by Peter May
The drive to the Centre of Criminal Technological Determination in Pao Jü Hutong was a revelation to Margaret, an insight into the street life of the real Beijing tucked away behind the façades and advertising hoardings of the new China. Even at this late hour, the streets teemed with night life, the population emerging again from steamy-hot homes into the relative cool of the hutongs after the rain. Li’s Jeep followed in the wake of a forensics van, two sets of headlights raking the narrow alleyways and siheyuan, capturing for brief moments families eating at tables on the sidewalk, a man sprawled in an armchair gazing at the flickering blue light of a television set, food served to card players through open windows whose light spilled across the tarmac, people on bicycles that wobbled in the headlights as the vehicles raced past. Margaret peered from the window on the passenger side, faces flashing past, staring back at her. Some blankly, some with hostility, others with curiosity. Beijingers, Margaret thought, had a preoccupation with getting their hair cut. Barbers everywhere were still doing business. She checked the time. It was almost 1 a.m.
There was an urgency now about Li. His face had swollen around his left eye. It was bruised a deep blue. But the eyes themselves were sharp and alive and burning with a fierce intensity. He was in a hurry to get his man.
They abandoned the Jeep in the street and ran up the ramp through large open gates, past armed guards, into the bowels of the Pao Jü laboratories of forensic pathology. “A few minutes, Li, that’s all,” the lead forensics officer told him. They waited in an office on the ground floor, Li sitting on the edge of a desk swinging his legs impatiently. Margaret recalled Bob’s tale about the Three Ps—Patience, Patience and Patience. The three things you must have to survive in this country, he had said. Li seemed to have run out of all of them. She examined his face. “They must have some witch-hazel here.”
“Some what?” he said.
“It’ll bring down the swelling and stop your face from going completely black and blue by the morning.”
She spent some time in conversation with a lab assistant before he went off, returning a few minutes later with some clear fluid in a bottle and some large wads of cotton wool. She soaked a wad and told Li to hold it to his face. He didn’t argue with her, but with his free hand shook a cigarette from its packet and lit it. He had only taken one pull at it when the lead forensics officer hurried in, pink with exertion and breathing hard. He, it seemed, had also been infected by Li’s sense of urgency.
“A single index finger. Smudged. No use.”
“Shit!” Li looked sick.
“Hang on,” the forensics man admonished him. “We also got a thumb.” He held up a sheet of paper with a blow-up of the print. “It’s not Chao’s, and it’s just about perfect.”
IV
It was after two when Li and Margaret stepped back out into Pao Jü Hutong. It was cool now, the air fresh and breathable. For the first time since she had arrived, Margaret could see stars in the sky. She was tired, but she wasn’t sleepy. She felt an odd sense of exhilaration. The glove and the key had been a major breakthrough. An officer had been sent to Chao’s apartment building to check that the key fitted the stair gate. It did. Close forensic examination of the glove had revealed a speck of blood at the top of the interior lining of the middle finger. It might have come from a paper cut, or a damaged cuticle. But there was enough there to enable a DNA comparison with the saliva on the cigarette ends. That test would be done at the Centre of Material Evidence Determination in the morning—along with a comparison of the bloodstain on the outer glove with blood samples taken from Chao Heng. If both tests proved positive, it would conclusively tie the wearer of the glove to the murder of Chao and both the other victims. The thumbprint from the key had been faxed to Hong Kong. It was possible, just possible, that by morning they would know the identity of the killer.
In spite of being on the wrong end of a beating, Li was euphoric. He was still pressing the wad soaked with witch-hazel to his face. “Let me see,” Margaret said as they reached the Jeep. She took his hand away from his face and stood on tiptoe to look closely at the bruising. Her face was only inches from his. He could feel her breath warm on his cheek. He flicked a glance at her, but she was focused on his injuries. “The swelling’s gone down already,” she said. “You won’t be such a mess in the morning.”
