The Hungry Ghost Murder

by Chris West

  Ma Kai was hustled away and calm descended on the chief’s office.

  ‘He’ll break,’ said Huang.

  ‘I’m sure he will,’ said Bao.

  Huang tapped the file on his desk. ‘We’ll be putting this away, soon.’

  Bao nodded. But would it contain the right verdict? He thought not. But, of course, if he couldn’t come up with the right one himself, that was going to be the one that history recorded.

  ‘I’ll reel him in, just like a fisherman,’ Huang went on. ‘Constable Kong,’ he added, as his junior officer came back into the room. ‘I think this calls for a celebration.’

  Kong went over to a cupboard and took out a bottle and some glasses.

  ‘You’ll join us, inspector?’

  ‘A quick one,’ Bao replied, eager to get on with other things but aware of the rudeness of refusing. ‘I have a lot to do today.’

  Kong went to his desk and cleared some papers to set out the glasses. As he did so, a war comic came into view. Bao found himself staring at it, and the junior man tried to hide the publication away.

  ‘I used to read those, too,’ Bao said quickly, not wishing to embarrass the constable. In his mind he was berating himself. Of course!

  ‘Ganbei!’ he said, when the glasses were handed round. He downed the glass in one. ‘My congratulations, Huang Guo.’

  ‘You’ll stay for a refill or two?’

  ‘I really must be off. I promised my wife I’d show her round the old village today.’

  *

  Bao walked quickly across the fields to the Hu compound and stood outside the door ringing the bell.

  ‘There’s no one in,’ said a passing neighbour.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘that’s a shame. We’ve … had a complaint about rodent infestation, and we’re checking some of the houses here.’

  ‘Teacher Hu is at the school all day, and his wife won’t be back till midday.’

  Bao feigned annoyance. The neighbour walked on.

  When there was nobody around, Bao took out his key-picks, selected the most appropriate one and pushed it into the lock. The tumbrils clicked open, then it was just a matter of turning the handle, and he was inside the compound.

  The door to Hu’s actual living quarters was as easy. Bao went straight into the main room. The pile of comics had disappeared. They weren’t in any drawers, either. Bao checked the dustbin at the back of the house. No comics, but ash, a pair of scissors and a jar of paste.

  He took the last two of out, and placed them in a bag. He would have them sent off for analysis, along with an example of the hate-mail – even though he was sure what the results would be.

  *

  Of course, that didn’t make Teacher Hu a murderer. There were other lines of enquiry Bao had to follow, too. For example …

  Back at the guesthouse, he picked up the phone.

  ‘Sheng He Construction, Zi Yi speaking.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to your managing director, please.’

  ‘Can I ask what it’s about? Mr Li is a very busy man.’

  ‘My name is Inspector Bao Zheng.’

  ‘Hao. He is rather tied up at the moment. Could you call back some time this afternoon?’

  ‘From Qianmen East Street, Beijing.’

  ‘Oh. Can he call you back? In ten minutes?’

  ‘I’ll hold.’

  Very soon, Mr Li was on the phone.

  ‘Ah, the Nanping contract,’ he said. ‘You’re from the police? I’m not surprised. Something very odd has been going on.’ Li explained how well the negotiations had been going. ‘Secretary Wu understood that the job had to be done properly, which is why he asked us to get involved,’ he said. ‘He was a pleasure to deal with. Determined to have the best. But then he suddenly changed his mind.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Oh, a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Ah. How did he inform you? Over the phone?’

  ‘Yes. I offered to send a representative over, but he was adamant. “The circumstances have changed,” that’s all he’d say. I thought it was political – the Secretary had been worried about local opinion. But if you are calling, I guess it must be a corruption case. We encounter a lot of that. We have a strict no-kickback policy – we are seeking to become a global business. Some of our rivals are, let’s say, less scrupulous.’

  After he put the phone down, Bao walked over to the Secretary’s old house. It was time to confront Wu Weidong.

