The Runner (The China Thrillers 5)

by Peter May

  ‘I got that information you wanted from Immigration. About Doctor Fleischer.’ He hesitated, as if waiting to be invited to continue.

  ‘Well?’ Li said irritably.

  Qian sat down opposite him and flipped through his notes. ‘He was first granted an entry visa into China in 1999. It was a one-year business visa with a work permit allowing him to take up a position with a joint-venture Swiss-Chinese chemical company called the Peking Pharmaceutical Corporation. PPC.’ He looked up and chuckled. ‘Dragons and cuckoo clocks.’ But Li wasn’t smiling. Qian turned back to his notes. ‘The visa has been renewed annually and doesn’t come up for renewal again for another six months. He doesn’t seem to be with PPC any more, though.’ He looked up. ‘Which is odd. Because there isn’t any record of who’s employing him now.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, he has two addresses. He rents an apartment on the east side, near the China World Trade Center. And he also has a small country cottage just outside the village of Guanling near the Miyun Reservoir.’ Qian raised his eyebrows. ‘Apparently he owns it.’ Which was unusual in the Middle Kingdom, because land ownership was one of those grey areas which had not yet been sorted out in the new China.

  Li knew the reservoir well. It supplied more than half the city’s water. A huge lake about sixty-five kilometres north-east of Beijing, it was scattered with islets and bays beneath a backdrop of towering mountains still traced with the remains of the Great Wall. He had spent many weekends there during his student days, fishing and swimming. He, along with a handful of close friends, had often taken the bus from Dongzhimen on a summer’s day, packed lunches in their backpacks, and wandered off into the foothills beyond the reservoir to find rock pools large enough to swim in, away from the crowds. On a clear day, from up in the mountains, you could see the capital shimmering in the distant plain. There was a holiday village on the shores of the lake now, and it had become a popular resort for both Chinese and foreign tourists.

  He wondered what on earth Fleischer was doing with a house out there.

  III

  Margaret slipped into Zhongshan Park by the east gate. Through a huge, tiled moongate, she saw snow-laden conifers leaning over the long straight path leading west to the Maxim Pavilion. But she turned south, past ancient gnarled trees and heard the sound of 1930s band music drifting through the park with the snow. It seemed wholly incongruous in this most traditional of Chinese settings.

  Mei Yuan and her mother were not amongst the handful of hardy tai chi practitioners in the forecourt of the Yu Yuan Pavilion. Margaret stood, perplexed for a moment, wondering where else they might be. One of the women recognised her and smiled and pointed in the direction of the Altar of the Five-Coloured Soil.

  As she approached the vast raised concourse that created the boundary for the altar, the sound of band music grew louder. But she couldn’t see where it was coming from because of the wall around it. She climbed half a dozen steps and entered the concourse through one of its four marble gates. A gang of women in blue smocks and white headcovers leaned on their snow scrapers on the fringes of a large crowd of Zhongshan regulars gathered around a couple dancing to the music. Margaret recognised Glenn Miller’s Little Brown Jug, and even from here could see that the couple were gliding across the snow-scraped flagstones like professional ballroom dancers.

  She searched the faces of the onlookers as she drew closer, and spotted Mei Yuan watching intently. But there was no sign of her mother. She eased through the crowd and touched Mei Yuan’s arm. Mei Yuan turned, and her face lit up when she saw her.

  ‘She’s wonderful, isn’t she?’ she said.

  Margaret frowned. ‘Who is?’

  ‘Your mother.’ Mei Yuan nodded towards the dancers, and Margaret saw with a shock that the couple dancing so fluidly through the falling snow comprised an elderly Chinese gentleman and her mother.

  Margaret’s hand flew to her mouth and she couldn’t help exclaiming, ‘My God!’ She watched for a moment or two in stunned disbelief, and then remembered her mother’s fall. ‘What about her leg? She could hardly walk yesterday.’

  Mei Yuan smiled knowingly. ‘It’s amazing what a little sexual frisson can do to aid recovery.’

  Margaret looked at her as if she had two heads. ‘A little what?’

  ‘She’s quite a flirt, your mother.’