But the mention of the morning only depressed him. He would have to tell her then that she could no longer assist on the case. It was too dangerous. His superiors would forbid it. He knew how she would react. With anger and hurt. After all, he would not have come this close to breaking the case without her. He glanced at her again. Her face was open, eager and happy. She had exorcised ghosts from her past tonight, she had trusted him with her pain. And tomorrow . . . He closed his eyes and sighed. He did not want tonight to end.
She laughed. “What’s the big sigh for? You should be pleased with yourself.”
He forced himself to return her smile. “I’m pleased with both of us,” he said. “We make a good team.”
“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “I do the thinking, you take the punches. You’re good at that.”
He grinned and took a mock swipe at her. And when she raised her arm as a shield he grabbed it, pulling her close and pressing her back against the side of the Jeep. They froze in anticipation of a moment they had been flirting with all night. But the moment passed, unconsummated, as she smiled wryly and tipped her head in the direction of the two armed guards watching from the gate. “I think we’re in danger of putting on a show,” she said.
He glanced ruefully at the guards. “You want me to take you back to the Friendship?”
“You were going to buy me a drink,” she said. “Before someone had the crazy idea of going gallivanting through Ritan Park in the dark and the rain. Will that bar still be open, do you think?”
He shook his head. “Not at this hour. But I know somewhere that will.”
There was no queue to get into the Xanadu at this time in the morning. Li had been half afraid that it might be closed. But there was still a steady traffic in and out. Groups of youngsters stood about on the sidewalk outside, smoking and talking. They eyed Li and the yangguizi with vague curiosity as they pushed through them and went in past the bouncers. Li took out his wallet to pay, but was waved on through. Inside, the music was still loud, but slow, reflecting the late hour. Margaret took his arm and put her lips to his ear. “I wouldn’t have thought a place like this was your scene,” she shouted.
“It’s not,” he shouted back. “But you wanted a drink. This is about the only place we’ll get one.”
He led her through to the bar. Most of the tables on the main floor were still full, and through the haze of smoke that filled the place, Li could see that there were no free tables up in the gallery. “What do you want to drink?”
“Vodka tonic with ice and lemon. But I’m paying.” She took out some notes.
He waved them aside. “No, no.”
“Yes, yes,” she said. “You bought me dinner, I’m buying the drinks.”
“No.” He still refused to take the money.
“I thought you people believed in equality,” she said. “Women hold up half the sky in China. Isn’t that what Mao said?” And in that moment she thrust the notes into his hand. “You’re buying, I’m paying. And I’m going to get us that table over there that these people are just leaving.” And she breezed off across the floor to lay claim to the table.
She sat down quickly, getting there just ahead of a group of two girls and a sullen youth who had been standing at the foot of the stairs. They glared at her resentfully and moved away. She looked around and realised she was causing a bit of a stir. As far as she could see, she was the only Caucasian in the place, and for all she knew the only one who’d ever been in it. It didn’t look like the kind of stop-off that would be on the tourist itinerary. Faces at the tables around her were turned in her direction, gazing with glazed and unselfconscious interest, until she smiled
and they became suddenly embarrassed and returned shy smiles like coy children.
On stage a stunning-looking girl in a sexy silk dress with daring splits up either side sang a mournful melody to the accompaniment of a guitarist, and a keyboard player triggering pre-programmed, synthesised computer music. The backing sounded professional. The singer was awful. Margaret watched her with a mixture of horror and embarrassment. She had no talent for it whatsoever. But no one else seemed to notice, or if they did, they didn’t care. Li arrived with her vodka and a large brandy and sat down opposite her. She flicked her head towards the stage. “Pretty face. Shame about the voice.”
Li smiled. “She’s my best friend’s girl.”
Margaret almost choked on her vodka. “You’re kidding me.”
He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t like her much either.”
She looked at him curiously. “And she’s really your best friend’s girl?” He nodded. “So is it her you don’t like, or her singing?”
“Both.”
“Why don’t you like her?”
“Because she’s a prostitute, and he’s mad about her, and he’s going to end up getting hurt.”
