A Calamitous Chinese Killing

by Shamini Flint

  But she couldn’t. She just couldn’t. She picked up the photo that she’d found at the bottom of the file as if Justin had sought to put it out of his mind by burying it in paperwork. It was the same shot of Dai Wei and his companions but taken from a wider angle so it captured both the officials as well as the protesters. There was a man standing slightly to one side, tall, well dressed, handsome. It was impossible to see his expression from the angle and distance of the shot. But there was no doubt from his position that he was there with the developers. He stood shoulder to shoulder with them, a party to the planned destruction of homes, facing the angry householders. Her father.

  Her father was in league with these men being investigated by Professor Luo. What had Justin thought when he’d first seen the photo? Had he known before that his father was somehow involved in the land acquisition? Had he realised it meant that his father was in cahoots with Dai Wei? Had Justin told the professor? Perhaps he had been in denial, like she was now.

  Jemima closed the file and slipped the rubber band around it again. How could she approach Inspector Singh with what she knew when it might implicate her father in something sordid and quite possibly illegal? How could she approach her mother with evidence that her father might have been involved in Justin’s death?

  ♦

  The two men sat on opposite sides of a wooden table in a narrow dark shop with large plastic-covered pictures of food dishes taped to the walls. Benson had driven the First Secretary back to her residence. The inspector had adjourned to the restaurant at the suggestion and in the company of Li Jun. The fat man’s eyes were watering. The next table was being used by staff, white aprons stained dark red, to chop a mountain of dried red chillies down to size. Every now and then one of them would sweep a pile into a plastic container and whisk it away to the nether regions from which the sound of oil sizzling and voices arguing could be heard.

  “Szechuan cooking is very spicy,” said Li Jun apologetically.

  Singh nodded and blew his nose into a large white handkerchief. He wasn’t really complaining. If those dried chillies were going into anything he was about to eat, his craving for spicy food was going to be assuaged soon, and in some style. They had arrived at Jie Street long after the lunch crowd had left and well before dinnertime. The wide street was lined on both sides with tiny food outlets selling dishes from every region in China. Red lanterns hung cheerfully at every entrance, the drains reeked of rotten food and stray dogs wandered about looking for leftovers. Li Jun had led them to this particular hole in the wall and now they waited for their lunch, it had taken some persuasion for the waiter to agree to serve them so late, while Singh drank a lukewarm watery beer.

  “You knew that policeman? The one who came to the scene?”

  Li Jun nodded. “I called him directly. His name is Inspector Han and he is a good person. Qing’s death will be investigated properly, I think.”

  “At least until someone higher up discovers it’s linked to Justin’s murder.”

  “And you think that is certain?”

  “We’re investigating Justin’s death, this girl calls to say she has information and the next thing that happens is she’s stabbed to death in a public place?”

  “I agree,” said Li Jun and then paused as a very large fish, swimming in a soup that was heaving with cabbage, was slammed down on their table. The two men spent the next couple of minutes wrestling the plastic crockery and wooden chopsticks out of the sealed plastic bags in which they had arrived.

  Li Jun extricated the spine from the fish with a couple of deft slices and served Singh a large portion. “Black river fish,” he explained.

  The men ate in silence for a few moments, both thinking hard.

  “Whoever did this was very afraid of what this girl had to say to take the risk of killing her.” The boldness of the move both impressed Singh and made him nervous.

  “Or they did not fear justice,” said Li Jun.

  “What do you mean?”

  “In China, the law is not the same for everyone. Those who do not fear retribution or punishment are more likely to take such action as we saw today.”

  The Sikh policeman scooped up some more soup, bubbling with heat from the fire still burning underneath. Perspiration darkened the rim of his turban. Hot and spicy. At this rate he would miss China when he left. Mind you, his exit was a quickly receding point on the horizon. He’d been sent to investigate one murder, but instead of answers, it was the body count that was mounting.

  “Will Han tell us what he knows?”

  “I believe so,” answered Li Jun cautiously.

  Singh understood – this Han was a loyal friend, but he would not risk his badge or pension. That seemed reasonable to the policeman from Singapore. Annoying the wrong person had significant consequences in China. His thoughts turned to Superintendent Chen. Authority and impunity. He would love it in Beijing.

  “I’d recognise that man again,” said Singh. “I’m sure he had something to do with it.” He didn’t bother to mention that with a population of over a billion people, he was unlikely to stumble upon his murderer. He scowled, remembering the cold eyes in the impassive face. “Probably a hired killer anyway.”

  “How shall we proceed?” asked Li Jun.

  “There’s not much we can do about the girl until Han finds out who she was.”

  “It is better that we follow our earlier plans?”

  “To go and see Professor Luo and his daughter,” agreed Singh.

  “Han also told me what he’d found out about the attempted assault on Justin that I prevented.”

  “What about it?”

  “The bouncers at the bar recognised a couple of the thugs as being in the employ of one Wang Zhen, a high cadre child, son of a Politburo member, and a regular visitor to Beijing’s nightspots. They were his bodyguards.”

