A Calamitous Chinese Killing

by Shamini Flint

  “That’s right,” agreed Singh.

  He hopped out, waved the car on, dodged a motorcycle at the last moment and walked over slowly. The entrance to the shop was narrow and the interior gloomy after the bright sunshine outside. Singh blinked rapidly a few times to clear his vision. The premises were panelled in dark wood and filled with the pungent smell of a thousand types of tea. A thousand at a minimum, decided Singh, looking at the boxes piled high on shelves and side tables. He sneezed as the various competing scents tickled his nostrils, reached for the neatly folded handkerchief in his breast pocket and wiped his nose vigorously. Anthony Tan was sitting at a table at the back, the only customer in the shop as far as Singh could tell, and he waved a greeting at the policeman. Singh shook the outstretched hand although he noted that Tan did not get to his feet.

  “My condolences over the loss of your son,” he said, as he sat down on a carved jade-coloured stool. To his consternation, he realised that the glass table revealed red and white carp swimming just beneath the surface. He tapped his fingernail on the glass but the fish ignored him.

  “Thank you,” said Tan. “It was a great shock to all of us.” He poured some tea from a clear pot in which floated individual blossoms and pushed the small cup over to Singh.

  “What do you think happened?” asked Singh, sipping his tea and deciding that it tasted like boiled grass, or the way he imagined boiled grass would taste.

  “Justin was killed by a gang of thugs in a robbery gone wrong.”

  “So you don’t share your wife’s opinion that there is more to it than that?”

  “What else could there be? He was twenty-three and had only been in China for a few months.”

  “Not long enough to make enemies?” Singh was not convinced. He himself could set up blood enmities within minutes, especially with his wife’s relatives.

  “Exactly!”

  They both sipped their tea and watched the circling carp for a few moments.

  Anthony Tan, hands still cupping his tea, said, “Inspector Singh, I hope you don’t mind if I’m frank?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “My wife is devastated by the loss of our son. She’s not thinking rationally. Justin’s death was a terrible tragedy, but no more than that. The Chinese police have the matter well in hand and you’re wasting your time here.”

  Although that was precisely what Singh thought, he found himself growing defensive. Anthony Tan’s dismissive tone was getting under his skin.

  “She seems convinced.”

  “But where’s the evidence?”

  “I guess that’s what I’m supposed to find…”

  “And how would you go about it? It’s an impossible task, especially if you’re not Mandarin speaking!”

  “What would you prefer I did?” asked Singh.

  “Go home.”

  “I expect I will soon,” agreed the inspector, “but as I’ve come all the way, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  The handsome face across from him was marred by a scowl. “If you must.”

  “If – hypothetically speaking – your wife is right and this was a targeted murder, who do you think might be involved?”

  Anthony Tan’s eyes crinkled around the edges as he tried to give the question some consideration. “I really don’t know,” he said at last. “I can’t think of anyone. Justin was a popular boy. He worked hard. I know that professor of his, Professor Luo, thought highly of him. No one would have wanted to kill him. I’m certain of that.”

  “And yet he is dead.”

  “It must have been…random.”

  “Or maybe it was a murder to send a message to someone else,” said Singh.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you any enemies?”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “I’m not trying to say anything,” snapped the policeman. “I’m asking you if someone might have killed your son as revenge or as a warning to you. I hear you’re a businessman.” He managed to make the word an accusation. “Any transactions gone pear-shaped recently?”

  Anthony Tan’s elbows were on the table and now he covered his face with his hands. When he looked up again, his eyes were bloodshot.

  “Did my wife put this ridiculous idea in your head?”

  Singh ears pricked up but his only response was a noncommittal shrug. Anthony Tan seemed to treat this as confirmation and his face reddened with anger.

  “It’s about Dai Wei, right? That’s what she’s insinuating! She has no idea how business is done in this country.”

  “But you do?”

  “I know how to make things happen to everyone’s advantage.”

  Singh remained silent – the best approach in his opinion when dealing with angry spouses.

  “How could she even think something like that? None of my business dealings had anything to do with Justin’s death. Dai Wei is the deputy mayor of Beijing, for God’s sake!” He slammed his hand on the table and the fish shot out in different directions. “Do you believe her accusations?”

  “I’m just exploring different avenues.”

  “Let me be as clear as possible then – this so-called avenue of yours is a dead end.”

  “That’s all I needed to know,” said Singh with equanimity, although his mind was racing to absorb the implications of Anthony Tan’s tirade. He opened his wallet and took out a business card. He slid it across the table to Tan, who picked it up automatically, staring at his own shaking hands as if surprised that his appendages were behaving in such an unpredictable way.

  “Call me,” said the inspector, “if you think of anything that might help us find the killers of your son.”

  Anthony Tan didn’t look up but he nodded once in assent.

