by Qiu Xiaolong
He stepped in. No customer inside either. He took a seat with a view of the street.
A waitress put a cup of coffee on the table for him and withdrew into a back room. So he had the café for himself.
Sipping at a cup of coffee, he took out his cellphone to call some of his Big Buck associates.
It was another long shot. For a large city like Shanghai, the people he knew would not likely turn out to be the people Shanshan knew.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try. Some of them might have heard of her or the activist group.
The first two or three phone calls did not yield any result, which he expected. The next one on the calling list was Mr Gu, the chairman of the New World Group, who picked up the phone at the first ring.
‘What a coincidence! I was thinking of calling you too, my dear Chief Inspector Chen.’
‘What’s up, Mr Gu?’
‘I’m just leaving the American Consulate with my wife and daughter—’
‘Are you emigrating, too?’
‘Not me, but my family. I’m accompanying them for the visa interview, but there’s still a long line waiting at this moment. I don’t think we’ll have any luck today. By the way, you know someone in the Consulate, don’t you?’
‘Well, the Culture Consul has invited me to some literature events at the Consulate. Because of my translation of the American poems, I think. But what do you want me to do for you – to help reduce the line, so to speak, through my connection?’
‘Yes, if that’s possible, Chief Inspector Chen.’
‘I may be able to have a try, but I wonder whether the American would give me the Chinese face, if you know what I mean. Theirs is not exactly a culture of connections.’
‘Connections work everywhere in the world. East or West. We’re now living in the global age.’
‘But you’re so successful in your business, with the New World, and with all other real estate properties in China, Mr Gu. Why do you want your family to leave in a hurry?’
‘Successful I may be here today, but who can tell what will happen tomorrow? The Party policies change every year. Last year we were encouraged to invest out of China, but this year, with the slowing economy, we’re accused of moving our assets abroad. The Party is capable of changing the law and taking things back from you any time it pleases.’
‘But you don’t have to worry about it right now, Mr Gu.’
‘But I have to worry for my family when something is happening in front of my eyes right here. You have heard of the air quality monitor at the American Embassy, haven’t you? What an irony! Of late, it has surely become one of the main reasons why so many Chinese people are anxious to apply for American visas.’
‘Come on, Mr Gu. You don’t have to go there to take a look at the monitor …’ He did not finish the sentence as he recalled the Weibo post he had read the day before. ‘Yes, I now remember something about the American air quality monitor incident. What a shame! I did not follow it too closely.’
‘You were just too busy with one high-priority investigation after another. But back to the monitor: however the government spokesman tried to deny the fact of China’s air pollution as recorded in it,’ Mr Gu went on emphatically, as if in an earnest attempt to defend the emigration decision for his family, ‘information available in the global age eventually compelled the Beijing authorities to include the PM 2.5 in the air quality index in recognition of the problem.’
‘Yes, the government spokesman then justified the inclusion as the progress of national environmental awareness, I read that part too.’
‘Progress or not, for the last several days, each and every hospital in the city has been full of patients suffering from respiratory problems. Especially young children. A considerable number of people want to emigrate because of it. You may not believe it but one of my daughter’s schoolmates was recently diagnosed with leukemia. Imagine it happening to a boy at such a young age.’
‘Yes, people want to go abroad because of the polluted air. But in the meantime, something should be done here about it. In fact, I’ve just heard that a group of activists are involved in such a project and several of them being Big Bucks too, possibly even in your circle.’
‘Oh that …’ Gu was silent for a moment before going on. ‘People ought to do something about the environmental crisis here, no question about it, but I don’t know any of those activists, not personally.’
‘You’re just too busy expanding your business, General Manager Gu.’
‘Now we’ve had our exchange of compliments, Chief Inspector Chen. But I’m not saying that others may not know any of the activists. You’ve been to the Oriental Club in the New World, haven’t you?’
‘Yes?’
‘One of the club members named Bian has talked to me about the air problem quite a few times. I’m not sure if he is an activist, but he’s an air purifier manufacturer with possible connections to the experts and activists in the field. I’ll text you his phone number. When you call, you may mention my name. I believe he will answer your questions.’
‘Thank you so much, Mr Gu. You’re so well connected. I know I can count on you.’
‘It’s an honor for you to think of me. You know what? Some people are describing you as one of the few honest cops left – like an endangered species … or like the public phone booths left on the Shanghai streets.’ He then added, as though in afterthought, ‘There’ll be a movie event at the Consulate next week. If I’m going there, I’ll see what I can do.’
A couple of minutes after the phone conversation, a text message came in presenting Bian’s phone number, which Chen immediately dialed.
‘My name is Chen Cao, of the Shanghai Police Bureau. Your friend Mr Gu, Chairman of the New World Group, has just given me your number suggesting I contact you. I would like very much to have a talk with you.’
‘I’ve heard of you, Chief Inspector Chen. Mr Gu’s spoken so highly of you. I have a business appointment this evening, how about meeting for afternoon tea in the Glamorous Bar in an hour?’ Bian agreed readily on the phone.
