There was a reluctant nod, accompanied by the drumming sound of the secretary’s long red nails against the Formica-topped table. It wasn’t difficult to surmise that she was annoyed at having her bombshell pre-empted by his lucky guess.
“What is her name?” asked Singh.
“Dao Ming.”
“Where can I find her?”
“I am not her mother.”
Li Jun asked for the family address of his own volition and Singh was pleased to have a respite from the gorgon at the gate.
“Maybe if you see her you can ask her what’s the matter with her father.”
“Maybe we can do that,” agreed Singh, making a vow on the spot that he would not tell this woman anything, whatever he found out. “What did Professor Luo think about Justin being Dao Ming’s boyfriend?” he continued.
“You think he would tell me?”
“Well, maybe not directly, but someone with your insight into human behaviour must have had some idea?”
Singh ignored the glare Li Jun directed at him. He didn’t blame him for not wanting to translate such toe-curling praise, but it would be worth it if this woman could be persuaded to say something that was not gratuitously insulting.
“He was not keen.”
“Why?”
“The fellow was charming, big smile, kind word even for me. Professor Luo liked him very much.” She nodded at the memory and seemed almost human for a moment. “But he was not sure that the boy’s affections were really engaged and he did not like it that he was a foreigner, there was no future in it.”
“He told you this?”
“I overheard him speaking to his daughter.”
“Maybe they were just young people having a bit of fun?”
“The professor is not the sort to accept that. He is old-fashioned…he wanted Dao Ming to excel at her studies and not be distracted by other things.”
She made ‘other things’ sound suitably immoral. There was no such thing as a summer romance as far as she was concerned.
Was it possible that the professor had killed the boyfriend of his daughter and now, unable to confront what he had done, had gone into hiding? It sounded like something from the literature faculty, the department specialising in fantasy.
“Do you have Justin Tan’s file?” asked Singh, looking over her shoulder at the grey filing cabinets.
“Actually the police took it.”
At least they’d shown enough interest to turn up here despite what Li Jun had said about the incompetent in charge.
“Such a pity Professor Luo was not on medical leave when they came,” she muttered, eyes glinting like diamonds in the rough.
“Let me guess,” said Singh. “You heard something…” How did this woman get any work done when she spent most of her time with her ear to keyholes?
“They had a very loud argument,” she said. “I could not help overhear.”
“About Justin?”
“I myself only caught the last few words.”
“Which were?” demanded Singh.
“‘You are a trouble maker, Professor Luo – stirring up the peasant class against its leaders.’”
“And what was his response?”
“‘A boy is dead and that is all you have to say?’”
“‘He was very unlucky to run into a bunch of robbers.’ Can you believe it, that’s what the police said!”
“And?” asked Singh, squinting to distinguish between her own words and those she was reciting from memory.
“And the professor said, ‘That’s your story and you’re sticking to it?’”
“‘I think it would be in everyone’s best interests if that was our story, Professor Luo.’”
“‘And if I don’t agree?’”
The secretary lowered her voice to suggest the tone of intimidation that had been adopted.
“‘You are falun gong – don’t think we do not know that.’”
“What was Professor Luo’s response?” asked Li Jun.
“They shut the door,” she explained, shoulders sagging at the memory of disappointment. “And I could not hear anything further.”
Eight
“You want to go and see the professor and his daughter?” asked Li Jun.
They were standing outside the faculty building. The sky was a clear blue with wisps of cloud like an old man’s thinning beard. Singh took a deep breath and felt faint; he was not used to clean air. The usual smog was just like smoking although without the helpful shot of nicotine to the lungs. Singh looked around, squinting in the bright sunlight. His turban was attracting curious stares from the students. He watched them watch him and thought that Guru Gobind Singh, who had first demanded that his followers wear the headpiece to distinguish them from non-Sikhs, probably had not anticipated that future generations might prefer anonymity when going about their business investigating murders. The inspector really hoped that this case didn’t require him to tail someone at any point. That would be a recipe for failure.
“I need time to think,” said Singh. “Is that a Starbucks?” he continued, looking at the familiar green sign. He never ventured into one in Singapore, much preferring the old-fashioned kopi tiam where they served boiled eggs and kaya toast with condensed milk-sweetened gloopy coffee. But beggars couldn’t be choosers and the inspector was relieved to stumble upon an anonymous international brand when he didn’t want to confront anything culturally challenging – like green tea that smelled of old socks.
The two men walked over briskly; the desire for caffeine had turned the inspector from a saunterer into a strider. Singh’s snowy white trainers didn’t provide the same assertive soundtrack as Li Jun’s worn shoes but they covered the ground at the same rate. They ordered a coffee each, black for Li Jun and with milk and spoons full of sugar for Singh, and sat down with their backs to a wall. Students bustled past the glass window wearing the international uniform of jeans and T-shirts, a bagful of books hitched on every shoulder.
“So,” said Singh, “tell me more about this ‘falun gong’ then?”
As Li Jun explained, Singh’s expression grew thoughtful.
“It sounds to me like Professor Luo might have decided to go into hiding,” he said, wiping the foam from his latte off his moustache and thereby reducing his resemblance to Santa Claus. “It would explain this far-fetched illness.”
