Death of a Red Heroine icc-1

by Qiu Xiaolong

  That part was not difficult to accept. Chen nodded. The Party authorities would like very much to hush up the sensational details. The picture of National Model Worker Guan’s naked body, violated and strangled, would contradict the hallowed image of a model worker fully dressed in a gray Mao suit.

  Chen thought he saw an almost imperceptible smile on Yu’s face.

  “So, a special case group is to be formed. Chief Inspector Chen will be in charge of it. And Detective Yu is Chen’s assistant. In addition, Commissar Zhang will be the adviser for the investigation.”

  “What if it is just a homicide case?” Yu asked doggedly.

  “If it turns out to be no more than a homicide case, we’ll solve it, too, of course. We just need to keep our minds open. The group will have a special budget. If more men are needed, Chief Inspector Chen can ask me.”

  That, Chen thought, was perhaps the secret of Li’s success. Full of political nonsense, but not unaware of being so. So Li never forgot to add a few not-so-political words, words that made a little sense. That made Li somewhat different from other Party cadres.

  Party Secretary Li was concluding his speech: “As you all know, this case has some sensitive aspects. It calls for a careful approach. So keep all information from the press. Anything that can lead to unnecessary speculation will not help our investigation.”

  “I’ve got your point, Comrade Party Secretary.” Chen spoke for the first time. “With Comrade Commissar Zhang as our adviser, we will do our best and solve the case.”

  After the meeting, Chen stayed on with Li, alone.

  “I want you to do a good job,” Li said. “It may be a difficult case, but a successful conclusion will come to the attention of higher authorities.”

  “I understand, but Commissar Zhang-” Chen did not finish the sentence.

  Zhang was generally considered the most orthodox Party commissar in the bureau, a political hard-liner of the older generation.

  “Commissar Zhang has reached the age for retirement,” Li said, “but what with inflation, and with the rising standard of living, it can be difficult for anyone to live on his pension alone. So the Party authorities have come up with a new regulation for the old comrades. They have to retire in accordance with the cadre retirement policy, no question about it, but as long as they remain in good health, they can do some secondary work appropriate to their age. In that way, they may still enjoy their full pay. ‘Adviser’ is an honorary position-he’ll just give advice or suggestions. You have full authority as the head of the group.”

  “So what shall we do with him?”

  “Just keep him informed about the investigation.”

  “Ah well, I see.” Chen sighed.

  Chen saw only too clearly what he was in for: four or five calls from the commissar as a daily routine, not to mention the necessity of listening to Zhang’s long lectures larded with quotations from Mao, Deng, or The People’s Daily, and the necessity of suppressing frequent yawns.

  “It’s not that bad. At least he is an incorruptible commissar.”

  Depending on one’s perspective, that was a good point-or a bad one.

  “It’s in your interest, too, to work closely with a comrade of the older generation,” the Party Secretary concluded in a lowered voice.

  When Chen returned to the main office, he saw Detective Yu scanning a group of pictures at his desk. Chen took a seat opposite his assistant.

  “Was Guan that important?” Yu asked.

  “A national model worker is always important.”

  “But that was in the sixties and seventies, Comrade Lei Feng and all that propaganda.”

  “Yes, we have been brought up with these communist role model myths,” Chen said. “In fact, such a concept is not without its root in Confucianism. Only Confucian models were called sages, whereas in the twentieth century, they are called model workers, model peasants, model soldiers. And even today, I can still sing the song, ‘Learn from the Good Example of Comrade Lei Feng.’”

  “So can I,” Yu said. “There’s another one. ‘Be a Good Soldier to Chairman Mao.’ I was humming the tune the other day, and my son was totally lost.”

  These songs had been very popular throughout the nation in the early sixties. Comrade Lei Feng was a model PLA soldier who served the people wholeheartedly, helped others in need, and never cared about his own interest. The Party lauded such mythical communist models to whom the people were expected to measure up, giving but not taking, contributing but not complaining, conforming but not making trouble. After the Cultural Revolution, and especially after the summer of 1989, however, few really believed in the orthodox propaganda.

