by Peter May
“Don’t worry,” Old Yifu said. “I’ll make sure the old boy doesn’t get in your way. With three murders on your plate, you’ll need all the free-flowing ch’i you can get.”
Li gave up. He wasn’t going to win without giving offence, and he would die before he offended his uncle. Still, sometimes it could be very difficult. He made a careless move, and Old Yifu leapt on his Soldier like a crow on carrion. “For heaven’s sake, Li Yan, you will never beat me at chess if you don’t pay attention!”
“How can I pay attention when I’ve got three murders on my mind?”
“Chess frees the mind and cleanses the intellect. You will think all the more clearly for it.” His eyes were fixed on the board. He looked up. “Come on. Your move.”
Li sighed and examined the board. Old Yifu said, “I got a letter from your father today. Your sister is pregnant.” He paused before adding, ominously, “Again.”
Li abandoned the game and looked at him in dismay. “She’s not going to have it, is she?” He was horrified by the thought. His sister, Xiao Ling, was even more stubborn than himself. Once she had set her mind to something there was no dissuading her. And she already had a child. A wonderful four-year-old little girl, with a smile that was destined to break hearts. An impudent smile that dimpled her cheeks and lit up her eyes. Li could see her now, grinning at him, challenging him, hair gathered in ribbons on either side of her head swinging free as she cocked it to one side or the other. Xiao Ling was married to a rice farmer near the town of Zigong in Sichuan province. They lived with his parents and made a good living from the land. But they wanted a son—everyone wanted a son, for a son was much more valuable than a daughter, and under the One-Child Policy they could only have one or the other. And if Xiao Ling was pregnant and insisted on having the child, the months ahead would be intolerable. First her village committee would send representatives to try to dissuade her from proceeding with the pregnancy. Then she would be visited by cadres who would exert powerful and increasing pressure on her to have an abortion. She would be subjected to hours of psychological persuasion. It had been known, in cases of particularly intransigent mothers-to-be, for enforced abortion to be applied, usually with the connivance of the family. For if a second child was born, there would be hefty fines to pay, fines that most people could not afford. The families could also be penalised in other ways, with loss of free education, access to medicine, housing, pension. The pressures could be made unbearable.
Old Yifu nodded sadly. “She’s a difficult girl, your sister. She’s determined to go ahead.”
“Has my father talked to her?”
“Oh, yes. But, of course, she will not listen.”
“What does her husband say?” Li had never liked him. He thought, like many brothers, that no man was good enough for his sister.
“I think,” Old Yifu said, “that he would like the chance of a son, so he is sitting on the fence. He will neither support her, nor dissuade her.”
“Bastard!” Li said. He scratched his head. “She won’t listen to me.” He glanced at his uncle. “The only person she might listen to is you.”
Old Yifu nodded. “Your father thinks so, too.”
“What will you do?”
“I will go and speak to her. But I will not tell her what to do. The One-Child Policy is a necessary evil. But a woman has a right to bear children. She must make her own decision, based on what is right. Not only for her, not only for China, but for both. And sometimes that is not an easy thing to do.”
They sat in silence for several moments, staring at the chessboard, but their minds were not on chess. Finally, Old Yifu clapped his hands to break their reverie and said, “Your move.”
Li blinked at the board and moved his Castle, without thinking, to threaten his uncle’s Bishop. Old Yifu frowned, perplexed, unable to see the logic in the move but suspecting a trap. “So,” he said. “Tell me about your murders.” And so Li told him—about the burning body in the park, about the small-time drug dealer found on waste ground, about the itinerant lying with a broken neck in a condemned siheyuan. “And the connection?” his uncle asked. Li told him about the cigarette ends. Old Yifu frowned. “Hmmm. Not much of a connection. Can you prove they were all smoked by the same man?”
“Not yet.”
“Hmmm.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, hmmm.” Old Yifu took another of Li’s Soldiers. “Perhaps these cigarette ends do indicate a connection. But if you focus too much on that, you may miss other links.”