“Without telling his daughter?”
“Maybe she’s covering for him?”
The policeman drained his coffee and hauled himself to his feet using the table for leverage. “Let’s go find out,” he snapped, as the caffeine hit his bloodstream.
Singh’s mobile rang.
“Yes?”
“The girl called again. I’m to meet her at the Silk market, with cash.”
“What time?”
“At two pm.”
Singh’s mouth thinned. Whoever this girl was, whatever information she had, she was no fool. She hadn’t given much time for Susan Tan to call in the cavalry. He held the phone away from his ear and demanded to know, “Can we get to the Silk Market in half an hour?”
“Yes, if the traffic works with us,” said Li Jun.
The policeman grimaced. The traffic hadn’t worked with him yet. “Well, let’s go!”
“She said I was to come alone, no police.”
“Don’t worry, no one in China will suspect me of being a police officer. And I’ll keep my distance.”
“What do I do when I see her?”
“Ask her what she knows…refuse to pay up until you have every detail. Do you have a recording device?”
“It’s an embassy, of course we do! And I’ve brought one with me.”
He was impressed. She was thinking like a spy. He wondered whether the Singapore embassy had a quota of spies masquerading as cultural attaches like the Americans and the Russians and decided against it. Espionage wasn’t really the Singaporean way unless it was for keeping an eye on its own citizens back home.
�
�Use it then. I’ll try to get close so I can hear what she says. Whatever it is, don’t let her get away. If she’s in it for the money, she deserves a good scare. If she has something to say – well then she’s a material witness.”
“Where are you now?” asked Susan.
“Just leaving the university. Professor Luo Gan hasn’t put in an appearance at work for a while. Apparently he’s not well.” Singh waved at a taxi unsuccessfully, but Li Jun had more success with the next dilapidated vehicle. The men clambered in, phone still glued to Singh’s ear. “Silk Market,” he whispered to Li Jun.
“Justin was convinced that the professor would lose his tenure because of his activism,” continued Susan Tan.
“You think that’s what’s happened?” he asked, yanking at his seat belt and wincing as it snapped back against his belly.
“Or he’s been asked to take a leave of absence – or he’s made a decision to lie low for a while. There are so many different flashpoints in the country right now that the security apparatus might take its eye off you if you stay out of trouble for a few weeks.”
“Sounds more plausible than this mysterious illness anyway.” He remembered the secretary’s lowered threatening tone as she imitated the policemen’s threat. “Might he have been arrested?”
“If he was falun gong? Definitely! But that would have been quite big news and I haven’t heard anything.” She continued, a note of real hope in her voice, “I’ve reached the Silk Market,” and he heard the sound of a car door slamming. “I’m going to wait at the pizzeria on the ground floor.”
Singh looked out of the window at the clear roads. “Things look good here – we might actually get there in time.” He caught Li Jun’s eye and they both smiled. It made a change to progress at something other than a crawl.
Singh’s pleasure turned to dismay around the next corner.
They pulled up at traffic lights and Singh could see that there was gridlock at every point of the compass.
“How long till we get there?” he demanded.
“More than half an hour,” replied Li Jun grimly.
♦
Qing had no intention of drawing attention to herself. She arrived an hour early so as to avoid any watchers at the entrances. Now she wandered through the market like any of the hundreds of shoppers and tourists. She stopped to admire a handbag – Gucci – turning it inside and out as if seriously considering a purchase. The proprietor of the tiny shop had leather handbags in all the major brands, as many as one would find at Shin Kong Place. She ignored Qing because she was doing her best to fleece a foreigner.
Qing listened to the exchange with a half-smile.
The tourist, as broad as he was tall, perhaps a Russian, with his belly straining against his shirt, was determined to extract the best price he could. The two of them were taking turns to type offers into the large calculator the woman held. It was part of Silk Market etiquette that no one spoke a price out loud. This worked for both customer and seller. The latter could squeeze the price as hard as possible and the former could agree because it did not set a precedent.
This particular negotiation was not going well. The Russian was shouting and swearing, accusing the woman of being a thief and a cheat.
She in turn was yelling in Mandarin. Qing assumed that he did not understand the rudiments of the language or he might have objected to being called a hairy fat pig. At last they seemed to come to an agreement. The man – his buttons looked like they would pop with the ferocity of bullets – peeled off a chunk of yuan from a roll and the vendor put the goods into the type of cheap pink plastic bag that clogged every drain in China.
The tourist left, face wreathed in smiles, convinced that he’d had the better of the exchange.
The proprietor let him have his victory, but when he was gone, spared a grin for Qing.
“These foreigners think they know how to bargain like the Chinese,” she said.
“But still he paid the white devil’s price?”
“Exactly.”
“And so how much is this bag?” asked Qing, holding one up.
“For you, sister, the Chinese price, of course,” she said and whipped out her calculator.
They agreed quickly at an eighty per cent discount to the asking price and Qing left the shop satisfied. She decided that even when she was wealthy she would never fall into the trap of buying original goods at Sanlitun Village. The Chinese who did this had truly lost touch with their roots.