As a consultant to the murder investigation, it was perhaps all Detective Yu could do, he thought gloomily, to make a close study of the evidence – particularly the pictures from the crime scenes, in addition to the material in the case folder from Qin, which Yu had already read a couple of times.
In the evidence room, he was also able to view the videos and pictures gathered from the surveillance cameras at those locations. Some of the pictures were just sent in; he wondered whether Detective Qin had studied them yet.
Qin must have been having another meeting with Internal Security.
After printing out a large number of the pictures, Yu remained sitting alone, spreading them out into four groups along the desk. It was easier to study them like that.
At least one of the points discussed between Yu and Qin was proven. Nothing from any of the surveillance cameras showed the possible suspect.
Among the dramatic changes in the city in the last several years, one was the installation of an incredibly large number of surveillance cameras, practically everywhere, and particularly in those central locations. It was done, like a lot of things, in the name of ‘stability maintenance’. In the age of the increasingly popular social media sites like Weixin or Weibo, the government was worried about sudden eruptions of people’s protests.
So it meant, among other things, that the murderer must have done a reconnaissance trip beforehand.
Perhaps he was not only young or middle-aged, but also an agile, alert man who knew something about the surveillance technologies.
Like Qin, Yu was not that sure about Chen’s theory. Whatever coup Chen had produced with the previous serial murder, this was a different case, with nothing like a red mandarin dress as a possible lead.
Under the light of the evidence room, Yu spent quite a period of time going over the pictures one by one, regrouping them from a variety of angles, enlarging them o
n the computer screens, and reprinting some.
Then he thought they had another thing in common. In the four groups of the crime scene pictures, each showed the presence of a mask.
Of the four, victim number two was wearing a mask on his face, but not the other three. Two of those had masks that had dropped to the ground, close to their bodies, possibly due to the violent strikes they’d suffered; but for number three, it was actually at a distance from her body. At first, Yu did not even notice it as a mask. It was visible only in one picture in the group; in the enhanced resolution it showed a slight yellowish color, looking like a lost handkerchief.
It was perhaps nothing that uncommon, however, for people to wear masks for these smoggy mornings.
Still, it left a question mark in Detective Yu’s mind.
Glamorous Bar was one of the top fancy restaurants in Shanghai, located on the corner of the Bund and Guangdong Road. The seventh-floor balcony boasted a superb view of Pudong, the east side of the river. It was said that a large number of customers went there for the view.
But Chen and Bian turned out to be the only customers sitting on the balcony that day. Like the day before, the view appeared shrouded in an impenetrable grayness.
Bian was in his mid- or late-forties with a balding headline and constantly blinking eyes. Taking a cigarette from him without lighting it, Chen realized he should have made a more serious effort to quit smoking. Like so many in the city, he suffered from a sore throat, a symptom increasingly common, even among the people who did not smoke.
A blonde waitress came over, stepping light-footed as if floating out of the enveloping smog, moving to their table with a silver tray that contained a dainty coffee set, a fruit-topped white cake and a well-printed menu.
‘The Pavlova cake here is the best in the city,’ Bian said, stirring the coffee cup. ‘I cannot resist the sight of Pavlova in spite of my relatively high blood sugar. Melody knows that only too well about me.’
Apparently a regular customer here, Bian nodded at the waitress named Melody, who left the tray on their table, smiling an engaging smile before she disappeared back into the murkiness.
‘So you are associated with Yuan Jing – or Shanshan as I used to call her in Wuxi,’ Chen said as soon as the waitress left them alone, taking the direct approach.
‘Shanshan – ah, you must know her well. Yes, she’s such a celebrity; a lot of people know her in Shanghai or elsewhere.’
‘I met with her in Wuxi, but that was several years ago. So can you tell me something about her now – about the environmental project you are working on with her?’
‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Chief Inspector Chen. Mr Gu spared no effort recommending you as a trustworthy and reliable one,’ Bian responded deliberately, looking him in the eye. ‘Still, can you tell me first why you suddenly want to find out things about the project in relation to her?’
‘A leading comrade from Beijing wants me to look into it, that much I can tell you, though I do not know his real purpose either,’ Chen said, producing a copy of Shanghai Literature and turning to the page with the poem on it. ‘But let me show you a poem first.’
‘“Don’t Cry, Tai Lake.” So you wrote it? Yes, you’re also a poet.’ Bian took the magazine and started reading in undisguised astonishment. ‘Sorry, I did not know anything about it.’
‘That’s little wonder. You can hardly find any literature magazines at newsstands in the city.’
‘For that matter, hardly any newsstands still in existence in the true sense of the word,’ Bian said with an annoyed wave of his hand. ‘There used to be one not far from the corner of Guangdong and Sichuan Roads, just a stone’s throw from here, but it now sells chestnuts and other dry nuts instead.’
With Bian still reading the poem, Chen took a sip of the coffee and looked up across the river, east of which surely appeared ‘the financial center of Asia’. An almost surreal forest of modern or ultramodern high-rises loomed through a smoggy mirage; Pudong certainly appeared more magnificent than Puxi, Zhao was right about that, which had been developed much earlier during the days of the British concession.