  ♦

  Professor Luo huddled in his bare cell. He was in solitary confinement now so had his pick of four filthy corners. He tried to keep his teeth from chattering by clenching his jaw. It didn’t work. Another lesson in life – the involuntary and instinctive triumphed over the best of intentions. He wondered what would happen next. He’d been badly beaten when he’d led the falun gong exercises in defiance of the guards. So had the rest of them who had foolishly or bravely followed his lead. Despite this, Luo had a sense the wardens were holding back. The way they had gone about the assault had been professional, aiming for his back and shoulders. They had consciously avoided permanent damage. He was still able to walk and nothing was broken. His body was a kaleidoscope of bruises but those healed. Anyone who had lived through the Mao era knew that. It gave him some hope that they might release him, didn’t want to inflict the sort of injuries that would cause an outcry if he went public about his incarceration and torture. He clenched his fists, trying to prevent his heart from exploding with anticipation at the possibility, however faint, that he might be free to see his children again.

  He wondered what they were doing and then shied away from the thought. It was too painful – the memory of an outdoors, of two young girls in bright clothes, of laughter on a crisp spring morning. But still his head filled with images as if there was a movie theatre in his brain that could not be switched off. He thought of Justin and Dao Ming, an attractive young couple with so much to look forward to in life. He’d been against the relationship. It was not that he hadn’t approved of Justin, quite the opposite, but no one who was not a Chinese citizen, being ethnically Chinese was not enough, could fully understand what it was to be a native of this, the most populous country in the world. That poor boy had not realised the consequences of what he was doing, had believed that the truth gave one protection. Singapore did not train its people, despite its reputation for authoritarianism, for the reality of confronting power. There the closed fist was wrapped in glossy paper and ribbon from the shiny shops on Orchard Road. Not so here in China.

  Professor Luo heard footsteps down the corridor, boots on cement, and tensed. He realised how afraid he was. Afraid of never seeing his daughters again. Afraid o
f living in a world without justice. But, most of all, afraid of what they had in store for him in the next half an hour. It was an interesting psychological phenomenon. How fear narrowed the parameters of the imagination until one was completely focused on the here and now. No longer concerned about the externalities that had led to the existence of fear in the first place. Luo Gan willed himself to think outside his terror and remembered that hunger was the other great attention grabber. He focused on the memory of the gnawing emptiness of his stomach all those years ago when, as a teenager, he was sent to the provinces to correct his bourgeois leanings by working with peasants on the land. He smiled at the irony, back to square one after forty years. Those Western scholars who thought history was linear should visit China. Here, fate travelled in circles.

  The bolts were shot and the door swung open.

  “Luo Gan, come with me.”

  The old man slowly unbent his stiff legs, felt his knees crack and rose to his feet. “Where are we going?”

  “The director is concerned that you have been injured as a consequence of your rebellious behaviour.”

  “That is very kind of him.”

  “He wishes you to receive medical attention.”

  “I would prefer to be released.”

  “That is not possible at this time.”

  Luo Gan considered the middle-aged man in the PLA uniform. How had he ended up at this post? Did he mind that he was the jailor of Chinese citizens who had been incarcerated without due process? Did he feel sorry for an old man with severe bruising who might look just like his father or an uncle?

  “I have two daughters,” he ventured. “I would like to see them again someday.”

  “There is no reason why you shouldn’t, old man. But you must show some remorse for your anti-Party activities.”

  “It is not anti-Party or anti-anything to practise falun gong. It merely allows for the clarity of mind that promotes moral and spiritual awakening. The community included many high-up officials before it was blacklisted by Jiang Zemin.”

  The soldier did not respond. Instead, he held the door open and gestured with an impatient hand. There was to be no discussion of the rights and wrongs of his imprisonment with this sad-eyed, stiff-jawed soldier.

  Professor Luo hobbled towards the door. There was no point inviting another beating. “Where are we going?” he asked. “Where are you taking me?”

  “To the hospital.”

  ♦

  Benson rapped on the door once and then again, louder. He turned to Singh apologetically. “It seems that Jemima is not in, Inspector Singh. Would you prefer that we returned later or tomorrow?”

  Singh’s stomach growled its concurrence before he had a chance to speak. He was peckish. More than that. He was famished. Was it time to suggest ferreting out a curry? He decided that, remarkably, he was prepared to eat more Chinese food. What was happening to him? Next, he’d have to call himself a food tourist and write a travel book.

  “What would you like for tea?” asked Benson.

  The sound of a bolt being drawn back interrupted his response. Singh’s jowls drooped. It seemed that someone was home after all.

  The face that peered around the door was thin, young and very suspicious.

  “Jemima, Inspector Singh would like to have a few words with you,” said Benson.

  “Are you the policeman from Singapore?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “Your mother asked me to look into Justin’s death.” Singh’s policy, when dealing with children, was to be as honest as possible.

  Her eyes filled with tears and turned bright red around the rims at the mention of her brother. Singh did not have to be a highly rated detective to know that her grief was still very raw. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said gruffly.

  “Sorry no cure…”

  “That’s true,” he agreed.

  “Have you spoken to the rest of my family?”

  “Your father and your mother, yes. It’s what we do in an investigation – speak to everyone connected to the case.”

