The Hungry Ghost Murder

by Chris West

  ‘The loan details hadn’t been finalized?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. I don’t know.’ Yao grinned. ‘There’s still a great deal to do.’ The old man looked pained.

  Bao changed the subject. ‘Tell me – were the items stolen from the Party Secretary’s house valuable?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘But Secretary Wu was a wealthy man, wasn’t he?’

  ‘No!’ Yao added a vigorous shake of his head. ‘His family were poor peasants. Like mine. And yours, Bao Zheng. Wu Changyan never amassed wealth.’

  ‘He had a fine villa.’

  ‘He had the use of a fine villa. The house is the property of the Party.’

  ‘Ah.’ Bao paused for thought. ‘But his art collection … ’

  ‘He bought that years ago. It was cheap once. I don’t know if it is valuable now. I was never able to satisfy myself that art dating from the pre-Revolutionary era was entirely free of unwholesome influence. It seems I was right in a way.’

  ‘So Wu Changyan was not a rich man?’

  ‘I’ve said. He was a true Communist. Such a man does not desire wealth.’

  Bao nodded. Give or take the odd silk pillowcase, rosewood cabinet and work of art, Bao had a feeling the deputy was right. Secretary Wu had not used his office for personal gain. But had he been planning to do so in the future? Old age can make one think about money in a way you can often despise when younger.

  Somehow that still felt wrong. Try another tack. ‘Have there been any thoughts as to who might succeed him?’

  ‘That’s for the regional Party to decide.’

  ‘Would you accept the job?’

  ‘It should go to a younger person.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Yao looked a little flustered. ‘It’s not for me to say.’

  ‘You have some influence on the decision, surely. How about Secretary Wu’s son?’

  That vigorous headshake again. ‘The successful candidate should have a history of Party activism. I’m afraid Wu Weidong does not. He’s not … the sort of man for this job. Do you know him?’

  ‘No. I’d like to meet him.’

  Yao frowned. ‘You’ll do so on Sunday, at the Memorial Meeting. You and your wife have received invitations, I take it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Aiya! Bao Jingfu’s son and daughter-in-law, not invited! You are invited. By me, now. I’ll tell, er, the young man outside to organize it.’ Yao wrung his hands. ‘It’s all been set up in rather a hurry, I’m afraid. Wu Changyan was in such good health.’ The old deputy sighed, then looked up at his visitor. ‘May I ask you to compose a short tribute to read out? As a distinguished guest? Your father would have wanted that, I’m sure.’

  Bao couldn’t help smiling at the irony of this.

  ‘I’d be delighted,’ he said.

  *

  Mrs Li had a number for the hospital at Wentai. After several attempts, Bao got connected; after various false routings on its internal system, he found himself through to the Pathology Department.

  ‘Chen here. To whom am I talking?’

  ‘Bao Zheng, Inspector, CID.’

  ‘Oh,’ came the disinterested reply.

  ‘Qianmen East Street, Beijing,’ Bao added.

  ‘How can I help you, Inspector?’

  ‘I want to know about Wu Changyan, the Party official murdered in Nanping village.’

  ‘Of course. First, I must say that we operate under difficult conditions here. Space, time and financial resources are all limited. Nevertheless, my colleagues and I have carried out a post mortem examination of the body this very afternoon, with great thoroughness. The report is at this moment being typed.’

  ‘Can you fetch it and read it to me?’

  ‘Fetch? Is it really … ?’

  ‘Such an action would be helpful to the investigation.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector.’

  *

  There was nothing startling. Wu had died from one blow from a blunt object, some time between nine and eleven on Wednesday evening. He hadn’t been fighting: there were no other wounds. The attacker was probably right-handed.

  ‘What instructions have you received about the burial of the body?’ Bao asked at the end.

  ‘The usual. Cremation. On Monday, I think.’

  ‘This is a murder case!’

  ‘We lack the facilities here to preserve bodies indefinitely. No doubt things are different in the capital. As a result, we are most diligent in post mortem examinations. If you wish to view the body yourself, you are most welcome to do so, Inspector.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Bao, hoping he was right.

