Up and then down the first alley, they were rewarded with impatience and flat denials that anyone had seen or heard anything or for that matter that they would tell them even if they had. They were outsiders, not to be trusted. Both men were chased out of a small courtyard by a mangy dog and Li Jun had to smile at his colleague’s sudden change of pace. The mongrel was as moth-eaten as he was but much more aggressive, Li Jun decided, as he skipped away after Singh and slammed the wooden door in the nick of time.
“Maybe we should have asked for the police files,” said Singh, hitching up his trousers so that they circumnavigated his belly.
In the next lane, they found a gaggle of women gathered around a street vendor selling slices of roast pork. Li Jun could barely get the words of enquiry past his saliva glands. He explained, hoping to appeal to some maternal instinct, that he was on a mission for Justin’s parents to find out more about their son’s death.
“The boy who was killed?”
“That was a terrible thing!”
“To think that it could have happened in this hutong.”
“The thugs who did it must have come from outside the neighbourhood. Maybe even outside Beijing. We don’t have such things going on here.”
“He was a foreigner, right? It must have been foreigners who killed him. Why would a Chinese do such a thing?” At the word ‘foreigner’, all the women turned and glared at Singh in unison. There was no doubt in their minds that the Sikh man fitted the bill as far as suspicious foreign characters with murderous tendencies were concerned.
Li Jun translated the gist of their remarks for Singh without the insults.
“But did they see or hear anything?” demanded Singh.
Li Jun repeated the question, an edge of desperation in his voice as he tried to interrupt the women. It was like being trapped in a hen house while a fox prowled outside.
“What do you mean?” asked a plump woman with pink cheeks and a heavily laden basket of fruit over one arm.
“It happened at night, when the streets were quiet. Did anyone hear anything? Screams for help…that sort of thing?”
As if he had suddenly brought the murder close, the women fell silent.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Justin’s spirit was waiting for their answer as much as he was, thought Li Jun, and then mentally castigated himself for such superstitious nonsense. Chairman Mao would not have approved.
“No, we did not hear anything,” said a tall, skinny young woman wearing an unfashionable straw hat. He guessed she was an unmarried daughter, left on the shelf because of her gangly height and now beyond the effort of making herself pretty. He wondered whether to share his character analysis with Singh and decided against it. The plump policeman, damp patches under his armpits and over his belly, was looking extremely impatient.
“Anyway, there are the posters everywhere,” she continued. “There is a reward offered by the family. There is no need for you to go looking for information in this way, Lao Tse, because the information will come to you!”
“It is true,” agreed the plump woman who had spoken earlier, her good humour restored at the thought of a reward. “There is no one who lives on this street who would walk away from such a thing,” she continued. “We are all poor and I personally wish I knew something but I do not.” She sounded as if she meant it but Li was not convinced. It was a reflection on the state of Chinese society in this new era that none had suggested that a witness would come forward because it was his or her altruistic duty. Those days were definitely gone.
“It is not as if we don’t have other things to worry about,” said a sharp-faced woman with a dissatisfied expression. Li Jun suspected she was a widow on a tight budget and then chided himself for being fanciful. “This murder is completely unhelpful, it makes it seem as if this is a dangerous neighbourhood although we are good, law-abiding citizens who just want to be left alone.” She scowled at him. “Left alone by everyone,” she added meaningfully.
“What sort of ‘other things’ are they worried about?” Singh whispered and Li Jun dutifully translated.
“There is talk that they will demolish the houses here – all of them!”
“Who will?”
“Who do you think? The powerful men in big cars who want to turn our homes into another glitzy shopping mall.”
“Are you sure? This is an ancient hutong – I thought it was policy to preserve such places.”
The widow snorted. “Policy lasts until palms are greased, old man. Are you so naive that you do not know this?”
The plump woman’s cheeks sagged like a chipmunk’s. “No one knows everything and yet everyone knows something – but we fear the worst.”
The ex-policeman nodded. It was the Chinese way. Whispers and gossip amongst the downtrodden, but not facts. Facts were for the elite. Rules about land acquisitions applied only to the rich.
“Hopefully, it is not true and you will remain here as will your children and your children’s children,” he said.
There were nods and sad smiles at this and the two men made their escape.
“Does that happen in your country?” asked Li Jun.
“Gossipy women? I thought they were universal,” retorted Singh.
“Land grabs by corrupt officials,” explained Li Jun, allowing himself a smile.
The policeman’s quick shake of the head was all the answer Li Jun needed.
Sighing, he led the way back to the junction. A motorcycle shot past and missed him by a whisker. He knew that if he’d been knocked down, in all likelihood he would have been left there to bleed to death, residents walking by with averted eyes while Singh begged for help. No one wanted to get involved in other people’s business. A child had been run over recently and the citizens of Beijing had walked past her battered body with indifference. Society’s bonds had frayed and snapped in the new China and it was every man for himself. Was it any wonder that young men were beaten to death in back alleys with impunity?
