The doorman offered him a taxi but he shook his head and pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his breast pocket. He found a gaggle of swarthy-looking men sucking on their fags behind a line of limousines and joined them. A couple of them glanced at him and one said something in Chinese that provoked a titter. He couldn’t blame them – they probably didn’t come across that many short, turbaned Sikhs with a surfeit of facial hair and a smoking habit. This last trait engendered sufficient fellow feeling that when he stubbed out his cigarette one of the men tapped a packet on his wrist and offered the protruding death-stick – as his doctor called it – to the policeman. Singh glanced at his watch, shook his head regretfully. He inhaled deeply to ensure a good lungful of secondary smoke and wandered into the lobby in search of his Chinese sidekick.
An elderly man, as thin as he, Singh, was plump, was waiting for him. They were almost exactly the same height when the turban was taken into account, which meant the Chinese man was a couple of inches taller than him. He had lines of sparse hair arranged horizontally and with precision across his scalp. Singh suspected that a mild breeze would soon put paid to the military neatness. The inspector realised to his amusement that this was the first man he’d spotted in China with grey hair. The rest of the sixty-plus club sported ebony black helmets.
The Chinese gentleman was wearing a pair of black pyjamas with a high collar and cloth-covered buttons. It was the sort of outfit that a waiter might wear in a Chinese restaurant in Singapore. On closer examination, Singh noted that the outfit was faded and fraying at the collar and cuffs. A button three from the bottom had been replaced with one that did not match the rest. This man would not pass muster as a member of staff in the sort of posh restaurant that specialised in shark’s fin soup and other endangered species.
“Inspector Singh, I am Li Jun, formerly of the Beijing police force.”
Singh stuck out a hand and shook the other man’s appendage vigorously. On this man hinged his hopes of producing a result to satisfy Susan Tan in the shortest possible time.
“Thank you for agreeing to help, Mr Li Jun.”
“You may call me Li,” said the former policeman with a smile that revealed two missing incisors. It made him look like a rather forlorn rabbit.
“Shall we discuss the case over coffee,” Singh asked hopefully, banking on being able to supplement his coffee with cake. His stomach grumbled audibly and the other man’s lips twitched.
“Certainly,” he said, “and perhaps we might have time to have a light snack?”
Singh decided, as he led the way to the lobby café, that this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Fifteen minutes later, he’d eaten three croissants that flaked all over the front of his shirt and drunk two very sweet and milky coffees.
Li Jun sipped sporadically on a delicate cup of jasmine tea and seemed to have the infinite patience of those monks who sat on mountaintops seeking inner peace. The inspector gazed at his companion thoughtfully and then around the gleaming gold and marble lobby. He realised that not a single other man, Chinese or otherwise, was wearing anything traditional. Everyone was in a Western suit and tie. Li Jun’s Mao suit stood out like a throwback to a past era. The ex-policeman from Beijing belonged in a grainy black and white photo of the past, not in the lobby of the present.
“What do you know of this case?” asked Singh.
“I have been informed of the facts by the First Secretary. I have also looked at the autopsy report.”
“And what is your opinion on this matter?”
“That the son of the First Secretary was killed by robbers.”
“Really?” Although it was Singh’s preferred solution, he felt his usual desire to be contrary when presented with a fait accompli.
“All conclusions must be tested with a rigorous examination of the facts.”
“Of course,” agreed Singh, trying not to smile at the other man’s circuitous conversational style. Was that what communism did to you?
“I think the extent of the injuries justify further investigation. The attack was very severe for a robbery attempt. As our great leader, Deng Xiaoping has said, ‘Seek truth from facts.’”
“Was your great leader talking about a murder investigation?”
The initial puzzled look was replaced with that peculiar toothy smile. “No, however his words have great application in many different situations.”
“The level of violence could be explained by drugs or alcohol.”
“It is quite possible. Chinese youth are also flying upwards these days.”
“What?”
“They have adopted the use of many drugs like ecstasy and marijuana.”
Singh tried to brush some of the crumbs from his shirt. “Anything else?”
“I have heard that the father’s activities bear further investigation.”
“Anthony Tan? I haven’t interviewed him yet, only the mother.”
“He is a businessman here in China.”
“So? I didn’t think he was likely to be a house husband.”
“He’s more of what you might call a fixer. He puts people together, promises access to the powerful in exchange for a share of the deal or a cash payment.”
Singh wrinkled his nose. It sounded seedy, not the sort of thing that would meet with the approval of the First Secretary.
“He uses his wife’s position to suggest that he is in a position of influence,” explained Li Jun further.
“Susan Tan sounded reluctant that I interview him.”
“There are rumours that one or two projects have not gone well, that he owes people money.”
“So? What has this to do with Justin’s death?”
Li Jun looked over the rim of his delicate teacup at his counterpart. Singh noted that his nails had been cut to the quick and were spotlessly clean.
