A Calamitous Chinese Killing

by Shamini Flint

  “What do you want me to say, sir?” The glorified prison guard sounded afraid, which was no surprise. No official wanted to hear questions from the Politburo, especially when they didn’t have the answers.

  “The truth, of course. Professor Luo was a falun gong member who defied the authorities with a public demonstration of his faith. Does Wang Xi expect us to allow such people to make trouble for us?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What is the status of Luo anyway?”

  “Unfortunately, he was weak and did not survive the attempts to re-educate him about the error of his ways.”

  “That is unfortunate, but maybe it is for the best. Why don’t you return the body to the family and announce the reason for his arrest at the same time? That way we can draw a line under this business. After all, he was an elderly man, it is not surprising that he did not survive.”

  The security chief cleared his throat. “Professor Luo was an organ donor, sir.”

  Fu slammed his open palm on the desk in front of him. “I did not authorise that!”

  “There was an urgent requirement. Also, Professor Luo had been causing a lot of trouble, fomenting rebellion amongst the other detainees.”

  The chief sounded nervous and for good reason. The consequences of crossing Fu were never good. And he had a reputation for biding his time when it came to payback, so underlings never knew when the axe would fall. There were many tales of subordinates who had assumed they had weathered a storm only to find themselves on traffic duty in Ulaan Bator or worse. Much worse.

  Fu Xinghua, however, was of a mind to be reasonable. All things considered, this might be the best outcome. Professor Luo had been arrested for being a falun gong practitioner. There was no suggestion in the records that his detention had anything to do with his investigation of land transactions. Which meant his death was effectively a dead end for those who might seek to follow his trail.

  “You know what to do,” he said.

  “What is that, sir?”

  “Send him home in an urn.”

  Twelve

  “So all roads lead back here,” said Singh.

  They were standing close to the spot where Justin had been killed, heads turning to scan the four narrow lanes that ran off that small central junction. The rewards posters, faded and torn, still adorned the walls.

  “We are assuming that Qing knew something,” said Li Jun, nodding at the posters. “But how do we know she was not just making up a story, hoping to get some of the reward money?”

  “If she’d only approached Susan Tan, I’d agree with you,” said Singh. “But she must have tried to blackmail someone with the information she had. And it was damning enough that whoever it was had her killed. She knew something all right, we can be sure of that.”

  “Something to do with the acquisition of this land?”

  Singh grimaced. “I have no idea.”

  “They told us about it – do you remember? A group of women said that they feared they were going to lose the land to a development project.”

  “Impossible to have known that it was relevant then,” said Singh. Truth be told, impossible to know if it was relevant now.

  “I wish I had paid more attention,” said Li Jun, sucking in his already hollow cheeks.

  It was the mark of a good cop, Singh believed, to feel each mistake personally. It was the mark of a bad cop to wallow in self-pity and not move on and try to correct the error. “Well, we should visit this aunt now and find out if she knows anything,” he said, proving that he himself fell into the latter category.

  Li Jun pointed down one of the streets. “It’s this way.”

  They walked in silence, not hurrying, both policemen trying to puzzle out the implications of everything they knew before adding another layer of complexity from a witness.

  Li Jun stopped in front of an entrance to a small cluttered courtyard and cross-checked the address against the piece of paper in his hand. “This is the place.”

  “I remember it,” remarked Singh. “I think we met the aunt.”

  Li Jun knocked loudly and when there was no answer, crossed the threshold into the courtyard and picked his way through the debris, Singh following in his wake like an ocean liner being guided by a tugboat.

  At the inner entrance to the dwelling, Li Jun shouted, “Hello!” and then rattled on in Mandarin. Singh assumed it was some version of ‘Hello, is there anyone at home?’ After a long silence, they heard the shuffling of feet and the same old woman they had met the last time, stooped over almost double, appeared at the entrance. She was leaning on a cane and Singh didn’t doubt that she would topple forwards without it.

  “Whatever you are selling, I don’t want it,” she grunted.

  Singh smiled at Li Jun’s quickly whispered translation. Old, but with spirit. He’d have to remember that when he was as ancient as this creature. Not that either his wife or his doctor gave him much hope of living to a ripe old age.

  “We visited you last week, Old Aunt,” said Li Jun.

  “And I didn’t want what you were selling then either.”

  “We were not selling anything,” said Li Jun, sounding defensive even in Mandarin. “We were looking for information about that boy who died – who was killed – in this hutong.”

  At this she craned her neck so that she was looking at him like a baby bird in a nest waiting for a worm. “I remember,” she said with satisfaction, as if memory was a triumph, and it probably was at her age. “But I had nothing to tell you then and I still don’t.”

  “We are here about Qing this time,” said Li Jun, reaching out a hand as if he expected the mention of her niece to cause the old woman distress.

  The cataract-filled eyes moistened, but her words were harsh. “Silly girl,” she said.

  “Why do you say that?” asked Singh after Li Jun had translated in some surprise.