It began drizzling, just a little, but they were sitting under the awning.
‘A great poem, Chief Inspector Chen,’ Bian said, without looking up from the page. ‘I wonder how you could have produced it. In the company of Yuan – oh, Shanshan, right?’
The chief inspector nodded without making an instant response.
Yes, it was in Wuxi, in the bedroom of a luxurious suite in the Cadre Recreation Center …
Afterward, it started to rain. He listened to it pattering against the windows as he sat up, placing the laptop on his drawn-up knees, imagining the lake furling around like a girdle in a poem he remembered.
To his surprise, she flung one arm over, her fingers brushing against the keyboard before grasping his leg, as if anxious to reassure herself of his still being beside her in sleep. An accidental touch that brought up some of the lines he had composed earlier by the lake.
Then he began working with a multitude of images surging up, thinking of the lone, hard battle she had been fighting for the lake.
Soon, the spring is departing again.
How much more of wind and rain
can it really endure? Only the cobweb
still cares, trying to catch
a touch of the fading memory.
Why is the door always covered
in the dust of doubts?
The lake cries, staring
at the silent splendid sun.
Who is the one walking beside you?
The lines were still disorganized, but it was imperative for him to put all of them down there without a break. He went on typing, juxtaposing one scene with another, jumping among the stanzas, worrying little about the structure or the syntax for the moment.
Realities, too, were disorganized.
He tried to visualize the hardships she had been going through, working against the odds at her environmental protection job, alone, day after day.
But what had he done? As a successful Party member cop enjoying all the privileges, and now even as a ‘high-ranking cadre’ at the center, he had paid little attention to the environmental issue. He was simply too busy being Chief Inspector Chen, someone rising in the system.
Pushing a strand of sweat-matted hair from her forehead, he wished he had met her earlier, and learned more about her work, albeit beyond his field. He was going to introduce an intimate touch to the next stanza, imagining a talk with her about the lake …
Finally, Bian was reaching the end of the long poem, forking up the last bit of Pavlova cake from the plate with a sigh of contented regret, when Inspector Chen turned his gaze back from afar and said to him in earnest, ‘To tell the truth, it was Shanshan that inspired me for the poem by the lake. But that’s something I have not told the magazine editor. Nor the leading comrade from Beijing, as you may understand.’
‘Really!’
‘Make no mistake about it, Bian. It was quite a few years ago that I met her on a vacation in Wuxi. I’ve since not seen or heard from her. That’s why anything you tell me about her may prove to be so helpful.’
‘Thank you so much for your trust in me, Chief Inspector Chen.’
‘You don’t have to thank me for anything. But this I do want you to know, Bian: whatever environmental project Shanshan may be engaged in, I will do whatever possible to keep any harm from happening to her. I give you my word about it.’
‘I’m so glad you tell me all that, Chief Inspector Chen. The air pollution is such a national disaster, I don’t think I need to go over that with you in detail, but not all Chinese people can afford to go abroad for fresh air, not like Mr Gu’s family. For them, masks and air purifiers may prove to be the only help available. The air purifiers manufactured by my company sell at the average price of seven or eight thousand yuan per unit, with some premium brands for more than fifteen thousand. Believe it or not, they all keep
selling like hot cakes.’
‘Wow, it’s more than the monthly pay for an ordinary worker in the city.’
‘Do you think people have any choice? The lung cancer rate for the country is increasing so rapidly. The authorities will never attribute it to the contaminated air, but even the government spokesman cannot totally deny it.’
‘Yes, I’ve read about it too,’ Chen said, nodding. ‘According to the government-run China Daily, China has more lung-cancer diagnoses and fatalities than any other country in the world, with over 600,000 dying of the disease every year at the present.’
‘So you see, it’s the same deadly air people are all breathing. How can they afford not to be worried? Some wealthy parents at my son’s school wanted to install an air purifier in the classroom at their own expense. But the district authorities vetoed the idea, saying such a precedent could not be set, which would harm the image of the city. It’s such a crying shame for me to make tons of money out of the crisis, as my wife keeps harping on at me.’
‘It’s just part and parcel of the market economy, you cannot do anything about it, Bian. No need to be so hard on yourself. But how did you move from the fresh air machine to Shanshan’s project?’
‘Again, it’s because of my wife, a newly converted Buddhist believer suffering from asthma. So appalled at the idea of “cashing in on people’s miseries”, she insisted that I should do something about the terrible air quality. Redemption, you know, in accordance with the Buddhist scripture she reads every day. Then I happened to hear about Shanshan.’
‘I see, so you went out of your way to help her project.’
‘With the severe smog, and with the Party’s continuous emphasis on GDP, I don’t think an activist like Shanshan alone can make a real difference anytime soon. Not in ten or fifteen years, I’m afraid. Besides, it does not cost that much to help with her environmental documentary—’
‘Hold on, Bian. Shanshan is making a documentary?’
‘Yes, it’s a research documentary about the air pollution in China.’
‘But how could it be possible for such a movie to come out under the government censorship?’
