A Calamitous Chinese Killing

by Shamini Flint

  “I said to Qing, ‘That is the man who wants to destroy my home.’”

  “What was her response?” asked Singh.

  “She said, ‘Not to worry, Old Aunt – kind deeds pay rich dividends, evil is repaid with evil’.” As if the thin strands of information had finally knotted into a rope, she turned to stare at them in turn. “You think this man, Dai Wei, had something to do with her death?”

  Thirteen

  “You see – it must have been Dai Wei. Qing saw him that night and she tried to blackmail him and he had her killed. This is not a good development. He is a very powerful man.”

  Singh sat in the back of the car and felt the back of his shirt stick to the seat with perspiration. The air conditioning hadn’t done enough to cool the car yet. He ignored Li Jun’s conclusions. He was grateful to be away from the old woman and her claustrophobic home. And she had certainly given them information to ponder – but he wasn’t prepared to leap to conclusions. It was not what fat people did. Leaping to anything was just not their forte. “There are a lot of gaps,” insisted Singh, determined to be contrary.

  “What gaps?” demanded Li Jun, turning sideways so that he could catch Singh’s eye. “You should be happy – you’ve solved the murder, although I am not sure how we will catch the murderer.”

  The fat policeman glared at his sidekick. He was definitely placing the cart before the horse or the bullock or whatever the Chinese equivalent was.

  “What’s the motive?” he demanded.

  “Qing saw him at the crime scene.”

  “We don’t know that. If he outsourced the job of killing Justin to a bunch of thugs, why was he hanging around the crime scene?”

  “To make sure the task was completed?”

  “But, more importantly,” continued Singh, “what’s the motive for Dai Wei, deputy mayor of Beijing, to kill Justin Tan?”

  “Justin knew something…”

  “What?”

  “Something about the land deal.”

  “But according to you, such land grabs are common. Dai Wei has authority to issue permits if he wants to, he’s well know for supporting the development of Beijing into a modern city – why kill anyone? This situation is no different from all the others that Professor Luo writes about.”

  He’d given the enthusiast a pause for thought, noted Singh. It was time to throw him a bone. “Unless Justin found out something that was specific to this transaction and to Dai Wei – something that took it out of the norm.”

  “What sort of thing?” Li Jun was cautious now.

  “What would get a man like Dai Wei into trouble?”

  “Well, he’s famous for his crackdown on corruption and his revival of Mao worship,” said Li Jun. “He’s very ambitious so he has enemies who fear his rise to power and his populist streak. I have heard that even the Politburo members are afraid of him.”

  “There must be more…I don’t see how any of that can have involved Justin.”

  “There are many who insist that Dai Wei is as corrupt as those he targets, but there is no proof.”

  “I’ve got it!” said Singh, smacking his hands together in triumph.

  The face turned to him was hopeful. It made a change not to be confronted with Superintendent Chen’s incredulity.

  “Anthony Tan took a loan from a moneylender. What could he have needed it for?”

  Li Jun raised both shoulders to communicate his ignorance.

  “What if it was a bribe for Dai Wei?” suggested Singh. “To get the planning permission.”

  A slow grin spread over Li Jun’s face, creasing his cheeks like old parchment.

  “Evidence of such an inducement would be seized upon by Dai’s enemies as a means to undermine him, maybe even remove him from office. It would be a good motive for a killing.”

  “But what’s the evidence of money changing hands?” demanded Singh rhetorically. “It is possible, I suppose, that Justin found out something – maybe linking his father to the payment of a bribe. He might have seen something or heard something.”

  “So what should we do?” asked Li Jun.

  “We should not forget our other suspects,” pointed out Singh. “There’s Wang Zhen – who might have killed the boyfriend in a fit of jealousy.”

  “Or to persuade Dao Ming to return to him,” agreed Li Jun. “But you said that you didn’t think he’d done it.”

