Li Jun laughed suddenly. “You are a dangerous man, Comrade Singh, to use the words of our leaders against us. But remember that Deng Xiaoping also said that ‘some people must get rich first’. I might be part of the second wave.”
Singh decided to make it a point to feed his Chinese compatriot on his expense allowance – otherwise he might lose his own appetite.
“Was there an investigation into the assault?”
“Justin refused to report it.”
“Why not?”
Li Jun grimaced. “At the time of the incident, I assumed he just did not want the attention. I think he was embarrassed to be rescued by an old man.”
“And now?”
“And now I am not so sure. Thinking back, it seems that he was hiding something.”
“Or protecting someone?” demanded Singh.
“That is also a possible interpretation. I have asked my former colleagues in the force to look into it.”
Within twenty minutes – traffic had been unusually light except for a brief hiatus behind a taxi driver who had abandoned his car at a red light to spit noisily into a drain – Benson pulled up.
“We’re here?” asked Singh.
“As close as I can get,” he replied. “You have to walk from here because the streets are too narrow for vehicles.”
Singh’s disgruntlement was obvious in the sagging jowls. Misinterpreting its cause, Li Jun said, “Do not be concerned – I know the way. I came here a week ago when Madam Susan first requested my help.”
It was typical of his misfortune, decided Singh, that he was always investigating murders in the most difficult circumstances – in slums in Mumbai, during floods in Phnom Penh, dodging terrorists in Bali. Wasn’t he a member of the Singapore police department – the city-state famous for its sterility and cleanliness? He’d certainly never had to trek towards a crime scene on foot in his home jurisdiction because the roads were too narrow. There was always a six-lane highway leading precisely where one wanted to go in Singapore. And as concrete structures like flyovers, overhead bridges and retaining walls were screened with creepers, palms and shrubs, none of the residents seemed to notice that the island was basically a large car park. It beat walking anyway, thought Singh, as he stumped along grumpily, feeling the rim of his turban turn damp with perspiration.
They stopped before a busy street and Singh watched in amazement as Li Jun suddenly darted across the road, between cars, minivans and bicycles. The Chinese man reached the other side, looked around in evident surprise that his companion was not with him and hollered back across to Singh, “You must cross!”
“It would be easier to dodge bullets,” shouted Singh. He was overcome with an uncharacteristic timidity when confronted with the aggressive driving. He noted that Li Jun was about to recross. What did he intend to do – lead Singh across by the hand like a child or a blind man? It would be too embarrassing. Singh set off at a remarkable speed for such a rotund runner and made it breathless to the other side.
“You see, it is easy,” said Li Jun.
“My eyes were shut,” retorted Singh.
The two men fell in step and headed down the street. Singh stretched out both hands and touched grey walls topped with tiles on either side. “How do people get around in here?” he asked. “Benson wasn’t exaggerating, the streets really are narrow.”
“Bicycles or on foot,” replied Li Jun.
Singh peered into an entrance like a portly peeping Tom. The open area in front of the residence was piled high with tyres, old furniture and sacks of what appeared to be cement. A row of forlorn bicycles missing various parts stood against the wall, handlebars drooping with disappointment.
“Many of the hutongs have been cleaned up for tourists,” said Li Jun with an air of apology, “but this one is still in an old state.”
“It has a certain charm,” said Singh and he meant it. The narrow cobbled streets, the flashes of colour – a flowering creeper in a crevice or a red bicycle – the sounds of children’s laughter, the exposed wiring that hung like bunting from poles and most of all the smell of freshly cooked food. “These are homes?” he asked.
“And places of business and restaurants, everything that is necessary for human existence is contained in a hutong.” As if conscious that he had been uncharacteristically enthusiastic, he said, “I grew up in a similar place before…” He trailed off.
“Before?”
“It is not important,” explained Li Jun.
Singh was prevented from enquiring further because they turned a corner and he said, “This is where it happened.”
They were standing at an intersection of four narrow lanes. It was a slightly bigger space and a single tree, leaves grey with dust, stood in a corner. The lanes themselves all looked the same, reaching a dark apex in the distance. Walled residences behind closed doors lined the streets for the most part. A few open doors revealed a glimpse into the otherwise hidden world. There was a steady stream of traffic passing through – bicycles being slowly pedalled by old men in white vests, washerwomen with baskets on their backs, a milkman with slopping tins attached to a rickshaw. A young man strode past and then spat into a drain with unerring accuracy and disconcerting volume.
Li Jun led the policeman from Singapore to a spot next to the tree. “Just here.”
Singh looked down at the ground and felt a pang for the much-loved son who had been murdered on the spot. There was no mark, no hint of what had taken place. The stains on the road could have been from any source, nothing spoke of blood and death.
A bell rang as a bicycle struggled to find a way around the fat Sikh and his skinny companion. A teenager on high heels teetered past and stumbled over an uneven patch of ground into Singh’s arms. He hurriedly righted her and she tottered away, stealing a backwards glance at her unusual-looking rescuer.
“No one saw anything?” he asked.
“It would have been less busy after midnight when the murder took place – maybe there was no one here at all except the killers and Justin.”
