by Chris West
Shen had known this too. Suddenly the man was on his knees, ‘a most unsoldierly position’ according to the transcript, begging the commission to believe his innocence.
‘Ask Sergeant Han Haotong,’ Shen had said. ‘He knows I’m innocent.’
‘This individual is not present.’
‘Ask him. Somehow. I beg you!’
‘Sergeant Han is currently fighting American and British imperialist forces in Korea. It has not been possible to contact him.’
‘You must do so, in order to be fair.’
‘The Party decides what is and what isn’t fair.’
Shen Zirong had been placed under arrest.
Proceedings on the third day were brief. It was announced that under questioning from the Public Security Bureau, Shen Zirong had confessed his crimes. He had been for many years a Guomindang agent. He had been guilty of acts of political sabotage, including sowing dissent among Party ranks. He had betrayed the column’s plans to a Guomindang spy.
He had been taken out that morning and shot.
‘My father put his signature on Shen Zirong’s death warrant,’ Bao told himself.
What else could he have done?
‘He always told me to do what was right,’ Bao muttered. ‘Be prepared to die for justice, he’d say. But Shen was almost undoubtedly innocent. And the real traitor went unpunished.’
Bao shut the file as gently as he could, took ten deep breaths, then took it back.
‘Do you keep records of who’s taken files out, and when?’ he asked the archivist.
‘Not ‘‘who’’, but as for ‘‘when’’, there should be a stamp on the docket.’ She checked. ‘Yes, it was consulted – that’s extraordinary! – last week.’
Bao didn’t share her surprise. ‘And before that?’
‘Nothing. Never, actually. What’s happening?’
‘Security matter,’ said Bao.
The librarian took the envelope back. She handled it with a new caution, as if it were suddenly dangerous.
‘One last thing,’ said Bao, pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket. It was the instruction from Headquarters for Mrs Li to host Lian Gang. ‘Can you tell me whose signature this is?’
The librarian stared at the scrawled characters. ‘That’s … Hmm. Yes. It’s Director Yi’s.’
‘Is it possible to have a word with him?’
‘No. He died last year.’
11
Bao wanted to walk next day. He was still dispirited by the obvious scapegoating of Shen Zirong and his father’s complicity in that.
In those days it was hard, he told himself. Maybe he couldn’t have done anything else. Maybe there was other evidence, not mentioned in the report. It’s often like that. You get a feeling for something. You know but you can’t say.
It didn’t feel very convincing.
He also hoped that walking would clear his mind about the murder of the Secretary. A side of him, one that he knew to be petty, loved the idea that the man who had been so rude to him was, after all, a traitor, and that someone had tracked him down and dispensed summary justice. But that was just a storyline. There were plenty of others – including the official line, that this was a bungled robbery.
Stay out, he told himself. But his curiosity had cut loose. It made him a good cop back home. Here, would it just make him an irritating meddler?
Rosina, by contrast, wanted to stay at the guesthouse and note down all the things she had learnt on her visit to the clinic. They’d covered traditional medicine in her nursing course but, she recalled with embarrassment, she’d not taken it as seriously as the western teaching. The old stuff wasn’t scientific. It wasn’t modern. It wasn’t Western. But now she saw it working, not as a replacement to the Western, but alongside it. She also had a quandary: Huiqing had asked her to attend a meeting of a protest group. She desperately wanted to go, but knew she shouldn’t.
So they reconvened in the evening and took their dinner on the verandah. Neither spoke much, but the silence was companionable. The ringing phone in their room felt like an intrusion.
It was Chai. ‘What are you up to?’ he asked.
‘Sitting with my wife watching the sunset,’ Bao replied.
‘How nice. Now, I’ve got some stuff for you. D’you want to hear it, or shall I just switch on some romantic music?’
‘Tell me what you’ve found out.’
‘Right. Wu Weidong works for the state government in Jinan. As a clerk in the maintenance department. A pretty junior one: he earns about four hundred yuan a month. You know how far that goes nowadays. But – get this! – he drives a car. A Toyota.’
