by Peter May
He dropped his eyes immediately, crushingly embarrassed, like a small boy caught peeking at his sister undressing. His heart was hammering against his ribs and his hands were shaking. What could he say to her? How could he apologise? He glanced up and saw that she had moved out of his line of vision. But she had not closed the door. And it occurred to him that she had enjoyed him watching her. That she had known he could see her all along, perhaps wanted him to. He moved away to the window and tried to analyse his feelings towards her. They were completely ambiguous. She was irritating, arrogant . . . and unaccountably attractive. She both angered and challenged him. There were times when he had wanted to slap her face, and others when he had wanted to touch her and feel the softness of her porcelain-white skin, run his hands through her hair, feel her lips push against his. But more than anything, he was drawn by the provocation in those pale blue eyes, challenging him to a battle of intellect, of culture, of race. He decided to say nothing, behave as if he had never seen her, nor she him.
When she stepped out of the bathroom she was wearing a pale yellow sleeveless cotton dress, cut square across the neck and flaring out from a narrow waist to a line just above her knees. On her feet she wore cream open-toed sandals with a small heel that served to emphasise the gentle curve of her calf. Her skin glowed pink, and her freckles seemed darker somehow, more prominent. She was towel-drying her hair, head cocked at an angle so that it hung down in wet strands. In that moment, without a trace of make-up, her hair still wet from the shower, the simplicity of the pale lemon dress, he thought she looked quite beautiful. His throat was thick, and he could think of nothing to say.
“All yours,” she said, nodding towards the bathroom as if nothing had happened. “What are you going to do about your clothes?”
“I’ll have to stop by the apartment and change.” He brushed past her, smelling her perfume, and went in to wash his hands and face.
On the drive to his apartment he asked if she had a class that afternoon.
“No,” she said, “just prep for tomorrow. Although I don’t even need that. It’s a lecture I’ve done dozens of times.” She hesitated. “Why?”
He seemed embarrassed. “I thought, perhaps, you might want to come back to the office. The results of the DNA tests on the cigarette ends should be in. And a spectral analysis of blood found on the carpet in Chao Heng’s apartment yesterday.”
“His blood?” she asked, curiosity aroused.
“That’s what we’ll find out,” he said.
She was silent for a moment, thoughtful, then said, “Yes. I’d like that.” She paused. “Tell me about the blood in the apartment.”
And so he told her. About the CD on pause, the empty bottle on the table on the balcony, the cigarette ends in the ashtray, the lamp missing from the light over the front door. He painted for her his picture of what he believed happened that night: Chao Heng forced back to his apartment at gunpoint then knocked on the head and sedated; the patch of blood left on the carpet which, he felt sure, would be Chao’s, and which spectral analysis would show to be around twelve to fourteen hours old; the killer carrying the prostrate body of the agricultural adviser down the staircase, locking the stair gate behind them; the drive to the park, the long wait among the trees, and then the immolation and the killer’s escape to anonymity seconds before the blazing body was found.
She sat listening in silence. “I hadn’t thought through the planning that must have gone into it. Not in that kind of detail. In my job you are so preoccupied with the details of death that you don’t think much about motivation, or premeditation.” She fell silent again, thinking about it some more. “It’s extraordinary, when you examine it. Why would somebody go to such lengths? I mean, it wasn’t even as though it was a particularly convincing suicide.” She turned it over again in her mind. “Are you sure these three killings are connected?”
“No, I am not sure.”
“I mean, they were all professionally executed, but the other two were simple, uncomplicated, almost casual. Chao Heng’s killing was . . . bizarre and ritualistic and, if you are right in your assumptions, minutely plotted and planned.” She turned to look at him. “You’ve eliminated a drugs connection, right?” He nodded. “So all that’s left to connect them are the cigarette ends.” He nodded again. “And, God knows, that’s pretty damned weird.” She frowned. “Something not right. Something really not right.” And for a fleeting moment she understood his obsession, was touched by a feeling both ephemeral and elusive, which he might have called instinct. A feeling that left her uneasy and uncertain, but intrigued. “Tell me about Chao Heng.”