  Singh’s nostrils flared at the appearance of another hare to chase. “So why would this Wang Zhen have it in for Justin?”

  “I do not know,” confessed Li Jun.

  Singh didn’t bother to explain that it had been a rhetorical question. Instead, he patted his lips with a cool, scented serviette extricated from shiny foil packing.

  “The food was too spicy?” asked the rabbit-toothed ex-policeman with an expression of genuine concern.

  “It was just right,” said Singh mopping his brow and draining his mug of beer.

  Benson was waiting outside so they hopped into the back of the limo, Singh with a hint of relief. He didn’t think he could face another taxi stinking of stale cigarette smoke. He was beginning to understand why his wife was always complaining about the reek from his clothes – Singh’s special scent: beer, curry and cigarettes.

  “How is the First Secretary?” asked Li Jun.

  “Shaken,” replied the driver. “Upset about the girl and that we might have lost the chance to find out what happened to Justin.”

  “There are many avenues to the truth and when one door closes, another opens,” said the Sikh.

  “Confucius?” asked Li Jun.

  “Singh,” retorted the policeman.

  ♦

  Dao Ming was very afraid. She was mixed up in things she couldn’t control and had no one on her side except her six-year-old sister. Her father had not returned and she was beginning to fear the worst. Maybe he’d had an accident and no one had identified the body. Or maybe he was suffering from some form of amnesia, wandering the streets, unable to get back home. Destitute. Her imagination was going wild. That was what happened when the mind had no facts. She peered through a crack in the curtains, standing to one side so that no hint of movement would be visible. Wang Zhen was late but that was not unusual. If he was late, he expected her to wait. If he was early, he expected her to be ready. Was it his upbringing as a child of privilege that led to such visceral selfishness? She heard the roar of his car engine, a red sports car that her sister, with that unexpected flash of knowledge she demonstrated from time to time, had told her w
as a Ferrari.

  “How do you know?” she had demanded.

  “The dancing horse,” explained her sister. “I saw it on television.”

  Ferrari? All she knew was that she had learned to dread the low growl of its powerful engine, signifying as it did the arrival of the young man, her one-time boyfriend, now reinstated in that position because she needed him. Afterwards? Her mouth formed a grim line. She would find a way to walk away.

  She watched Wang Zhen saunter up the front yard, looking neither to the left nor right, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. The red glow of the tip was visible in the shadows of the high walls although it was still early evening. He looked young, confident, untroubled. A real catch, she thought to herself, with that combination of cynicism and sadness which had always worried her father – “you have an old head on those young shoulders,” he would say. She didn’t know a single one of her classmates that would not be delighted to change places with her, the girlfriend of a Politburo member’s son. Wang Zhen rapped on the door with authority and she leaped back from the window. She walked the long way around the front room so that he would not see her shadow behind the hangings. She didn’t want to give him the pleasure of assuming that she was waiting for him. If he guessed the truth – that she dreaded his presence – that would not further her plans either.

  She opened the door and forced a smile. He did not seem to notice or care and immediately took her in his arms. Dao Ming hid her face in his shoulder and was glad that she had sent her sister to the neighbours for a play. She was forthright in her dislike of Wang Zhen and would undoubtedly have said something that would have led to harsh words between them.

  “Have you any news of my father?”

  Did she imagine it or did he look away for just a second?

  “No, nothing yet.”

  “Are you sure? Wang Zhen, you must tell me the truth!”

  The cocky young man looked uncomfortable, a rare expression for him. Dao Ming led the way to the sofa and sat down, her knees weak with fear. He sat down beside her and took her hands in his. She sensed that he was genuinely concerned and it heightened her dread.

  “What is it, Wang Zhen? What have you found out?”

  “I asked my father as you suggested. He had a lot of difficulty getting any information.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Yes – very few people are willing to stand in his way.”

  Wang Zhen said this in a matter-of-fact way, unfazed by the realities of privilege and power. His father was a member of the Politburo, that faceless group of bureaucrats with whom all power in China rested. There were very few who were brave enough or foolish enough to contradict them.

  “Eventually, my father managed to track down some information.”

  “And?”

  “It is not good news.”

  “What do you mean? Just tell me please.”

  “Professor Luo was arrested at Tiananmen Square.”

  Curiously, her first reaction was relief – her father was not dead. But then the impact of what he’d said hit home. “I don’t understand – what for? Why was he there?”

  “He was arrested for a public demonstration of illegal practices in Tiananmen.”

  “What in the world do you mean? What illegal practices?”

  “Falun gong.”

  Dao Ming stood up, shook off Wang Zhen’s attempt to hold on to her and began pacing the room. Her eyes were red with unshed tears. It didn’t make any sense. She knew her father was falun gong. He’d been a member of the group before it was deemed an illegal organisation and continued his practice at home in the quiet evenings when the routine helped calm him down after a difficult day. But why had he gone out looking for trouble?

  “Where have they taken him? Why weren’t we told?”