Bao resisted the temptation to say he already knew that.
‘He’s had it for a while, now,’ Chai went on. ‘Since … ’
Bao suddenly knew what his friend was going to say next.
‘ … Nineteen eighty-eight. Also, he and his partner – they’re not married, by the way – moved to a new apartment in June, in one of the smartest parts of town. Wu Weidong took out a huge loan with the Shandong Industry Bank to pay for it.’
‘Ah.’
‘Her name is Lei Luren. She works in a hairdressing salon. One of these private places where businessmen’s wives spend more than we earn in a month. But the profits go to the management: Lei just gets a salary. So you’ve got two people, living like pop stars on next to nothing. Neither has a criminal record, by the way.’
‘I see.’
‘I thought you’d be interested.’
‘Yes. Thanks. Any luck on Lian Gang? He’s disappeared, and … well, it’s complicated.’
‘So far, he could be one of two hundred and fifty-three people. But there are plenty of other places to check. None of my two hundred and fifty-three Lian Gangs are on record as having participated in the Shandong campaign, so maybe that’s just as well. You want me to keep looking?’
‘Please.’ Bao paused. ‘Look, while you’re on that – ’
‘Not another suspect!’
‘Not exactly. But I need to trace a fellow called Han. Han Haotong. He was a sergeant in the PLA and fought in Korea. All I want is a current address.’
‘All you want? You know what military records are like.’
‘I know how good you are at this.’
Bao heard a curse. Then the sound of a police-issue biro scratching on paper. ‘Han … Haotong ... I think we’d better have champagne with that dinner.’
Bao smiled. He knew how much his friend loved the sparkling drink from former Soviet Georgia.
‘Who was that?’ Rosina asked, when Bao came back from the call.
Bao told her.
‘And what did he say?’
Bao told her. ‘I fancy an evening stroll,’ he added.
‘I’d love to – but I want to finish these notes. There’s so much interesting stuff they do! You go, Zheng.’
*
There were lights on in Secretary Wu’s villa. There was also a breach in the garden wall. Bao flicked on the little pen-torch that he always carried with him. In the garden was a clump of bushes from which there should be a side-on view of the living room.
There was such a view. Not a good one, but the best available. The Secretary’s office might have been easy to spy on from outside; his living room was not.
Wu Weidong and Francine were watching TV. Adverts seemed to be getting longer and more frequent on all the TV channels: Bao missed the days when you had a couple of ads for Five Flowers umbrellas, Gold Lion shirts (‘A World for Men!’) or Lux soap every half hour or so, and the rest of the time actually saw what you had tuned in to watch. The couple were sitting on separate seats. Had they had a row? The young man looked particularly preoccupied. Francine lit a cigarette.
‘D’you have to?’ Weidong snapped.
‘There’s not a lot else to do here, is there?’
‘We can’t leave yet, can we? Be patient!’
The silence fell again.
*
; On the way back from the villa, Bao met Station Chief Huang.
‘You haven’t been to visit Wu Weidong, have you?’ said the chief.
‘No,’ Bao said, which, of course was technically true.
‘I’ve said, he is to be left alone.’
‘I shall leave him in perfect peace,’ Bao replied, adding to himself ‘till I have more evidence’. ‘How’s the investigation going?’ he asked.
‘We are making progress. But … we were promised an extra man from Wentai, and nobody turned up. I’ve been on the phone to them for an hour this afternoon. This evening I’ve been up here talking to people who might have seen anyone around on the night of the murder. Aiya, I have a mountain of forms to fill in!’
‘Did you meet anyone interesting up here?’
‘Yes, actually. Two grain merchants who admitted to using the road the previous week. They play bridge with a friend who has a villa up there.’
Bao nodded. Since Premier Deng had taken up bridge, the game had become fashionable among the wealthy.
‘They fit the description of Driver Gao’s two men,’ Huang went on. ‘Their fellow bridge players will provide an alibi. They can be eliminated from the investigation.’
‘So, as far as opportunity goes, that leaves your teacher.’
‘Teacher Hu is highly respected.’
