She hopped off her stool, fetched a laptop and opened it in front of him. After some busy typing while various screens flashed and Singh could only sit by and feel like a dinosaur, she turned the screen to him. “This is his blog in English. There is also a Chinese version.”
He read it quickly, seeking the gist, rather than the detail. It was an expose of a corrupt land deal. The professor had become involved on behalf of peasants against what appeared to be a land grab by corrupt officials in Sichuan Province. A photo had been posted of a line of villagers, locked arm in arm, in front of a bulldozer. He laboriously ran his fat finger over the touch pad and read that many officials had denounced Luo Gan for ‘standing in the way of progress’ and ‘being stuck in the old Maoist ways of thinking’. In the end, though, thanks to the popular outcry, he’d prevented the demolition of the village from going through.
He looked at the last entry. It was brief. “Next week I will be reporting on another attempted land grab, right here in Beijing. Watch this space.” He leaned forwards and peered at the date. The post was four weeks old.
“All right – his professor was a crusader on behalf of the people. What does that have to do with Justin?”
“Justin helped him a lot with his research. He was very proud of what he was doing. He felt that he was making a difference. My parents weren’t that keen, of course.”
“Why not?”
She shook her head and her hair swung from side to side like a metronome. “Getting involved in internal Chinese matters…”
Singh could see why the First Secretary of the Singapore Embassy might not have wanted a family member involved in something so controversial.
“But they didn’t stop him?”
“No. But I don’t think they realised how involved he really was.”
“I guess I need to chat to this professor chap,” sighed the policeman, gulping down the rest of his coffee. It seemed Justin was a good guy and a teacher’s pet. That was not suggestive of a motive or a lot of Singh’s schoolmates would have been in the firing line over the years. “Although I don’t see how this could have a bearing on the murder.”
“And while you’re there, don’t forget to look up Justin’s girlfriend!”
♦
Li Jun caught the yellow and blue bus of Beijing Public Transport – it cost less than a yuan – to his old headquarters. It was standing room only on the bus. As he stood close by the exit, clutching a post, a black limousine with darkened windows tried to cut in front of the bus with an aggressive blast of its horn. The Mercedes got past but such was Beijing’s traffic gridlock that it crawled to a halt within a few meters. Li Jun smiled thinly. The wealthy and the anonymous got stuck in unmoving queues of cars just like the proletariat. It was the great leveller, capitalism with Chinese characteristics.
As he disembarked at the correct bus stop, Li Jun took a deep breath, enjoying the way the cold air from an air-conditioned shop across from him cut through the humidity like a scythe. There had been too many people on that bus and the air had become fetid with body odour and bad breath. The ex-policeman walked to a public phone and called his friend, wondering if he would be prepared to come down for a few minutes, just for old time’s sake.
Li Jun sat down at a small teahouse and ordered a pot of jasmine tea for two as well as a side dish of marbled tea eggs. The undistinguished little spot he’d chosen was famous for the concoction of spices, a secret recipe, of course, in which it boiled its eggs. He peeled an egg and admired the marbling effect made by cracking the shell when the egg was only partially cooked. He was only halfway through the first when Han Deqiang walked in and took the small wooden seat opposite. He immediately reached for an egg and started peeling it before he uttered his first words.
“It is good to see you, Comrade Li. You’re a stranger nowadays.”
“It is better for your career if you are not seen with a disgrace like me,” replied Li Jun with a smile. “That is why I keep my distance most of the time.”
“Fortune has a fickle heart, my good friend.”
Li Jun knew he was alluding to the years the two of them had spent being re-educated in the country. Li Jun had been the son of the headmaster of a small school. Han had been the grandson of a former landowner. These attributes were sufficient to make the former a target as a bourgeois element and the latter as a capitalist roader. They were denounced by the Red Guards. The sons, after watching their fathers sweep courtyards and attend ritual self-criticisms, were shipped off to the provinces for re-education. They’d met on the train and become friends, working the fields together alongside the farmers. It had, as adversity sometimes does, formed a strong bond between them.
“So to what do I owe the honour of this meeting?” asked Han.
“I have been asked to look into a death.”
This was met by a loud guffaw. “So now you are a private investigator?”
“Just this once, my friend.”
“Well, I hope they are paying you well!”
“An honest man finds satisfaction in a job well done,” said Li Jun, a smile robbing his prim words of offence.
“And that satisfaction fills the stomach of his children as well,” agreed Han with another laugh.
Li Jun knew that Han only had one son so he did not think that he would have real difficulty making ends meet, even on a policeman’s wage. Not now that his family had been rehabilitated and he was a senior policeman. Li Jun’s family too had been brought in from the cold after the excesses of the Red Guard era but it had been too late for his father who had flung himself into a dark well on a dark night when the humiliation had become too much.
“So what is this case of yours?”
“That boy from Singapore who was killed by thugs.”
“Ahh – I know it. Very bad for our reputation when foreigners are killed.”
“But the solution was reached very quickly. A robbery gone wrong, murder by an unidentified group of thugs.”