  8

  The Memorial Meeting for Party Secretary Wu Changyan was held in the main hall at Nanping Party HQ. The barrack-like room had seen many such meetings – including one for Bao Jingfu three decades ago. The ceremony hadn’t changed much since then. There would be a series of speeches, listened to in deferential silence by mourners in carefully planned rows (cadres at the front, other Party members in the middle, anyone else at the back), then a meal at a separate venue, traditionally simple and vegetarian but nowadays as ostentatious as the deceased’s family could make it.

  Bao, near the front, stood with his body at attention, used to the position from his Army days and well prepared for the long wait before anything happened. His eyes were free to roam, and he began reading the slogans on the traditional paper wreaths, some several feet across, that hung round the walls.

  ‘Eager for the Public Good!’

  ‘A Red Heart, Always Loyal to the Party!’

  ‘Strong as Steel, Just, Impervious to Flattery!’

  He sighed at the formality of these expressions. Then memories came back of a time when exactly similar words had filled his grief-stricken heart with almost unbearable pride. In 1965, he had stood here and read them about his own father. He had made a promise to that man’s spirit, to live and die for China and for Socialism.

  Had he kept it? He’d tried, that was sure.

  Was it still worth keeping?

  He frowned at this intrusive thought. Of course it was.

  A noise like a typhoon announced that Deputy Yao was trying out the microphone by blowing into it. It began to whistle. The old man gave it an icy stare, and this, together with some knob-twiddling from Assistant Xia at the back of the hall, reduced it to obedience. The deputy began to speak.

  ‘Long live the Party! Long live the People! That was the motto of Wu Changyan, a man whose life bears comparison with that of the soldier Lei Feng … ’

  Bao felt a moment of fury, then amusement. Mediocre officials in Beijing repeated standard eulogies, why shouldn’t they in Nanping? As the squadrons of isms marched past in exactly the same battle order as they had at the banquet, Bao’s thoughts went back to 1965 again. This time, he thought of Ming standing beside him, and the respect he had once felt for his elder brother. He, Zheng, might have been physically stronger, but Ming had had a mental energy about him, a curiosity. What had happened to it?

  Deputy Yao finished his speech and returned to a small family group: his wife; a middle-aged man who was probably his son or son-in-law; and an earnest-looking teenage boy. Bao wondered if Yao didn’t have dynastic hopes for his own family. Worth killing for? It didn’t feel likely, but he got very little sense of anything from the old man who was now Acting Secretary. Yao would have military experience. He was old, but capable of lifting a bust of Marx. As a veteran political campaigner, the deputy would be capable of attending an occasion like this and showing no feelings, whatever his role in his former superior’s death might have been.

  A representative from Party HQ in Jinan followed. This would be the keynote speech. In the Mao era, just as in Imperial China, its contents would have determined the fate of Wu Changyan’s family, even to the point of life or death. Now it would be reported in full in the local press, and excerpts would be copied on to scrolls and given to the principal mourners.


  The words flowed. Wu Changyan had served the Party from his earliest youth. He had served the People even in the dark days of the Cultural Revolution. When the call to modernize China had come, he had grasped the opportunity with both hands …

  The inspector’s gaze left the owl-like official for the people who shared the podium with him. Family members traditionally stood to the right of the microphone. Wu Weidong looked very like his father. His suit was black and shiny with big lapels, the latest fashion. His face was expressionless, as befitted the formality of the occasion. To one side of him stood a dumpy bespectacled woman, probably in her late fifties, wearing a white nylon coat and skirt, popsocks and flat shoes. To the other was a much younger female of striking but unsubtle beauty, in make-up, high heels and a short dress that did not befit the occasion at all.

  The man from Jinan wound up his speech and retired to his position to the left of the mike, the place of honour. Yao announced the next speaker: Wu Weidong. There was a frisson of interest as the murdered man’s son stepped forward and stooped to take the microphone in his big right hand.