‘I would still suggest interviewing him. Just my advice, of course.’
Huang looked at Bao suspiciously. Then he broke into a smile. ‘Would you like a drink?’
*
‘Where did you go last night?’ asked Rosina. ‘I was worried. Mr Lian still hasn’t turned up. I was lying there thinking some maniac who hated Party members was out there.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry. Station Chief Huang asked me to join him for a couple of beers.’
‘A couple?’
‘We had a lot to talk about.’
‘Secretary Wu?’
‘Yes. He’s convinced it’s to do with the robberies, and has got some locals in his sights. The Ma family. Bad elements, apparently.’
‘Poor them,’ said Rosina.
‘He said he won’t do anything without some kind of proof. But he asked me to do some interviews for him. He thinks they’re irrelevant, but it makes him look like he’s doing a better job. I think they could be interesting. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘No,’ Rosina replied, though clearly without enthusiasm.
‘It’s not just because of the investigation. It will help … I need to get to know this place again. I see now that I’ve filled my head with dreams about it. I need to see more clearly. Through the red dust … Also, if I help the local police, that might mean that someone will look out for Ming when we’ve gone. You seem to be busy with your traditional medicine, too,’ he added.
‘I am,’ Rosina replied. ‘Huiqing ... suggested I went along to some kind of protest meeting. I’d like to go. Like you, I want to get to know this place better. I’ll remain silent, of course. Nobody will know who I am.’
Bao grimaced. ‘Your presence will be noted. Meetings like that are only allowed for one reason, so the authorities can keep an eye on the protestors. I’d rather you didn’t.’ He paused, then shook his head. ‘No. Go. If you want to. Tell me what happens. Be my eyes and ears.’
‘You could come, too.’
‘No. People would recognize me. I am my father’s ghost, remember. You … stay in the background. Look plain. Hard for you to do, but I’m sure you can manage if you try hard enough. And if anyone official kicks up a fuss, I’ll say you were helping me help the Station Chief. Aiya! We came here for a rest!’
‘We’re not resters, really, are we?’ said Rosina.
*
Teacher Hu lived in a courtyard on the outskirts of the town. The step was scrubbed; the door had a well-oiled mechanical bell-push. When Bao Zheng rang, somebody answered at once — a little girl in dungarees, a T-shirt and a big red bow in her hair. She showed the inspector into the main yard, where vegetables grew in neat rows.
‘Can I help you?’ The speaker was a man in his late thirties, balding but tall and fit.
Bao introduced himself, adding: ‘You probably know my brother.’
‘Yes,’ Hu replied cautiously. ‘You’d better come in.’
The inspector followed him through a large patio window into a spacious living room. Unlike many rural dwellers, the Hus had clearly been able to keep an entire courtyard home to themselves.
‘Sit down,’ said Hu, pointing to a sofa with two perfectly aligned cushions on it. ‘I hope you’re enjoying your return to Nanping. People still speak very highly of your father here.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Can I get you some tea?’
‘Yes,’ Bao replied hesitantly.
‘I know, the local stuff is undrinkable. A typical produce of so-called private enterprise – fob the buyer off with the worst possible quality goods. I have some Dragon Well here. Chairman Mao’s favourite.’
‘That would be very welcome.’
While the teacher was away making the tea, Bao looked round the walls of the room. Photographs, including several of the Chairman. Books, mostly from the Mao era, plus a few modern neo-Marxists like He Xin. Certificates, from the Young Pioneers and Teacher Training College in Jinan; the last one dated 1985. Most came from an earlier era, and praised Hu’s parents, aunt and uncle for participation in (the later ones said ‘leadership of’) voluntary communal projects.
Bao smiled. He still admired the spirit behind these certificates. Selflessness, hard work, loyalty. The old Nanping he had dreamt of.
Hu was back with the tea. ‘What brings you here?’ he asked.
Bao had promised to be discreet. ‘The past,’ he replied.
Hu sighed. ‘I didn’t really know Bao Jingfu. I wish I had.’
