Don't cry Tai lake ic-7

by Qiu Xiaolong

  Talking, they crossed an old stone bridge in the shape of a crescent moon, which looked to be in bad repair, and skirted along the bank where willow tree limbs hung like a curtain.

  “I’m no expert,” he said deliberately. “But I’ve seen green algae in other lakes, I think. Even in the tiny pond in the Old City God’s Temple Market in Shanghai. Of course, never anything so serious as here.”

  “Let me tell you something. The water in Tai Lake contains two hundred times more harmful material than the national standard, and even the Wuxi disease control center can’t deny that figure,” she said, taking a drink from her bottle. “Of course, there’s more than a single cause. In addition to the industrial pollution, sewage treatment measures also lag far behind the social and economic development of the Yangtze River delta. In the early nineties, the annual industrial sewage entering the lake was estimated at 540 million tons, and household sewage at 320 million tons. But nowadays, the total sewage is more than 5.3 billion tons. Only thirty percent of the household sewage is treated before being dumped into the lake.”

  “Wow, you keep all of those figures in your head?” With an apologetic smile, he asked, “Do you mind if I smoke? I need to digest those figures. This is a serious problem for China.”

  “Go ahead,” she said, noticing that he took out a soft pack of China, one of the most expensive brands. Then she realized that she must sound like a research report. “Sorry for the lecture. I forget you’re on vacation.”

  Perhaps it wasn’t just a subject that she was passionate about; talking about it also gave her a sense of self-justification. She was unpopular at the company, where people took her as something of a Cassandra figure, and that morning she almost became a murder suspect.

  “No, you don’t have to apologize. On the contrary, I’m grateful for your conversation-or your lecture, if you want to call it that. It’s something I could never have learned from the official publications. It’s really shocking.”

  She couldn’t help noting the look of serious attention on his face, bookish yet sincere. She hadn’t had an attentive audience like Chen before. Nor one where she didn’t have to worry about the consequences of talking openly. He wasn’t local, and would probably be gone in a week.

  “Your work is truly important, Shanshan,” he said in earnest.

  “I’m a nobody in the company. No one cares about what I say. If anything, it only marks me as a troublemaker.”

  “Because of your work?”

  “It was naive of me to take the job so seriously. I was hired for the sake of appearances, which I found out after I started work. All my research was put into a newsletter available only to the company executives. I doubt whether they ever read it, or whether they did anything about it if they did read it. Time and again, I felt obliged to speak out against Liu’s business decisions, like shutting down the waste treatment facility or fabricating the reports being sent to the agencies. But what difference did it make?” She smiled a bitter smile. “It’s strange that I’m telling you all this.”

  “There is one line in a Confucian classic, Shanshan. Some people may never really know each other even if they’re together until white-haired, but some people may be true friends the moment they meet each other, taking down their hats.”

  “Yes, I remember that line too.”

  “Now,” he said, “do you think the phone message you got was because of your work?”

  “That’s possible, but I doubt Liu would have gone to the trouble. He could have easily fired me.”

  A siren sounded not too far away, and Chen looked up. The street they had just turned onto was lined with food stalls and souvenir kiosks. They were close to the ferry.

  “Wait a minute,” he said and walked over to a stall.

  She saw him talking to a man behind the counter at a snack stall under a white-and-red striped umbrella. Chen pointed at something, then came back carrying a large brown paper bag.

  “Slices of roast beef and steamed buns. You can’t drink only water, Shanshan.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chen, but you don’t have to do that.”

  “I promised Uncle Wang. You can break the bun into two and put the beef in between, which is a very popular way to eat them in the northwest. The sauce is also in the bag.”

  “You’re an impossible connoisseur. I’m sorry about spoiling your appetite back at Uncle Wang’s place.”

  “It was for my own good, and I really appreciate it. Here is my cell number,” he said, copying his number on a scrap of paper torn from the top of the bag. “I would love to continue our conversation, because, as in the old saying: to listen to your talk for one day is more beneficial than to read books for ten years. I hope I can have another chance during my stay here.”

  “Well, in that old saying, it is ‘for one night’ rather than ‘for one day,’” she said teasingly, amused by his pedantic way of saying things. “Bye.”

  She found herself walking, light-footedly, in an improved mood as she turned to the plank that led to the ferry boat, flashing over her shoulder a smile at him who was still standing there watching her.

  FOUR

  The ferry boat disappeared into the mist-enveloped distance.

  Chen turned away and started strolling back to the center, whistling, when his cell phone vibrated. It was a text message from her: “Now you have my number too, Shanshan.”

  That’s good, he thought with a smile. Her text showed an enthusiasm for new technology that was perhaps characteristic of one of her age. It had taken him a couple of days to learn how to write and send a Chinese text message properly. He’d persisted because he had no choice. It was necessary for his work. But he didn’t enjoy doing it. However, a lot of young people seemed to be text-messaging all the time.

  He couldn’t help looking back in the direction of the ferry again, and when he did so, he was struck with a feeling of being watched. Someone else was looking in his direction, raising a cell phone as if to take a picture, but then turning away abruptly when he became aware of Chen’s attention. It might be a coincidence, but there was something about the man. He was middle-aged, medium-built, wearing a short-sleeved white shirt. Chen might have seen him before, though at the moment he couldn’t recall where.