“Third time lucky?” asked Singh, nodding at the third street.
“That is the most likely outcome,” said Li Jun with an optimism he did not feel, appreciative of the fact that Singh had not remarked on the waste of their afternoon so far.
Li Jun intended to knock on every door although he did not expect any success. It was his duty to Justin. He had been there to prevent a beating or worse the first time. But it was well known that fortune did not come twice but misfortune never came alone. Perhaps he should have warned Justin, found some way to protect him, had a word with his parents – anything really that might have kept him from his rendezvous with death.
As he set off again, his narrow shoulders squared with determination, Singh tapped him on the shoulder and nodded in the direction of a grimy wall. He saw a slim girl staring at one of the reward posters. Li Jun’s mood improved. It was always possible, he knew from experience, to get lucky in an investigation.
♦
Qing stared at the picture, absorbing the features of the grinning young man who looked as if he didn’t have a care in the world. There was no anticipation of death in the photo, no shadow cast over the future. The dead fellow – Justin Tan was his name, she read – looked young. It said he was twenty-three; he looked eighteen to Qing. What was that like, she wondered, to look young for one’s age? It rarely happened in China except perhaps to the children of the elite, the high cadre kids. She ran a hand down her cheek, felt the dry skin. In her village, where she had grown up helping her father tend to the crops and her mother do the housework, there had never been a question of looking or feeling young.
Her earliest memories were of her siblings – carrying them around on her hip, wiping their faces in the evening, baths were a rarity, dressing them in everything they owned when the weather turned cold. Her happiest memories were of huddling in front of the television, watching dramas of Imperial China, admiring the rich costumes and fine manners. She was twenty-one, two years younger than the dead boy, a
nd she knew well she could have passed for thirty. It wasn’t so much that she looked old, although there were fine lines on her otherwise light peach skin, but that her face spoke of experience and responsibility. She reminded herself that Justin was dead and tried to feel some compassion, but she did not have the energy for it. Not after a twelve-hour seven-day shift. But today she had a whole day visiting her old aunt, the only family she had in Beijing, and a few free hours to decide what best to do with the information she had. She smiled – at least her TV watching habits had not been entirely wasted.
Qing gently prised the poster from the wall. She folded it in four and tucked it in her cavernous handbag, largely empty except for a bun in a plastic bag, her purse and a toothbrush. The wind picked up and she wrinkled her nose. These narrow streets channelled the cooking smells from every stove in the neighbourhood and it was tickling her taste buds. Qing hurried down the street, pushed open a door and entered the cemented courtyard.
Her old aunt was stooped so low that her horizon was entirely bounded by the dirt and cement floors. Qing grinned, she’d bet Old Aunt didn’t stub her toe that often, not when she had no choice but to watch where she placed her feet.
“So you are back again, always to suit your own convenience and not that of your elders,” snapped her aunt in lieu of a more traditional welcome. Qing knew the old woman’s impossible manner hid a warm heart.
“You know I work at the factory, Old Aunt. My time is not my own.”
“You need a hot meal, I suppose?”
“I come to see you, Old Aunt. As my father has said often, a family with an old person has a living treasure of gold.”
It provoked a toothless half-smile and a curt, “Well? What are you waiting for? Do you think these old bones can stand to wait around at your convenience? Come in and close the door.”
Qing hurried into the dark gloomy interior of the small dwelling. It smelled of old people; carbolic soap and old soup. The girl shuddered and reminded herself that she was determined to find a future that had some brightness about it.
“What is the news then, Old Aunt?” she asked, by way of conversation.
“There are still rumours that this area will be bulldozed for the new development.”
“But surely there must be something official? You cannot just believe the gossip.”
“You think they will come and ask us nicely?” She mimicked an official tone: “Your land is to be developed into a shopping mall, it is better you move now before you are buried under the rubble.”
“I have heard that such things happen in the countryside, of course,” agreed Qing. “But not in Beijing surely.”
“Corrupt officials with their broad noses in the trough with the pigs – they are the same whether in the provinces or the cities.”
“But what do you plan to do?”
“There is a residents’ association which is trying to find out the truth about these men in suits.”
“Will they have any success?”
The shrug of thin shoulders was the only response. She was old and had been shrugging since the dawn of the Cultural Revolution. “I know that they will have to carry me out of here feet first if they want me to leave.”
Qing looked around the gloomy interior and a part of her wanted to ask why her aunt felt so strongly about this tiny piece of Beijing real estate, worth more to others than to her. Instead, she said, “But the compensation might be quite good?”
“You are naive, child. Profits for fat cats are not made by paying a fair price to the likes of you and me. Besides, what do I care about money? This is my home and I will leave it when the time comes for me to take up residence in an urn on your father’s mantelpiece.”