  “So,” Chen said, “Comrade Lei Feng may be more needed than ever now.”

  “Why?”

  “Contemporary social polarization. Nowadays, a handful of upstarts live in luxury beyond ordinary people’s dreams, but so many workers are laid off-’waiting-for-retirement’ or ‘waiting-for-assignment.’ Many people have a hard time making ends meet. So propaganda advocating a selfless communist model is all the more necessary.”

  “That’s true.” Yu nodded. “Those high cadres and their children, the HCC, have everything and take it for granted.”

  “That’s why the propaganda ministry is trying very hard to come up with some contemporary role model. Guan was, at least, a pretty young woman. A considerable improvement-in the fashion-shop window of politics.”

  “So you don’t believe in the political shit either.”

  “Well, so much for political myths,” Chen said. “What do you think of the case?”

  “It’s anything but a political case.”

  “Yes, put politics aside.”

  “Guan was attacked that night on her way to a vacation. Forced to take off her clothes in a car, raped, and then strangled to death. Since she was not dating anyone at the time of her death-according to the department store-we can presume that the murderer was a stranger, probably the taxi driver.”

  “So what action do you suggest?”

  “Inquire at the taxi bureau. Collect the drivers’ receipts for that night, and check the records at the bureau. And of course, question those with suspicious pasts.”

  It was the same hypothesis, Guan as the victim of a taxi driver. Detective Yu had discussed it with Chen even before they had established the identity of the dead woman.

  At least it explained how the body came to be found in that distant canal.

  “Yes, that makes sense. Cover all the areas you think worth looking into.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Yu said, “but as I’ve mentioned, it won’t be easy, with so many cars running around the city nowadays.”

  “In the meantime, let’s do the regular checkup as well. I’ll go to the dorm building where Guan lived, and you’ll interview her colleagues in the department store.”

  “Fine,” Yu said. “It’s a special political case, I understand. But what about Commissar Zhang?”

  “Well, keep him informed about our work. Whenever he wants to say something, just listen to him-as respectfully as possible,” Chen said. “After all, Zhang’s a veteran cadre, influential in his way.”

  Chapter 7

  D etective Yu woke up early. Still sleepy, he took a look at the radio clock on the nightstand. It was barely six, but he knew a full day awaited him. He got up, moving carefully so as not to wake up his wife, Peiqin, who curled up against the towel-covered pillow, a striped blanket tucked down to her ankles, her bare feet exposed on the sheet.

  As a rule, Yu got up at seven, jogged along Jinglin Road, read the morning newspaper, had his breakfast, sent his son Qinqin off to school, and left for the bureau. But that morning he decided to break this rule. He had to do some thinking. So he chose Renmin Road to do his jogging.

  His mind was on Guan Hongying’s case as he ran along at his customary pace, inhaling the fresh morning air. The street was quiet, with only a couple of old people doing Taiji on the sidewalk by the East Sea Furnit
ure Store. A milkman was sitting in a corner, staring at a small crate of bottles at his feet, murmuring to himself, counting perhaps.

  This was just another homicide case. Detective Yu would of course do his best to solve it. He had no objection to doing so, but he did not like the way the investigation was going. Politics. Nothing but damned politics. What was the difference between a model worker and non-model worker lying naked against the bare walls of an autopsy room?

  According to the store’s preliminary report Guan was not involved with anyone at the time of her death. In fact, all these years, Guan seemed not to have dated anybody. She had been too busy for an affair. So it could only be one of the common rape and murder cases, and the rapist, a total stranger to her, had assaulted her without knowing her identity, and killed her somewhere on her way to vacation on the night of May tenth. With neither evidence nor witnesses, the investigation would be difficult. Similar cases they had been assigned led nowhere despite all their efforts.