  “I haven’t been able to find out exactly where – to a labour camp, that’s all I know.”

  She shut her eyes as if the darkness might hide the truth. Who better than her, the daughter of Professor Luo Gan, to understand the black hole of the Chinese criminal justice system? Thousands went missing, to be re-educated for the sin of having an opinion that did not exactly match that of the state.

  “Did you know he was falun gong?” asked Wang Zhen.

  “Yes – he was – but only in private. His public focus has been land grabs and illegal evictions.”

  Surely it was some sort of ruse? The authorities were wary of her father because of his work on behalf of peasants who were losing their land to corrupt officials and their developer friends. He’d always known that detention was a possible outcome of his work, it had been a risk he was prepared to take. So why would he suddenly go to Tiananmen Square and provoke arrest in this way?

  “It must be a lie! They made this up as an excuse to arrest him.”

  Wang Zhen walked up to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I don’t think there is any doubt about what happened. My father looked into it carefully at my request.”

  There was a sudden loud thumping on the front door and Dao Ming physically shrank from it. Had they come for her too? What would happen to her sister? Should she try to escape? She looked around the room like a trapped animal, desperately seeking a way out.

  “It’s all right,” said Wang Zhen. He walked to the door without hesitation. He’d never had to learn fear growing up.

  The duo waiting outside didn’t look like any authority figures Dao Ming had ever seen before. They were a study in contrasts. One was thin and dressed in a traditional Mao suit. His hair was sparse, grey and exposed large areas of scalp. It reminded her of aerial photos of denuded rainforests. The other man was dark, bearded and wore a turban. Since when did the Chinese authorities employ foreigners?

  “What do you want?” demanded Wang Zhen.

  “To see the daughter of Professor Luo,” said the Chinese man, his mild manner in keeping with his appearance. He did not appear to notice Wang Zhen’s rude tone.

  Hope suddenly flared for Dao, perhaps these men knew what had happened to her father. He had a lot of friends. Those who, like him, spent their days trying to push back against the overweening state, those who tried to look out for the little people. These two men certainly looked more likely to be on the side of a rebellious college professor than his enemies.

  “I am Dao Ming,” she said, stepping forwards and ignoring Wang Zhen’s gesture that she stay back.

  “Professor Luo’s daughter?”

  She nodded, her chin raised defiantly as she noticed the fat one’s gaze on her black eye.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions about Justin Tan.”

  “Justin?” The surprise in her tone was unfeigned.

  “What about him?” Wang Zhen’s fists were clenched.

  “Who are you?” asked Dao Ming.

  “Justin’s mother asked us to look into Justin’s death. I am Li Jun. This is Inspector Singh from the Singapore police force who has been flown in specially to investigate further.”

  “Look into his death? I don’t understand. He was killed by some thugs…in a hutong. It was a terrible tragedy.”

  The Chinese man was translating the conversation in whispers to the foreigner who was listening to him and watching her with the same intensity.

  “We think there’s more to this situation than that.” The foreigner spoke English and she understood him, of course. Her father had always insisted that she speak the language – “We cannot only look inwards but also outwards,” he had said and she had laughed and accused him of having a platitude for every occasion. But she had studied her English diligently, knowing that it was the surest way of ensuring that she would one day be able to explore a world beyond China’s borders.

  “What do you mean there’s more to it than that?” she asked in English.

  “Our investigations suggest that his death was not a random event, someone wanted him dead.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The head, wrapped like a Christmas present, nod
ded.

  “Is there anything you can tell us that might be helpful in our investigation?” asked the Chinese gentleman who had introduced himself as Li Jun.

  Dao Ming stumbled back to the sofa and huddled in a corner. They followed her in as if her withdrawal had been an invitation. Wang Zhen perched on the arm of the chair next to her, his expression belligerent, his body language possessive. The turbaned man sat down across from her, but the other man remained standing. His eyes were scanning the room, taking in the modest furniture and the pictures on the mantelpiece. His gaze lingered on the shot of her father and his two daughters, taken in happier times – all three wrapped against the cold, all three grinning with delight. It seemed like another lifetime.

  “About Justin’s death?” She shook her head. “I thought it was just bad luck.”

  “Perhaps your father can help us?”

  “He’s not here,” she said helplessly. “He’s…he’s gone out.”

  “We heard he was not well.” The tone adopted by Singh had just enough surprise in it to sound like an accusation. “Shouldn’t he be in bed?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  Dao Ming had seen it all before. Wang Zhen would act tough, and then trot out his family connections and watch the men flinch. She tried to imagine a life when one always had a ‘get out of jail’ card in one’s back pocket. Tears welled up at the thought of her father in a prison camp and she blinked hard, trying to dam them in, hoping the men would not notice.

  “Another person has been killed,” said the inspector. He looked at Dao Ming as he spoke, ignoring the interjection from Wang Zhen although it had been in English. “She had information about the death of Justin. She was stabbed to death before she could tell us. Knowledge of this matter is a dangerous thing.”