  But maybe his suspicious nature was getting the better of him. In Wuxi, he was an anonymous tourist on vacation, not a cop investigating a crime. There was no reason to believe someone would be shadowing him here. Chen resumed walking, and after passing several booths, he looked back over his shoulder. The man was no longer in sight.

  What he had just learned from Shanshan, he contemplated, might go into his report for Comrade Secretary Zhao. He would have to do some homework first, but he was in no hurry and felt sure it was relevant.

  Soon he got lost again. The map he pulled out didn’t really help. After wandering for two or three blocks without any real sense of direction, he saw a group of tourists heading to a willow-lined road, their guide holding a tourist group banner. They were talking, gesticulating, pointing at a roadside sign that indicated the way to the park, through which, he guessed, he could cut back to the center.

  He followed them to the front gate of the park, where a large billboard declared that an entrance ticket cost thirty yuan. He showed his center pass and got in for free. Another advantage available only to high-ranking cadres.

  The park was alive with tourists, most of them from nearby cities. He was pretty sure some were from Shanghai for he heard a young couple speaking in the unmistakable Shanghai accent. The woman was four or five months pregnant and beaming contentedly, clutching in her hand a pair of tiny earthen babies in colorful costumes-wares that were a specialty of Wuxi.

  Near the lake, he noticed a crowd waiting to board several large cruise ships. One of the ships looked so modern and luxurious, shining silver in the sunlight, it was as if it were sailing out of a Hollywood movie.

  To the west, not far from the dock, several tourists were waiting their turn to take thei
r pictures in front of an enormous rock, the flat surface of which bore four bold Chinese characters in red paint: Pregnant with Wu Yue. Wu Yue referred to the lake area. It was originally a phrase praising the lake’s expanse, but it had long since become a popular background for tourist photos because of a folk belief that the rock was auspicious for young couples eager to start a family.

  Passing by a bronze statue of a turtle, the theme of the park, he caught sight of a teahouse built in the traditional architecture style-white walls, vermilion pillars, lattice windows, and a large Chinese character for tea embroidered on an oblong yellow silk pennant that was streaming in the breeze. Crowds of people were sitting at outside tables, drinking tea, playing poker and chess, and relaxing in sight of the surface of the lake, which was dotted with so many white sails that they looked like clouds.

  It was a fantastic scene. However, for the locals, who had seen it hundreds of times, it might seem merely a place for tea-drinking.

  Chen chose a bamboo table with a tree-framed view of the lake shimmering in the sunlight. The water didn’t look as dark-colored as it did near the ferry, in Shanshan’s company.

  A waitress came over and set down a bamboo-covered thermos bottle and a cup containing a pinch of tea leaves.

  “Before-Rain tea, it’s the newest pick of the year and the best tea leaves in the house,” she said, pouring a cup for him.

  The tea looked tenderly green. He didn’t pick up the cup immediately. Instead he slowly tapped a finger on the table, thinking about what Shanshan had said about the water. He picked up a newspaper from a rack near the table, but when he saw a picture on the front page of local leaders speaking at an economic conference, he put it back down.

  Shanshan’s words had more than impressed him. For many years, environmental protection had been practically irrelevant to the Chinese people. Under Mao’s rule, they were famished, literally starving to death, particularly during the so-called Three Years of Natural Disaster in the late fifties and early sixties, and then again during the Cultural Revolution. People’s top priority had been survival, and that meant feeding themselves with whatever was available. Then under Deng’s rule, China began to catch up to the rest of the world for the first time in many years; as Deng put it, “Development is the one and only truth.” So environmental protection still didn’t move to the top of the nation’s agenda.

  It was little wonder that she had had a hard time with her work at the chemical company, or that she had been receiving threatening calls because of it. He wondered whether he should contact the local police. He had her phone number, and they might be able to trace the ominous call. Besides, now there had been a murder at her company.

  He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Sergeant Huang of the Wuxi Police Bureau.

  “Oh, you should have told me you were coming, Chief Inspector Chen,” Huang exclaimed, not trying to conceal the excitement in his voice. “I could have met you at the railway station.”

  “Well, you are the first one I’ve contacted here. My vacation was an unexpected development to me as well.”

  “I’m so flattered-I mean, for you to call me first. I’m really glad that you chose to vacation in Wuxi.”

  “I got a call from Comrade Secretary Zhao, the retired head of the Central Party Discipline Committee. He was too busy to take a vacation that had been arranged for him, and he wanted me to come here in his place. So here I am, enjoying a cup of Before-Rain tea at Yuantouzhu.”

  “That’s fantastic, Chief Inspector Chen. I’ve heard so much about you-and about your connection to Beijing. You worked on a highly sensitive anticorruption case directly under Comrade Secretary Zhao. What a case that was. I’ve studied it several times. I’m a loyal fan of yours. I not only followed your extraordinary police work, but I’ve read all your translations too. It would be a dream come true to meet you.”

  “I would like to talk to you as well.”