“Someone must have heard something…no one gets beaten to death quietly.”
“The police files do not reveal any witnesses.”
“We need to go door to door,” said Singh.
“I’m sure the police would have done that,” pointed out Li Jun.
“And their conclusion was that Justin was beaten to death in the course of a robbery. Our task is to test that conclusion. And that means we can’t rely on the same source material.”
Li Jun looked as if he wanted to say something about reinventing the wheel but he wisely refrained and Singh warmed to him.
Turning away, his attention was caught by a poster that was pasted to the nearest wall. The same notice was randomly affixed to various surfaces all around the area. Justin Tan’s picture, the one of him smiling in army uniform, was at the centre of each poster.
“What’s this?”
“Madam Susan arranged it. It is a request for information about the death.”
Singh noted the currency symbol. “And a reward?”
“Yes…for anyone with good information.”
The residents of the hutong wandered past without sparing the posters a first, let alone a second, glance.
“Chinese people prefer not to get involved in matters that have nothing to do with them,” explained the other man.
“Not even for money?”
“It depends on how much money they have and how much money they need.”
“This looks like a poor neighbourhood,” Singh pointed out, pirouetting on the heel of one trainer to take in the whole view.
“Yes,” agreed Li jun.
“We can hope then,” said Singh, looking anything but optimistic. In his experience, murders were rarely solved so easily as with the timely appearance of a credible eyewitness.
♦
“Is there any news?” whispered the young girl to her sister.
Dao Ming ruffled her hair and pinched her
nose playfully. There was a gap of twelve years between them and sometimes she felt more like the little girl’s mother than her sister. “I’m afraid not, little sister. But you know Father, he gets so lost in his own world that he forgets to let us know what he is doing sometimes. That is what it is like if you’re more interested in books than people!”
“But he has never gone away like this before.”
“Well, there is a first time for everything. I am not worried so why should you be?”
“Really? You’re not worried?”
“Not at all!” This was accompanied by a quick smile and a big hug.
The little girl returned the hug with interest and then hurried off, her concerns assuaged by the certainties of her older, trusted sister. Dao Ming could hear her a few moments later, holding a tea party for her dolls, censuring them about their table manners like an old-fashioned mother. Dao Ming wondered how she knew to behave like a mother when her own had died in childbirth, bringing her – bouncy and healthy and motherless – into the world. Surely, it was not her example? She was certainly not so particular about behaviour as the imaginary mother of Dao Wu’s make-believe world. The younger sister had always preferred an orderly structured life bound by routine on all sides, maybe to disguise the absence of a mother while Dao Ming, despite being the oldest, was a free spirit. Dao Ming glanced over at a photo on the mantelpiece of her father and mother on their wedding day, an earnest-looking couple wearing grey Mao pyjamas and holding the ‘Little Red Book’ in joined hands. The other photo of her mother was a studio shot in colour taken a few years before her death. The background had been mocked up to look like Venice. Her mother, hair done up in tight curls and cheongsam hugging her still attractive figure, stood against a gondola. If it had been real, her feet would have been wet. Dao Ming remembered laughing about it – “Are you going for a swim, Mother?” – while her mother pretended to be offended at her lack of respect.
“Come and play with me, big sister!” Dao Wu was quick to notice that her sister had not moved from the spot she had left her.
“I have a few things to do, little one.”
Dao Ming wished that she was as easily distracted as a six-year-old girl. The truth of the matter was that she was worried sick. Their father had been gone for almost three weeks now. She’d watched him set off that morning, surprised that he was not dressed for work.
“Why are you not dressed for office, Father?” she had asked.
“I have some errands to run today, eldest daughter.”
“On a working day?”
“I can see that I am too predictable in my behaviour if even my eighteen-year-old daughter can question me about minor deviations.” He had smiled and she had been reassured until she noticed that the smile did not reach his eyes.
“Shall I come with you? My company will make the errands seem less burdensome surely.” She reached out her hand as she spoke and he recognised the silent plea because he drew her close and held her. Despite her best efforts, she felt the tears well up and spill over. She drew her head back and looked at the damp patch on her father’s shirt.
“I still can’t believe that Justin is gone, Father.”
“I understand your pain, Dao Ming,” and from the worn look on his face, Dao Ming could almost believe it was true.
“The police say it was a robbery gone wrong…”
“I know.”
“I can’t believe it,” she said, voice raised and angry. “It must have had something to do with the work he was doing…for you!”
“It is still best we accept the official verdict,” said her father and this time she heard the warning note.
“Times have changed, Father. In modern China, we do not have to just accept what we are told any more.”
It was as if a dark cloud had passed directly overhead. “Have things really changed, daughter?” he asked.
“Of course. You always say so yourself,” she replied.
Her father was a man of deep principle and he used his position as a leading academic to make his views known. His work exposing illegal land grabs was particularly dangerous. It meant he was crossing swords with the most corrupt elements of the present hierarchy. His position at the university and his reputation as an important Chinese intellectual afforded him some protection but not much, certainly not enough.
“I fear my child that the changes are like the paint on a Chinese opera mask. The surface looks different, but underneath it is exactly the same as before.”
