The Hungry Ghost Murder

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The Hungry Ghost Murder Page 6

by Chris West


  ‘Driver Gao,’ said Bao, ‘do you know if Secretary Wu was intending to see anyone else that evening?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You had no orders to collect anyone?’

  ‘No. Only you.’

  ‘And he didn’t mention anyone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he often receive visitors that late?’

  ‘When necessary. The Secretary always put the public good above personal convenience.’

  ‘What kind of mood was he in when you last saw him?’

  ‘Happy – he seemed happy.’

  ‘Unusually happy? Extra happy?’

  ‘Happy. That was good. A change. He’d been worried of late.’

  ‘Do you know what that worry was about?’

  ‘I think so. He’d had threats. From people in Weipowan. About the fish-farm.’

  ‘What sort of threats?’

  ‘I don’t know. Unpleasant ones. Those bastards! D’you think they killed him?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Bao replied. The two villages were old rivals: he remembered getting in scraps with lads from Weipowan. (Ming had got into similar scraps, too, and Bao had usually had to rescue him, despite being two years younger.) Add to this the fact that the village, at the end of Snake Valley, stood to get flooded if one of Secretary Wu’s dams burst, and it was hardly surprising that its residents were against the plan.

  ‘The threats were definitely from Weipowan?’ he asked nevertheless.

  ‘That’s what the Secretary said. And I’m sure he was right. Nanping people loved the Secretary. He looked after us. I know there’s all this talk nowadays about officials being gold and jade on the outside and rotten cotton within, but he wasn’t like that. He worked for us, day and night.’

  The driver seemed on the edge of tears. Bao let him hang his head and pretend to have a slight cold, then carried on with his questioning.

  ‘Do you have any idea why Secretary Wu was suddenly happier yesterday evening?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘None at all?’

  ‘No. Unless it was something to do with you, Inspector.’ There was an accusatory tone in the driver’s voice.

  ‘That’s always possible,’ Bao said calmly. ‘Is there anything else you want to say?’

  ‘No.’

  *

  Ou Qiyu was Wu’s cook and housekeeper: Bao remembered her as a fit, healthy middle-aged woman; now she was in her seventies, and looked it.

  ‘I made rice and bean-curd for the Secretary,’ she told Station Chief Huang in a thin, frightened voice, ‘which he ate, well, I suppose at about half past six. Then he went to his office to work – the one upstairs, I mean, not his one in the village.’

  ‘D’you know what sort of work?’ Bao asked her.

  ‘Party work, I’m sure, Inspector. The Secretary always put the interests of the People before his own.’

  ‘And what kind of mood was he in when you served him dinner?’

  ‘Quite good. It was so nice to see.’ She began shaking her head.

  ‘Any idea why?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Maybe no reason. A man who has done so much for the People shouldn’t need reasons to be happy – excuse me, Comrade Inspector.’ She pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket of her old Mao jacket and snuffled into it.

  ‘You keep the bed in the spare room made up, I see,’ said Bao, once she had recovered.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who for?’

  ‘Weidong. He comes to stay whenever they have business to discuss.’

  ‘Weidong?’

  ‘The Secretary’s son.’ Mrs Ou smiled, then suddenly looked horrified. ‘He wasn’t here last night, though.’

  ‘You know that?’

  ‘Yes. He only left a couple of days ago. He has to come all the way from Jinan; he’d never be back so soon.’

  ‘But the bed was still ready, just in case?’

  ‘It’s always ready. Weidong loved his father, Comrade Inspector. He was, well, a little wayward, but he was a loyal son.’ The handkerchief came out again, and this time the tears wouldn’t stop.

  *

  Station Chief Huang was staring at the ceiling. ‘Interesting interviews, but nothing material emerging from them, in my view.’

  ‘Nothing material? What about Wu Weidong?’

  ‘He’s not the sort of person to commit a crime. I know my criminal types.’

  ‘What work does he do?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Something for the municipality in Jinan.’

  ‘Does he possess a motorbike, or anything that could get from Jinan to here and back in an evening?’