‘Maybe nobody really knows anyone else,’ Bao found himself saying. ‘What do you make of his successors?’
‘Tiger Zhang was by all accounts a strong character. Wu Changyan … As a child I remember him as a good man. But of late he got led down a bad path.’
‘So you don’t approve of this fish-farm idea?’
Hu laughed. ‘You know how much money they were planning to spend on those dams, don’t you?’
Bao stayed silent, just giving a shake of his head.
‘Over a million yuan,’ said Hu. ‘A million yuan. Think of the debt that would create for us in the village. And profit for the moneylenders.’ He scowled. ‘The farm should be a communal project. My mother visited the Red Flag Canal at Dazhai. She said there was pride on people’s faces like she had never seen anywhere. Why? Because they built it with their own hands.’ The teacher looked his visitor in the eye. ‘That’s all gone, now, Inspector: any joy in belonging to something bigger than oneself, any sense of duty or community. Money’s all that matters. If you’ve got money, you can do anything. Like flooding a valley with a private lake – Aiya, I hate those class traitors.’ He spoke those words with real venom, then seemed to check himself. ‘But what can ordinary working people do?’
‘Protest? There’s a group, isn’t there?’
‘They’re a bunch of reactionary hypocrites. Most of them own land under threat. All they want to do is argue up the price. It’s just like that business back in ’eighty-nine: people using Western-style ‘‘liberal’’ slogans to cover up self-interest.’ He paused again; it seemed to Bao in order to control his emotions again. ‘Refill for your tea, Inspector?’
‘Thanks.’
While the teacher went to fetch the flask, Bao took another look round the room. The child, who was now playing hopscotch in the garden, had made little impression on the place, except for a box of toys in one corner. There was a collection of comics on the bookshelf, too, war ones. That didn’t really fit the daughter’s cutesy image, but maybe there was more to her than met the eye. Or perhaps they had been confiscated from some unruly lads at the village school.
Bao took one down and glanced th
rough it. Assuming Charge was about Vietnam, the war that Bao had fought in back in 1979. Bao still didn’t trust the Viets: they had their eyes on the Spratly Islands, which, of course, belonged to China.
‘The men lined up for the attack, patriotic zeal and love of the Party filling their hearts…’
Bao had read these things as a boy, and they’d filled him with martial dreams. The reality of war, he’d learnt, was very different. Yet he still couldn’t read the comic without a tug of emotion. Anger at their deceit, or a secret longing for the world they portrayed?
He heard footsteps, and put the comic back in its pile. His host returned with a flask of boiling water.
‘Do you know anything about the battle of Snake Pass?’ he asked, once Hu had filled his mug.
The teacher looked vaguely embarrassed. ‘A little, yes. Not as much as I should, probably. Nobody else seems to give a damn. I tried taking the children up to the memorial one year, and was told that was “no longer relevant”.’
‘Who by?’
The teacher looked embarrassed. ‘The Party.’
‘Secretary Wu?’
‘Yes, I suppose ultimately …’
Bao nodded. ‘Does the name Lian Gang mean anything to you?’
Hu shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. It’s a nice old Party alias, though. “Forge steel”. I don’t know what people are calling themselves nowadays. “Line pocket”? “Accept bribe”?’ He laughed. ‘Who is this fellow?’
‘Just an old comrade of my father. I was wondering if you knew anything about him.’
‘No.’
‘Shame. Old comrades seem to be a dying breed!’
The teacher looked away. Was that fear in his expression? Bao kept an affable smile on his face, as if he hadn’t noticed, and Hu quickly relaxed. The inspector took another sip of Chairman Mao’s favourite tea.
12
Bao took out a crushed packet of Panda – he was still keeping to his resolve of three a day – and told himself that now was an acceptable time for one. Once it was lit, he fetched another item, his notebook. He hadn’t intended bringing one on the trip. This was a holiday, after all. But then he’d considered that some thoughts might come to him that he would wish to recall. Now one of the little black books was being put to its usual use. He sat on the verandah, writing in it and twirling the pencil between his fingers whenever he paused for thought.