  Even as he approached it, he knew the place was empty. Rosina would call that intuition, and say it was very important. Maybe she was right. He rang the bell. No answer. The car had gone, too. He walked round to the back and peered in through the window. That nice old rosewood cabinet had gone, as well.

  *

  Rosina was getting to know the backstreets of the old village pretty well. She found Tinker’s Alley with no problem, and knocked confidently on the door of Courtyard Four. Ming answered in person, smiling.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, shepherding her into the courtyard. ‘I’ve made some food for you. Just jiaozi, but with lots of different fillings.’

  He showed her into his bedsit, then disappeared into his kitchen. ‘I’ll get some tea, as well.’

  Rosina looked round at the room. It was genuinely tidy – for her, or because Ming had gained some self-respect?

  He was back with a tray, on which were a plate of dumplings, chopsticks and a bowl of vinegar. ‘These are for you. I made them myself. D’you like them?’

  She took one, dipped it in the vinegar and ate. ‘It’s delicious,’ she said.

  ‘Good. Have another.’

  ‘I shall. Mmm. Lovely.’

  ‘Another?’

  ‘In a while.’

  Silence fell. ‘I suppose you want to go on digging into my past,’ Ming said finally.

  ‘If you find it helpful.’

  Ming sighed. ‘Where were we?’

  ‘Talking about ghosts.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. You must think I’m a real hick.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shit-shovellers, they call us in the cities, don’t they?’

  Rosina winced. ‘Some people do.’

  ‘People who believe in ghosts,’ Ming went on.

  Rosina shrugged.

  ‘It wasn’t a real ghost. But she might as well have been. Something sent her. Something bigger than you or me or anyone. And malevolent, vindictive, powerful and all-seeing. That’s either the King of Hell or the Communist Party!’

  Ming laughed at his joke.

  ‘So your ghost was female,’ said Rosina.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ming. ‘And she looked exactly like Xu Yifeng.’

  ‘I see. What did she do to you?’

  ‘Asked questions. About the Cultural Revolution. Over and over again. What did I remember? What did I do? Who with, and to whom?’ He gave a gesture of helplessness. ‘Can you imagine what it felt like? Remembering these things, in her presence. It was a judgement, it had to be. A hellish judgement.’

  Rosina shuddered. The old Buddhist hell was a place where vicious torture was an art. ‘Why did you let her?’

  ‘Lots of reasons. In a funny sort of way, I felt I was paying something back to Yifeng, by helping this woman who looked so like her. Silly, of course – there was no connection.’

  ‘No connection?’

  ‘Her family name was Ping. She was a city woman, not a shit-shoveller. Even the Xus were that really, by Li’s standards.’

  ‘And what were you helping her with by answering all these questions?’

  ‘Academic research. Into economics. At Fudan University. Very grand. She was doing a doctoral thesis comparing economic development in two Shandong villages.’

  ‘Why did she choose to talk to you?’

  ‘She said I was chosen at random off a computer printout. She wanted a cross-section of Nanping society, and I was one of the people it chose from what she called Group Four. Group One is rich, Group Five destitute.’

&nbs
p; ‘And she was nothing to do with the Xu family?’

  ‘I asked her about her home, and she said she lived in Shanghai. Well, you could tell from the accent, all soft and snake-like. But to look at her … ’

  ‘It is a strange coincidence,’ said Rosina.

  Ming shook his head. ‘No coincidence. It was divine judgement.’

  ‘Divine judgement? I thought you disliked all that old stuff.’

  ‘Not the really old stuff. Just all the politics and the carefully doctored version of history that goes with it. The older I get, the more I realize all these years of so-called progress have meant nothing. There are forces all around us that we don’t begin to understand. Spiritual forces, not political ones. Divine, not human. They sent that woman to punish me for my past wickedness.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t mind. It proves a point. My father used to go on about justice. He was right. But he thought men could create it, or destroy it, or administer it, which we can’t. That is the job of Gods. But don’t tell my brother that.’

  *

  Bao and Rosina were on the verandah again, enjoying the view.

  ‘What d’you know about identification?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘A lot,’ he replied.