  ‘He has a car.’

  ‘A car!’ Bao didn’t even dream of owning a car, an item that cost a lifetime’s salary for an honest official.

  ‘A blue Toyota. Everyone round here knows it. He’s had it for years. It could never sneak in here unnoticed.’

  ‘Driver Gao said the area was deserted after seven.’

  ‘It is. But the only way to get here from Jinan is straight up the main street, where there’s always someone about. If Wu Weidong came to this house yesterday evening, half Nanping will know.’

  ‘Good. I’m sure you’ll be getting men on to that. Then there are the threats that Gao mentioned.’

  ‘Wu often got them. People in office do. You’re not taking them seriously, are you?’

  ‘The recipient is dead. Then there’s Secretary Wu’s change of mood. We don’t know what he was depressed about – maybe it wasn’t the threats. Then something cheered him up. What? I regret to say it wasn’t me. We had a, er, difference of opinion. Nothing too serious, of course,’ Bao added cautiously. ‘So I guess it was to do with whoever was coming after me. You’re sure he didn’t have a mistress?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Was there any colleague whose visit he would particularly be looking forward to? A particular friend?’

  ‘The Secretary kept his distance from us all. That’s the best way for an official to be, in my view.’

  ‘And what about the rest of his family?’

  ‘Weidong is the only member he ever sees. His ex-wife and daughter live in Lanzhou. They have no contact with him.’ The chief paused, then added: ‘May I ask you a question?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What did you and the Secretary talk about last night?’

  Bao smiled. His colleague was quite right to ask him, and he should tell the truth. But that might create complications. ‘Old times. The Cultural Revolution. I’m afraid I get angry when I think of all the damage that got done. Our pagoda, for example. I fear I was a little too critical of the local Red Guards, and the secretary took that more personally than was intended.’

  ‘Secretary Wu did his best to counteract ultra-leftism,’ said the chief, scribbling something in his notebook. ‘Now, I must get a preliminary report in by lunchtime. We need more men, as soon as possible.’ He paused. ‘I wonder if I could ask you a favour.’

  ‘If I can help … ’

  ‘Could you stay and guard the house, please? Just while I’m doing that report.’

  ‘It would be a pleasure,’ said Bao.

  ‘Thank you, inspector. I’ll be back as soon as possible.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Thank you. Er, you won’t touch anything, will you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Bao listened to the clump of Station Chief Huang’s boots on the path and the roar of his new Happiness motorbike. He reminded himself of his promises, to Rosina and, just now, to Huang. Then he stood up to begin a proper examination of the crime scene.

  7

  Bao Zheng stood in the doorway of Secretary’s Wu’s front room. A chalked outline, the sour, shitty smell of death and a big black bloodstain were all that were left of the man.

  ‘You’re on holiday,’ he told himself again, then began a search of the house. First, a quick look round to make the acquaintance of the owner.

  The reception room. A bri
ef look at the papers on the floor yielded little: agricultural and economic reports. He looked at the walls: seven rectangles, seven missing works of art. Had the thieves acquired a taste for art after the calligraphy scroll they had taken from Chu Youming’s, and decided to move on from electrical goods?

  It was certainly possible.

  Maybe a second thief, or set of thieves – why was Huang so insistent on there being more than one? – was active in the area, specializing in art. That seemed unlikely. Bao’s instinct was that the scrolls been removed to make a murder look like another robbery. But he knew that his instinct wasn’t always correct.

  He wandered into the kitchen, which was tidy but simple, then into a storeroom, where the only extravagance was a washing-machine. It hadn’t been plumbed in, and was currently being used for storing rice.

  Upstairs was the boxroom – the boxes were empty – and the two bedrooms. There was a trace of luxury in the latter: Wu Changyan had not paid for the rosewood cabinet or the silk pillowcases on a Party Secretary’s salary. But apart from them – some backhanders come unrequested and cannot be returned without giving offence – there was no sign of unearned wealth.