  Detective Yu had a theory of his own concerning rapists. Most of them were repeaters who would never rest with one or two victims. So sooner or later they would be caught and convicted. The police could do little without clues or concrete evidence. It was a matter of time. Just waiting might seem too casual, considering what had been done to Guan. But what else could a cop possibly do? Detective Yu was conscientious. He took pride in being a good cop-one who could make a difference, but he knew what could be done and what could not. It was a matter of priorities.

  As for any political factors being involved in this case, that was far-fetched.

  Chinese people were complaining about a lot of things these days-corruption, unemployment, inflation, housing shortages, traffic congestion, and so on, but nothing related directly or indirectly to Guan. True, Guan was a national model worker and political celebrity, yet her death would leave no dent in China’s socialist system. If so-called counterrevolutionaries had intended to sabotage the existing system, another far more symbolic target should have been chosen.

  Yu was fed up with the Party Secretary’s talk.

  Still, he had to play his part. It could be crucial to his career goal, which was a simple one: to do better than his father, Yu Shenglin, usually known by his nickname, “Old Hunter.” The old man, though an experienced and capable officer, was still a sergeant at retirement, with a meager pension, hardly enough to indulge himself with a pot of Dragon Well tea.

  When Yu came back, panting and wiping his brow, Peiqin had already set a full breakfast on the table. a bowl of steaming beef noodle soup with a handful of green scallions.

  “For you,” she said. “It’s still hot. I’ve had mine with Qinqin.”

  Wearing a fluffy robe, she sat hunched with her elbows on the table, supporting her chin with her hands, and looked at him over the soup. She was a few months older than he. As an ancient Chinese saying went, “An older wife knows how to take care of a husband.” But with her long hair hanging down her back in ripples, she looked younger.

  The noodles were good, the room clean, Qinqin already dressed for school, carrying a chicken sandwich with an apple in a sealed plastic bag. How could she have managed to do so many things in such a short while, he wondered.

  And things were not easy for her, not just at home. She worked as an accountant in a small, plain restaurant called Four Seas, tucked far away in the Yangpu District. She had been assigned the job after coming back to Shanghai with him. In those days, the Office of Educated Youth assigned jobs, and decisions were made regardless of an applicant’s education, intentions, or location. There was no use complaining since the office had a hard time dealing with the millions of ex-educated youths who’d returned to Shanghai. Any job opening was a blessing. But she had to make a fifty-five-minute bike ride from home to the restaurant. A tortuous journey, riding three or four bikes abreast in the rush-hour traffic. Last November she had fallen after a night’s snow. She had needed seven or eight stitches, though the bike was hardly damaged, apart from a dent in the mudguard. And she was still riding the same old bike, rain or shine. She could have asked for a transfer to a closer restaurant. She didn’t. Four Seas had been doing quite well, providing many perks and benefits. Some other state-run restaurants were so poorly managed that the profits were hardly enough even to maintain the employees’ clinic.

  “You ought to eat more,” she said.

  “I can’t eat much in the morning, you know.”

  “Your job is tough. No time for lunch today again, I am afraid. Not like mine in the restaurant.”

  That was one disadvantage of being a cop, and an advantage of working at her restaurant job. She did not have to worry about her meals. Sometimes she even managed to bring home restaurant food-free, delicious, specially cooked by the chef.

  He had not finished the noodles when the telephone started ringing. She looked at him, and he let it ring for a while before picking it up.

  “Hi, this is Chen. Sorry about calling so early.”

  “That’s all right,” he said. “Anything new-any change?”

  “No,” Chen said. “Nothing new. No change in our schedule either, except that Commissar Zhang wants to meet you sometime this afternoon. Say before four o’clock. Give him a call first.”

  “Why?”

  “Commissar Zhang insists on doing something himself, he wants to conduct an interview. And then he would like to compare notes with you.”

  “It’s no problem for me. I can set out earlier. But do we have to do this every day?”

  “Perhaps I’ll have to. Since it’s the first day, you just do whatever the commissar wants you to.”