  “What was she up to? It must have been boy trouble. And it got her killed!”

  “Is that what you really think?”

  “What else?” Suddenly the wrinkles deepened and darkened. “She was the best of us.” The grief, temporarily hidden in anger but now revealed, cast a shadow across the courtyard. “Prepared to work, to earn a living, to send money home to her feckless parents, to make something of herself…”

  “Tell her we think it might have to do with Justin’s death,” whispered Singh.

  “Old aunt, we think that Qing’s death might have had something to do with that boy – the one who was killed last month.”

  “What are you saying? I don’t understand?” This time the cane wobbled, and Singh took a hurried step forwards. She steadied herself, glared at him and continued, “Why should these two deaths be related? She did not know him.”

  “Qing called the mother of the boy,” explained Li Jun, acting entirely as Singh’s mouthpiece now. “She said she had some information about Justin’s death. She was killed on the way to deliver it. Someone didn’t want her to tell what she knew.”

  “Why would she get involved? It had nothing to do with her.”

  “There was reward money. She believed it might help your family.”

  The old woman turned a full circle and moved with surprising speed back into the house. The two men followed her hurriedly, afraid that she was about to slam the door in their faces. For a moment both were jammed in the doorway like extras from a lowbrow comedy but then they achieved ingress with Singh in the lead. He blinked, trying to adjust his vision to the gloomy interior. It was an effort to control the gag reflex – the place stank of boiled meat. Qing’s aunt lowered herself onto a three-legged stool and turned to face the two men who stood above her like the sharp end of an inquisition.

  “She was always greedy for money,” she acknowledged. “She loved nice things – clothes and shoes. And her parents never stopped nagging her for funds, for her brother, for her village home.”

  “So you’re not surprised that she would have approached the mother of the dead
boy?”

  “Not if she knew something and thought there was money in it.”

  “There are reward posters pasted to the walls outside,” explained Li Jun.

  “That would have been like putting a bone in front of a starving dog.”

  “But what did she know?” demanded Singh. “What did she know about the death of that boy?”

  The old woman faced him for the first time as Li Jun translated his agitated words. “I have no idea,” she replied with complete certainty.

  “She must have said something?” Singh was almost begging.

  “That day – the day she was killed – she was excited.”

  “She only visited on weekends?”

  “Just for the day on Sunday most of the time. And not every weekend. If there was overtime at the factory, she would take it. She was always keen to make a little bit more money. But four weeks ago, when the boy was killed, she stayed the weekend.”

  Singh pondered the information, stroking his beard asif it was a pet cat. Justin had been killed on a Saturday night, or the wee hours of Sunday to be precise – so she must have seen something. At least, they now had evidence placing her within a street of the murder.

  “Did she go out that night? That Saturday night?”

  The brittle shoulders shrugged. “Possibly. I am an old woman and I need my sleep. Do you think it is my job to watch her every movement?”

  “No, of course not,” he replied. “We just want to work out if she could have seen something.”

  “Did she say why she was excited?” asked Li Jun.

  “No, but I guessed it was either a new job or a boy.”

  And it had turned out to be neither.

  “It was nice to see her happy,” volunteered the old woman, hunching her shoulders and appearing even smaller. “She enjoyed her lunch – beef noodle soup. I cooked it especially for her.”

  Singh was touched. The poor old bat showing what affection she could for her niece. He’d bet his bottom dollar she’d nagged the girl about her eating habits, clothes sense and work ethic even while stuffing her with soup. Shades of Mrs Singh really.

  “If Qing knew something, why did she wait for almost a month before doing anything about it?” asked Li Jun.

  “Maybe she didn’t realise the significance of what she saw?” suggested Singh. “Or maybe she only saw the reward poster at a later date.”

  Li Jun nodded lugubriously to acknowledge that both suggestions were plausible.

  “We need to remember,” said Singh, “that Qing didn’t just see something – she saw someone.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because otherwise she wouldn’t have had the identity of someone to blackmail.”

  “But she’s a factory girl from the provinces – who could she have seen and recognised?” Li Jun sounded unconvinced despite the incontrovertible evidence, that of her murder, that she had tangled with the wrong person.

  “Someone from this hutong?” suggested Singh.

  Li Jun quickly explained their thinking and then asked Qing’s aunt, “Did she know the people around here?”

  The old woman shook her head. “She kept herself to herself when she came to visit. There are not many young people left in this neighbourhood. Besides, no one from around here has money to pay any blackmail. We are all poor folk.”

  Singh looked around the mean residence and knew that she was right. The marks of poverty were everywhere, staining the small residence like the soot from the coal stove.

  She must have seen his quick glance around because she added bitterly, “And even this might be taken away from us soon.”

  “Because of the land acquisition?”

  “Yes, we have just been told by the resident’s organisation that licensing has been awarded for the construction. But they will have to carry me out feet first, I tell you.”

  “Did you know the boy who was killed was trying to help?” asked Singh.

  “What could he do? What can anyone do to stand up to the powerful here in China?”