  He began searching the room for evidence of an affair. However, there was none, any more than there was evidence of any interest in sex – how often searches of upright citizens’ homes produced caches of pornographic magazines from Hong Kong or Taiwan, but not here.

  There were none in the Secretary’s office, either. This small but important room had one window – its curtains were open – that looked out over the walled front garden and, beyond, the rutted track that led onto the main road up the valley. Sitting at Wu’s heavy, plain desk, Bao could no longer see the track, but the top of the wall was still visible. So anyone outside who was curious as to whether the office was occupied need only pull themselves up on to the wall, and they’d see at once that it was. All of which made the ‘bungled robbery by the same thieves’ theory less likely. Though not impossible, of course.

  He took a key-pick from his pocket. The desk opened easily.

  A diary would have been the perfect find, with a named appointment for nine p.m. last night. No such luck. Instead, there was a neat pile of papers under a carved calligrapher’s inkstone. Top of the pile: two notes, one to Station Chief Huang, the other to the guesthouse manager, Mrs Li. Both read, ‘Concerning Bao Zheng and Lin Xiangyu (also known as Rosina Bao). These individuals are no longer welcome in Nanping.’

  Before he knew what he was doing, Bao had picked up the notes and shoved them into his pocket.

  Destruction of state evidence. A serious offence.

  He took the blotter that Wu had used to press the notes, too.

  Next was an official-looking document in a plastic cover. A tender, from Yap Seeow Construction Company, Shanghai, to build a series of dams in Snake Valley ‘to international standards of quality’. Bao nodded with approval – then saw the cost. A million yuan. How could a small village begin to raise that kind of money? Shaking his head, he moved on to a second, even smarter tender beneath it. Sheng He Design and Building Cooperative of Jinan wanted the same figure. Both documents were dated last month: there was no correspondence attached to either of them.

  Bao sat back and stared at the ceiling, shocked at the magnitude of these figures. People killed for much less than the standard go-between’s commission on either of these contracts. But how did this apply in this case? He let various permutations run through his mind, till the sound of a bicycle bell on the road outside brought him back to the immediate task. Glancing at his watch, he pressed on.

  Beneath the contracts was a file marked ‘Opposition, Nanping’. It contained notes on the main opponents of the fish-farm.

  Among these were:

  ‘Bao Ming. Good class background, but of weak character. Drink problem. Easily led.’ A copy of his brother’s work attendance record from Wei’s factory was attached, which did not make good reading.

  ‘Fei Huiqing. Bad class background. Intelligent, manipulative, dangerous. See attached report.’ The report was of the strict surveillance Huiqing had been subjected to over a period of months, including an attempt at sexual entrapment which had failed.

  Beneath that, ‘Fei Duan. Bad class background. Seems quiet but is core member of protest group. Watch carefully.’ The old man’s name had been circled. Did this mean he was particularly troublesome?

  ‘Wei Shaojia. Manager, Nanping Village Industries. (No mention of his class background.) Appears to be objectively concerned about “environment”, but suspect financial motive, possibly desire not to have rival centre of economic activity in area.’

  The next file was ‘Opposition, Weipowan’. This turned out to be full of letters complaining about the physical threat posed to the old rival village by Nanping’s dam. Most were crude, but five stood out especially. They had been composed from characters which looked like they had been cut out from some kind of cheap publication – one of those war comics? – then neatly pasted on to sheets of writing paper.

  Build those dams and you will die the death you deserve, traitor.

  Bao put them in a line. They looked to be the work of one person.

  The desk’s upper section also had three drawers, all with nice pickable locks. In the top one were sets of accounts from local cooperatives, including Nanping Village Industries: all seemed to be doing well. Bao was no accountant, but nothing dramatic leapt out at him. There was a file full of correspondence about the road to Wentai. Wu had been complaining to Jinan and even Beijing about its state from 1980 onwards. A final letter, to Vice President Zhu, seemed to have worked: Nanping had got its tarmac lifeline.