As he drove along Chang’an Avenue, he recapped for her the details from the file he had been given on Chao Heng. “Retired due to ill health?” she mused. “What was wrong with him?”
“I’ve no idea. His bathroom cabinet was full of medicines.” He turned into Zhengyi Road and parked in the street outside the police apartments. “I’ll be five minutes,” he said.
She watched him go, noticing for the first time how narrow his hips were in contrast to his broad shoulders, the pleasing square set of his head. She knew he was fit from the way he moved, muscles toned and taut. A man’s body was usually the last thing she found attractive. Normally it was the eyes that would first appeal. Windows on the soul. You could tell so much about someone’s personality from the eyes; their humour, warmth, or the lack of either. She liked a man to be cerebral, to have a sense of humour. Masculinity was important, but “macho” was a turn-off. Li was moody and defensive and prickly, but there was something in his eyes that told her she would like him if only she could get near him. There was no doubting his masculinity, but he had a sensitive—perhaps over-sensitive—quality, betrayed by the ease with which he blushed. No doubt it embarrassed him, but she found it endearing. His guilt, when she had caught him looking at her reflection in the mirror, had been amusing. But for a long moment it had been more, a strange feeling of desire flipping over in her stomach. That feeling returned now, and she felt herself grow hot and flushed. She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. This was not going to happen. She had not escaped from Chicago, from the person she had been, the life she had left in ruins, just to fall for some damned Chinese policeman with a chip on his shoulder and a severe case of xenophobia.
She forced herself to focus on the murders, recreating in her mind the picture of Chao’s apartment that Li had painted for her. If Chao was the key to the three murders, then there must be clues in his life and lifestyle, in his work, his apartment. But her thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the driver’s door. Li was wearing a fresh white short-sleeved shirt open at the neck, and neatly pressed black trousers over gleaming brown shoes. “Very smart,” she said. “Who does your ironing for you? Your uncle?”
“I do it myself,” he said, and blushed, covering his embarrassment by making a meal of pulling on his seat belt and starting the engine. Margaret looked at him with mixed feelings. In the last couple of hours he had taken her through the entire emotional spectrum, from anger verging on hatred to stirrings of lust and affection. He was an infuriating man.
IV
The headquarters of Section One were still besieged by people who had been summoned to make statements. The offices and hallways of the building were baking in the afternoon heat. Corridors were lined with people on chairs, or squatting with their backs to the wall. Cigarette smoke hung heavy in the still air, in long horizontal strands, like mist. Officers and interviewees alike were crotchety and tired. Even the cheap standard-issue stationery slipped into typewriters by secretaries had gone limp. The temperature rose as Li and Margaret climbed the stairs to the top floor, and by the time they had reached the detectives’ office Li’s shirt was sticking to him in a tapering line down his back, turned sheer by perspiration. Margaret could see clearly the sculptured lines of muscle interwoven across his shoulders and upper back. She knew the names of every one, memorised during hours spent studying for anatomy exams:
trapezius, hood, latissimus dorsi, erector spinae. She knew the way they were layered and overlapped, and what they looked like beneath the skin. She had never regarded them as anything other than anatomical. Until now. There was something animal, sexual and attractive, about the way they pressed against the wet, semi-transparent cotton of Li’s shirt. She cursed herself under her breath. What in God’s name was happening to her? She forced her eyes away.