Li told him about the drugs connection and his intention to “have a chat” tomorrow with The Needle.
“Hmmm.”
“What this time?”
“The drugs connection links only the body in the park and the stabbing, correct?”
“Correct. But there may well be a drugs connection with the itinerant.”
“But you don’t know that.”
“Not yet, no.” Li was becoming exasperated. “But we’re interviewing every itinerant who has registered in Beijing in the last six weeks. We’re pulling in every two-jiao drug dealer and junkie. If there’s a link, we’ll find it.”
“Of course you will.” Old Yifu took Li’s Bishop. “And if there isn’t, you won’t. And you’ll be six months down the line and no further on.”
“So what are you saying? That it’s a waste of time interviewing these people?”
“Oh no, you must. There is no substitute for diligence in police work. ‘Where the tiller is tireless, the land is fertile.’”
Li was tiring of his uncle’s wisdom. He took a Horse with a Bishop, and banged the wooden disk down on the stone table, the first piece he had taken. “Jiang!” he said, having put his uncle’s King in check.
“The thing is,” said old Yifu, quite unperturbed, “as the famous American inventor, Thomas Alva Edison, once said, ‘Genius is one per cent inspiration, ninety-nine per cent perspiration.’ All the perspiration in the world will get you nowhere without that one spark of inspiration.” He blocked the check with his Guide and watched as Li manoeuvred his Horse, then slid his Cannon across the board. “Jiang si le!”
Li stared at his King in disbelief. There was nowhere it could go. It was indeed checkmate. He sat back and folded his arms. Of course, he hadn’t been concentrating. “So where do I look for this inspiration?” he asked.
“From within,” Old Yifu said. “From what you know.” He paused thoughtfully. “Tell me again about the way Chao Heng’s killer went about his business. In the apartment, and in the park.”
Li went through it all, replaying his thoughts, all the tiny clues, the moments of discovery and illumination. The CD still paused in the player. The blood on the carpet. His vision of the killer carrying the body downstairs and out into the darkness created by the removal of the lamp. The daring murder in broad daylight, Li’s vision of the killer walking nonchalantly from the park even as the blazing body of his victim was being discovered.
“And what does this tell us about the killer?” his uncle said. Li shrugged. “It tells us that he is a clever man who planned and executed this murder with a professional precision. In the normal course of events, you would never have discovered that his victim had not committed suicide. He could not have known that a visiting American pathologist, expert in the post-mortem examinations of burn victims, would be invited to perform the autopsy. For all our growing expertise in China, we still have a long way to go. Not many of our pathologists would have identified the fracture of the skull as anything other than a heat fracture. Very few of our pathologists have the experience of drugs that would have led them to guess at the use of a sedative—this . . . ketamine—on top of a heroin habit.” He stopped, mobile eyebrows pushed high on his forehead, looking for an acknowledgement from Li.
“You’re saying the killer was a professional?” Professional killers in China were a very rare breed of animal. “In Beijing?”
“Oh, he would have come from Hong
Kong probably. ‘One country, two systems.’” His smile reflected a certain irony. “Some Triad hit-man.” Old Yifu jabbed a finger in Li’s direction. “These other two killings. No clues left at the scene. One is killed by a single thrust of a knife up through the ribcage and into the heart. The other by a clean break of the neck. These were no casual killings, Li Yan.”
Li’s breathing had become shallow. More rapid. He fought to make sense of it. “If they were professional killings, then that establishes a link beyond the cigarette ends.” He shook his head, still perplexed. “But why? Why would someone employ a hit-man to kill a retired adviser in agriculture, a nobody drug dealer, and an unemployed labourer from Shanghai?”
“Okay.” Old Yifu waggled a finger at him. “Now you are asking the right question. The big question. But before you know the answer to that, there are many smaller questions to be answered. And this brings you back to the cigarette ends. Because without them you would never have made any connection. But then, why would a professional be so careless in this, when he had been so careful in everything else? This is not right. This is something to focus on.”