She was unable to respond. Was her father right? Was Justin’s death to be ignored, forgotten?
“I must go, my daughter,” he said, flicking her under the chin gently, “or I will be late.”
She had smiled and nodded and tried to get rid of the sense of foreboding that rippled through her consciousness. Her father’s face had grown serious, the lines that etched his cheeks like trenches. “Dao Ming, you must always remember, whatever happens, that your sister and you are my heart’s delight. Everything I have ever done, ever thought, ever believed was to try and build a better society for the two of you.”
Dao Ming had watched him walk down the road towards the bus stop and wait there patiently, his umbrella neatly rolled and under one arm. He did not have his briefcase, she realised, which was a mystery. The bus trundled down the street and her view of her father was obscured. He was not there when it belched black smoke and went on its way again. She hadn’t seen her father since.
She was completely alone – deprived of her father in her time of sorrow, deprived of her boyfriend in her time of need. She felt the tears well up yet again and she blinked them away fiercely. Justin was gone, there was nothing that would bring him back.
As if that was not enough, Wang Zhen was determined to revive their relationship, unused to not having everything his way. She sighed and tried to give the young man the benefit of the doubt. There was no doubt that he truly believed he cared for her. Anyway, she was in no position to refuse his attentions. If he did some sniffing around, her fathers disappearance would become known.
As it was, she’d almost run out of excuses. That ghastly woman from the faculty office called everyday demanding to know why Professor Luo Gan had not come in to collect papers for marking. Dao Ming had insisted that he was unwell although her story was getting thinner by the day. Fortunately, it was semester break or she would not have been able to cover his tracks even for this length of time. But if he did not return soon the secret would be out and he would lose that which he cared about most after his family, his tenure at the university. Her thoughts turned to Justin and she felt the tears well up. She shook her head firmly and dashed them away with an angry hand. There had been no time, and there was no time, to mourn. Her immediate priority was her father, her immediate responsibility her sister.
♦
Li Jun, formerly of the Beijing police department, was an orderly man. As such, standing at the junction of four alleys with the inspector from Singapore, he tried to decide the most efficient way to execute his task.
“Up and down each street twice, once on the left and once on the right-hand side, ending up back in the centre?” said Singh, lips drooping as he contemplated the distance that needed to be covered.
“Clockwise,” agreed Li Jun. “What would you like me to ask the residents?”
“Whether they heard or saw anything that might have a bearing on the murder.”
Li Jun set off at a brisk pace with Singh trailing after, clearly intending to moderate the pace by failing to keep up. The Chinese man hoped that the undersides of his shoes would not give way. As the inspector from Singapore appeared to have guessed – he was sharper than his appearance suggested – Li Jun was struggling to make ends meet. And he certainly didn’t have cash for a new pair of leather shoes at modern China’s market prices. For reasons that were obscure, he did not feel comfortable shopping for fakes in the numerous markets. In the past, as a Party member and a policeman, he would have gone to one of the
special stores with controlled prices where a pair of shoes for a diligent policeman would have been well within budget, but those days were long gone. As a former officer who had been forced to resign rather than be stripped of his post in disgrace, he had retained his pension. But that was predicated on a different world where the ‘the iron rice bowl’ could be depended on. In the present day, it was hardly enough to eke out a meagre living.
The first door he knocked on remain unanswered and the second and third. At this rate, they would be done quickly and finish empty handed. Li Jun bit down on his lower lip with his two lonely front teeth. For some reason, he wanted to prove himself to the fat policeman from Singapore.
“Perhaps the residents are out at work,” he said apologetically.
The policeman from Singapore did not respond. He was huffing and puffing sufficient to blow the next house down.
The fourth door was answered by a toothless old crone. Her hair was tied back in a tight small bun, bare scalp visible between neat furrows of sparse white hair. She was stooped over so low she had to crane her neck to look at him even though he wasn’t a very tall man.
“Nihaoma, ladotàitai,” Li Jun said politely, addressing her as an elderly woman but in a respectful tone.
She immediately cupped her hand behind her ear and shouted at him to say it again. The inspector from Singapore stepped backwards hurriedly. It took them ten minutes to extricate themselves – she was obviously lonely as well as deaf.
“Someone could have been murdered directly behind her back and she’d have been none the wiser,” grumbled Singh.
At the fifth door they were met with a stream of abuse and an instruction to keep their noses out of matters that did not concern them.
“Err…they said that they didn’t see or hear anything,” said Li Jun.
Singh’s raised eyebrows suggested that he was not convinced that the torrent of angry words availed themselves of such a simple explanation but he did not protest.
Li Jun stepped back out on to the street and dabbed his brow with a handkerchief. As usual at this time of the year, the air was as hot and muggy as the tropics. The narrow lanes and high walls formed a barrier to any mild breeze that might have cooled him down. This was hard going without any authority behind them. Li Jun wondered whether he should lie about his position, pretend he was still in the force, but decided that his age and worn clothes would arouse suspicion. And if someone reported him – the Chinese people did not kowtow before authority as they had once done – he might find himself without even his derisory pension or in prison.
A Calamitous Chinese Killing Page 8