“Yes, the whole department was covered in the glory of a successful investigation.”
Li Jun smiled. He’d almost forgotten his friend’s knack for making sarcastic comments sound like revolutionary-era slogans.
“So what do you think happened?”
Han’s response was cautious. “There is no evidence of any animosity towards the victim that might have made him a target.”
“Who led the investigation?”
A slight pause prefaced his answer. “Detective Xie.”
Li Jun didn’t know Xie in person but he certainly knew him by reputation. He was a man of whom it was said that he tried to feed himself rice with one chopstick. As he was a retired Politburo member’s youngest son – he was protected and promoted. But he was never given a case where a solution was actually desired.
“Why?” he asked at last.
Han made a big show of chewing and swallowing his marble egg as if he were a well-mannered gwai lo who would not speak with his mouth full. His friend and former colleague knew he was buying time, considering his answer. Li Jun didn’t mind. Han had never misled him in all the years they had known each other; he didn’t expect him to start now.
“Fu ordered it.”
“Fu ordered it?”
“Are we at the Great Wall to hear such echoes?”
“But this is very interesting and thought provoking, Comrade Han.”
“That is why I am hesitant to reveal it to you, Comrade Li! I know your penchant for trouble when you hear ‘interesting and thought provoking’ things.”
“Fu is still the deputy head of the Bureau as far as I am aware.”
“That is correct.”
“And he does not want a solution to this case…”
“Why do you say that?”
“My wits may have become blunt, dear friend, but credit me with some understanding. We both know Xie’s reputation.”
Han remained silent, content for his retired friend to draw the conclusions that he could not be heard
to speak out loud while still in uniform.
“Fu does not hand out a traffic ticket without the say-so of Dai Wei,” mused Li Jun.
“He is the right hand man of our powerful and popular deputy mayor,” agreed Han.
“And he has been the fist that has cracked down on organised crime,” Li Jun pointed out, “but Dai Wei has been the brains behind the operation.”
“That is right. A thousand businessmen behind bars since he began the crusade.”
“All criminals?” demanded Li Jun.
“This is Beijing, my friend. All crows are indeed black. Any thousand would have done just as well.”
Li Jun slumped forwards, elbows on the table, last egg untouched and tea growing cold. His friend was right. The business community was so corrupt that it was much more difficult to find an honest man than a crook. Any thousand would indeed have done just as well.
A group of kids walked in wearing Nike trainers, headphones from their mobiles plugged into their ears. They were noisy and boisterous. The girls, in Li Jun’s view, were wearing skirts that were far too short, goosebumps visible on their thighs from the sudden cool of the dark interior. He sighed and felt like the old man he was. China was changing and, despite everything he had been through, he was still not sure it was for the better.
“Is there anything else I should know?” asked Li Jun, although Han had given him plenty to ponder upon. “Do you know of any link between the dead boy and Fu or Dai Wei?” Even as he asked the question he knew it was ridiculous. In what circumstances would a twenty-something Singaporean kid cross the two most powerful men in Beijing? He was being silly, reading more into the appointment of Detective Xie than he should have. Perhaps the detective was on the verge of retirement and they’d wanted to give him a big case to mark his departure. Maybe, with this purge of organised crime, the real cops were too busy tracking down the real criminals – street crime, however violent the ending, did not qualify as major criminal activity. Or at least there was less glory in cracking down on it.
“Your curiosity knows no bounds, Comrade Li.”
“A man is only a fool if he does not seek answers.”
“If that were true, Li, you would be the chief of the Bureau, not an outcast.”
Li Jun looked across at his friend in his smart uniform, rilled out at the chest and shoulders and beginning to fill out around the belly. Han had always kept himself trim, but age and good living caught up with the best of them. He knew that, by contrast, he looked poor and ill fed. His friend was right. Sometimes it was better to look the other way, to keep one’s head down. If he had followed his friend’s sound advice before, he would not be in such straits now. He clasped and reclasped his hands, squeezing as he did so. The humidity was making his joints hurt. Despite the frigid cold of a Beijing winter, his joints always hurt that much more in summer. Li Jun picked up the pot of tea and poured himself some warmth into a cup. He wrapped his fingers around it and felt the pain slowly ease.
“So,” he asked again, “is there anything else I should know?” A small smile played about his lips at the resigned expression on his friend’s face.
“Men like you are the conscience of the rest of us, Li Jun.” Han cracked his knuckles like a bouncer looking for a quarrel and continued, “Very well, since you ask, it is well known that the boy’s father, Anthony Tan, was a business associate of Dai Wei.”
Li Jun nodded. It was not that much of a surprise. “That’s all you have?” He had a sense his friend was holding something back.
“I’ll see if I can dig up anything else.”
“That would be very helpful.”
Their eyes met across the table.
“And you should know,” Han said at last, loyalty apparently trumping caution, “Anthony Tan is a very good friend of Dai Wei’s wife.”
