A Calamitous Chinese Killing

by Shamini Flint

  “I know you took money, a bribe, from Anthony Tan to approve the land permit.”

  Silence filled the room as completely as the incense from joss sticks. As if to emphasise the accusation, the grandfather clock began to toll the time. It was six in the evening. Singh was sweating profusely despite the cool. He remembered what Li Jun had said – torture and death were not uncommon in Chinese custody. He felt a bead of sweat trickle from under his turban and down his neck.

  “How dare you come here and accuse me of such things? Do you know who I am?”

  “I know exactly who you are. You’re the man with authority to issue planning permissions and you did so for money. So much for your anti-corruption drive, eh? I am sure your constituents, and your enemies, will be interested to know about your crooked activities.”

  “What proof do you have?”

  It was too late for cold feet and caution. “The testimony of Anthony Tan and the moneylender.”

  Dai Wei snorted. “It is nonsense to say that these men might implicate me in your lies because they would implicate themselves as well.”

  “Anthony Tan holds you responsible for the death of his son. And I know that you had that girl, Qing, murdered at the Silk Market as well because she saw you the night of the murder.”

  Even as he said it, he suspected that he’d overreached. Dai Wei’s sudden spontaneous laughter confirmed his fears and caused Singh to take an involuntary step back. “Is this what the Singapore police do? Run around making wild accusations? In China, even the traffic police in the provinces are more competent than you!”

  “It’s the truth,” said Singh, mouth pursed in a stubborn line.

  Dai Wei was still wiping his eyes. “It is a fascinating tale, worthy of a Chinese opera. But now, if you don’t mind, you will leave my house immediately instead of wasting my valuable time with your fables.”

  Singh knew it was time to withdraw as gracefully as possible. Part of him was relieved that he was to be allowed to walk away. He hoped his trembling knees were up to the task.

  “But my advice, Inspector Singh from the Singapore police, is that you catch the first plane out of here tonight. Otherwise, I cannot be responsible for any accidents that befall you. In China, we try to provide a hospitable environment for foreigners, but even our best efforts fall short sometimes, as you very well know.”

  ♦

  Singh made his way back to the Embassy by taxi and in silence. He lit a cigarette and sucked on it as if his life depended on an infusion of nicotine. It didn’t make him feel much better. Dai Wei had been worried, until he’d brought up Qing, and then he’d relaxed and regained his confidence. Why? What had he missed?

  Li Jun was waiting for him at the entrance and he said in a hurried whisper, “The First Secretary is waiting for you. She’s not very happy.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “As you suggested, I described all the elements of the investigation to date except the personal matter regarding her husband and the wife of Dai Wei.”

  Singh exhaled sharply and wished that he was back in Singapore, waiting for his wife to put dinner on the table. He missed the inconsequential abuse about his personal habits and hygiene, the steaming rice, the spicy curries and the cold beer. He’d settle for a dressing down from Superintendent Chen. Even that was better than knowing that he’d placed himself squarely in Dai Wei’s sights and achieved nothing for it. The policeman stubbed out his light with a sneaker-clad foot – the shoes were still pristine white he noted glumly – and lumbered after Li Jun.

  This time the First Secretary did not stand up or walk around the desk. Instead, as the two of them stood across from her, she snapped, “You fools! Do you know what you’ve done?”

  She didn’t even know about the interview with Dai Wei and she was already fuming. That didn’t bode well. Singh knew full well that he was about to be put on a plane, but he hoped she would extend Li Jun any protection she could manage if his involvement in the investigation became known. He really didn’t want to leave his associate within Dai Wei’s reach. Was it possible for Li Jun to ask for asylum? Sadly, Singh didn’t think the Singapore government would risk their relationship with China to protect one man – least of all on the say-so of one of their least favourite cops.

