A Calamitous Chinese Killing

by Shamini Flint

  “So you’re quite sure that you have nothing further to tell me about his relationship with Dao Ming?”

  “She was his girlfriend, that’s all. I mean I don’t know any details!”

  “She was also the daughter of his professor – the one you said he admired and was working for!”

  The shrug of the shoulders again. Singh had lost count after they reached double figures.

  “Maybe Professor Luo was involved?” he suggested.

  “With Justin’s death? Don’t be silly.”

  “He disapproved of the relationship.”

  She bristled at this, probably because of the insult to her beloved brother.

  “It’s true – his secretary told me so.”

  There was no response and he decided it was necessary to be more provocative, although, truth be told, he didn’t want to upset her, she seemed so fragile, sipping her water with nervous regularity. He allowed himself a mental shrug, murder investigations were not for the unduly sensitive.

  “You’re probably right, it wasn’t as if the liaison was that serious. She’s already found a replacement. Some well-to-do kid with a red Ferrari.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Well, it’s true. I met him. Nasty piece of work.”

  “Justin…Justin really loved her.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He told me,” she whispered.

  “The new guy is the son of a Politburo member.”

  “I can’t believe it,” she insisted. He assumed it was the new relationship she doubted rather than the status of the father.

  “Do you know what I think?” he demanded and then didn’t wait for an answer. “I think Dao Ming is pretending to get back together with that horrible fellow in order to get his help to find out what happened to her father. She’s in despair. She has a younger sister and she has no idea why her father has been taken.”

  “I thought you said he was falun gong. My mother says the government always cracks down on them.”

  “He went looking for trouble, revealed that he was falun gong in a public place.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he feels guilty about something…something, I would hazard a guess, that’s connected to Justin’s death.”

  “You really think he might have something to do with it?”

  “It seems out of character, but I have only two facts to work with. One, he didn’t approve of the relationship and two, he felt guilty about something.” He sensed uncertainty in the girl and decided it was time for some emotional blackmail.

  “Justin always tried to do the right thing. Dao Ming, his girlfriend whom he loved, is putting herself through hell trying to find out what happened to her father. I think you know something, and I think you’re as strong a person as either of them.”

  Jemima rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands.

  “For Justin,” added Singh.

  She finally spoke, her voice trembling with emotion. “I have something to show you.”

  “OK.”

  “I found it.”

  “That’s good,” he said, wondering if he sounded encouraging like he intended, or dubious, like he felt.

  “It belonged to my brother. He didn’t know I knew where he hid his stuff, you see.”

  At this, two hairy ears perked up. She reached into a capacious bag and retrieved a file that she slid tentatively across the table. It was thick, professional and bound in a rubber band. He almost smiled. If she’d brought the file along she’d always meant to share it, she’d just needed some persuasion.

  He opened it and stared blankly at the documents within. “What is this?” he demanded. “I assume you’ve been through it.”

  It didn’t take her long, now that she’d decided to speak, to fill him in. Singh listened intently, allowing his coffee to grow cold and his biscuit to remain uneaten.

  “So what you’re saying is that Justin might have been in trouble because of the work he was doing for Professor Luo? Helping investigate dodgy land acquisitions?”

  The nod brought a curtain of hair over her eyes and she pushed it away as a matter of habit. This was more plausible – Singh hadn’t for the life of him been able to think why a university professor would have a student bludgeoned to death in an alley whether he approved of the relationship with his daughter or not. But if Luo felt indirectly responsible for getting Justin involved in something that had let to his death, it might have led to the public display on Tiananmen Square. He grimaced. It still seemed an extreme reaction to abandon his two daughters without a word.

  “And your father is involved in this land grab of the hutong?” continued Singh.

  “He calls it a ‘land acquisition’. He says it is necessary to create a modern China and people who are not in a position to understand the bigger picture should not be allowed to stand in the way.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She thinks Dai Wei is a crook and representative of everything that is wrong with China.”

  Her resemblance to Susan Tan was startling when she pursed her lips and echoed her words. Singh had a sudden premonition that this shy creature would turn out as formidable as her mother some day.

  “So do you think this has anything to do with Justin?” demanded Jemima. She gestured at the papers on the table with a slim hand. “You know, all this stuff.”

  “I don’t know,” he replied, rifling through the file and admiring the methodical nature of the dead boy. And he meant it. After all, whether Luo, and by extension, Justin, were researching the project involving Dai Wei and Anthony Tan, that didn’t seem to be any reason for someone to kill the boy. From the file, Luo had been standing up for peasants for years without anyone being murdered in back alleys.

  He picked up the photo, the one that tied Anthony Tan to this particular land grab, and stared at it.

  “That’s how I knew my dad was involved,” she explained. “He’s in that picture.”

  “So who are the rest?” asked Singh. “I know that’s Dai Wei.” The comical and yet intimidating figure was hard to miss. “And the man behind him is Fu Xinghua.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “The others are probably Singapore developers.”