  ‘Good. You can tell me how accurate it is.’

  ‘By trained or untrained witnesses?’

  ‘Untrained.’

  ‘Appalling. By and large people see what they expect to see, or what they want to see.’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘It depends. In the classic witness situation, where people are simple observers of some incident, expectation is the key factor. If they’re personally involved, emotions tend to take over. Of course, one can’t make a watertight distinction. Prejudice, for example, is a mixture of expectation and emotion. Back home, a large number of crimes reported as being done by big tall Manchurians end up being committed by ordinary-size Beijingers.’

  ‘What about identification of particular individuals?’

  ‘Same story. As long as the perpetrator has one or two traits in common with the individual that witnesses expect or want it to be, they will make up the rest. Especially over time, as memory recycles the incident. Why are you asking?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘That means ‘‘something’’. Is it Ming’s ghost?’

  ‘No!’

  Bao looked at his wife and grimaced. ‘Ming’s ghost was young and female, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Aiya! My mother was right about marrying a policeman.’

  ‘You must tell me the truth, Rosina. I know you’ve told Ming that everything you discuss will be secret, but he is my brother. We’re both committed to helping him. And there could be other ramifications, too.’

  ‘Other?’

  Bao took out his little black book. ‘It makes me furious to think of what Xu Yifeng’s family went through in those days. What would it do to a relative?’

  ‘You two and your teenage crushes! Ming said she was nothing to do with the Xus. She was a city woman, from Shanghai.’

  ‘Hmm. It’s still odd. You must tell me as much as you can.’

  Rosina did so. When she had finished, Bao started making notes in his book. Rosina looked out over the top end of Nanping and realized how much she really did hate this place, with its violence and petty-mindedness.

  16

  Station Chief Huang beamed with pleasure. ‘We’re making good progress. Ma Kai has admitted to the four robberies prior to the murder.’

  Bao tried to hide his reaction.

  ‘We are meeting some resistance on the latter confession, but nothing to be worried about,’ the chief went on. ‘Once people begin to admit their crimes, the battle is over.’

  They often end up confessing to things they haven’t done, Bao thought. ‘He’ll be shot, won’t he?’ he said.

  The chief looked taken aback. ‘Of course! We’re civilized out here. We don’t torture people to death. Even people who kill Party officials.’

  ‘And if he were just guilty of robbery?’

  ‘He isn’t. But if he was, then I guess he’d be in line for reforming.’

  Bao nodded. ‘And he acted alone?’

  ‘Yes. I always thought that was the case.’

  Bao nodded again. ‘I have three favours to ask you.’

  ‘Ask away!’

  The first favour, to be given an example of the hate-mail that Secretary Wu had received, was easy. Huang handed it over.

  So was the second, some information: the chief crossed to a filing cabinet, and began searching through it.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said finally. ‘Ping Li, postgraduate student, Fudan University, Shanghai. Age, twenty-five. Status, single.’ He chuckled. ‘Probably looked like a horse: these intellectuals do. Came here in May, stayed for four weeks.’

  ‘Is there a picture of her?’

  ‘Sorry, no.’

  ‘Where did she stay?’

  ‘At Yang’s, like everyone else does. Apart from important people like yourself, of course. What’s the third?’

  ‘Don’t execute Ma Kai. There are some other lines of enquiry I must follow up.’

  Huang grimaced.

  ‘I’ll repay the favour,’ said Bao. ‘Fancy a visit to Qianmen East Street? As an honoured guest?’

  *

  Yang’s Boarding House was for Chinese citizens only – Nanping’s rare overseas visitors had to head on up the hill to Mrs Li and pay in US dollars. Luxurious it was not, but the Yangs kept it clean, which was an improvement on much of the rural travellers’ accommodation Bao had experienced.

  He found Mr Yang sitting at reception, filling in a ledger and cleaning his teeth with a piece of wood.

