Whispering Shadows

by Jan-Philipp Sendker

  “You really mean that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand. I mean, if the man can prove his innocence, why is he still in prison?” Even she recognized how naïve this sounded but right then she could think of nothing else to say.

  “We think it’s because the real murderer is being protected.” Paul said nothing more for a moment. He clearly wanted to give her time to process the news, but he could have kept silent until sunrise and it would not have helped her. She merely looked at him questioningly.

  “Your son must have been involved in some kind of situation and made powerful enemies. Do you know who or what they could be?”

  Elizabeth Owen simply could not focus. Michael had had enemies? Her baby, her little Michael? Out of the question. In America he had only had friends. In America, they had called him the gentle giant from high school through to college; he had gotten along with everyone.

  “No, my son had no enemies.”

  “Or someone who he had fought bitterly with, who might have felt threatened?”

  She shook her head. “His father, at most,” she blurted out with a short, almost hysterical laugh that she choked down immediately.

  “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t mean that seriously,” she replied, when she had calmed down. “But the two of them fought almost constantly.”

  “Over what?”

  “Over everything. My husband was terribly jealous of our son, he always was. I think from the day of his birth. Don’t ask me why. I have no idea. How can a grown man be jealous of a baby? But no matter how much they fought, Richard always loved Michael, of course. He was his son, after all. He never wanted to harm him.” The rest, thought Elizabeth Owen, was none of Paul’s business. The tears. The threats. The sleepless nights when she heard the shouting of the two men in her life echo through the house.

  “Did they also argue over the business?”

  “As I said before, over everything, but I kept out of the discussions about the company and our investment in China. In our family, business is for the menfolk, if you know what I mean.”

  “Does the name Wang Ming mean anything to you?”

  “No, I’ve never heard it.”

  “Lotus Metal?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know that your son often traveled to Shanghai?”

  “Did he?”

  “Can you tell me why?”

  “No, I have no idea why. My husband may know more. He’s on his way back to the hotel.”

  “Did you know that Michael had an apartment in Shenzhen?”

  Did you know, did you know . . . She wished he would stop these did-you-knows. No. No, she did not know. She would have liked to shout it out loud, so loud that the cocktail and champagne glasses shattered in the hands of all the well-groomed people in this hotel lounge. What was he telling her? Michael had had a second apartment in China. He had had a Chinese lover. Who he had wanted to move to New York with. Which Michael was this Leibovitz man talking about?

  Was it possible that she knew so little about her son? After nearly thirty years? Why had he kept all this from her? Why did he not trust his mother? Had he been afraid that she would immediately tell Richard everything? She had never done that. She had been loyal to him, always, all through the years and the endless fights between father and son. She had been on his side, even if she had not always been able to show it. She would not have betrayed him. Not this time.

  “I expect my husband any moment. He will certainly be able to answer some of your questions,” she said, seeing Richard at the reception desk just then. He looked like a stranger, face flushed red, damp, tousled hair, and light-blue shirt covered with dark wet patches.

  Richard Owen sat down with them reluctantly. Elizabeth could sense that her husband was not at all keen to have a conversation with Paul.

  “Mr. Leibovitz, please could you repeat for my husband everything you have just told me?” She wanted to see how Richard reacted.

  Paul cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “I’ve come to tell you that the man who will stand before the court charged with murdering your son is innocent.”

  Richard Owen did what he always did when he was surprised by bad news: his head jerked a few times and his mouth fell open. It looked like he could no longer control his body movements.

  “Mr. Tang told me that the murderer had signed a confession.”

  “That’s right. But that was a confession under duress.”

  Elizabeth Owen saw how her husband was seething. She saw how he struggled, how he fought not to lose control of himself. And she saw exactly how, after a few seconds that must have seemed endless to him, he calmed down and his features relaxed a little, as though he knew, after a moment of being at a complete loss, exactly what he had to do.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you mean. After a big investigation, the police in Shenzhen arrested a man who confessed to the crime. As far as I know, there are even eyewitnesses, who saw the fight with my son. And you say the confession is not genuine? The man could be sentenced to death for it. Why should he sign a false confession?”

  “We think he was probably forced to.”

  “Who exactly is ‘we’?”

  “My friend Zhang and I.”

  “The two of you, conducting your investigation, wish to call the work of the entire homicide squad into question? Who asked you to look further into this case in the first place?”

  “No one. Zhang discovered a few inconsistencies in the confession that he followed up on. There’s no doubt the accused has an alibi: he was ill in bed that day. And there are no reliable eyewitnesses for the crime.”

  “I suggest we wait for the court case. In America the courts are there to establish whether the accused is innocent or guilty. As far as I understand, it’s no different in China.”

  Richard Owen started to get up. For him, the discussion was over.

  “May I ask you nonetheless to answer a few questions?”

  “You may, but I will not answer,” he said, and stood up.

  “Then answer my questions.” Elizabeth Owen had followed the conversation intently. She felt a rising rage inside her as she saw Richard dodge Paul Leibovitz’s questions. Her body stiffened, as it always did when she got angry.