Li knew that all of this had been somewhere in his head, but it had taken his uncle, with a disinterested perspective, to crystallise it for him. He gazed thoughtfully at the chessboard, a battlefield, the scene of his ignominious defeat. Old Yifu was right. It was all about focus. His uncle started gathering the pieces and placing them in their box.
“So,” he said, “this American pathologist. She will continue to help?”
“No!” Li realised immediately he had been too quick, too definitive, in his response.
Old Yifu missed nothing. “She does not want to help?”
“No . . . Yes . . . I don’t know. Professor Jiang at the university offered to make her available.”
“And you said . . . ?”
Li looked at his hands. “I said I didn’t need her.”
“Then you are a fool.”
Li flared angrily. “We do not need some American showing us how it should be done!”
“No. But you need an edge. You always need an edge. And the experience that this American has will give you an edge.” Old Yifu slipped the box of pieces and his chessboard into his satchel and stood up stiffly. “Time to eat.”
II
All of Ma Yongli’s knives—for paring, scraping, chopping, slicing—were laid out on the stainless-steel worktop, reflecting in its shiny surface. One by one he ran them through the sharpener, three, four, five times, until they offered little or no resistance and their blades gleamed, sharp as razors. He glanced at the figure of his friend sitting on the worktop opposite, legs dangling. “Cheer up, Big Li. It might never happen.”
“It’ll happen,” Li said disconsolately. “Unless I die between now and tomorrow morning.”
“Sounds like a good excuse for going out and drinking ourselves to death, then. At least we’ll die happy.” Yongli paused and scratched his head, then smiled wickedly. “Mind you—happy? It’d be a first for you.”
Li made a face at him. He had arrived at the end of Yongli’s shift. Dinners at the hotel had been cooked, served and eaten. The duty chef, who would provide for the few patrons who made use of the twenty-four-hour café in the small hours, was out back smoking a cigarette. The kitchens were otherwise deserted and in darkness, lit only where Yongli was sharpening his knives.
“So let me take a guess,” Yongli said. “Would your mood have anything to do with your Uncle Yifu?”
“Do I need to answer that?”
“For God’s sake, man, get yourself out of there. Get a woman, get a life! Old Yifu’s a lovely old guy, but you can’t spend the rest of your days living with your uncle.” This was not what Li needed to hear. “I’m surprised he hasn’t got you tucked up in bed by now.”
“I should be,” Li said grimly.
“You see! You see!” Yongli danced round the worktop towards him. “He’s got you thinking like him now. Bed? Shit, man, it’s only ten thirty. The night is young. And you are turning into an old man.”
“I’m up at six tomorrow. I’ve got three murders on the go.” Li drew a deep breath and sighed. “Only I know I wouldn’t sleep.”
“Ah. So you’ve come to consult with Dr. Ma Yongli, that well-known dispenser of sound advice for insomniacs.”
The nearest thing to hand was a pot, so Li threw it at him. Yongli caught it easily and grinned. “That’s more like it. A bit of spirit. A bit of life left in the old dog.” He swung himself up to sit on the worktop beside him. “So what’s he done now?”
“My first day, in my new job, in my new office, and I walk in to find a feng shui man sitting cross-legged on my desk.”
Yongli looked at him in astonishment. “You’re kidding!” But it was clear he wasn’t. “And Uncle Yifu sent him?”
“To balance my Yin and my Yang and get my ch’i flowing freely,” Li said gloomily.
Yongli roared with laughter, slapping his thighs and then drumming his palms on the worktop.
“Yes, yes, thank you, thank you,” Li said sarcastically. “That’s exactly the reaction it got from the rest of the office.”
“Are you surprised?”
“No, I’m not. But when it happens to you, and your boss calls you in and tells you to get rid of him, and your uncle says he’ll fix your boss, believe me, it’s not funny.”