Li’s heart sank as he turned into the detectives’ room and saw heads lift and faces light in expectation. The door to his office stood ajar, and beyond it the room seemed to glow, as if filled with sunlight, and yet his windows, he knew, faced north-east and only caught the sun obliquely in the early morning. Necks craned to catch his expression as he pushed the door open. His office was unrecognisable. All the furniture had been moved. A large fish tank filled with golden carp stood on a table in one corner. Flowers bloomed in pots all along the windowsill. A small tree in a porcelain pot spread large fleshy leaves into the office from another corner. His desk now faced the door, side-on to the window on its left. The filing cabinet that had stood behind the door had been moved to the far corner. The floor was covered with paint-spattered blankets, and a painter in overalls stood on a stepladder spreading bright yellow paint over cream walls that had gone grey with age and smoke. The previously jammed window stood wide open—no doubt, Li thought furiously, to let the paint fumes escape.
The feng shui man from the previous day was sitting cross-legged again among the files on Li’s desk, examining a large sheet of paper held open in front of him. He looked up at Li and smiled. “Much better. You like it?” He held out the sheet of paper. “My plan. Ve-ery good feng shui.” He smiled at the walls. “Yellow. The colour of the sun. The colour of life. This will uplift your spirit and stimulate your ch’i. You feel good, you work better.” He grinned, revealing his bad teeth. “Your men are very good. They move furniture ve-ery quickly.”
Li was incredulous. “You used my detectives to move the furniture?” Behind him, he heard the unrestrained mirth of his detectives. He looked at the fish tank, and the array of plants. “Who’s paying for all this?”
“Your uncle tells me, spare no expense. I think he is very fond of you.”
Li grew hot with anger. He looked at the painter, who was listening in with interest. “You,” he said. “Out.”
“But I haven’t finished yet,” the painter protested.
“I don’t care. Get your blankets off my floor, take your paint and your ladders, and go. This is a working office, and I am in the middle of a murder investigation.”
“But once it’s dried, I’ll never be able to match the joins.” The painter saw Li’s eyes widen with fury. “Okay, okay. I’m out of here.” He scrambled down the ladder and began clearing his stuff.
Li took the old man by the arm and invited him to get down off his desk. “Tell my uncle thank you very much,” he said, struggling to keep his anger under control. “But I have to work now, so you’ll have to go.”
“I’ll send the painter back on the weekend,” said the feng shui man.
Li drew breath sharply and clenched his fists at his side. “Just go.”
“Okay,” the feng shui man said. He looked around the office, and nodded, satisfied. “You feel mu-uch better now.”
And the crowd of detectives at the door parted, like the Red Sea, to let him through. Margaret stood smiling just inside the office. She might not have understood a single word, but she knew exactly what had transpired. The painter rattled his ladders, lifted his paint pot, and hurried out after the feng shui man. Li glared at the faces gathered round the door. “What are you lot looking at?”
Wu said, “Nothing, boss.” He cast an appraising eye around the room, nodding his approval. “Bi-ig improvement.” There was a splutter of laughter among the others.
“Get out,” Li said, shaking his head and restraining a smile, able finally, if reluctantly, to see a funny side to it. He called after them, “And if I get any more crap from you guys, I’m going to give that feng shui man every one of your addresses.” He pushed the door shut.
Margaret said, “It is much better like this. Or, at least, it would have been if you’d let him finish painting the walls.”
“Don’t you start.” He looked at the piles of transcripts under the window. They seemed to have doubled in size since the morning. His desk was covered again with folders and papers. “Would you look at this stuff. I’m going to go blind with paperwork before we’re through with this investigation.” There was a knock at the door. “What!” he shouted.
Qian poked his head in apologetically. “Sorry, boss. Thought you’d like to see the preliminary reports from forensics. They came in by fax about an hour ago.”
Li grabbed the sheets and ran his eyes over the fax-fuzzy rows of tiny Chinese characters that delivered verdicts on the DNA tests and the spectral analysis of the blood from Chao’s apartment. He looked up at Margaret. “It was Chao’s blood on the carpet. And as near as they can determine, it was spilled some time Monday night into Tuesday morning.”
“Which bears out your theory,” she said.
He nodded, and paused to re-examine the fax. Then he met her eye, and there was a muted excitement in his voice. “The DNA from saliva traces on all three cigarette ends matches.”
