out the window. He had to get a grip on himself. He could either panic and feel sorry for himself, or he could try to take control of the situation.

  They said he had until Sunday to live, so that gave him some time. Not much time, but he wouldn’t give up yet. No point in upsetting them now and shortening his life. He would find a way out. He walked back into the bedroom and picked up the phone. He looked at Charlotte’s photo, and drawing strength from her, he typed:

  Who is this person, and why do you want him killed? He hit send.

  He waited, but not for long. The phone vibrated in his hand. Looking down, he read:

  The why is none of your business. His name is Peter Croft. The rest is up to you. Google him. If you want to see next week, you had better start now.

  10

  John grabbed his laptop from beside the bed and walked into the living room where he sat again at his tiny dining table. Opening his browser, he typed in ‘Peter Croft.’

  Immediately, several entries came up, and John realized why he had seemed so familiar. Peter Croft was a well-known businessman in Hong Kong and a regular on the society pages. John clicked on one of the links and started reading.

  Peter Croft was born in Hong Kong in 1960 to William and Susan Croft, both from England. William was working for the government in the Lands Department as a Government Surveyor. They had a comfortable life with all the perks and privileges that came with a government job in the colonies—a large apartment in Mid-Levels, a Filipina Amah, and evenings and weekends at the Jockey Club.

  When he was old enough, Peter attended King George V School with all the other expatriate offspring. He was average academically, but where he excelled was on the sports-field, representing the school in athletics and football. He contin
ued his activity in later life, regularly running the trails around The Peak and playing squash once a week at his club.

  His parents had wanted him to go to a university in England, but Peter was a young man in a hurry, not one to waste time over a qualification when there were fortunes to be made in the growing Colony. Fresh out of school, he arranged an entry-level clerical position at one of the venerable British trading firms or “Hongs” through one of his former classmates whose father was a director of the firm. It wasn’t long before he made his presence known through hard work and an eagerness to learn, moving out of the clerical role into a more active position. It was real estate that fascinated him, and he befriended the expats in the Real Estate Division, picking their brains over beers in sleazy Wanchai bars. After several years, he had worked his way up to a senior position in the Real Estate Division, doing property deals on the side, leveraging his father’s government contacts and the aura surrounding his trading house’s name. He eventually decided working for someone else would never make him truly rich and handed in his resignation, immediately launching his own company, taking some of his former colleagues with him. His rise since then had been meteoric, and he was now considered one of the largest, non-Chinese developers in the city.

  John sat back and rubbed his eyes. So far, there was nothing to suggest why someone wanted Peter killed. It all sounded like the fairytale Hong Kong story, the sort of story that inspired the city’s population to work hard and aim for the stars. He got up and put the kettle to boil for fresh coffee before sitting down and reading on.