  Margaret was shaking her head in disbelief, at a loss for words. ‘My mother!’ was all she could find to say.

  The music came to an end, and the dancers stopped. The crowd burst into spontaneous applause, and the elderly Chinese gentleman bowed to Mrs. Campbell, before heading off to rejoin his friends. Mrs. Campbell hurried over to where Margaret and Mei Yuan were standing. Her face was flushed and animated, eyes brimming with excitement and pleasure. She was also more than a little breathless. ‘Well?’ she said, beaming at them both. ‘How did I do?’

  ‘You were marvellous,’ Mei Yuan said, with genuine admiration.

  ‘I didn’t know you could dance,’ Margaret said.

  Mrs. Campbell raised one eyebrow and cast a withering look over her daughter. ‘There are many things you don’t know about me,’ she said. ‘Children forget that before they were born their parents had lives.’ She caught her breath. ‘I take it the fact that you were out all night is a good sign. Or do I mean bad? I mean, is the wedding off or on? I’d hate to have to go home early. I’m just beginning to enjoy myself.’

  Margaret said, ‘Li is quitting the force. He posted his resignation last night.’

  ‘No!’ Mei Yuan put the back of her hand to her mouth.

  ‘He seemed to think that would make me want to marry him again.’

  ‘And did it?’ her mother asked.

  ‘Of course not. But I can’t win, can I? I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. And I’m damned if I’m going to be either.’

  Mrs. Campbell sighed deeply. ‘Just like her father,’ she said to Mei Yuan. ‘Obstinate to the last.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Margaret said, ‘I’d hate to spoil your fun. Don’t feel you have to go home early on my account. I just stopped by to say I’m going to be busy today.’ She turned to Mei Yuan. ‘If you don’t mind babysitting for a few more hours.’

  ‘Really, Margaret!’ her mother protested.

  But Mei Yuan just smiled and squeezed Margaret’s hand. ‘Of course,’ she said. And then her face darkened, as if a cloud had passed over it. She still held Margaret’s hand. ‘Don’t abandon him now, Margaret. He needs you.’

  Margaret nodded, afraid to catch her mother’s eye, reluctant to show the least sign of vulnerability. ‘I know,’ she said.

  * * *

  The snow was lying thick on the basketball court behind the wire fencing. On a day like this the students were all indoors, and Margaret made the only tracks on the road south from the main campus to the Centre of Material Evidence Determination, where she had carried out her autopsies. Inside, the centre was warm and she pulled off her hat and made her way along the first-floor corridor that led to Professor Yang’s office.

  His secretary smiled and inquired, in her limited English, after the health of Margaret’s baby, and then she knocked on the professor’s door and asked if he would see Doctor Campbell for a few minutes. Of course he would, he said, and Margaret was ushered in to a warm handshake and an invitation to take a seat. Professor Yang was a tall, lugubrious man with large, square, rimless glasses, and a head of very thick, sleekly brushed hair. He was sometimes a little vague, like an original for the absent-minded professor, but that only disguised a mind as sharp as a razor. It would be easy to under-estimate him on first meeting. Quite a number of people had. To their cost. He was an extremely able forensic pathologist in his own right. But it was his political acumen, and administrative skills, which had propelled him into his current position of power as head of the most advanced forensics facility in China. Samples from all over the country were sent to the laboratories here for the most sophisticated analysis. Its staff were regularly posted on attachment
to other facilities around the world, to learn and bring back the latest refinements in DNA testing and radioimmunassay and a host of other laboratory techniques.

  He had a soft spot for Margaret. ‘What can I do for you, my dear?’ His English was almost too perfect, belonging in some ways to another era. The kind of English no one spoke any more. Even in England. He would not have been out of place as a 1950s BBC radio announcer.

  ‘Professor, I have a favour to ask,’ she said.

  ‘Hmmm,’ he smiled. ‘Then I am certain to oblige. I rather enjoy having attractive young ladies in my debt.’

  Margaret couldn’t resist a smile. Professor Yang took the Chinese system of guanxi – a favour given is a debt owed – very literally. ‘I’ve been working with Section Chief Li on the dead athletes case.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ve been following it quite closely. Very interesting.’