“Did Madam Tan explain how we met?” he asked.
“No.”
“I came upon Justin in some difficulty a few weeks back and was able to help him out.”
“What sort of difficulty?”
“He had been cornered outside a nightclub by some unsavoury characters. I…I persuaded them to leave him alone.”
Singh slashed through the air with flat hands. “Let me guess – you’re some sort of kung fu master?”
Li Jun laughed out loud, drawing curious glances from some of the other patrons of the lobby café. “You have been watching too many Jackie Chan films, my friend. No, I merely suggested to them that I was still a policeman.”
“And that was enough?” Singh was prepared to admire such a law-abiding society.
“I also told them that I was the uncle of Fu Xinghua.”
“And who is he?”
“The most powerful policeman in Beijing. He is cracking down on organised crime.”
“What did Justin say about the incident?”
“He said that he had been overcharged for a drink and refused to pay.”
“You believed him?”
“It’s not an unusual way of extorting money from foreigners and tourists.”
“One attack by a gang of thugs is unlucky, two is careless,” remarked the policeman from Singapore.
“It does seem to be an unhappy coincidence.”
“And you think Justin might have been killed as some sort of revenge for a deal involving the father gone bad?”
“There have been incidents of a similar nature in Beijing in the past. In China, family ties are considered very important – so if you want to hurt someone, you target the family.”
Singh’s eyebrows made an effort to meet above his nose.
“‘To be rich is glorious’,” explained Li Jun. “That is Deng Xiaoping’s vision of a more prosperous China. But there has been much corruption and violence as the bonds that held society together previously are strained.”
“Sounds like organised crime is taking over,” grunted Singh.
“That is a temporary setback, of course,” said L
i Jun.
“I guess you’re wrong about that.”
“You do not support my hypothesis?”
“There’s nothing temporary about death.”
♦
Dai Wei’s single greatest regret was that he had been born short. He stood looking at himself in the full-length mirror in the bedroom. His skin was good though, smooth and unlined so he looked ten years younger than he was. After further contemplation of his reflection, he sat down on the edge of the bed – covered in imported Egyptian cotton sheets, nothing was too good for the new elite of China – and pulled on his black shoes with the raised platform heels. With these lending him some important inches, he marched back to the mirror.
Dai Wei was perfectly certain that if he’d been a towering physical figure, like Fu Xinghua, his point man in the police department, he would have achieved his extraordinary personal success earlier. Although, to be fair, the conditions might not have been ripe. Deng Xiaoping had only made his trip to southern China in 1998. That had been the catalyst for the ‘socialist market economy’ or ‘capitalism with Chinese characteristics’ that had allowed Dai Wei to achieve his present prominence. It was true that he was only deputy mayor of Beijing but everyone knew that the senile fool in nominal charge was past his sell-by date. An old party cadre like him was difficult to oust and Dai Wei would have to wait for the next so-called election in three years for the mayor to gracefully refuse to run. In the meantime, Dai Wei was the power behind the throne and anyone of any importance in business or politics knew it. Even the Standing Committee of the Politburo knew very well that he was knocking on the door and would seek elevation to the body when the next leadership transition occurred in a few years.
His wife came in wearing a silk kimono that he had bought her from Japan. It was just as well that the people did not know that the man responsible for the promotion of Maoist revolutionary fervour and undying loyalty to China and its leadership – namely him – liked his wife dressed in the fashions of public enemy N°1. The Japanese occupation, now six decades old, was still fresh in the public mind in no small part through the efforts of politicians like him. He quoted himself out loud, “‘The past must not be forgotten, it must be avenged’.”
“Mao himself would have been proud of such a slogan,” said his wife.
He smiled. “You are looking very beautiful today – as you do everyday,” he said, reaching for her.
She ducked away from him and took her turn in front of the mirror. “You are too good to me, dear husband.”
“Better even than you think for I have a surprise for you.”
“Oh! What is it?” This offer of a treat persuaded her to perch on the bed next to him.
Dai Wei reached into a drawer and retrieved a small box that he handed over, clasping both her thin hands in his as he did so.
She opened it, squealing with delight and then her face fell. “Sapphires? I was hoping for diamonds – you know I need a new pair of diamond earrings.”
“This was just for a change,” he said quickly, heading off a tantrum at the pass. “Here – ” and he extracted another box from his jacket pocket – “is your other gift.”
This time her excitement was real and she embraced him with enthusiasm before hurrying to the mirror to try on her new baubles.
“What do you think?” she asked, tucking her hair behind her ears so he could see the full effect.
“Perfect,” he replied and meant it. Dai Wei adored his wife, a young former actress with the beauty and delicacy of a Ming Dynasty vase.