  “We know Dai Wei was involved in Justin’s death,” he insisted. And then added plaintively as he remembered the deputy mayor’s apparently genuine astonishment, “He must have been. All the evidence points that way.” He ticked off his points on stubby fingers, not sure if he was trying to convince the First Secretary or himself. “We know your husband bribed him from the moneylender’s evidence, we can extrapolate that Justin might have found out about it. After all, he was investigating the land deal in question on behalf of Professor Luo. Besides, who has better access to a father and his secrets than a son? Somehow, Dai Wei got wind of it – maybe Justin accused him, maybe Professor Luo did. On the night of Justin’s death, we can guess Qing saw him because her attempt at blackmail led to her death.”

  “If it was Dai Wei, why did Qing wait so long to approach me…and him?”

  “Because she only realised who it was she had seen the night of the murder from the television some time later – we have that information from the aunt.”

  “So let me get this straight. According to your theory, the deputy mayor of Beijing was at the hutong the night Justin was murdered? And Qing saw him there, tried to blackmail him and was killed?”

  Singh nodded. It was an efficient summation in an icy tone and no more than he had outlined to Dai Wei earlier. It still wasn’t clear why Dai Wei had felt obliged to supervise his thugs in person, but no other explanation fitted the available facts.

  “I suppose we should be grateful that you came to me first and haven’t accused Dai Wei of anything,” said the First Secretary. “Otherwise, I’d be looking at a diplomatic scandal, Li Jun would be facing jail and you would be on the next plane.”

  Singh opened his mouth and closed it again.

  Susan Tan rubbed her forehead with her thumb and index figure. She seemed suddenly deflated. “I guess it is not your fault, Inspector Singh. It was too much to ask that someone outside the system, who didn’t know China, could get to the bottom of Justin’s death.”

  “Madam First Secretary?”

  “Yes, Inspector?”

  “I went to see Dai Wei before I came over here.”

  “What?” Susan Tan and Li Jun exclaimed together.

  “I decided to go on my own to try to keep anyone else out of trouble,” he added with an apologetic glance in Li Jun’s direction.

  “What did you say to him?” she asked, her expression one of deep foreboding.

  “I…err, I…accused him of murder,” said Singh. “Both Justin and Qing. And accepting bribes as well,” he added. There was nothing to be gained from not making a clean breast of his transgressions. “Besides,” he added stubbornly, “I still think he was behind the deaths of Justin and Qing.”

  Li Jun leaned against a wall as if his legs were no longer strong enough to hold him upright. Susan Tan stood up for the first time and walked right up to Singh until she was well and truly in his personal space.

  “Do you remember I mentioned that we had an Embassy function the night that Justin was murdered, which went on until the small hours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, just for your information, Dai Wei was a guest at that event. He didn’t leave until late, well after the supposed time of Justin’s death.”

  The fat policeman felt the blood drain from his face and could only hope that his dark skin disguised his shock. By his side, Li Jun uttered a sound like the yelp of a small dog.

  “In other words, Inspector Singh,” she continued, “I can alibi the man, the very important man, you’ve just accused of my son’s murder.”

  Fourteen

  “We have a problem. A policeman from Singapore came to see me. He accused me of accepting money from Anthony Tan for
the hutong development planning permit.”

  Fu Xinghua was pleased that he was at the other end of the phone line so Dai Wei could not see the expression of disgust on his face. The deputy mayor of Beijing was not happy unless he was feathering his nest at every opportunity. And it was turning into a source of real trouble. How much money did Dai Wei need anyway? Or was his wife, whose domestic spending was enough to prop up the economy of a small country, the source of the problem?

  Fu didn’t bother to ask whether the accusation was true but Dai Wei seemed oblivious to this omission. Instead, he demanded, “How did he find out?”

  “The moneylender from whom Tan got the money.”

  “He is not a credible witness – not when it is his word against the famously incorruptible deputy mayor of Beijing.”

  Fu hoped that the sarcasm in his voice was not evident to the other man.

  “There is also Anthony Tan.”

  “Why should he back up such a story? He has as much to lose as you if he was to support such a tale.”