  ‘Miss Ping? Yes, I do remember her. Nice girl. Quiet. Paid her bills with no fuss. She was on some kind of college grant. Can’t see why anyone would want to research Nanping, but she said we’d been in the press as an example of successful local enterprise. By which, I assume she meant Wei Shoajia up the road, not me!’

  ‘Did she remind you of anyone?’ Bao asked.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Nobody local?’

  ‘No.’

  Bao cursed under his breath. ‘How well do you remember the Xus?’ he asked. It was the worst type of questioning, the kind that lawyers were now beginning to tear to pieces whenever they had the chance. But he didn’t have an alternative.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The landlords, back in the old days.’

  ‘I don’t remember them.’

  ‘Miss Ping didn’t remind you of anyone from the old days, then?’

  ‘No,’ Yang replied. ‘Nice looking girl, though. I was surprised she hadn’t found a husband. But life’s different in the cities, isn’t it? Young women have careers, lovers, drive around in foreign cars. Maybe they don’t need husbands when they have all that.’

  *

  ‘Fudan University registry. Can I help you?’

  ‘I want information on one of your students, please.’

  ‘Our records are confidential.’

  Bao didn’t want Ping Li to know that the police were after her. ‘My name is Guo Lingyang. I’m a professor at Chengdu University. Criminology department. I only have a brief request. She’s a postgraduate student, female, name of Ping Li. I need a home and a current address for her.’

  ‘We can’t give that sort of information out on the phone. What course is she studying?’

  ‘Economics.’

  ‘You can always try contacting her at the appropriate department.’

  ‘Do you have the name of her tutor?’

  Computer keys tapped. ‘Professor Xiao.’

  ‘That’s very useful. Thank you. That is Miss Ping Li from Heilongjiang province, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s not what it says here. I can’t give you further details. Sorry.’

  *

  ‘Department of Economics.’

  ‘Professor Xiao, please.’

  ‘He’s in a seminar at the moment.’


  ‘When will he be finished?’

  ‘Twelve.’ Pages rustled. ‘Then he has a lecture.’

  ‘Can I catch him at lunch?’

  ‘He has tutorial groups twelve till two, then a delegation from Inner Mongolia are coming ... He isn’t a very easy man to get hold of, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Do you know a Ping Li? Postgraduate student, female.’

  ‘No. Is she one of his students? I don’t really know them. I’ve not been in the job long.’

  ‘Ah. Can I speak to someone she does classes with?’

  ‘I don’t know who she does classes with. She may not even do classes. A lot of the postgraduates don’t.’

  ‘Haven’t you got lists?’

  ‘I haven’t. Have you tried registry?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bao said half-heartedly.

  There was only one way to do this properly, anyway.

  *

  It took the best part of a day to get to Shanghai. Jeep to Wentai; bus to Jinan; train down the main line, the last hundred miles through a kind of perpetual building site. If Nanping thought it was booming ... Now, after a night at a flea-ridden hotel that made him dream of staying at Yang’s, Bao was sitting on an articulated bus with about a hundred and fifty students. Some were holding hands, all were talking – not, as Bao expected, about politics, love and the meaning of life, but about timetable clashes and a new coffee bar. Perhaps Shanghai’s premier university wouldn’t be so intimidating after all.

  He still wasn’t looking forward to telling anyone he was a policeman, but there was no other way of opening the right doors. We make all this possible, the inspector reminded himself, glancing out at a young man with rebel-length hair swinging a bag of books. A society that had no law or order wouldn’t bother with education. Look at the Cultural Revolution, when all colleges and universities closed down.

  These thoughts made Bao’s first sight of the university compound all the more surprising: in the middle was a huge concrete statue of Chairman Mao. Such idols had once filled China but were now extremely rare. Why had this particular one been allowed to stand? Mao had hated intellectuals. Was this a kind of warning to the inmates, to remember their place? Or was the thing just so solid that the college couldn’t afford to take it down? One thing was certain: the lad playing catch by bouncing a tennis ball off the Chairman’s bottom would have been taken out and shot twenty years ago. Bao found himself smiling at the youngster’s casual iconoclasm.