  ‘I wonder if you might know anyone with a background in genetics. Someone who might be able to do a little blood analysis for me.’

  Professor Yang looked as if his interest had just increased. ‘As it happens,’ he said, ‘my best friend from school is now Professor of Genetics at Beijing University.’

  ‘Do you think he might be prevailed upon to do me a favour?’

  ‘There is, my dear, a certain matter of some outstanding guanxi between myself and Professor Xu.’ It was odd how this strangely BBC voice became suddenly Chinese in a single word before returning again to the contorted vowels and diphthongs of his old-fashioned English. ‘So, of course, if I ask him, he will do me a favour.’

  ‘And then I will owe you.’

  He beamed. ‘I do so much like having guanxi in the bank.’

  ‘I’ll need to retrieve some of the heart blood I took from the swimmer, Sui Mingshan. There should be enough left.’

  ‘Well, let us go and see, my dear,’ he said, and he stood up and lifted his coat from the stand behind the door. ‘And I shall accompany you to the university myself. I do not get out nearly enough. And I have not seen old Xu in a long time.’

  Along with the blood, Margaret had sent urine, bile, stomach contents and a portion of liver for analysis. There was still a good fifty millilitres of Sui’s blood in the refrigerator available for testing. Margaret drew off most of it into a small glass vial which she sealed and labelled and packed carefully into her purse.

  Professor Yang arranged for a car and driver to take them across town. Ploughs had been out on the Fourth Ring Road, and they made slow but steady progress through the lines of traffic heading north before turning off on the slip road on to Souzhou Street and driving deep into Haidian’s university-land.

  Beijing University, known simply as Beida, sat in splendid snow-covered isolation behind high brick walls, an extraordinary rambling campus of lakes and pavilions and meandering footpaths. Professor Xu’s office was on the second floor of the College of Biogenic Science. He could not have been more different from Professor Yang – short, round, balding, with tiny wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of a very small, upturned nose. Yang always cut an elegant figure in his immaculately pressed dark suits. Xu sported a well-worn, padded, Chinese jacket open over a tee-shirt and baggy corduroy pants. He smoked constantly, and his brown suede shoes were covered in fallen ash.

  The two men shook hands with genuine pleasure and clear enthusiasm. There was an exchange which Margaret did not understand, but which made them both laugh aloud. Xu turned to Margaret. ‘He always more lucky than me, Lao Yang. Always with pretty girl on his arm.’ His English wasn’t as good as Yang’s.

  ‘That’s because I’m so much better looking than you, Professor,’ Yang said. And he turned to Margaret. ‘He was an ugly boy, too.’

  ‘But smarter,’ Xu said, grinning.

  ‘A matter of opinion,’ Yang said sniffily.

  Xu said to Margaret. ‘Lao Yang say you need some help. He owe me so-oo many favour. But I do favour for you.’ And suddenly his smile was replaced by a frown of concentration. ‘You have blood?’

  Margaret took the vial out of her purse. ‘I hope it’s enough. I took it from a young man who was suffering from an unusual heart condition. Hypertrophy of the microvasculature.’ Yang quickly translated this more technical language. Margaret went on. ‘I am wondering if his condition might have been brought about by some kind of genetic disorder.’

  Xu took the vial. ‘Hmmm. Could take some time.’ He held it up to the light.

  ‘We don’t have much time,’ Margaret said. ‘This condition has already killed several people, and may well kill several more.’

  ‘Ah,’ Yang said. He laid the vial on his desk and lit another cigarette. ‘Why you think there is genetic element?’

  ‘To be honest,’ Margaret said, ‘I don’t know that there is.’ She glanced at Yang. ‘I’m making a wild guess, here. That these people might have been subjected to some kind of genetic modification.’

  Yang translated, and Margaret could see that Xu found the suggestion intriguing. He looked at Margaret. ‘Okay, I give it big priority.’

  On the way back in the car, Yang and Margaret sat in silence for some time, watching the traffic and the snow. They were back on the ring road before Yang said to her, ‘You think someone might have been tampering with the DNA of these athletes?’ He, too, was clearly intrigued.

  Margaret looked embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry Professor, I hope I am not wasting your friend’s time. It really is the wildest stab in the dark.’