  ‘My father was a keen advocate of reform,’ he began. ‘He understood the value of hard work, that it should be rewarded. “To grow rich through labour,” he would say, “is honourable.”’

  Weidong’s speech, while correct and respectful, lacked emotion. Maybe he and his father had not got on as well as sentimental observers like Mrs Ou thought. Or maybe Weidong was good at playing the official game.

  Light refreshments followed, during which the young man wandered round the tables, accepting condolences from the guests and thanking them for coming. The woman in the short dress followed him, looking bored.

  When Weidong reached Bao’s table, the inspector stood up and introduced himself. ‘Bao Zheng, from Beijing. And this is my wife, Lin Xiangyu. My father was a close colleague of Wu Changyan.’

  ‘I remember him, I think. When I was small. Uncle Bao.’

  Bao nodded.

  The woman gave Weidong a dig in the ribs.

  ‘Oh, and this is my partner, Francine.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ said Bao.

  ‘You’re from Beijing?’ said Francine. ‘Nice. Of course, I’ve always thought Shanghai was more exciting. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘I’ve not been there often enough to know,’ Bao replied. ‘My work keeps me in Beijing. I’m a police detective.’

  ‘Oh. Are you … helping with the case?’ Weidong asked.

  ‘Only briefly, I’m afraid. The matter is in excellent hands,’ Bao added, indicating Station Chief Huang.

  ‘You think he’s good?’ asked Weidong.

  ‘Oh, yes. He’ll catch the killer, I’ve no doubt of that.’

  Weidong grinned. ‘Let’s hope so. Excuse me, there are so many people here I have to talk to.’

  He walked off, with his wife clicking after him. Bao watched them go.

  ‘Did you say you’re a detective?’ said a voice behind him.

  Bao turned round, to find himself face to face with the older woman who had been on the stage. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘I’m Changyan’s sister.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Are you looking into the case?’

  ‘I’m only providing a little assistance. Station Chief Huang Guo is the man in charge.’

  The woman gave a kind of snort. ‘He’s a fool. He won’t discover anything.’

  ‘I … ’ Bao began to search for words to defend the local man, then decided to change tack. ‘Do you have any thoughts on the matter? Did your brother have enemies?’

  ‘No. Everyone in this area admired his work.’

  ‘And outside this area?’

  She looked puzzled. ‘Only his ex-wife. Disgraceful that she wasn’t here. Disgraceful.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Out west somewhere. We don’t keep in touch.’

  Bao nodded. ‘Your brother liked art, didn’t he?’

  ‘Not especially,’ said the woman. ‘We’re those old paintings in his house valuable?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Bao replied. ‘They seemed nice, but I only saw them briefly, and anyway, I’m not an art expert. I was hoping you’d know something about them.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think they were that special. Do you think that’s why he was killed?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Bao said again.

  ‘You don’t seem to know much,’ said the woman. ‘He was a good man, my brother. The authorities should put someone on the case who knows what they are doing.’

  She walked off.

  *

  It was pleasant to be in the open air after the stuffy environment of the event. Bao and Rosina declined an offer of transport back to the guesthouse. ‘We like the fresh air,’ Bao said. ‘It’s quite a rarity in Beijing.’

  ‘Weidong looked really spooked when you said you were a detective,’ Rosina said.

  ‘I know. I think there was tension between him and his father. That doesn’t mean he’s a killer, though.”

  The blue Toyota was parked in the HQ courtyard. Bao walked over and took a look at it. The interior was clean, and, apart from some fashion magazines strewn across the back seat, tidy.

  ‘Twenty thousand kilometres!’ said Rosina.

  ‘It’ll have been round the clock,’ Bao replied, running his finger round the wheel-arches. He pressed down on the wing and it gave a creak. ‘At least once. But still. Owning a car … ’

  Rosina nodded. She had always dreamt of doing that, though cars were of less and less use in Beijing, as traffic jams were beginning to get ever more common. But for family outings to the Great Wall or the Summer Palace … Such dreams were, of course, only that for middling people like her and her husband. There was a perfectly good public transport system – and they both had bikes, of course. ‘So he’s a criminal?’