  “There is more to it, I’m afraid.”

  “You must tell me everything if I am to make this problem go away. What else did this policeman say?”

  “He accused me of the murder of Anthony Tan’s son! He says that Tan will be prepared to testify because of that…”

  There was no mistaking the panic in Dai Wei’s voice. And Fu couldn’t blame him. A moneylender from the underworld was not a threat. The businessman husband of a foreign dignitary was another matter entirely.

  Fu Xinghua ran a thumbnail between his front teeth, trying to dislodge a sliver of chicken from his early dinner. The deputy head of the Beijing security bureau ran through his options quickly, all the while wishing his benefactor was less of a fool. Why didn’t he understand that real influence came from power, not money? He made a decision.

  “There’s something you should know,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “There is another reason why Anthony Tan would be pleased to have you out of the way.”

  ♦

  White sheets, white pillowcases, white quilt and a blue turban or at least five yards of blue cloth thrown carelessly over the coverings. Singh dug his nails into his scalp. He’d been metaphorically scratching his head; it felt good to have the physical relief of more direct action. He’d been so sure, and in fact, he was still so sure. The evidence against Dai Wei was circumstantial but credible and consistent. Except for the tiny matter of the alibi that the victim’s mother had provided his suspect. The irony was almost too much to bear. The policeman poked a fork into the remnants of his dinner – he’d ordered everything marked on the menu with three chillies for spiciness but he’d finished his meal dissatisfied. He wouldn’t have given any of the dishes even a single chilli.

  Was there a way round this evidential hurdle? Singh gritted his teeth so hard he thought they might shatter into a thousand pieces of slightly yellowish enamel. It was highly unlikely that Qing would have been able to tie someone like Dai Wei to the crime unless he’d been there, at the scene of the murder, in person. Where else and how else would a factory girl find incriminating material tying a senior political figure to the killing of a foreigner? And there was the incontrovertible fact that she’d been at that hutong the night of Justin’s death visiting her aunt. She must have seen something involving Dai Wei. Which meant the alibi still mattered. And it was airtight.

  Singh lumbered over to the fridge and grabbed a beer. He stuck a finger through the metal clasp and ripped it back, enjoying the fizzing sound of the frothing beer. He hoped the hotel bill was not itemised, he’d hate to have to pay for the beers himself, but he doubted that Superintendent Chen would sign off on alcohol, however much he insisted it lubricated his brain cells. After his efforts that day, accusing the deputy mayor of Beijing of murder, the chief would have some grounds to dispute his assertion anyway. Singh’s index and forefinger twitched; he needed a cigarette but was too lazy to reassemble his turban. And there was no way he was going out without it. He’d feel less exposed naked than without his headgear. The policeman wondered whether to risk a smoke in the room and then decided, with one eye on the smoke detectors, that it wasn’t worth the risk.

  There was only one thing to do really. He assembled his plates and side dishes in a heap and dumped them on a table. He yanked back the covers and clambered into bed, shivering slightly. Even the sheets were icy cold in the vicious air conditioning. Singh slumped back against the stacked pillows and reached for the remote control. He switched between channels in a desultory fashion, hoping for something that would soothe his agitated spirits. A cooking show? Cricket?

  To his irritation, he realised that Dai Wei was on all the local news channels. He was giving some sort of news conference although Singh couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it was about. It must have been earlier in the day because the sun was shining brightly. It had involved some violence because there was a split-screen image of a couple of bodies under sheets. No doubt another episode featuring Dai Wei’s apparent crackdown on organised crime. You had to admire the man’s gall – one hand clenched into a fist on behalf of the people and another reaching into their pockets.

  Singh turned the sound down to silent and watched as Dai Wei played the press like an expert, all smiles, hand gestures and bonhomie. He stood aside after a while and ushered forwards the tall man who had been standing behind him. Singh recognised the dominant figure as Fu Xinghua – Li Jun had pointed him out that night of their duck dinner. Dai Wei’s right-hand man. This man did not waste his time with smiles.