  Singh cast his mind back to their interaction with the high cadre child. “I still doubt that he was behind Justin’s death. He’d have assumed that his wealth and status would have won him the girl in the end. I’m sure his plan to have Justin beaten up in a public place was just a warning…with a bit of revenge thrown in. Besides, how would Qing have identified him as someone to blackmail? He’s not a public figure – what are the odds?”

  “One in a billion?” responded Li Jun, provoking a grin from the fat man.

  “There’s Professor Luo, who felt sufficiently guilt about something that he went looking for trouble,” continued Singh. “Most likely it was getting Justin involved in his crusade against land acquisitions in the first place, but his act of penance does seem a trifle extreme. Maybe there’s more to it.”

  “And the moneylender was threatening the daughter if Anthony Tan did not pay up – maybe he killed the son first,” added Li Jun.

  “And if Anthony Tan did bribe Dai Wei and Justin found out, he had a motive to kill the boy too.”

  “You think Anthony Tan might have killed his own son?” Li Jun sounded sick to the stomach.

  “I’ve seen worse,” said Singh.

  Li Jun’s phone rang loud and sudden in the quiet interior of the car and he reached for it.

  There followed a rapid conversation in Mandarin. Singh watched the Chinese man’s face for clues but was unrewarded. His foot was tapping with impatience by the time Li Jun finally hung up. “Well?” he demanded.

  “That was my colleague from the police force, Han,” he said. “He went to see the moneylender in question as you requested.”

  “Let me guess, the money was for a bribe?”

  “According to Han, the moneylender was initially reluctant to lend Anthony Tan such a large sum of money without surety. So Anthony told the moneylender that the money was a short-term loan to ‘facilitate’ Dai Wei’s issuance of the planning permission. Anthony Tan would be paid a commission by the Singaporean developers and return the money with interest.”

  “‘Facilitate’?”

  “I think there is not much doubt that it was a bribe.”

  “Not much doubt and not much evidence,” growled Singh.

  “When Anthony Tan did not pay the money back, the moneylender threatened him and Jemima.”

  “And murdered Justin before that?” suggested Singh. His life would be made much easier if the murderer was a known criminal rather than a Beijing bigwig.

  “Han says the moneylender denies any involvement in the murder of Justin and he believes him. It is not consistent with his methods to murder – not at first. Only after threats, broken bones and destroyed property.”

  Singh acknowledged the point with a nod. Moneylenders who murdered people as a first rather than a last resort soon ran out of customers.

  “Also,” said Li Jun importantly, “Anthony Tan repaid every penny this morning.”

  “The old woman did say that the planning permit had just come through,” said Singh.

  “I wonder why there was a delay in the first place?”

  “The investigation by Luo and Justin might have caused Dai Wei to hesitate,” said Singh. It was a reasonable hypothesis. The deputy mayor had probably been reluctant to hand out a controversial licence when there was trouble about. But once Justin was dead and Luo incarcerated, he had felt confident to proceed.

  Singh ran a tongue over his teeth and made an annoyed clucking sound. “Even if Dai Wei is involved, from what I’ve seen of China so far, that will not be the end, not even the beginning of the end, but perhaps the end of the b
eginning.”

  “Mao?” asked Benson, who had been listening avidly from the front.

  “Churchill,” said Singh and Li Jun in unison.

  ♦

  “How is the investigation going?”

  Han stood to attention in the other man’s large and well-lit office and wondered why he had attracted the notice of the deputy chief of the security bureau, Fu Xinghua. It was not a good sign, he decided. It was the first time he had appeared before one of the big guns in a long time, since Li Jun had been forced to resign in fact, and no good ever came of it. Furthermore, this man was Dai Wei’s hatchet man. And according to Li Jun, the deputy mayor was climbing up the suspects chart quicker than a Korean pop song.

  “So far so good,” he said, keeping any inflection that might hint at his fears out of his voice. Despite his best efforts and the cool room, he felt the beads of sweat pop up along his upper lip.