  That made sense. “And the angry residents,” he muttered, staring at the line of distant figures, their anger discernible in the stiff bodies and bowed heads.

  “But I guess there’s still no way of knowing if this had anything to do with what happened to Justin,” said Jemima.

  He’d heard so many euphemisms for violent death from family members – from Jemima it was ‘what happened to Justin’. He couldn’t blame her. Language was a powerful tool, a window to memory. And who wanted that when contemplating murder of a loved one? But family still needed closure, justice, penance. And that was his role.

  “It’s a big coincidence otherwise, isn’t it?” he muttered. “After all, it’s the same hutong where he was killed.”

  Her head snapped back at this. “The same hutong? I didn’t realise that! I’ve never been…to where he was killed. My mother wouldn’t let me go.” She paused to take it in. “But that means this must have something to do with Justin’s murder!”

  “Anyone wanting to kill Justin for any other reason might still have wound up at the same place. From the file, he spent a lot of time there, gathering information for his professor,” pointed out Singh.

  “There’s more,” Jemima added at last, her reluctance to divulge anything further manifest in the long pause.

  “What is it?”

  “I heard my dad on the phone – it seems like he owed someone money. He was asking…begging for more time to pay it back.”

  So Li Jun’s policeman friend had been right about Anthony Tan being in the clutches of moneylenders.

  “And then he said, ‘How dare you threaten my daughter!’”

  “I see,” said Singh. “And you think whoever it was he owed money to might have previously threatened Justin
?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Yes, it is,” agreed Singh, wondering whether Anthony Tan’s fecklessness had actually resulted in the death of one of his children.

  “I guess we’ll never find out.” Jemima spoke and her words were barely audible and wrapped in a sigh.

  “Never find out?” Singh looked up at her in surprise, jolted away from his own thoughts. Her eyes were wet with tears, which she hurriedly blinked away, fighting to maintain her composure in such an open place, a teenager’s horror of a public display of emotion writ large on her face.

  “Of course we’re going to find out. What do you think I’m doing here in China?”

  He was rewarded with a half-smile from his young companion.

  Indeed, he’d been so convincing Singh had almost believed his own propaganda for a moment.

  ♦

  The man in the red apron was dripping sweat. His hands were calloused and grubby, nails black and short. Neither man at the breakfast joint noticed. Instead, they nodded their thanks as he added a stack of bamboo containers containing spinach and pork buns in front of them, adding a sprinkling of sweat to the open dish at the top. Li Jun reached for his chopsticks and snapped the ends apart. He dipped the pau into soy sauce and crammed the whole thing into his mouth, he was very hungry and this was the sort of budget establishment where he felt comfortable.

  His companion followed suit, but then held a hand over his face briefly as the smell from the narrow drains outside wafted into the shop. Li Jun didn’t doubt that the proprietor dumped all the entrails into the shallow water – he’d caught a glimpse of rainbow-coloured grease as he walked in – but it did not seem necessary to share the information with Singh.

  The inspector stuffed a pau in his mouth and waved the man over to indicate he needed more tea. It was poor quality and rancid but still cleansed the palate after the rich salty buns. Besides, what could you expect from a place that charged less than two yuan for a hearty breakfast?

  “My ex-colleague, Han Deqing called me with some updates. The dead girl, her name was Qing. She was a factory worker from Hunan province. Been in the city for about six months. Before that she worked in Dongguan for a while.”

  Singh felt a pang of loss for this girl who had come to find her fortune like so many others before her. This one had only found death.

  “I spoke to the parents. The last time they heard from her was the day before she was killed. She was in a good mood and promised them that they would soon be seeing the benefits of her work. She promised them the biggest television in the village. Their chief emotion seemed to be disappointment.”

  Singh’s chewing slowed down a notch. “I still don’t see how she could have crossed paths with Justin or found out anything about his death.”

  “There’s more,” said Li Jun. The two men ignored the scowl of the proprietor as he topped up their tea. It was a tiny outlet with four small tables and wooden stools. The turnover was rapid as shop and office workers raced through breakfast before hurrying to work. Two men indulging in a leisurely conversation was a recipe for a bad morning for the business.

  “What is it?”

  “Qing had an aunt.”

  “So? I have more aunts than I can count. A number of them are dead and I haven’t spoken to the rest of them in decades.”

  “She lives in that hutong where the boy was killed. We probably met her when we did the door-to-door. Apparently she is very old and does not leave her house much.”

  Singh, perched on a stool like an overfed vulture, sat up suddenly. This was crucial information – the link between Qing and Justin’s death.

  “She must have seen something or heard something while visiting the aunt,” he exclaimed. The tragedy was that she’d decided to try to cash in instead of going to the police. But it seemed they finally had a lead.

  “That appears quite likely,” agreed Li Jun.

  “Any pressure not to look into this carefully?” he demanded.

  Li Jun shook his head. “Not yet according to Han. If there is no interference, does that mean there is no link between the two deaths?”

  “I think that would be drawing unwarranted conclusions. Anyway, we know there is a link – the aunt at the hutong. Possibly whoever is keen to sweep this under the rug does not know about the connection yet. You should urge your colleague Han to be discreet about committing his findings to writing.”

