“Find out who killed my son…and why.”
♦
Fu Xinghua was tall for a Chinese and powerfully built, nature having been enhanced by his own efforts. His suit was well cut and showed off the breadth of his shoulders and his tapered waist. The long overcoat he affected, a summer cotton but dark and with just enough buttons and flaps to suggest the military, flapped open as he strode forward. He did not break step but he did glance sideways into a shop window to check out the profile he presented. His lips thinned with satisfaction. It was impressive. And it needed to be. He had tipped off the press that the ‘strike black’ task force, set up to take on organised crime syndicates, the ‘black’ to which his campaign referred, was about to go into action again.
The policeman did not look back, but he knew that he was flanked on either side and behind by a cadre of officers, all wearing similar trench coats, marching in step, their boots stamping a rhythm on the pavement. He’d designed the coats and boots himself. He wanted his special force to have a distinct identity from the rest of the force. There had been some discontent when he had set out to do this – “are we policemen or fashion designers?” – but he had gotten his own way in the end. He usually did. And few would deny that his task force had been powerful, effective and most importantly, popular. This last was in no small part due to his effort to manipulate his, and their, image for popular consumption.
His men were armed and ready to arrest the wealthy real estate mogul, Wong Kar Wai, who was in their sights that day. He had a filthy reputation and no tears would be shed when he was removed from circulation. As he approached, Fu could hear sirens as the police cars converged on the building. In the air, there was the regular thump of the police helicopter’s rotors. The sky was clear and blue. Unusual in Beijing, usually so mired in filth that the air was like beef noodle soup. It was perfect weather for a televised confrontation. Fu didn’t mind in the least that he was tipping off his quarry with their noisy arrival. This was another opportunity to burnish his image as China’s leading crime fighter, a man unafraid to take on the criminal elements on behalf of the people. Even with his public profile and general popularity it was a dangerous business. Crooks in China were often well connected to powerful figures in government. Indeed, they were often the powerful figures in government.
Fu knew he would not have succeeded half as well if he didn’t have political cover and support. The deputy mayor of Beijing, Dai Wei, was the political will behind his crusade against the Chinese mafia. What was the expression the press used for the two to them? ‘Singing red’ and ‘smashing black’ – a reference to their Mao-era revivalism and crusade against organised crime. Fu was a policeman from the ranks who had hitched his wagon to a rising star. On his own, he was nothing more than another ambitious copper from the provinces with no real prospects for advancement. Dai Wei on the other hand was from the right sort of background. His father had been a right-hand man of Mao before he was purged and later rehabilitated. So he was a princeling, with all the power, prestige and privilege that suggested. Fu’s lip curled – these fellows like Dai Wei were useful, but they would never understand what it was to be a success through sheer guts and hard work.
The policeman arrived at the front of the building just as the police vehicles converged, sirens wailing, tyres squealing. He saw the flash of cameras and suppressed a smile; it would not do to compromise his image as the hard man of the Beijing police force. Fu shrugged off his coat and a flunky caught it before it hit the floor. It was a well-practised move. He raised a hand and another member of the team handed him a loudspeaker. He held it up almost reverently, pausing as silence descended over the waiting crowds, all of them eagerly anticipating the denouement.
“Wong Kar Wai, we know you’re in there. Come out now and face justice!”
There was silence from within the building, a shiny three-storey structure encased almost entirely in glass. It faced a crossroads and the glass sheath was probably the result of advice from a feng shui expert. The new generation of Chinese billionaires could afford to fund frivolous projects to protect their wealth even from the vagaries of luck.
“We know that you are an enemy of the people – stealing their land for your rich-man projects. Come out now.”
Still silence.
“This is your last chance, Wong Kar Wai. My men will enter the building in ten seconds – starting from now.” He raised his hand and dropped it like an official beginning a race.
“Ten, nine, eight…” He could sense the anticipation in the police, the media and the gathering crowd of spectators drawn to the spectacle.
“Seven, six…”
He did not speed up or change his tone. He could have auditioned for a talking clock.
“Five, four, three…”
The glass door was pushed open hurriedly and a massively overweight man appeared flanked on either side by beefy characters in tight suits. Again, Fu suppressed a smile. The trio were almost a caricature of criminality. It was why he had picked this particular dodgy businessman for the big showdown. He’d known instinctively it would play well for the cameras. There was no point going for the skinny conmen who looked like accountants. This way, their crackdown on organised crime stayed in the headlines.
“You are under arrest, Wong. Tell your men to go back inside. No one will be hurt as long as you show good sense.”
In China, food was often equated with wealth. Wong must have spent the better part of the last decade on ten course dinners. Fu straightened his shoulders to preserve and emphasise the contrast with the grotesque creature he had come to arrest.
“This time you have gone too far, Fu.” The fat man had to shout to be heard – he didn’t have a loudspeaker and it diminished his authority.
“I’m just doing the people’s work, Wong.”
“Do you know who you’re messing with? Am I just a common criminal that you should come here with this – ” his hand swept a wide arc – “this circus?”