  “And now you want to talk to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “My mother doesn’t believe it was just a robbery.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m not sure.” She spoke cautiously but thoughtfully, as if she had given the matter a lot of thought.

  “Is there something you want to tell me, something I should know?” asked Singh, watching Jemima’s eyes dart from side to side as if she expected a non-frontal attack from some third party. Was it the death of her brother that had made her so nervous?

  “I’m not sure – I don’t know what’s important, you see.”

  “That’s always true, but the more information we collect, the more likely we are to find the pieces of the puzzle.”

  “I could tell you about Justin?” she offered tentatively.

  Singh was reminded of a puppy laying a ball or a stick at its owner’s feet.

  “We’d love to hear about Justin. Especially from you.”

  She pushed the door open and he stepped into the front room.

  “I’ll wait in the car,” said Benson, retreating rapidly.

  Maybe he didn’t want to hear what his employer’s daughter had to say about his employer’s son. Or what his employer’s daughter had to say about his employer or her husband. He was definitely walking a fine line when it came to long-term employment. The inspector, on the other hand, was looking forward to a basketful of dirty laundry.

  As he stepped into the residence, Singh was struck, as Susan Tan had been earlier that day, by the coldness of the interior despite the temperature being regulated at a pleasant twenty-four degrees. The grey walls – he’d bet an interior designer would have called the colour ‘slate’ or ‘mist’ – were downright depressing.

  “Nice place,” he said and his voice seemed loud, as if he’d shouted in a mausoleum. Who needed to visit Mao’s tomb when you could just hang out here?

  “Would you like a drink? Coffee?” The question was formal as if by letting him over the threshold, Jemima was now obliged to conform to a certain standard of behaviour.

  “Coffee would be good,” he answered and followed her into the modern kitchen with the high table in the centre. He perched nervously on a bar stool – his feet didn’t reach the floor. He’d probably slide off and end up in a Beijing hospital.

  She pressed a few buttons on a coffee machine that looked like it would facilitate time travel.

  “How many sugars?”

  “Two. No, make it three. Heaped.”

  Jemima bit her bottom lip as if preventing a comment or a smile, but Singh was not embarrassed. If he had to delay his next meal to talk to this girl, then he needed something to tide him over.

  “So how come you’re in China? Shouldn’t you be in school?”

  “I’m waiting for exam results.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Two months.”

  So she had overlapped with most of Justin’s stay.

  “Are you doing some part-time study here?”

  “Like Justin? No. I just hang around the house.” He liked the tone of her voice – quiet and even. She came across as a thoughtful girl, unusual for a teenager, but that last sentence had smacked of bitterness. Was she resentful of her sibling?

  He hazarded a guess. “You wanted to do a course like Justin?”

  “No. I prefer to be on my own.”

  He gave up trying to elicit personal information. “Tell me about Justin.”

  “He wasn’t like me at all.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He was fun – he had lot of friends. He was terribly smart.”

  Singh felt out of his depth. This girl needed a therapist.

  “And he always tried to do the right thing. He was a very good person.”

  The antenna went up. “What does that mean? What does ‘he always tried to do the right thing’ mean?”

  “Just that.”

>   Teenagers were not his cup of tea. Give him a reluctant forty-year-old any day and he’d soon have them spilling the beans.

  “Give me an example,” he growled.

  Her eyes widened at the irritable tone but she did not flinch. “He never drank Coke.”

  “What?”

  “He never drank Coke.”

  “And how is that an example of doing the right thing?”

  “He said it was a symbol of American cultural imperialism.”

  “I don’t suppose it was Coke that killed him.” Singh tried to remember if he’d ever had grand political principles when he’d been a young man – positions on cultural imperialism and the Western global hegemony. Somehow, he doubted it. If his memory served him right, he’d played a lot of cricket, drunk a lot of beer and eventually joined the police force against his parents’ wishes.

  “He did a lot of work for his professor.” Jemima interrupted his trot down memory lane. “Important stuff,” she continued.

  She carefully placed his cup on a saucer and then carried it to him with the care of a child in an egg and spoon race. He had a sip of the coffee and scalded his tongue. He grimaced – why did these machines heat up the milk too? Cold UHT from the fridge was the way to keep temperatures reasonable.

  “He had a part-time job?” asked Singh.

  Jemima’s lips curled and he couldn’t tell if it was derision or amusement. This kid was as deep as a mining pool. He would have to watch his step with her.

  “Don’t you know who his teacher was?”

  “No.”

  “Professor Luo Gan!” She delivered the information with a flourish, as if she’d just pulled a bunch of plastic flowers from a hat with a collapsible bottom.

  “And what is Professor Luo Gan’s unique selling point?”

  “He’s a Chinese intellectual. He studied and taught in Harvard for a number of years before returning to China to take up a post at Peking University.”

  “What does any of that have to do with the price of fish?”

  “He is well known for his criticism of the Chinese government.”

  “That sounds dangerous.”

  “Yes. Many people, including my brother, admired him for his courage.”