  She took a deep breath. The soothing, relaxed feeling the alcohol had given her was completely gone. But her mind was clear and focused: Her husband was hiding something, and she wanted to know what and why.

  Richard Owen looked at his wife, completely confused. This force, this sharpness in her tone, and in front of a stranger too. The way she gazed at him. He did not want a scene, not here in the lounge, so he sat down again.

  “Did you know that Michael had an apartment and a lover in Shenzhen?”

  “No.”

  He was lying. She could tell, but she did not want to stop now. They would discuss that later.

  “Who is Wang Ming?” she asked as calmly as she could.

  “The name means nothing to me.”

  “What is Lotus Metal?”

  Richard Owen gave a deep sigh before he replied. “That was a crazy idea of Michael’s. Our business was going so well he wanted to set up a second joint venture with a company from Shanghai. It was to be called Lotus Metal. I didn’t think it was a good idea, and nothing came of it.”

  “Did you fight about that two weeks ago?”

  “Darling, I don’t know if this is the right time to . . .”

  “Did you fight about it?” she insisted.

  “Yes.”

  “What does Tang have to do with it?”

  “With Lotus Metal? Nothing. I . . .” The ring of his cell phone interrupted him.

  “Richard Owen speaking. Victor, what a coincidence. I’m sitting here in the hotel with Elizabeth and our
friend Paul Leibovitz and we’ve just been talking about you.”

  Richard Owen nodded a few times while he listened to the long reply, his gaze moving from his wife to Paul and back several times.

  “Yes, that’s right. You’re right. It’s a good idea, thanks. I’ll ask them now and let you know right after.”

  He ended the conversation with a tap on his phone.

  “That was Victor Tang. He’s invited us to dinner at his house tomorrow evening. He’ll send a car. He would be very pleased if you, Mr. Leibovitz, would come with us. Would you be fine with that? Is that all right with you, Elizabeth?”

  She nodded. A dinner with Victor Tang, why not? Her husband wasn’t sharing everything he knew, she could tell. The only other person she could think of who would know about Michael’s secret life in China was Tang.

  Maybe it was all her own fault, Elizabeth thought. Maybe this was just the end of something that had started much earlier. She was wondering when exactly she had stopped asking questions. It must have been after the wedding, when her father-in-law told her in plain words that in the Owen family women were highly regarded but not involved in anything that concerned the company—and the company, Elizabeth had to learn soon after, was what the family was all about. It was not a time to challenge the orders of an old patriarch, not in Wisconsin, anyway, and she did what was expected of her. Gave birth to a son. Raised him. Hosted guests, entertained business partners, organized charity events for Michael’s schools and the hospital. Enjoyed, at least to a certain extent, the life and privileges of being the wife of the local magnate. Somewhere along the way, she thought, one of her greatest strengths got lost, her inquisitive, curious mind.

  She should have raised questions. She should have challenged her husband and her son. She should have gotten involved in their arguments early on, trying to mediate between them. It was too late now. Nothing would bring Michael back, but she wanted to know the truth. Who killed him and why? She owed it to her son—and to herself—to find out. Her sense of guilt demanded that much. She had to talk to Victor Tang.

  XXIII

  The second martini after the Owens had left had been one too many. He had emptied the glass in two long gulps and could still feel the clear, cold taste of the gin in his mouth. He would have liked nothing better than to spit it out in a high arc into the water of the harbor beneath. He took the few steps down to the ferry stop, bought a ticket, and walked down the heavily juddering and squeaking bridge onto the 9:30 PM ferry.

  It was not that he felt unwell, quite the opposite, in fact. He felt the pleasant and unfounded happiness that alcohol can conjure up. But he knew this feeling too well to trust it. He knew how quickly it could turn to an equally unfounded low mood with him. He had to concentrate now. He wanted to think about the conversation with the Owens and Tang’s invitation, and he needed a clear head for that, not an artificially stimulated or depressed mood. How did Tang know about the signed confession? He must have a very good contact in the upper ranks of the police. The ferry sounded its muffled horn three times and started reversing. After making a labored turn, she finally set off into the night. Paul could tell exactly when the captain turned the engine up to full speed ahead. He enjoyed the familiarity of this moment. If only he were going to see Christine, instead of Zhang who was waiting for him in Yung Shue Wan. He would visit her in her office tomorrow on his way to see the Owens. He wanted to take her in his arms, touch her, and bury his head in her neck, if only for a few seconds.

  The green and white pier on Yung Shue Wan shone brightly in the darkness and was almost deserted. Hardly anyone wanted to take the ferry back to Hong Kong at such a late hour. Zhang was leaning against the railing, and it looked like his eyes were closed. Paul was a little shocked when he saw him. He looked tired, exhausted, and even smaller than usual, with his shoulders drooping weakly and his head slightly tucked in as though anticipating some calamity. Paul felt that his friend had visibly grown older in the last few days.

  Only the joy and relief reflected in his friend’s eyes when he saw him gave Paul comfort.