“A corrupt real estate mogul – you steal from the people and you destroy those that stand in your way. Why should you expect to be treated better than a common criminal?”
“You’re nothing but a jumped-up policeman dancing to Dai Wei’s tune! Do you think that you will get away with this conduct? I have many friends, even in the Politburo – all of them can send you to work on traffic junctions in Mongolia if I raise my finger!”
“I will do what is right,” insisted Fu. Inside, he was jubilant. This ridiculous man was playing into his hands, threatening to use his influence to find a way out. It was precisely that sort of behaviour that was inflaming public opinion and turning Fu and Dai Wei into the people’s heroes.
“Out of respect for your seniority, I will give you one last chance to come out here and surrender. Otherwise, I will have no choice but to use force,” said Fu, authority once again magnified through the megaphone.
The gross piece of flesh in front of him was sweating through his suit. The men on either side looked uneasy – from where they were standing, the odds probably didn’t look that good. The semicircle of men with gun and cars and flashing lights were an intimidating sight. Just like something out of an American movie, Fu’s favourite form of entertainment. The policeman didn’t doubt that the press was hoping that Wong would not give up easily. It made for better copy if there was a gun battle.
“You and I are both pawns in a great game, Fu.”
“My only desire is to serve the people in the fight against black,” replied Fu.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the glint of sunlight on metal. He stared up at the roof of the building and saw the gleam again. This time he had no doubt what it was. The bright afternoon sun was reflecting off a gun barrel. There was a sniper on the roof.
“If you want to fight against black, my friend, you should look to your own soul and that of your boss,” screamed Wong, suddenly losing control and waving his fist in the direction of Fu and the police cordon.
The words had barely dissipated into the hush when the first shot was fired.
♦
“I’ll need to speak to your husband, of course, and Justin’s sister.”
“Why? Why should you need to speak to my husband?”
The inspector looked at her, eyebrows forming two arches. It was interesting that she was more concerned about him speaking to the husband than the daughter. “If you want me to find out what happened to your son, I’m going to have to speak to everyone he was close to, had a relationship with, anyone who might know what he’s been up to this last three months in China.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Inspector Singh, but it sounds as if you’re suggesting that my son was in some way responsible for what happened to him.”
Singh couldn’t help admiring the First Secretary. The woman combined sarcasm, punctilious politeness and an overall air of threat to perfection. No doubt she was a dab hand at commercial negotiations and bilateral trade deals. But she needed to leave the murder investigation to a pro.
“You have a choice, Mrs Tan. Either you accept that your son was the victim of an unprovoked attack, a victim of the fates, or you decide to look into the matter further with my help. If you choose the latter course, then you must understand that I decide what’s relevant or not.”
There was a silence while Susan Tan debated the options as they had been presented. The inspector was mildly surprised that it should take her so long to make up her mind. She’d dragged Singh all the way to China to find answers. But now she was hesitant. There was only one possible explanation. The family had secrets. But Susan Tan was going to have to accept that a murder investigation was not laser-like in its intensity, following a certain path to the truth. It was a bright white beam that lit up hidden corners and dark crannies where the family skeletons were hidden.
“Very well, I understand what you’re saying. I’ll arrange access to whoever you think is necessary, including Anthony and Jemima.”
She opened her mouth to continue and then closed it again. The expression slowly ebbed away from her face until she was like those terracotta statues of Qing Dynasty soldiers. Singh waited, curious to see what the woman would say next. A request to keep discoveries confidential? A warning not to stray too far from his remit of finding a murderer?
In the end the diplomat thought the better of any of these options. Not that Singh would have complied. His loyalty in a murder investigation was always and only to the victim.
Instead, she asked, “What else do you need?”
“Access to his friends and teachers at the university.” Singh was ticking off his requirements on his fingers. “Any girlfriend?”
“There was someone, I doubt it was serious. I’ll see if I can find out who she was.”
Not a mother who felt threatened by the other women in her son’s life.
“And the crime scene, of course,” he continued.
“It’s been more than three weeks since Justin was killed. I’ve been back there a couple of times – there’s not much to see.”
“Why would you go back to the place where your son was killed?”
“I don’t know – I just feel drawn back there…if I just stand there…just stand there and look up and down the street, up at the sky, somehow, I’ll get answers.”
“That’s precisely why I need to go there even if the trail has grown cold,” he said.
“It speaks to you?”
“Sometimes.”
“It’s a small junction, narrow streets with courtyards, not wide enough for a car. There are hutongs that have become tourist attractions, designer shops and bars for tourists, but this one is just an old-style, cramped, grubby dwelling place in a poor neighbourhood. I can’t imagine what Justin was doing there in the small hours of the morning.”
“I’d like to see for myself.”
“You’ll need an escort or you’ll spend most of your time in Beijing asking for directions. Your driver from this morning, Benson, will assist you. He’s an intern here – learning the ropes before he goes into the diplomatic service.”