Margaret looked at the girl in astonishment, and with fresh eyes. “But she’s . . . beautiful. Why would she throw herself away on prostitution?”
“You’ve heard her singing,” Li said. “And anyway, she’s not some street-corner hooker. It’s all private deals behind closed bedroom doors in high-class joint-venture hotels. She probably makes a lot of money.” He shrugged. “A girl like that, she’s just making use of the one asset she has—while she still has it.” He looked at her on the stage, eyes closed, living out some sad fantasy, giving her heart and soul to the cheap lyrics of a popular Taiwanese ballad. What arrangement, he wondered, had she arrived at with the manager that allowed her to sing here, escaping for a time from the sordid world of clawing, pawing, sexually frustrated foreign businessmen? He almost felt sorry for her. He had believed her when she told him she loved Ma Yongli. He treats me like no one’s ever treated me before. Like a princess. What he hated was the effect she had on him, turning him from a confident, cocky young man with a wicked, if juvenile, sense of humour into a sycophantic and simpering acolyte, all confidence lost in a welter of self-doubt. There was something going on in Yongli’s head that told him she was too good for him. He couldn’t believe his luck, or that it would last. It was pathetic, and Li hated to see it, and blamed Lotus when perhaps the fault was Yongli’s.
“Well, well, well. I see you took my advice and got yourself a woman after all.” Li turned to find himself looking up into Yongli’s big, round, smiling face. But the smile vanished almost immediately. “In the name of God, what happened to you? Don’t tell me she’s beating you up already?”
Li grinned. “I got on the losing end of an argument with a villain.”
Yongli shook his head in amazement. “Must have been a big bastard to put one over on you.”
“Caught me off guard,” Li said ruefully.
Margaret watched the exchange with interest. She could make an educated guess about the topic of conversation. For a moment she had been nonplussed to find that there was something familiar about the face of the big, bluff man who had arrived at their table. And then she had placed him. He had been with Li that first night at the duck restaurant. The affection between the two men was obvious. He turned and grinned at Margaret, and she grinned back, attracted by the infectious quality of his smile and the laughter in his eyes. “So are you not going to introduce me?” he said to Li in a heavily American-accented English.
“Ma Yongli, this is Dr. Margaret Campbell.”
Yongli took her hand and kissed the back of it lightly with full lips. “Enchanté, madame,” he said. “I learned that in Switzerland. It’s French.”
“I know,” Margaret said. “Et moi, je suis enchantée aussi à faire vôtre connaissance, monsieur.”
“Hey. Woah.” Yongli held up his hands. “I only know Je suis enchanté, madame. No one’s ever talked back to me before.” He laughed. “I’m impressed.” Then he leaned over confidentially. “Actually, I do know one other phrase, but it’s not the sort of thing you would say in polite company. And Li Yan is a bit sensitive. It’s way past his bedtime, you know.”
“I know. It’s my fault,” Margaret said. “I’m keeping him out late. But his uncle’s away, so he won’t get into any trouble.”
“Oh.” Yongli looked at Li knowingly. “When the mouse is away the cat will play.”
Li said, “I think that’s the other way round, Ma Yongli.”
“Ah,” Yongli said to Margaret, “I always get my cats mixed up with my mice. What will you have to drink?”
Margaret lifted her glass. It was almost empty. “Vodka tonic.”
Yongli pointed at Li’s glass. “Brandy,” he said. And to Margaret, “We have to celebrate. It is so long since I saw Big Li with a woman I was beginning to think he was gay. Back in a minute.” And he headed for the bar.
Li grinned, a little embarrassed. “Ignore him. He’s an idiot.”
“He’s nice.”
Li felt a pang of jealousy. “You probably think he’s good-looking. Most women do.”
“No.” She shook her head solemnly. “But he’s attractive. What was he doing in Switzerland?”
“Training as a chef. He spent time in the United States, as well.”