  “Very peculiar incident – a young girl stabbed at the Silk Market. Do you have her identity?”

  “Her name was Qing.”

  “Factory girl?”

  “Yes, from Hunan province.”

  “Any leads?”

  “We have found an aunt who lives in a hutong. I have not had an opportunity to interview her yet.” This was probably no time to tell Fu that he’d outsourced the job to a Singaporean policeman and a Chinese copper who had resigned in disgrace. Or that, according to Li Jun with whom he had just got off the phone, the aunt had implicated Dai Wei in the killing.

  “So what do you think – a jealous boyfriend?”

  “That seems the most likely scenario,” he agreed, perhaps too quickly. The largest window in the room was directly behind the senior man and the bright light cast his face in shadows. Despite that, Han could feel the intensity of his gaze, like a predator in the undergrowth sizing up the weakest member of a herd.

  “Have you written up a report yet?”

  “No, sir. I haven’t made much progress yet, you see.”

  “That strikes me as quite puzzling – you have a reputation for being a diligent policeman.”

  Han did his best not to fidget but it was difficult. His wide-spaced eyes, almost birdlike, focused on the deputy chief as he tried to decide on the best response – treat the remark as a compliment and ignore the undertow?

  “In fact,” said Fu, getting to his feet and walking round the desk briskly, until he was eyeball to eyeball with Han, “I have taken a personal interest in this case.”

  “And why is that, sir?”

  “Can’t have our young girls feeling unsafe in this great city, can we?”

  Han Deqing nodded vigorously as if the safety of factory girls was a well-known police preoccupation. It seemed to him that Fu had summoned him on a fishing expedition. Maybe he was trying to find out if Dai Wei had been implicated in any way. Perhaps he was debating whether to hand over the Qing investigation to another Politburo member’s idiot son so that cold trails led only to dead ends. Li Jun popped into his head, expression mournful rather than accusing. Han had always known that the rebellious streak he shared with Li Jun would get him into trouble one day. He’d dodged a bullet on more than one occasion but now the lifeless corpse on the pizza restaurant table demanded action from him – and courage. It was time to do a little fishing himself.

  “In fact, I do have a few thoughts,” he said.

  “And what are they?”

  “Firstly, Qing’s death was connected to the murder of that Singaporean boy last month. She was on the way to sell her information to the mother when she was murdered.”

  “That is interesting if rather far-fetched. What could a greedy tramp from the provinces know about such a thing?”

  “She must have witnessed something – her aunt, the one I mentioned, lives at the hutong where Justin Tan was killed.”

  “That is interesting…”

  “Further, she must have approached someone other than the boy’s mother, most likely the killer, hoping to blackmail him. Like all these girls, money was tight and she could not resist the temptation.”

  “And?”

  “And whoever that person was had her murdered before she could speak of what she knew or had seen.”

  “That is a fascinating theory,” said Fu, placing both his palms face down on the desk. “If you are right,” he continued, “it is doubly unfortunate for your investigation.”

  “Why do you say that, sir?” asked Han, meeting his superior’s eyes with as much courage as he could muster.

  “Because none keep their secrets as well as the dead.”

  ♦

  “You’d better go back to the Embassy with Benson and brief the First Secretary.”

  “What should I tell her?” asked Li Jun.

  That was a good question, decided Singh. Was it still possible to protect Susan Tan from the worst of their discoveries? Did she need to know that her husband was having an affair with the wife of the deputy mayor of Beijing? Was it necessary to tell her that Anthony’s bribe to Dai Wei was probably at the root of Justin’s murder? He thought of the First Secretary, greeting him in front of her desk with the firm handshake and later, her shoulders shaking as she cradled Qing’s body at the Silk Market. Was it really his decision or duty to protect her or should he rely on the courage and resilience she’d shown to date and trust her with the facts?

  Singh’s thoughts turned to Jemima. She too had done the best she could for her brother, even to the extent of implicating her own father in the land deal that might have played a part in Justin’s death. Her mother deserved to know that both her children had determination and moral strength – a strength they must have inherited from her if their father’s track record was anything to go by.