“And a translator,” said Singh. He had a sudden flashback to his time investigating the murder of a witness at the war crimes tribunal in Phnom Penh. He’d had a translator then, Chhean. He suppressed a smile at the memory of the stocky creature with the enormous self-confidence who had not hesitated to pursue any line of questioning as she saw fit regardless of his views of the matter. He added quickly, “Someone who’ll do what he’s told.”
Susan raised her head and met his eyes defiantly as if she was expecting him to protest her next comment. “I have asked an ex-policeman from the Beijing police force, Li Jun, to assist you.”
So he was going to be furnished with a babysitter cum spy. No big surprise – Singh would have done the same in her position.
“I look forward to meeting him.”
“But first we should get you to a hotel. I’m sure you need to freshen up and get something to eat. The red eye from Singapore can be draining.”
For a moment, Singh thought she was suggesting some form of conjunctivitis and he rubbed his eyes with both knuckles. Then he realised the diplomat was talking about the flight. “Yes,” he agreed, “I need a shower.” No need to mention the cigarette and room service.
“I’ll have your Chinese escort pick you up at – ” she glanced at her watch – “eleven.”
Singh managed to keep the grimace off his face. That was barely two hours. Susan Tan was letting him know in no uncertain terms that he was on a short lease. So be it – he had a murder to investigate.
♦
“He is dead now but still you cling to him!”
The tone was accusing but the voice betrayed an underlying need. The young couple stood under the arc of a weeping willow just inside the ornate traditional gates that marked the entrance to Peking University.
“It is too soon,” whispered the girl, her voice heavy with tears.
“I understand that you are feeling his loss but he was never right for you!”
Dao Ming wanted to lash out, to say that it was Wang Zhen who had never been right for her despite the shower of gifts and the expensive restaurants. She had been this man’s trophy, worn with the same pride as his original Adidas shoes and Tag Heuer watch from the shiny modern shops in Sanlitun district. Not for him – the fakes and ‘third shift’ products from the Silk Market. He was the son of privilege, a princeling, a high cadre child. There were so many nicknames in China for that whiff of privilege carried like a birthright.
“What could he give you that I can’t?”
“It isn’t about what he gave me, Wang Zhen. It’s about how he made me feel.”
The boy frowned as if the words were blows and she suspected that they were. What she did not believe was that she was hurting his heart, she only had weapons to damage his pride.
“We were so good together. Everyone said so!”
She almost smiled as he betrayed his youth. “Everyone said so” – that was his proof that their former relationship had been a success. It was true that, outwardly, they had looked like the ultimate student couple. The scion of a powerful family and a girl widely regarded as being one of the most beautiful and smartest on campus, the child of a leading if troublesome intellectual.
But then Justin had come along with his wide grin and irreverent spirit, so different from the mainland Chinese boys, and he had made her laugh. Made her feel needed. Made her feel special. And she had walked away from Wang Zhen without a second thought. She should have known it was never going to be that simple. These children of the powerful did not like it when their toys were taken away. Justin had never said but she was sure the two men had argued, maybe even come to blows over her.
Wang Zhen grabbed her by both shoulders, his grip so tight that it hurt.
“Let me go!”
“You belong to me. Now that he is gone you should return to your rightful place.”
“I don’t belong to
anyone. That’s your whole problem, right there. You think of me as another trophy, someone to make you look good. Justin just wanted me to be happy.”
He slapped her suddenly and hard and then took a step back as if shocked by his own behaviour. As the tears rolled down her face, she covered her flaming cheek with a hand and warded him off with the other.
“I’m sorry, Dao Ming. I didn’t mean to do that. I was just so jealous for a second – it’s because I love you, surely you can see that?”
“I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, Wang Zhen. You insist that you really care for me. But – ” her voice cracked into a sob that rested on the humid air between them – “I know it hurts you to hear me say it but Justin was my destiny. A part of me…a part of me can’t believe he’s gone.” She moved her hand and stared at the smeared blood on her fingertips. He had cut her cheek with his ring.
Wang Zhen turned away and kicked at a loose stone. His hair fell over his forehead and she was reminded again of how handsome he was – sought after by every girl on campus, except her. Was that why he had decided that no one else would do? It was the way of the privileged to always want what they did not have.
He looked up, eyes glittering like black diamonds. “You are a dutiful daughter, are you not, Dao Ming?”
She thought of her father, remembered the ticking off she’d received because she was spending too much time with Justin. Her father had counted off a long list of reasons why she should keep him at arm’s length. “You are too young and so is he; he is a foreigner, here only for a short time; he is from a privileged background quite different from yours. There is no future for you both and the present serves only to distract you from your studies.”
“But you yourself like Justin, Father. Does he not help you with your research?”
“He is a good and diligent student and his heart is in the right place. But he is not for you.”
In the end, she had stormed out of the room swearing that nothing would change her mind about Justin. Within a week, they had received the news that Justin was dead, killed. Even now, almost a month later, she couldn’t quite believe it.
A Calamitous Chinese Killing Page 5