Yongli, still chuckling, dug an elbow into Li’s ribs. “Of course it is. Hey, lighten up, Big Li. You’re taking life far too seriously.”
“When your life is dealing with death, then you take it seriously,” Li said firmly.
Yongli looked at him and shook his head sadly. “What are we going to do with you?”
But Li was lost in his own thoughts. “And then there’s my sister. Pregnant again, and determined to go through with it. And then I’ve got to go in tomorrow morning and lose face to my boss, and to some jumped-up American pathologist who thinks she’s better than us.”
“Woah, woah. You’re going way too fast for me. What’s all this about?”
“My boss gets this American pathologist to do an autopsy for me. She’s lecturing at the Public Security University. He met her on a course in Chicago. It’s a personal favour.”
“So far so good.”
“It goes well. The university offers her services for the rest of her stay. I turn them down.”
“Why?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I thought she did a good job?”
“She did.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“God, now you’re beginning to sound like my uncle!”
“Ah.” Yongli nodded sagely. “Now we’re getting to the root of it. Your uncle thinks you should take up the offer.”
“Which I’ve already knocked back.”
“So if you go back and say you’ve changed your mind . . .”
“I’ll lose face.”
“And if you don’t?”
“My uncle will be offended.”
“And God forbid you should offend your uncle.”
Li turned on his friend, angry now. “My uncle’s been good to me. I owe just about everything I’ve achieved in life to Uncle Yifu. I’d never, never do anything to hurt him.”
Yongli raised his hands defensively. “Okay, okay. So you love the old guy. It doesn’t stop him driving you crazy.”
Li’s anger diminished as quickly as it had flared up. “No,” he said. “No, it doesn’t.”
They sat in thoughtful silence for a full minute. Then Yongli said, “So, this American pathologist . . . An old battle-axe, is she?”
Li was evasive. “Not exactly.”
“But she’s old, right?”
Li shrugged. “Not exactly.”
A worm of suspicion started to wriggle its way into Yongli’s head. “Well, if she’s not exactly a battle-axe, and she’s not exactly old . . . would you say she was young? Attractive?”
“I guess. Sort of.”
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“Sort of young? Or sort of attractive?”
“Sort of . . . both. She was the yangguizi at the banquet McCord gatecrashed last night at the Quanjude.”
“Ah.”
“What do you mean, ‘Ah’?”
Yongli waggled a finger at him. “It’s beginning to fall into place.”
“What is?”
“Your little head started expressing an interest and your big head put a stop to it.”
“Oh, crap!”
“Is it? I know you, Li Yan. I’ve known you for years. You’re scared of having a relationship, even if it was just sex, in case it interfered with your big career plan. First it was the university, now it’s your job.” Yongli jumped down off the worktop. “You know what you need?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“You need to get yourself laid a little more often.” Yongli tossed his tall white hat across the worktop and started untying his chef’s apron. “Come on,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”
“Where?”
“The Xanadu Karaoke Club.”
“What?” Li looked at him incredulously. “You’re winding me up.”
“No, I’m not. It’s a new place, off Xidan. Open from eight at night till eight in the morning. The booze is cheap, the women are plentiful, and it’s not all karaoke. There’s live music, too.” He hesitated. “Lotus is singing there now.” And he saw Li’s face darken immediately. “And don’t start preaching at me, all right?”
“For heaven’s sake, Ma Yongli, she’s a prostitute! A whore!”
Yongli looked at him dangerously. “I’ll take your fucking head off.” His voice was barely a whisper.
Li softened his tone. “I just don’t understand how you can go with her when you know she’s been with other men.”
“I love her, all right? Is that such a crime?” Yongli looked away, clenching his jaw. “Anyway, she’s giving all that up. She’s making a career for herself as a singer.”
“Yeah, sure.” Li slipped down off the worktop. “I think I’ll pass, though. Wouldn’t exactly do me any favours to be seen consorting with a known prostitute.”