  “Really? I’m nearby right now,” Huang said. “Can I come over?”

  “Of course, come and join me for a cup of tea. I’m at the teahouse in the park, close to the bronze turtle statue.” Chen added, “Oh, and not a single word to your colleagues about my vacation here.”

  “Not a single word to anyone, I promise, Chief Inspector Chen. I’m on my way.”

  In less than twenty minutes, Huang appeared, hurrying over to Chen’s table in big strides, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He was a dapper, spirited young man with a broad forehead and penetrating eyes. He grinned at the sight of Chen.

  “I spotted you from a distance, Chief Inspector Chen,” Huang said. “I’ve seen your picture in the newspaper.”

  Chen had another tea set brought to the table and poured a cup for the young cop. Chen then lost no time in bringing the conversation around to the murder of Liu Deming.

  To Chen’s pleasant surprise, Huang turned out to be one of the officers working on that very case. He had been at the chemical company discussing the case with his colleagues when he got Chen’s call.

  “You’ve heard about it? Of course you have,” Huang said, his face flushed with anticipation. “You’re not really on vacation here, are you?”

  Chen kept sipping at his tea without immediately contradicting him. To the local police, his vacation couldn’t help but be suspicious, even before he expressed interest in the murder. He was known for covert investigations in several highly sensitive cases.

  “Well, I thought it would be great to come here, and relax for a week or so, with nothing to do. But in just one day, I’ve already found it kind of boring. I’m not complaining, but maybe I have a cop’s lot cut out for me, as both Detective Yu and his wife Peiqin have said before. Then I happened to hear about the case,” Chen said. “I’m not going to try to investigate: it’s not my territory, and I know better. I simply want to kill some time.”

  “Sherlock Holmes must have something to do. I totally understand, Chief. Can I just call you Chief, Chief Inspector Chen?”

  Whether Huang believed him or not, the young local cop was eager to model himself on those fictional detectives he admired. So he provided a quite detailed introduction to the case, focusing on what he considered strange and suspicious.

  The Wuxi Number One Chemical Company’s being the largest in Wuxi and Liu’s being a representative of the People’s Congress of Zhejiang Province combined to make the murder the top priority for the Wuxi Police Bureau. A special team had been formed for the investigation; Huang was the youngest member of the team.

  They had started by building a file on Liu Deming. Liu had worked at the company for over twenty years. When he took over the top position of the state-run company several years ago, it was on the brink of bankruptcy. He managed to lead the company out of the financial woods, then make it profitable, and then to successfully expand. Capable and ambitious, Liu had established himself as an important figure in the city-a “red banner” in the economic development of the region.

  In recent years, however, Liu had been involved in some controversies. For one thing, the company was in the process of going public, turning into something between state-owned and privately-owned-a new experiment in China’s economic reform. It was the first company attempting to do this in Wuxi, and Liu himself stood to become the largest shareholder, with millions of shares in his own name. He was going to be a capitalist Big Buck, so to speak, though still a Party member and general manager of the company.

  No less controversial was the pollution that was the result of his increasing production and maximizing profit by dumping tons and tons of untreated wastewater into the lake. It was an open secret, and his company wasn’t the only one to dump industrial waste wherever it liked. With the deteriorating water quality of the lake, however, local people had begun to complain. The Wuxi Number One Chemical Company was the largest plant by the lake, so it was an easy target. The city authorities had tried to exercise a sort of damage control, hushing up the protest, but with limited success.

 
On the night of the murder, Liu had been working at his home office-an apartment about five minutes’ walk away from the plant-not at his home, which was about five miles away. It wasn’t uncommon for the busy boss to spend the night at his home office when he was overwhelmed with work. The last several weeks had been a hectic period for the company, with lots of things going on, in particular all the preparations and paperwork for the forthcoming IPO. Not just Liu but several other executives and their secretaries had come in to work on that Sunday. Liu was last seen walking by himself, entering the apartment complex around seven P.M.

  The next morning, his secretary, Mi, didn’t see him show up at work. She called his home, home office, and cell phone, with no response at any of them. So thinking that he might have overslept, she walked over to his home office. Liu sometimes had trouble falling asleep, especially when working late, so he took sleeping pills. She saw his shoes outside the door-he always changed into slippers in the apartment. When no one came to open the door after she knocked for several minutes, she called the police.

  Liu was found dead in his home office, killed by a fatal blow to the back of his head. The wound appeared to have been inflicted with a heavy blunt object, which was confirmed in the preliminary autopsy report. The cause of death was massive skull fracture with acute cerebral hemorrhage, but there was hardly any blood at the scene. There was no bruising or abrasions on his body. There was no tissue, blood, or skin under his nails.

  The time of death was established to be between 9:30 P.M. and 10:30 P.M. the previous night. The crime scene people found no sign of forced entry, nor of any struggle. There was no murder weapon or fingerprints found-except for one on the mirror in the bathroom, left by his secretary, Mi. That didn’t mean anything, though, since Mi sometimes worked there as well.

  There didn’t appear to be anything valuable missing from his apartment, either. Both Mi and his wife checked and confirmed this.