There was a knock on the door and a servant came in to announce that his lunch was ready as was his lunch companion. Dai Wei nodded and rose to his feet. His wife twirled out of the room, still as delighted as a child with a new shiny toy.
He liked to entertain visitors at his mansion in an elite area of Beijing reserved for Party officials and their families. The experience of dining with him at the residence of his father and grandfather before him, except for the brief period when his father had been purged during the Cultural Revolution, would cement loyalty and enhance fear of his status and power.
Dai Wei sauntered down, enjoying the sound of his clicking heels on the tiled floor as he made his away across the main hall to the dining room. The senior policeman who was his guest was deputy head of the Beijing Public Security Bureau.
“Fu Xinghua, how does the crackdown proceed?” he asked, after the ritual greetings.
“Very well, Comrade Dai Wei.”
“I saw from the headlines,” replied the other man with a nod to the English and Mandarin papers by the side of his plate. Fu barely glanced at them and from this Dai Wei deduced that he had already enjoyed their portrayal of him before he had come for this meeting with his boss. His boss. Those were the key words, decided Dai Wei, and his pet policeman might need a reminder of it.
“You received good publicity for this takedown of Wong Kar Lai,” said Dai Wei.
“Yes, sir.”
“It was unfortunate that he was killed in the mêlée – it would have been better if he had faced trial.”
“Unfortunately, he had placed a sniper on the roof. When the first shot was fired by Wong’s stooge, my policemen returned fire. You know the results.”
Dai Wei did indeed. The blood-soaked body of the fat real estate man was the front page picture in most newspapers except the China Daily, which had chosen instead to run a picture of Fu, eyes narrowed, cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth. His back was to a police car – the front windscreen shattered from a single bullet. There was no mistaking the heroic nature of the pose, a man getting the job done, indifferent to the fact that death had passed so close to him.
“The editorials have been very positive about your leadership in the crackdown against black,” continued Fu.
Dai Wei smiled. Fu had guessed what was bothering him, the fact that his underling was stealing too much of the limelight. Dai Wei decided to leave the issue of his police chief’s fondness for the headlines aside for the moment. The man was still useful to him. Two persons with a separate destiny could still find themselves on a common path for a while.
“As they should be positive about my leadership – and yours,” agreed the deputy mayor. “After all, this crackdown, as well as our dedication to Maoist ideals, has been very popular with the people.”
“There is one more thing,” said Fu. “A small matter.”
“What is it?”
“One or two of the more influential online blogs have questioned why it is that so many of the businessmen we have accused of crimes have died resisting arrest.”
“Like your man yesterday?”
“Exactly. They are suggesting that it is very convenient that they are not being charged in a court of law where they can assert their innocence.”
Dai Wei nodded. It was typical of the Chinese way of thinking to see conspiracies everywhere.
“How can it be our fault when they open fire first?” asked Dai Wei.
“There is also a suggestion that Wong might have been murdered to keep details of his businesses away from the eyes of the public. Everyone knows that Wong had dealings with princelings.”
Dai Wei scowled and his face wrinkled like the surface of Lake Kunming on a windy day. He was a princeling after all, the privileged son and grandson of leading Party members. “Wong had many interests outside real estate – I believe his factories also manufacture baby formula. Suggest that he was one of those involved in adulterating baby milk with melamine. That will ensure that the public is on our side and these bloggers abandon incorrect lines of thinking.”
Fu nodded at once and a smile spread across his face. “That will do the trick,” he agreed.
They were interrupted by the appearance of Dai Wei’s wife, dressed in finest raw silk, made up to perfection so that she looked like a porcelain doll, her diamonds catching the light and gleaming like small stars.
Fu stood up quickly and clasped her hand lightly
in greeting. “It is always an honour to see you, Madam Dai.”
Her laughter was light, like a stream in spring meandering through the countryside. Dai Wei loved the sound of it.
“You have a way with words for a lowly policeman,” she replied.
Five
“Where shall we go first?” asked Li Jun, as he courteously trailed after the fat man towards the lobby.
“Crime scene,” said Singh.
“That is a good decision.”
Singh slowed his pace so that they were walking side by side. He noted that his companion was thin to the point of fragile and remembered that he’d not had anything to eat while Singh had been replenishing his energy levels. He also noted that the heels of Li Jun’s shoes were worn down to the ground. Chinese pensions for retired police officers were clearly not generous.
“At least now I know how you came to be involved in this case,” he said as they clambered into the car and Benson set off towards the hutong where Justin had met his death.
“The First Secretary was grateful for my help on the previous occasion – and as she knew I was formerly a policeman, she asked me to assist you in this matter.”
“I hope it’s a paid position,” said Singh, conscious of the man’s threadbare appearance.
“It is not appropriate to seek reward for doing one’s duty.”
“I thought ‘to be rich was glorious’?”
A Calamitous Chinese Killing Page 7
