Why hadn’t he produced the gun in the first place? Probably because he preferred to dispose of annoying Sikh coppers quietly. Singh didn’t doubt for a moment that he would choose the noisy option if necessary.
Li Jun was standing with his hands hanging loosely by his sides. His eyes appeared to measure the distance between the two men.
Fu let go of Singh and shoved him in the small of the back so that he stumbled towards Li Jun. He straightened up and turned around so that he was facing Fu Xinghua, one hand massaging his neck.
“What are you doing here?” croaked Singh through his damaged windpipe.
Li Jun smiled. “I’m afraid I did not believe you when you said you planned to return to the hotel, not after the previous time. So I watched you, followed you and kept my distance.”
“Enough talk,” countered Fu. “Where is the letter?”
“There’s no way you will get away with this,” said Singh.
Without warning, Fu shifted his aim and shot Li Jun in the thigh. The ex-policeman fell to the ground clutching his leg.
“Give me the letter or the next bullet will be in his head.”
Singh knew he was out of options. Moving quickly for a man of his size, he flung himself at Fu’s gun arm. It was sufficiently unexpected behaviour that he closed the gap before Fu shot him. Or maybe he didn’t want the inspector dead until he’d traced the letter. Singh jerked Fu’s arm into the air, trying to prise the gun from the other man’s grasp. It was a futile effort. Even as he fought with all the strength he had, he could feel the weapon slowly but surely turning towards him as the greater strength of the other man began to tell.
He didn’t see it, certainly never anticipated it but Li Jun rose to his feet, stumbled forwards and then flashed into a scissor kick that caught Fu Xinghua on his left side. Fu stumbled and caught his foot on an uneven paving stone. As he crashed to the ground, the gun spilt from his hand and slithered across the ground. In that second, while he was down, Singh launched himself at the weapon. The other man, still shaken but no less effective, grasped Singh’s ankle and brought him crashing down. The wind was knocked out of him as abruptly as a bursting balloon. He gasped and tried to get up. Fu was reaching for the gun. With a desperate yell, Singh launched himself forwards and knocked Fu’s legs out from under him, an ungainly bowling ball against the last two pins. The fat man reached the gun first. He didn’t even bother to try to get up. He rolled over on his back and pointed the weapon directly at Fu.
Li Jun struggled to a sitting position, a palm pressed against his leg. The inspector reached into his breast pocket and extricated the handkerchief he always kept there. He handed it to the other man who tied a tourniquet.
A few men appeared out of the darkness, coming cautiously to investigate the gunshot. Li Jun said something and a man reached for his phone. Singh looked at his friend and hoped the cavalry would hurry. The wound was bleeding heavily and he feared Fu might have nicked an artery.
Singh rose slowly to his feet, gun still pointed steadily at Fu.
“What letter is he talking about?” whispered Li Jun, pale but determined to get to the bottom of things.
“There is no letter,” admitted Singh.
“If that is so, how did you know it was me and not Dai Wei?” demanded Fu.
Watching him, Singh knew the question was not asked out of idle curiosity. The Chinese security chief, at the wrong end of a gun now, still believed he would walk away. And that meant ensuring that there were no loose ends.
“Qing identified someone on the television as the culprit. Her aunt thought she meant Dai Wei. That is why we were sure it was him. But it turned out Dai Wei had an alibi for the night of the murder. She couldn’t have seen him.”
“So?”
“I was watching television in my hotel room, and there you were standing right next to Dai Wei at some press conference. And I realised that I had never ever seen Dai Wei without you – you two are the public face of Beijing law and order. This evening we asked the aunt. She confirmed that you were on television at the same time, standing behind Dai Wei. And that’s when we realised Qing had been talking about you all along.”
Fu nodded to acknowledge the explanation.
“What did Qing see?” asked Singh.
The policeman shrugged. “I was waiting in the car near the hutong to ensure the job was done. Qing saw the murder and then spotted my man stopping to report to me. She recognised me later from the television. The price of fame.”
“But why did you need to kill Justin? It was Dai Wei that was corrupt, not you!”
Fu shrugged. “Dai Wei was very useful to me in my career. I did not want to lose that advantage.”
“But when the evidence could not be suppressed, you decided to use Dai Wei as a scapegoat – told him about the affair between Anthony Tan and his wife,” said Singh. “You knew how he would react. As a bonus you would get rid of Anthony Tan as well and all first-hand evidence of the corrupt land transaction.”
Fu didn’t look in any way discomfited to have his crimes laid bare.
“That is correct,” he agreed. “And if there is no letter, then it is the word of a disgraced ex-policeman and a foreigner against the people’s hero.”
“That’s not all, I’m afraid,” said Singh. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the recording device he had borrowed from Susan Tan before leaving the Embassy. He rewound it for a few seconds and pressed play. Fu’s disembodied voice repeated,“…it is the word of a disgraced ex-policeman and a foreigner against the peoples hero.”
Singh glanced down at Li Jun and saw that his friend was grinning from ear to ear.
Epilogue
The remnants of the Tan family came to the hospital to say their goodbyes to Li Jun and Singh. They’d been grateful, but Singh had shrugged off their thanks. There was gratitude and blame to go around, enough for all of them. And enough death as well. The China Daily was on the hospital side table and Susan looked at the headlines and smiled ruefully. The authorities – and Singh would have loved to be a fly on the wall at that meeting – had decided that Dai Wei bear the brunt of the censure. The papers were full of tales of his lavish lifestyle, corrupt activities and expensive wife. Alive, the powers-that-be had feared him. Dead, they enjoyed their posthumous revenge. Fu had disappeared into the system; no one knew where he was or whether he’d been charged with any crime. But Han had told them that rumours were rife within the force that he had been removed from his post and detained. It was justice, Chinese style.
Once Li Jun had been discharged, the two men met again.
They had one more task to complete. It was Singh’s last assignment. He was booked on the late flight that very night. He decided he would not miss China but would definitely miss Chinese food. He wondered if Mrs Singh could be persuaded to learn Szechuan cooking.
Benson drew up outside the Luo residence. This time there was no Ferrari parked outside. Singh rather suspected that Wang Zhen had received his marching orders. The two men got out and made a sombre procession, Li Jun still on crutches, Singh bearing their offering. Singh saw a curtain twitch and knew that Dao Ming had been waiting for them. As they reached the front door, she opened it slowly and stood waiting. By her side, there stood a younger girl who bore a striking resemblance to her sister. Singh tried to smile at her but it was too hard.
There were tears in Dao Ming’s eyes and, as he watched, they spilt over and rolled down her cheeks. “My father has come home?” she asked.
Singh took a step forwards and held out the small urn that they had retrieved with Han’s help from the labyrinthine security apparatus that China used to control its citizens. “Yes,” he said. “Your father has come home.”
EOF
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A Calamitous Chinese Killing Page 26