“Jesus,” Margaret said. “So they were all murdered by the same guy.”
She sat at his desk, swivelling the chair slowly from side to side. The detectives’ office outside was empty. They were all in the meeting room with Li, reviewing progress. She looked at the ragged line on the wall where the fresh yellow paint stopped and the old paint began, and she smiled. His Uncle Yifu was certainly nothing if not persistent. She wondered if he had any idea how much it embarrassed Li, and from all that she knew of him concluded that he probably did. Her eyes fell on the faxes that still lay on Li’s desk, and she marvelled at how it was possible for people to read these strange and complex pictograms. She had read somewhere that although different languages were spoken throughout China, the written language, the characters, remained the same. They just had different words for the same pictures. Of course, standard Beijing Mandarin was now taught in all the schools.
From somewhere deep in the building she could hear the distant sounds of phones ringing, voices raised, the chatter of keyboards. She closed her eyes and started tumbling backward through a dark abyss.
She opened her eyes immediately, or so she thought. She had not realised how tired she was. Her brain was still not keyed to Beijing time. She looked at her watch and realised with a shock that she had just lost twenty minutes. She blinked and tried to make her mind focus on something. The cigarette ends. There was a pack of cigarettes lying on the desk. She picked it up and took one out. The tobacco had a strong, bitter, toasty smell. It made her think of coffee stewing on a hot plate. She examined the pale pattern on the cork-coloured tip, the brand name red on white just above it. A single cigarette end at each crime scene. Smoked by the same man. What was it that was so wrong about that? She knew, of course. No professional would be so careless. And yet they were professional killings. And then suddenly she had a revelation, and sat forward in the chair, heart pounding. It had only been obscure because it was so obvious.
The sound of voices came through from the outer office as the detectives returned from their meeting. Li appeared in the doorway.
“I’ve just had a revelation,” she said.
“You hungry?” he asked, as if he hadn’t heard.
She hadn’t thought about it, but now that she did she realised that her stomach was growling. “Sure. Listen, this is important.”
“Good. I haven’t eaten all day. We’ll get something at the stall on the corner, and then I’m going to the Ministry of Agriculture. If you want to come . . .”
“Try keeping me away.” She stood up. “Li Yan . . . Are you going to hear me out or what?”
He held the door open for her. “Tell me on th
e way.” But, as he turned, the chain on his fob watch caught on the handle and broke. “Damn!”
She looked at the chain. “It’s just a broken link. It’s fixable.”
“Later.” He slipped it off his belt and dropped it into the top drawer of his desk. He saw she was wearing a wristwatch and tapped his own wrist. “You can keep me right.”
By the time they were out in the corridor she was having trouble keeping up with him. He seemed infused with a fresh energy and new determination. “I just put a stop to wasting any further time on trying to make some futile drugs connection. At least it’ll cut down on the paperwork.”
“Li Yan . . . The cigarette ends . . .”
“What about them?”
They were on the stairs now. “I think I know why he left one at each crime scene.”
Li stopped. “Why?”
“Because he wanted you to find them. He wanted you to make the connection.”
“Why?” Li asked again.
“I don’t know. If we knew that we wouldn’t be here. But it makes a hell of a lot more sense than believing that someone so careful and meticulous in every other respect would be so careless in that one.”
Li stood and thought about it. He was on the step below her, and she became aware that her eyes and his were on a level. But he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring off into the middle distance, lost in contemplation. It gave her an opportunity to look at him close up. The features she had first taken as ugly she saw now as strong. A forceful nose, a well-defined mouth, prominent brows, beautiful, almond-shaped eyes, a brown so deep and warm it was hard to distinguish the iris from the pupil. He had a strong jaw, dimpled at the chin, and his flat-top crew cut emphasised the squareness of his head. His skin was the colour of pale teak, and was remarkably unlined, except for the traces of laughter around his eyes and mouth.