♦
Anthony Tan’s mobile rang. He took it out of his pocket and stared at the number. He didn’t recognise it but that really didn’t mean much. He could guess who it was or, at least, on whose behalf the call was being made. His uneaten lunch was on the table in front of him – when was the last time he’d been able to eat a full meal? Not since his son had died. He was losing weight rapidly and would soon be a shadow of his former self, still shrouded in his expensive suits.
“Yes?”
“I am calling on behalf of a mutual friend. I think you know who I mean.”
“I have a lot of friends.”
“I hope for your sake that you don’t owe money to all of them.”
Anthony dropped the act. “I have explained that I just need a little more time. I will pay your boss back. I’ve already promised you that – what more can I do?”
“Unfortunately, he is getting impatient.”
“Look, I said I would return the money as soon as I received payment for my part in setting up this construction project. There’s just been a delay getting planning permission, that’s all.” Anthony shut his eyes and wondered how he had been stupid enough to get into this hole. He shifted the phone to his other ear and tried to think of something, anything that would get him a few days – a few days for Dai Wei to come good with the permit.
Anthony still couldn’t believe that he’d gone to a moneylender for help, for the grease he needed for Dai Wei’s palms. It had seemed a sure thing – borrow the money on a short-term loan, pay Dai Wei, get the planning permission to redevelop the hutong and recover a handsome fee from the Singaporean developers. But in retrospect, it was reckless to the point of imbecility. He had not factored in the possibility that Dai Wei would not come through in a timely manner. Maybe his wife’s assessment of his character was the right one, after all. He was a greedy fool. Self-awareness was a bitter pill indeed.
“You told our boss that it was a done deal,” remarked the moneylender’s henchman, voice dropping an octave.
“It is a done deal…it’s just taking a bit longer than we expected, that’s all.”
“Maoshutóngmián – the cat and the rat are asleep together – or are they not?”
“My relationship with the principal is still good. The planning permission will be issued soon and your boss will get his money back!”
“I hear your family has suffered some ill fortune of late.”
“What are you talking about? What do you mean?”
“My boss says that your son was outnumbered in a fight. That was foolish.”
Anthony pressed his thumb and finger against his eyes and then released them. Red dots swam across his vision and he felt faint. It couldn’t be, they’d promised him more time.
“You are a fortunate man and can still count your blessings. After all, everyone knows that a father’s heart lies with his daughter.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“That you should pay back the money if you want to ensure her longevity.”
“How dare you threaten my daughter?”
The response was like the deep-throated bark of an angry hound. “You have three days to find the money.”
The line was cut and Anthony stared at the phone in his hand as if he was cradling a scorpion, waiting for the fatal flash of the curved tail.
“Daddy?”
He turned to the door and saw his thin sprite of a girl staring at him with wide, shocked eyes. How much had she heard? He tried to remember the exact words he’d spoken but it was impossible. His brain was scrambled with terror.
“Daddy, what’s going on? I heard you shouting…”
“Nothing to worry about, honey – just an impossible client. You know how difficult it can be to get anything done in China.”
“But you said something about a threat! To me?”
“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous.”
That part of Jemima’s face that was not obscured by a cascade of hair conveyed disbelief.
“I met that policeman,” she volunteered. “The one from Singapore.”
“You did?” Anthony did his best to focus on the here and now
.
“Yes, he came here.”
“He shouldn’t have spoken to you without my permission,” insisted Anthony.
“Mum said it was fine.”
“Did you have anything to tell him?”
“No, I didn’t.”
Their eyes met and Anthony tried to read his youngest child. Did she know something?
“The thing is,” she continued, “that policeman, Inspector Singh, is going to find the truth.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I just don’t think he’s the sort to give up easily. And he really wants to find out what happened to Justin.”
Seven
“Dinner time!” said Inspector Singh. “Where shall we eat?”
These Beijing residents needed to start earning their keep. They might think of themselves as private investigators with a murder to solve but as far as Singh was concerned they were just there to point out the best restaurants.
“I have instructions to take you wherever you would like to go,” said Benson.
“When in Rome…” said Singh.
“I beg your pardon?” said Benson.
“Finish the sentence,” urged the inspector. “When in Beijing…what should I eat?”
“Peking duck,” said Li Jun.
“Good idea,” agreed Benson. “You can go to Quanjude or Da Dong.”
“Both are very expensive,” warned Li Jun.
“Foreigners are supposed to go to expensive restaurants and get fleeced,” said the inspector. “Otherwise, what’s the point in having tourists? As long as the food is good, of course.”
“Both are good,” said Li Jun.
“Which is better?”
“In Quanjude they even give you a diploma stating the duck number you have eaten,” said Benson.
Singh’s brow knitted. “I prefer my ducks to remain anonymous,” he explained. “In fact, I prefer all my food to be unknown to me personally. It’s why we don’t eat our pets – except in emergencies.”
“All right, then it has to be Da Dong. I will bring the car around to the front and take you there,” said Benson.
He was as good as his word and in a few short minutes they were ensconced in the private cocoon that was the inside of a well-appointed limousine.
A Calamitous Chinese Killing Page 11