  They walked away from the pier, past the Man Lai Wah Hotel, the post office, and the Island Bar, to Sampan. The waiter greeted them with a brief nod and led them to a table right by the water. Paul ordered some fried noodles, a sweet and sour soup, some bok choy vegetables, chicken with cashew nuts and peppers, and told Zhang about the last few hours.

  Zhang listened in silence.

  “I thought about the conversation I had with the Owens the whole time I was on the ferry,” Paul said at the end, “and there are a few things I don’t understand. Why did Richard Owen not want to answer my questions? Why was Elizabeth not just a grieving mom but so angry at her husband? And most of all, what is Tang up to? Why is he inviting me to dinner?”

  “I suspect he’s heard about our investigating and wants to find out what we know,” Zhang said.

  “But from whom?”

  Zhang thought for a moment. “I can only guess Anyi,” he said at last. “They know each other, and who knows how close they are?”

  “I can’t imagine that. She’s frightened of him. You didn’t see her face when she was talking about him.”

  “If Tang has something to do with the murder, and Anyi knows something, the safest place for her to be is near him.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “That would show him that she’s changed sides, that he can trust her. A sign of her submissiveness. Like an animal that rolls over on its back when it realizes that it has lost a fight. It hopes that the opponent will show mercy.”

  Paul shook his head decidedly. “I didn’t get that impression from her. She’s not the type who gives in. I think it’s more likely that she’s in hiding somewhere.”

  “In hiding? From Tang? Impossible. Sooner or later he will find her and treat her like an enemy and she . . .” Zhang did not finish his sentence.

  “And she?”

  “And she will not survive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Zhang cocked his head and looked at him as if he wondered if Paul was being serious. “She would disappear without a trace. And no one would ever hear anything of her again.”

  “Aren’t you exaggerating?”

  “Paul. You don’t know who we’re dealing with. You have no idea,” Zhang said loudly and unusually insistently. “You don’t know about people like this.”

  Paul watched his friend sitting bent low over the fried noodles as he pushed his plate to one side and stared at him helplessly. Where had the pleasure they felt in meeting again gone? Paul thought he could see a flicker of it in his eyes.

  “Do you know Tang?”

  “You asked me this question once already, two days ago,” Zhang replied, still worked up.

  “Yes, but you never answered it.” Why was he being so testy? “And you don’t have to reply now either,” Paul added in a conciliatory tone. “I know that you would never keep anything from me. It’s just . . .” He searched for the right words. “I’m not used to seeing you so upset. I’m worried about you.”

  Zhang looked away. He stared in silence at the half-empty plate of bok choy, the bowl of soup, the chicken that they had not touched yet. “Yes,” he said after a long pause. “I know him.”

  “How?”

  “From Sichuan. We were in the same work brigade in a village in the mountains during the Cultural Revolution.”

  “And?”

  Zhang lifted his head and looked at him once more, but his expression was immeasurably tired and sad.

  “And nothing,” he said at last. “It was not a happy time.”

  “Why didn’t you say so before?” Paul was amazed at the relief in his own voice.

  “You know how I dislike talking about it,” Zhang replied. “I don’t enjoy remembering those years. I’m sorry.”

  “At least now I
understand why you’re always so unnerved whenever Tang is mentioned.”

  “There’s something else you ought to know,” Zhang said after he had calmed himself a little. “We’re not just dealing with a very powerful person, we’re also flouting one of the most important rules in our culture.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We haven’t formed any alliances. We are alone, you and I. Only crazy people dare to challenge the authorities in China without building a network before that.”

  “Who should we have tried to build a network with?”

  “No idea, but it’s too late now anyway. It’s certain that Tang has not only friends but also opponents and enemies in the party, in the administration, and among the rich people in the city. You know how it is in China nowadays: There are different factions and interests that fight each other. They fight about money and power, from the politburo to the smallest party cell. I’ve seen these power struggles for years in the police. I have no idea who Tang’s opponents could be and where they are. In Shenzhen? In Sichuan? In Beijing? I’m convinced they exist and that, if we find enough incriminatory leads, evidence, or witnesses, they are our only chance.”

  They ate their sweet-and-sour soup in silence.

  After a while, Zhang asked, “Did you hesitate before you accepted Tang’s invitation?”

  “No. Why should I?”

  “Out of fear. The dinner could be a trap.”

  Paul was disconcerted. Until then, he had not thought for a moment that his personal safety could be compromised. He had seen himself as an outsider until now, as someone who just happened to be able to help a stranger, and someone who was standing by his friend, not as an interested party or an accessory and certainly not an active party whom someone could feel threatened by. “I hadn’t thought about that at all. Do you think that’s possible?”

  “It’s not likely, but it’s not out of the question.”

  What made Zhang think that there might be a trap? Paul had traveled through China for almost thirty years now and he had never felt threatened or worried about his own safety. The very idea of it was so unpleasant that he did not consider it for long. “No. I’m just interested in seeing what will happen, and what Tang wants from me. But I don’t feel frightened. Not a bit.”