  The second drawer contained domestic details and accounts. None revealed extravagance, and a pass-book from the Agricultural Bank of Shandong showed modest savings fluctuating undramatically.

  The third drawer was empty but for a few sheets of writing paper, on which the Secretary had been practising his calligraphy. Here was a new Secretary Wu, a private, reflective man. He had copied out the characters kan po hong chen, a four-ideogram phrase. This one literally meant ‘see through red dust’. Figuratively it meant to cast one’s vision beyond the material world. To be prepared for death? Or was the meaning more political: was the colour of that dust important? There were also two four-line poems, which Bao recognized as Tang dynasty.

  ‘BEES’ by Le Yin

  Down on the plains and up in the mountains

  They feast on nature’s greatest glories.

  But when the blooms of a hundred flowers have been turned to honey

  Who is all this hard work for? And all this sweetness?

  ‘SICK LEAVE’ by Bo Quyi

  Propped up on my pillows, my workplace is a world away,

  I have seen no one for two days.

  Now at last I understand that for the public servant

  It is only when ill that tranquillity can be found.

  The inspector nodded sympathetically as he read the last one, then remembered the crumpled notes in his pocket.

  But it wasn’t professional to get personal. Bao put the poems back in the drawer, locked it – then heard a motorbike engine in the distance. Aiya, time is a policeman’s worst enemy!

  By the time Station Chief Huang was clumping his feet in the hallway, Bao was sitting on a sofa looking perfectly like a man who had been in that same position for half an hour and was delighted to be relieved of such a boring task.

  *

  Deputy Yao sat in Wu Changyan’s office, in Wu Changyan’s chair, at Wu Changyan’s desk. He picked up his old boss’s pen, stared at it, then put it back again.

  ‘He won’t be coming back,’ he muttered. ‘Now it’s all up to me.’ He shook his head. ‘I must carry on. I must run things as Wu Changyan did. Exactly. Now, what did he do first thing after lunch?’ The old deputy gazed round the room, then called out to the fellow in the front office – what was his name? – to ask him.

  ‘Have a mug of
green tea then go to the lavatory,’ Assistant Xia called back. Yao, in the next office, didn’t see the twinkle of amusement in the young man’s eyes.

  ‘Right. Well, I’ll do the same. Did he make the tea himself?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘How often?’

  ‘About half the time.’

  ‘Good. Then I shall make it today and you can do it tomorrow. Where’s the flask?’

  Yao made the tea slowly, and deliberately: how many spoonfuls did Secretary Wu put in? How long did he leave it to infuse? Then there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Someone to see you, Secretary,’ said Xia.

  ‘Acting Secretary, please. Who is it?’

  ‘Bao Zheng. That policeman from Beijing.’

  ‘Ah! Bao Jingfu’s son. Show him in.’

  The young man did so.

  Yao held out a hand. ‘Comrade Bao,’ he said, slipping back into old Party usage in a way that only old people did now. ‘Welcome. Sit down. You’ll have some tea? Good. How can I help you?’

  ‘I want to ask a few questions about Secretary Wu.’

  ‘Ah. A fine man. A true servant of the People.’

  ‘He had ambitious plans for Snake Valley.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘What were they, exactly?’

  Yao described to Bao the fish farm scheme in glowing terms.

  ‘And what stage were these plans at?’ Bao asked. ‘Had the contracts for the construction of the dams been awarded?’

  Yao’s look of millennial optimism faded. ‘I don’t know. I’m afraid Wu Changyan didn’t really discuss the matter with me. I’ve always been more involved in the political side of things.’

  ‘Whom did he discuss it with?’

  ‘I don’t know. His superiors in Wentai and Jinan, I suppose. Wu Changyan was a man of great energy, but he operated best on his own. With support from his Party colleagues, of course.’

  ‘Of course. Do you know how the dams were going to be paid for?’

  The veteran cadre sighed. ‘Wu Changyan was going to get some kind of loan organized. There are all sorts of moneylending organizations around nowadays. They seem deeply Capitalist to me – but we must make these contradictions serve the People.’

 

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