The sky was a hazy blue-white. Hong Kong lost much of its sultriness on the more pleasant days in December and the breezes were considerably cooler than those of Singapore. The air was fresh-tasting as Joyce McQuinnie left the hotel and headed in a straight line towards the nearest branch of Pacific Coffee. Halfway down the street she spun on her heel and pointed directly at the man following her. ‘Him,’ she yelled. Two men appeared from nowhere and grabbed his arms, pinning them behind his back. One was a large Eurasian youth with straggly hair. Another was a middle-aged Chinese with small glasses. ‘Gotcha,’ said the younger one. ‘Step backwards and don’t cause any trouble,’ said the older one. ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa,’ J Oscar Jackson Jnr said. ‘Hey! Let me go. I’m not doing any harm here.’ ‘You are following our friend—an innocent and defenceless young woman, or at least she could be. And that’s doing harm in our book,’ said Abel Man Chi-keung. Jackson stopped struggling.