  “Do not worry – he has always been hopeless at paperwork and I will urge him to continue in this manner.”

  Both men laughed and then quickly sobered at the memory of Qing.

  “What about the professor?” asked Singh. “Any news on his whereabouts?”

  “Han has promised to sniff around today. But if he’s been swallowed up by the security apparatus, he might as well have never been born.”

  “Well, he was indeed born and has two daughters who are worried sick about him to prove it,” replied Singh tartly. He didn’t doubt that Li Jun’s bleak assessment was accurate but he didn’t want to lose sight of the man behind the crusader and supposed falun gong practitioner. It might be the Chinese way to label a person – terrorist, communist, capitalist, anti-government activist – and then forget about his essential humanity, his inalienable rights. He wouldn’t fall into that trap.

  “I still don’t understand why he went out of his way to get himself arrested,” complained Li Jun. “Someone like him, with his track record, he must have known there was no way they would let him get away with it. The authorities were probably watching him already, looking for a reason to pick him up.”

  “Guilt – he felt responsible for what happened to Justin, I’m sure of it.”

  “Guilty enough to just leave his daughters?”

  It was the question that had bothered Singh earlier too and he nodded to acknowledge Li Jun’s point. He’d filled Li Jun in about Jemima and the file and now he added, “It must have something to do with the land deal.”

  He retrieved a serviette, carefully cut in half by the owner to double the available quantity, and wiped his mouth. The red chilli looked like bloodstains against the white and the seasoned policeman felt suddenly nauseous. He wasn’t sure whether it was the general presence of death, or the sure and certain sensation of someone walking across his grave.

  “There’s one more thing we need from your friend,” said Singh.

  Li Jun raised a sparse questioning eyebrow.

  “Track down the moneylender…find out what he knows about Anthony Tan’s business dealings.”

  ♦

  The camera lights flashed. Fu Xinghua beamed. His boss was centre stage at the press conference but he didn’t mind. He knew that his appearance of deference would go down well with the public. And he towered over Dai Wei, a looming presence that suggested to viewers at home that he was the power behind the throne.

  “I am here to announce that Goh Yuan, former member of the Chongqing central committee was killed resisting arrest this morning.”

  More light bulbs flashing. Questions being shouted by reporters. “What was his crime?”

  “How many suspects have died resisting arrest now?”

  “Are you satisfied with the outcome?”

  “We would obviously prefer that men like Goh Yuan, who betray the public trust to line their own pockets, are tried for their crimes before a court of law. However, Goh was determined to fight his way out. No doubt, he knew that the evidence against him was overwhelming.”

  “Is it true that there was an assassination attempt against Fu Xinghua?”

  Dai Wei stood back and gestured for the deputy chief to answer the question.

  Fu stepped forwards and waited until the hubbub had descended into total silence.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m afraid that Goh Yuan, anticipating this crackdown, had placed a sniper on the roof of his office building. That man had instructions to kill me.”

  “But we are pleased to see that the attempt on your life failed,” said
a sycophant from the China Daily.

  “That’s right,” agreed Fu, offering up a smile. “Fortunately, my men spotted him on time. After a brief struggle, he shot himself rather than face arrest. His name was Jie and he had a criminal record as long as the Yangtze.”

  He paused and looked slowly around the crowded pressroom, making eye contact with individual reporters and looking deep into the various cameras trained on him. “But everyone in Beijing needs to be aware that the fight against criminal activity does not rest with me alone. The police, and our political leaders who have courage and determination such as Deputy Mayor Dai Wei, are like the emperor’s terracotta soldiers. Too many to kill, too many to thwart. We will ensure that no one in China is above the law. So they can try their best to kill me and some day they may succeed, but the fight against black will go on!”

  Fifteen minutes later, he was sitting behind his desk feeling satisfied at a good morning’s work. One potentially troublesome fellow was out of his hair and he’d certainly burnished his reputation with the fighting talk.

  His phone rang and he reached for the receiver.

  “I have some news, sir. Wang Xi is asking around after the professor,” reported the head of the corrections department, in charge of re-education.

  “You mean Wang Xi from the Politburo?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What is his interest?”

  “He did not provide any explanation. Just said he was looking into the matter of the disappearance of Professor Luo.”

  Fu Xinghua leaned back in his chair and made a conscious effort to loosen his grip on the receiver. This was not good information. It never was when the Politburo started sticking its nose into matters. And he was puzzled too. Fu had been aware of Luo’s activities for some time and had never known him to have any contact with senior party members or government officials. He was, as far as Fu knew, unprotected. It made him a brave man in his quest to seek justice for the peasant victims of land grabs, but also a vulnerable one. Fu ran a finger along a line of light coming in through the blinds and forming stripes on his desk. He needed to think, to understand the consequences and advantages. The policeman was a talented amateur chess player and he liked to apply the same approach, thinking forward five or six hypothetical alternative moves, to consider his approach.