  ‘He might be a legitimate businessman,’ Bao replied. ‘Or maybe not so legitimate. Or … Someone’s coming. Just walk away.’

  ‘Yes, that does belong to Wu Weidong.’ Station Chief Huang emerged out of the darkness.

  Bao nodded casually. ‘I thought so.’

  ‘He’s in a delicate state at the moment. I don’t intend to question him about his father’s death, and I ask you to show the same respect for the bereaved, please.’

  ‘He has to be a suspect,’ Bao protested. ‘You said yourself that there was a small number of people who were likely to be visiting Secretary Wu late at night – ’

  ‘I have clear evidence of a robbery. That is the line we are following.’ The chief looked Bao in the eye. ‘For your information, I’ve talked to the night guard at Party HQ and to several late-night noodle vendors in the main street. Nobody saw a blue Toyota the evening of the murder.’

  Bao nodded. ‘So Weidong is a big noise in Jinan?’

  ‘Not big, but … there’s more money in the city than out here. He is not on my list of suspects. Please respect that.’

  ‘I shall,’ said Bao reluctantly.

  *

  ‘So you’re just going to do what that stupid station chief says?’ said Rosina, once they were a decent distance from the HQ.

  ‘It’s not my case.’

  ‘But the son has to be an obvious suspect.’

  ‘You were the one who was keen on my not getting involved in local matters!’ Bao laughed.

  Rosina took his hand. For a moment Bao wondered what the people of Nanping would make of this, then thought ‘to hell with them’, then felt bad about thinking this but didn’t let go.

  They reached North Square. Lao Wang was sitting on the old millstone again. This time he didn’t hobble away, but fixed Bao with a stare.

  ‘So you’re Bao Zheng, then?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  The old man grinned. He had one tooth. ‘Not a ghost.’

  ‘No. Why might you think I’m a ghost?’

  ‘You look so like your father. I thought he’d come back to kno
ck some sense into that brother of yours.’

  ‘No,’ Bao said sadly. ‘You didn’t see a blue car drive past on Wednesday evening, did you?’

  ‘Days don’t mean that much to me.’

  ‘Have you seen such a car recently?’

  ‘Cars don’t mean much to me either.’ Lao Wang took another drag on his pipe. ‘You going to catch the murderer then?’

  ‘I think that’s a job for the local – ’

  ‘Him!’ The old man gave a cackle. ‘Secretary Wu will be back, anyway. We can ask him. They’re all coming now, Bao Zheng. The ghosts. Especially hungry ones, the ones that can’t rest.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Do you have to ask? All that killing. The Great Famine. That Cultural Revolution business.’

  Bao sighed, then had a bright idea. ‘Any ghosts in particular?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the old man.

  ‘Who?’ Bao asked, suddenly alert and sensing the chance of a fresh lead.

  ‘You!’ The old man gave another cackle then went back to his pipe.

  9

  ‘Young Bao! Good morning!’

  ‘Hello, Chai. How’s Beijing?’

  ‘Polluted. How’s the countryside?’

  ‘Violent. I can’t wait to get back to a nice quiet inner city.’ Bao told the story of Secretary Wu’s murder, then added: ‘I wonder if you could do me a small favour.’

  The man at the other end of the phone laughed. ‘I knew you hadn’t rung just to say hello. What is it?’

  ‘I want to know about someone who lives in Jinan. Wu Weidong, his name is.’

  ‘Wu … Weidong … ’

  Chai was an old colleague of Bao’s. On one particularly long and difficult investigation, they had got drunk together one evening and sworn brotherhood. Next morning, they had looked at each other and simply grinned – the oath could have been unsworn, but neither wanted to. Three months later, Chai had been confined to a wheelchair by a drug trafficker’s bullet. He was now librarian at CID Headquarters, and had access to more information than anyone else Bao knew, partly due to his official position, partly due to his skill with computers.

  ‘Can’t you ask the local force?’ Chai went on.