“Oh,” Margaret said, cocking an eyebrow. “He cooks, too? That makes him very attractive.” She had been immediately aware of that defensive look men got when they were jealous, and she enjoyed the fact that Li felt that way about her. If only he knew that Yongli wasn’t half as attractive as he was—at least, not in her eyes.
She was beginning to relax, the alcohol easing away some of the tension of the night. It also seemed to be going very quickly to her head. Perhaps it was the tiredness. She had slept for only a handful of hours during the last seventy-two.
Yongli returned with the drinks and sat down at their table with a beer. “So,” he said to Margaret. “Cut up anyone interesting recently?”
“Oh, just a burn victim, a stabbing, an Atlanto-occipital disarticulation. Would you like me to go into the gory details?”
Yongli shook his head and said firmly, “No thanks.”
“That’s my trouble,” Margaret said. “The only interesting people I ever get intimate with are dead. The live ones tend to lose interest in me as soon as they hear what I do for a living. They think I’m only after their bodies.”
Yongli laughed. “You can play with my organs any time.”
“I’m more interested in a man’s brain,” she said. “Only the sound of the saw cutting through the skull usually puts them off.”
“Hey.” He put up his hands and grinned, shaking his head. “I’m not going to win this one, am I?”
“Nope.” She raised her glass. “Cheers.”
They all drank. Li enjoyed the way Margaret had dealt with Yongli. He was usually too quick for most people. And women preferred to laugh at his humour, rather than compete with it. She caught his eye over the glass, and they shared a moment.
There was a scattering of applause around the club as Lotus finished her song and gushed her thanks. She was finished for the night, she said, and stepped down from the stage. Margaret was uncertain whether the applause was for the performance or the fact that it was over. Lotus approached their table, flushed and a little breathless. Yongli was on his feet in an instant, pulling out a chair for her. “I’ll get you a drink. What would you like?”
“Some white wine.” Lotus had learned to affect a taste for wine during the many meals she had sat through in restaurants in joint-venture hotels. She looked at Margaret expectantly, waiting for an introduction.
In English, Yongli said, “Lotus, this is Li Yan’s friend . . .”
“Margaret,” Margaret said.
Lotus shook her hand. “Ver’ pleased meet you,” she said.
“Lotus
only speaks a little English,” Yongli told Margaret, almost apologetically.
“A lot more English than I speak Chinese,” Margaret said.
Lotus sat down as Yongli headed for the bar. She was clearly intrigued by Margaret, immediately seeking her approval. “You like my singing?”
In other circumstances Margaret might have been ambiguous, perhaps ironic, even cruel. But somehow there was such innocence in Lotus’s question that she couldn’t bring herself to do anything other than lie with great sincerity. “Very much,” she said.
Lotus beamed with pleasure. “Thank you.” She reached out and touched Margaret’s hair as if it were gold. “Your hair ver’ beautiful.” And she gazed into Margaret’s face quite unselfconsciously. “And your eyes so blue. You ver’ beautiful lady.”
“Thank you.”
“Bukeqi.” Margaret frowned. It sounded like boo keh chee.
Li said, “It means you are welcome.”
Lotus took Margaret’s hand and ran her fingers lightly over the forearm. “I never see skin so white. So many beauty spot.”
“Freckles,” Margaret laughed. “I hated them when I was a kid. I thought they were ugly.”
“No, no. They ver’ beautiful.” She turned to Li. “You ver’ lucky.”
Li blushed. “Oh, no, we’re not . . . I mean, Margaret’s a colleague. From work.”
“What are you saying?” Margaret asked, surprised by Li’s sudden lapse into Chinese.
“Just that we only work together.” He blushed again. Lotus’s arrival had unsettled him completely.
“You policeman?” Lotus asked Margaret with incredulity.
“No. A doctor.”
“Ah. You fix up his face?”
“Sort of.” She smiled at Li’s bruised and battered face.
Yongli returned to the table with two bottles of champagne in an ice bucket, and four glasses. Lotus gasped in delight, forgetting to speak English. “Champagne! What’s this for, lover?”