  * * *

  A police Jeep, windows opaque with condensation, was parked at the front door of the Centre of Material Evidence Determination when Professor Yang’s car pulled in opposite the basketball court. As the professor helped Margaret towards the steps, the doors on each side of the Jeep opened simultaneously, and Li and Sun got out in a cloud of hot, stale cigarette smoke. Margaret turned as Li called her name, and she saw him limping towards her on his stick. At least, she thought, he still appeared to be in a job. She searched his face anxiously as he approached, and saw tension there. But also, to her surprise, lights in his eyes. She knew immediately there had been developments. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked.

  He said, ‘I know why they shaved the athletes’ heads. At least, I think I do. But I need you to prove it.’

  Yang said, ‘Well, let’s not stand here discussing it in the snow, shall we? You had better come along to my office and we’ll have some tea.’

  Li could barely contain himself on the walk along the hall to Yang’s office. Well over half the day had gone already, and his revelation was burning a hole in his brain. Yang told his secretary to make them tea, and swept into his office. Li and Sun and Margaret followed. Yang hung his coat on the stand and said, ‘Well? Are you going to put us out of our misery, Section Chief? Or are you going to stand there dithering until the tea arrives?’

  Li said, ‘It’s the hair. If they were taking drugs there would be a record of it right there on their heads. Even if they managed somehow to get the stuff out of their systems there would still be traces of it in their hair.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Margaret whispered. ‘Of course.’ And now that it was out there in front of her, she wondered why it had not occurred to her before.

  Li said, ‘I’ve already done some research on the Internet.’ And Margaret knew that the hours she had spent schooling him on how to get the best out of a search engine had been worthwhile. He said, ‘I found an article in a forensic medical publication. It seems some French scientists recently published a paper on hair analysis in a test group of bodybuilders. They found that … ’ he fumbled in his pocket for the printout he had taken from the computer. He opened it up, searching for the relevant paragraph. ‘Here it is … that, quote, long-term histories of an individual’s drug use are accessible through hair analysis, whereas urinalysis provides only short-term information. End quote.’ He looked up triumphantly.

  Yang said, ‘But if they all had their heads shaved, how will we ever know?’

  Ma
rgaret said, ‘But they didn’t, did they?’ She turned to Li. ‘The weightlifter who died from the heart attack. He still had his hair.’

  ‘And plenty of it,’ Li said. ‘A ponytail halfway down his back.’

  Margaret looked troubled. ‘The only problem is,’ she said, ‘I have absolutely no expertise in this area.’ She looked to Professor Yang. ‘And I’m not sure if anyone here does.’

  Yang’s secretary knocked and came in with a tray of tall glasses and a flask of hot tea. ‘Ah, good, thank you, my dear,’ said Yang. ‘Ask Doctor Pi to step into my office for a few moments, would you?’ She nodded, set the tray down on his desk and left. The professor started pouring. ‘You know Doctor Pi, don’t you, Margaret?’ he said.

  ‘Head of the forensics laboratory, isn’t he?’

  Yang nodded. ‘Spent some time last year on an exchange trip to the US.’ He smiled. ‘One of my little hobby-horses, exchange trips.’ He started handing full glasses of tea around. ‘I believe Doctor Pi took part in a study in South Florida to ascertain cocaine abuse in pregnant women by performing hair assays.’ He grinned now. ‘You never know when such skills might come in handy.’

  Doctor Pi was a tall, good-looking young man with a slow, laconic manner, and impeccable American English. Yes, he confirmed when he came in, he had taken part in such a study. He sipped his tea and waited expectantly.

  ‘It was successful?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘We found we could reliably look at drug exposure months after it had passed out of the urine or the blood. Anything up to ninety days after. A kind of retrospective window of detection.’

  Li said, ‘If we could provide you with a hair sample would you be able to analyse it for us, open up that retrospective window.’

  ‘Sure. We got facilities here that would let me do a pretty sophisticated radioimmunassay.’

  ‘What kind of sample, exactly, would you need?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘I’d need forty to fifty strands of hair from the vertex of the scalp, cut at scalp level with surgical scissors.’