  “He worked for a Professor Luo from the University of Peking.”

  “I know him,” she said unexpectedly. “He came here and spoke to the residents. A while ago. Before the boy died. He was trying to find out who was behind the project. He showed us pictures. Asked us to identify anyone we had seen around the place.”

  Immediately upon translation of this piece of information, Singh rummaged around his file until he found the photo that Jemima had given him. He held it out to her and she took it in a hand that trembled like the last leaf of autumn in a mild breeze.

  “Do you know any of the people in the photo?”

  She peered at it through rheumy eyes, holding the picture so close it almost brushed her nose.

  “It is hard for me to be sure,” she said, causing the inspector’s heart to sink down to his white trainers.

  “Except for him, of course.”

  ♦

  Han Deqing cornered the moneylender in his lair, a small pawnshop with grilles across all the windows. The possessions of the desperate were laid out in orderly rows in glass cases, mostly watches and gold, but, this being China, a few brushstroke paintings and jade bangles.

  “A visit by the police is bad for business,” complained the moneylender, putting down his newspaper and stubbing out his cigarette in a small ashtray that was already brimming.

  “An arrest by the police will be worse for business,” replied Han.

  At this, the fellow glanced around the shop quickly as if taking a quick inventory of possible illegal activities. “Why are you threatening me, Han? You know I run a legitimate commercial operation.”

  “I know this pawnshop is a cover for your illegal money-lending concern.”

  “If you had evidence, you would have arrested me already – in fact, anytime in the last ten years!”

  “That’s right,” agreed Han. “But maybe I’ve finally grown impatient of waiting for proof to take you into custody.”

  “Everyone knows you are a clean cop.” The man’s wheedling tone stuck in Han’s craw and for a moment he was tempted to drag the man into the station in cuffs and beat some truth out of him. He took a deep breath and waited for the anger to pass. It was not his way and this foul creature was not going to tempt him into compromise. Besides, Li Jun and his friend from Singapore had asked him to ferret out information, not put this fellow in hospital.

  “Even clean cops need something sometime,” he said.

  “You want money?” The moneylender sounded genuinely surprised but also hopeful. The conversation was now within parameters he understood – loans and bribes were his lingua franca.

  “No, I want something more valuable,” said Han. “I want information.”

  ♦

  “Which him?” demanded Singh, ungrammatically.

  “The short fat one with the silly shoes.” At this she glanced over at the Sikh and he wondered whether she’d realised that her description suited him too. She asked suddenly, “Why does this man have a cloth on his head? Is he injured?”

  Li Jun grinned as he quickly translated and then answered, “No, Aunty. He is from Singapore and the turban is part of his culture.”

  “And you told Professor Luo that you had seen this man?” Singh was like a dog with a bone.

  “Yes, he had a picture of him too.” She rose to her feet as slowly as a plant growing towards light. She rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a small head shot and passed it to Singh. “He said that he was not surprised that this man was involved.”

  Singh pondered her identification – Dai Wei. A short man in silly shoes, who had the power to dispossess people of their land. And Luo had known about his involvement. Which meant Justin had as well. But they would have known anyway from the photos and research – it was not news that Dai Wei was involved. After all, he was the deputy mayor of Beijing. All they had discovered was that this old woman knew that too. Which raised the critical question.

 
Singh said slowly and carefully and listened to Li Jun adopt the same pedantic tone in translation, “Did you show Qing this picture?” He held up the one that she had produced of Dai Wei, the one that Professor Luo had left with her.

  “No, why should I? This was not her property. What do the young care about the troubles of the old?”

  Singh rocked back on his heels. He’d been so sure that Qing had somehow tied Dai Wei to the murder. Seen something, heard something, and then been in a position to identify him because the aunt had shown her the picture. He took a deep breath and got another whiff from the entrails boiling on the stove.

  “So there was no way that Qing knew about Dai Wei?” he asked.

  “Is that his name? I couldn’t remember, although I see him on television sometimes singing old Mao songs as if those were good times.” She spat on the floor and Singh leaped out of the way with the agility of a much younger man. “My family starved to death because of Mao and his stupid policies, but now they are trying to make him a hero again.”

  She was lost in angry memories and Singh cleared his throat and tried again. “So Qing did not know Dai Wei by sight?”

  Li Jun translated at increased volume, trying to recall the old woman from her contemplation of the past.

  “Why are you shouting at me? Do you think just because I am old and stooped that I am also deaf?”

  No one responded. Singh hoped for the sake of justice that it never became necessary to put this grouchy old thing on a witness stand.

  Having cowed them all into silence, she said, “The night before Qing died, we were watching television.” She gestured to an old square box with two antennae on the top. Flat screens hadn’t reached this hutong yet. “The fellow, Dai Wei, was on the news talking about some crackdown on black.” She snorted. “Crackdown on black? When he is the biggest crook?” She looked as if she was going to spit again and Singh retreated warily.

  “I saw the same news programme,” said Li Jun.