  “Inspector?”

  “Tell her everything we’ve found out so far,” said Singh. “She has a right to know.” He paused for a moment. “Except about the affair – that has no bearing on the case as far as I can see.”

  “Very well,” agreed Li Jun. “It shall be as you say. What will you do in the meantime?”

  Singh glared at the man. Since when did he have to explain himself to sidekicks?

  “I will return to the hotel – I need to think. Murders are not solved with legwork alone, you know.”

  If Li Jun was unconvinced, he didn’t show it. Instead, they set out together and in a few minutes were dropping Singh at the lobby entrance.

  “Are you sure you don’t need the car,” asked Li Jun as Singh clambered out with difficulty.

  “No,” said the inspector and raised a hand in farewell.

  He waited for a few minutes until the car had turned the corner and then, instead of sauntering inside and in the general direction of the restaurants, Singh immediately flagged; down a taxi. He was determined on his next course of action – the time had come for confrontation. He explained to the doorman where he was going and waited while the destination was translated for the driver.

  In twenty minutes, the taxi drew up outside a large mansion. Why was it that when he was in no hurry the traffic cleared as if by magic and he reached his destination in the shortest possible time? The policeman climbed out of the taxi and watched it speed away. The late afternoon sunshine caused him to squint against the glare that originated low on the horizon. He stopped to admire the grey walls embossed with reliefs derived from Chinese mythology and guarded by squat stone lions at regular intervals. The doors and windows, too numerous to count, were picked out in red and gold. It looked more like a palace than a home.

  Taking a deep breath, Singh strode towards the front door. He’d sent Li Jun away because his present mission was fraught with danger. He knew Li Jun would have insisted on coming along if he’d told him his plans and it just wasn’t worth the risk for a native Chinese, entirely susceptible to the machinations of the state. But he, Singh, was a foreigner. What was the worst that could happen to him?

  Re-education through labour? suggested the voice in his mind.

  “I’m sure
they’ll just deport me,” he retorted out loud, more in hope than in faith.

  It took some persuasion on Singh’s part before a servant agreed to summon the boss. The policeman suspected that the underling had beat a retreat largely because he’d been so taken aback by the appearance of his visitor. Swarthy, turbaned men with excessive facial hair clearly didn’t drop in that often. Mostly likely the fellow had assumed he was some sort of foreign potentate with a personal harem and a fleet of Bentleys.

  Singh kicked his heels in a waiting room, choosing not to sit on the square rosewood chairs that rested on rich carpets. The walls were covered in fine art, artfully framed, vases sat in lighted alcoves and slightly more peculiarly, a grandfather clock complete with swinging gold pendulum stood tall in a corner. He didn’t have long to wait. The deputy mayor of Beijing traipsed in, still wearing his fine suit and platform shoes.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” The accent was pronounced but the meaning was clear. There was going to be no time for niceties.

  “My name in Inspector Singh and I’m from the Singapore police. I was asked to look into the murder of the son of the First Secretary of the Embassy of Singapore, here in Beijing.”

  “I remember,” said Dai Wei. “He was killed by some thugs in a hutong. Not good for the reputation of China. I ordered a full investigation.” He looked Singh up and down as if puzzled by his appearance. “So I do not see why you are involved?”

  “The hutong where he was killed has just been designated for redevelopment – by you.”

  “So?”

  “The boy who was killed and his professor were investigating the transaction…representing the residents who did not want to move.”

  Dai Wei shrugged and his silk suit shimmered. “Anthony Tan did say something to me about that. Whatever the project and wherever it is, the residents never want to move, but China’s progress cannot be held hostage to individuals.”

  The conversation was not going as Singh had intended. Dai Wei was brusque but he wasn’t defensive. Was it because he was so convinced of his immunity from trouble that he could afford to relax? It was time to light a fire.