Qing glanced at her watch. There was still ten minutes to go. It was time to walk past the drop-off point. The last thing she wanted was for some sharp-eyed shopper to steal her delivery. To her disappointment, there was nothing there. She wandered into a nearby stall selling winter coats and tried on a number of different designs, complaining in turn about the colour, the fabric, the length and the workmanship. In the end, as the discussion grew heated, she opted for the cheapest available windcheater and turned to leave, eyes automatically seeking the dark corner by the elevator behind the bin. Her heart leaped into her mouth and she almost gagged. Tucked behind the bin was a holdall, bright red in colour. She walked past it without looking back, heart pounding so loud it felt audible to shoppers. At first, it seemed every pair of eyes in the place was trained on her or the bag. It was as if she was wearing an advertising board that said ‘blackmailer’ in large letters. It took her a few moments to calm down and realise that, in actual fact, there was no one who seemed to be taking an interest in that corner or the red bag. Qing didn’t intend to be naive though and she walked into another stall, this one selling trainers. She waited patiently, turning a shoe over in her hand, until a large group of Malaysian shoppers walked past in the direction from which she had just come. She immediately attached herself to the group and sauntered back towards her target. The Silk Market was packed to the gills, and Qing noted a group of Arab women, covered from head to toe, were making their way towards them. As the two groups converged, shopkeepers called out to them, cajoling them to have a look, the bolder and more assertive grabbing at sleeves and tugging for attention.
“Good bags for you, ma’am.”
“Best price!”
“For my friends, good deal.”
The focus was the Arabs – the Chinese stallholders knew where the money was.
When the cacophony hit a crescendo, Qing stuck out a foot and tripped one of the waddling creatures. She came down like a ton of bricks. The ice cream she’d been eating went flying and landed on a stack of jackets. The vendor, quick to see an opportunity, demanded compensation at the top of her voice even as the other women were trying to haul their weighty friend to her feet. The woman was wailing and yelling, adding to the drama. Qing took two quick steps forwards, seized the red bag, and immediately hurried down the corridor, weaving between the shoppers, maintaining a brisk pace, but not running, not drawing attention to herself.
She ducked into a bathroom and went to work with her pre-planned routine. She opened her knapsack, changed clothes quickly into jeans and a loose shirt, tied up her hair and slipped it under a cap and changed the high heels to a pair of trainers. She washed her face of the heavy layer of makeup she’d been wearing and then transferred the money – a million yuan – into her now empty knapsack. She folded her old clothes and stuffed them into the bag. She looked at the empty holdall – it was a nice bag, heavy canvas – and she decided not to waste it. Folding it in half, she shoved it into the bag as well, zipped it shut and took a deep breath. She pulled the flush and sauntered out, a young provincial without a care in the world, whiling away an afternoon at the Silk Market.
Qing maintained her slow pace with difficulty, every nerve in her body was screaming at her to hurry. As she reached the next corner, she had another look around for surveillance, but everyone seemed to be focused on shop windows and bargains, no one had any interest in a skinny girl from the provinces. Unable to control her fear any more, Qing broke into a quick trot, eyes on the escalator at the end of the pass
age. She reached it quickly, but hemmed in by people on all sides, she was forced to travel at the sedate pace of the escalator. As she finally stepped off, she glanced back up the way she had come. Her eyes met those of a tall man in dark clothes who, unlike everyone else, was not weighed down with shopping.
♦
Singh’s idea of a market had been formed in his early youth when his mother would take him on her weekly shopping expeditions in order to have an extra pair of hands to carry her purchases. He remembered trailing through stinking, bloody water that pooled on the uneven floor, shoulders hunched and nose wrinkled, as his mother pointed at unfortunate chickens in wicker baskets – slaughtered on request – and peered into the eyes of fish to determine if they were fresh. He remembered the slabs of meat, mutton and beef, hanging from vicious hooks over large concrete slabs. The butchers and fishmongers sliced and diced with parangs, splattering blood and bone over their filthy aprons and the customers who got too close.
The Silk Market, he noted, was quite different. First of all, it was not open plan but in a large six storey building. The glass cubicles within sold everything from shoes to handbags and toys to shirts. It also offered bales of silk accompanied by offers of efficient tailoring services. The only thing that bore a resemblance to the markets of his youth was the heaving crowd looking for a bargain.
The plump policeman made his way slowly through the throngs, horrified that vendors were actually grabbing his arms to physically drag him into shops, demanding loudly, “Where you from? Where you from? India?” He found himself the rope in a tug of war between two determined shopkeepers and had to yank hard to get free, muttering, “No, thank you. No, thanks. No, not interested,” under his breath like a prayer.
One of the more direct ones said at the top of her voice, “You must buy new belt, sir – that one going to break because your stomach is so fat!”
He made a desperate effort to get away, but was brought to an abrupt halt as a remote control helicopter appeared out of nowhere to hover just in front of his nose. The man in the door controlling the device was a master of small spaces but Singh was convinced the rotors would slice off his nose at any second.
A Calamitous Chinese Killing Page 14