  Putting down the phone, Yu turned to Peiqin with a sigh.

  “You’ve got to take Qinqin to school today, I’m afraid.”

  “No problem,” she said, “but you are doing too much for too little.”

  “You think I don’t know? A police officer makes four hundred and twenty Yuan a month, and a tea-leaf-egg vendor makes twice as much on the street.”

  “And that chief inspector of yours, what’s his name-still single, but he’s got an apartment.”

  “Perhaps I was born a mistake,” Yu was trying to sound humorous. “A snake can never become a dragon. Not like the chief inspector.”

  “No, don’t say that, Guangming,” Peiqin said, starting to clear the table. “You’re my dragon. Don’t ever forget that.”

  But Yu felt increasingly disturbed as he stuffed the newspaper into his pants pocket, walking toward the bus stop on Jungkong Road. He had been born in the last month of the dragon year, according to the Chinese lunar calendar, supposedly a lucky year in the twelve animal cycle zodiac. According to the Gregorian calendar, however, the date was early in January of 1953, therefore the beginning of the snake year. A mistake. A snake’s not a dragon, and it could never be as lucky. Not as lucky as Chief Inspector Chen. When the bus came, however, he was just lucky enough to get a seat by the window.

  Detective Yu, who had entered the police force several years earlier than Chen and solved several cases, did not even dream of becoming a chief inspector. A position within his reasonable reach would be that of a squad leader. But that, too, had been taken away from him. In the special case squad, he was only the assistant to Chief Inspector Chen.

  It was nothing but politics that Chen had been promoted because of his educational background. In the sixties, the more education one had, the more political unreliability one represented- in Chairman Mao’s logic-as a result of being more exposed to Western ideas and ideologies. In the mid-eighties, under Comrade Deng’s leadership, the Party’s cadres-selecting policies had changed. That made sense, but not necessarily in the police bureau, not in Chief Inspector Chen’s case. However, Chen got the position, and then the apartment.

  Still, Yu was ready to admit that Chen, though not that experienced, was an honest and conscientious police officer, intelligent, well-connected, and dedicated to his job. That was a lot to say about someone in the bureau. He ha
d been impressed by Chen’s criticism of model myths the previous day.

  He decided not to have a confrontation with Chen. A futile investigation would probably take two or three weeks. And if the case could be solved through their efforts, so much the better, of course.

  The air grew more and more stuffy in the bus. Looking out the window, he realized that he was sitting there like a sentimental fool, feeling sorry for himself. When the bus arrived at Xizhuang Road, Detective Yu was the first one out the door. He took a shortcut through the People’s Park. One of its gates opened out to Nanjing Road, Shanghai’s main thoroughfare, almost an extended shopping center in itself, stretching from the Bund to the Jian’an Temple area. The people were all in high spirits. Shoppers. Tourists. Peddlers. Messengers. A singing group was performing in front of the Helen Hotel, a young girl playing an ancient zither in the middle. A billboard in big Chinese characters exhorted Shanghai residents to promote good hygiene and preserve the environment by refraining from littering and spitting. Retired workers were waving red flags at corners, directing traffic and admonishing offenders. The sun was out, gleaming on the grated spittoons built into the sidewalks.

  Detective Yu thought that he was merging with all of them. And he was their protector, too. But that, he admitted, was wishful thinking.

  The First Department Store stood in the middle of Nanjing Road, facing the People’s Park across Xizhuang Road. As always, the store was crowded, not only with local people, but also with people from other cities. Yu had to squeeze through the throng at the entrance. The cosmetics section was on the first floor. He stood close to it, with his back against a column, watching for a while. A lot of people flocked around the counters. Large pictures of beautiful models greeted the young shoppers, their varied body language all the more alluring under the bright lights. The youthful saleswomen were demonstrating the use of the cosmetics. They, too, looked quite attractive in green-and-white-striped uniforms, the ceaseless play of the neon lights shimmering around them.