Qing tried to distract the old woman from her morbid thoughts. “I think everything will be fine, Aunt. I will be visiting you here for many years to come, looking forward to a fine home-cooked meal.”
Her aunt was not easily placated. “Well then you must be careful of your safety or you could end up dead in an alley just like that boy.”
“That was a very shocking thing. Have there been any developments in the case?”
“The police are happy to call it a robbery gone wrong.”
“You don’t think so?” asked Qing and wished that her voice had not sounded so constricted.
Her aunt started to rummage around in the small cupboard where she kept her cooking utensils. She pulled out a small pan and placed it on the gas cooker, a luxury compared to an era of coal stoves that had left her walls and roof blackened. She lit the flame with a match and then carefully put the burned match back in the small box. Qing knew she would use it again if she had to light a candle from the stove. In China, amongst the poor, not even a used match was wasted.
“It is not for me to pass judgement. What does an old woman know about these things? But others are not satisfied. Someone was asking about him – the one who was killed. An old man who was almost as poor as I am.”
“How do you know he was poor?” asked Qing, curious about this deduction.
“I could see that his shoes were down at heel.”
“You should have been a detective, Old Aunt,” said Qing, feeling a sudden warmth of affection for the doubled-over, bad-tempered creature. She had not let her limited field of vision thwart her natural curiosity.
“I wonder why they are asking questions now, so long after the death,” she continued.
“I really don’t know what the world is coming to,” said her aunt.
Was it necessary, when old, to trot out every single old person cliché in the universe, wondered Qing, fingering the poster she had hidden in her handbag.
“Weren’t you here that evening he was killed?” asked her aunt.
“I might have been around the same time.”
“You should count yourself lucky not to be involved then.”
“I know how lucky I am,” said Qing and she meant it.
She was a factory girl from the provinces. Back home, her parents were like baby birds in the nest, waiting to be fed. Opportunities to do anything other than eke out a living were few and far in between. She had assumed that she would work hard, study hard and better herself through tiny incremental steps. But now she had an opportunity. Her silence about what she’d seen the night of the murder would have to be bought and paid for – and she was sure it had a far greater monetary value than years spent on a factory floor. Qing nodded her head vigorously so that her curls bounced. “I know how lucky I am,” she said again.
Six
“You see – we’re only looking at two possibilities.”
Singh was back in the limousine with the blacked-out windows, grateful for Benson’s smooth driving and the air conditioning. It was like being shoved in the fridge after being stir-fried in a hot wok. Going door to door down those narrow streets had left him melting like an ice cream. Singh paused to wonder why all his mental metaphors were food related and then decided it was likely because it was getting close to teatime.
“What are those possibilities?” pressed Li Jun. Singh nodded his great head approvingly. This fellow had the attributes of a good flunkey. Asking the right questions when prompted and not venturing his own opinions on the murder case. Singh much preferred to form his own views. All he needed was someone to agree with him from time to time when he uttered his thoughts out loud. He pursed his lips thinking back over his investigations. The worst was the most recent in Mumbai. Between Inspector Neejha with his dodgy syntax and his own wife with her definitive opinions unsupported by evidence, it had been hard going. Precisely the sort of sidekicks he didn’t need.
“You said there were two possibilities?”
Singh scowled. Did Li Jun think he’d lost his train of thought? Or as Neejha had said to him once, that ‘his mind was derailed’?
“Either Justin was beaten to death by a gang of unknown thugs in a robbery gone wrong…”
“Or?”
“Or he was beaten to death by a gang of
unknown thugs for some other reason. So the only real question is motive.”
“Meaning he was killed on the orders of someone?”
“That’s right.”
“So he had enemies?”
“It could be,” said Singh, thinking out loud. “Or, as you suggested earlier, it wasn’t his enemy but an enemy of someone else in the family.”
“I believe the First Secretary is widely respected,” replied Li Jun.
“It’s not going to be the sixteen-year-old daughter so the husband is the best bet.”
There was nothing Singh liked better than annoying rich men with questionable business practices. Besides, he was curious to meet the man who had married Susan Tan. “Let’s head back to the Embassy and ask Anthony Tan about his dodgy business associates,” he proposed cheerfully.
“Benson!” he barked. “We want the First Secretary’s husband.”
“I’ll call and find out where he is,” said Benson, reaching for his phone. After a quick, quiet conversation, he rang off and said, “He’s actually not far from here, Inspector, and says he’ll meet us at a tea shop around the corner.”
In five minutes, he drew up on the main highway and pointed at a small outlet in a row of shops. “That’s the one. And that’s Anthony Tan going in now.” He indicated a tall man with a slight stoop around the shoulders ducking into the tea shop.
“Do you wish me to accompany you?” asked Li Jun.
The other man shook his head. “I’ve got a better idea – why don’t you try and rustle up some old buddies from the force?”
“You wish me to check the progress of the murder investigation with my former colleagues at the security bureau?”
A Calamitous Chinese Killing Page 9