  Instead he stared directly into the camera when he spoke, eyes flashing with passion. He was a convincingly heroic figure, unlike the squat deputy mayor.

  Singh was distracted by his phone. He grabbed it, recognised Li Jun’s number and held it to his ear.

  “Li Jun?”

  “I am just calling to enquire how you are feeling, inspector?”

  “Are you in jail?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m feeling all right.”

  The Chinese man laughed. “You need not be concerned about me, Inspector Singh.”

  “A significant number of people associated with Dai Wei appear to be dead or have disappeared so I think there might be some room to worry.”

  “But he has an alibi for the murder…”

  “Yes,” agreed Singh. “We know he received a bribe though, can’t anything be done about that?”

  “I spoke to Han about this matter. He said that no one would be prepared to proceed with such a charge on the word of the moneylender alone.”

  And despite what he’d told Dai Wei, there was no way in hell that Anthony Tan was going to back up the accusation, not without some evidence that Dai Wei had been involved in the death of his son.

  His attention was caught by the television again. Dai Wei was smiling broadly. “I’m watching Dai Wei on television now and he looks as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Although it must be a recording from before I went over and made a fool of myself.”

  “I saw him on the news earlier,” agreed Li Jun. “There was another attempted arrest this morning but the target was killed. Dai Wei increases his popularity every day with these types of incidents. He is untouchable.”

  “It’s that policeman stealing the limelight now.”

  “Fu Xinghua? Yes, there was an attempt on his life but he survived. The assassin was killed.”

  Singh was tempted to shake his fist at the television but he didn’t have the energy. Suffice to say, these two left a large number of bodies in their wake, many of whom might otherwise have had something interesting to say.

  “Any word on Professor Luo’s whereabouts? He seems the only person who knows something who might actually be alive!”

  “There has been no trace of him so far.”

  “At this rate we’ll never get to the bottom of this,” grumbled Singh.

  “A fat person didn’t become so wit
h just one mouthful,” said Li Jun.

  “Are you calling me fat?”

  “Of course not,” said the other man hastily. “You might have said that Rome was not built in a day.”

  “I’m not sure that applies here in China,” complained the policeman. “Dai Wei and his henchmen seem keen to build Beijing in a day.”

  He noticed that the television was now showing the hutong where Justin had been murdered. “Li Jun, are you near a TV?”

  “I will switch mine on,” said Li Jun, always co-operative.

  “The news channel – isn’t that our hutong? What’s going on?”

  He guessed at almost the same time as Li Jun answered. “They are talking about the planned development.” The screen shifted to a computer mock-up of the proposed shopping mall and Singh watched little pixelated figures marching through shops weighed down with bags.

  “It is sad that so much of Beijing’s history is being lost,” said Li Jun, echoing Singh’s thoughts. Who would have thought he’d feel a pang for those narrow grubby streets?

  As Singh watched, Dai Wei was shown shaking hands with a number of self-important looking men. The Singaporean developers, he guessed. The video was time-stamped the previous afternoon. One of the men provided Dai Wei with a hard hat emblazoned with the company logo. He put in on his head to much enthusiastic applause. And then, no doubt fearing that he looked ridiculous, he took it off and passed it to Fu Xinghua who was as ubiquitous as always. He wondered how the right-hand man felt about being used as a butler cum valet. Knowing Dai Wei, it was probably part of the official job description.

  “Nothing can prevent this development now,” said Li Jun.

  Singh grunted his agreement and reached for the remote. He was about to switch off the television, eager to erase the images of a smug Dai Wei, when he sat bolt upright, eyes gleaming with excitement in the reflected light of the wide screen.

  He reached for his turban with an impatient hand. “Li Jun!” he shouted.

  “What is it, Inspector?”

  “Li Jun! I’m not going to bed. We’ve got work to do.”