The Fourth Sacrifice (The China Thrillers 2)

by Peter May

  Sophie’s mobile phone rang, a silly electronic melody that Margaret took a moment or two to identify as ‘Scotland the Brave’. Sophie fumbled to find it in her purse.

  ‘Sophie Daum,’ she answered, when finally she got it to her ear. ‘Oh, hi, Jonathan. Sure. We’re just on the way back to her hotel now.’ She glanced at Margaret. ‘Well, I guess … Sure. OK, see you.’ She switched off and leaned forward to the driver. ‘Change of plan. We’re going straight to the embassy.’ She turned to Margaret. ‘The Ambassador wants to see you.’

  ‘Well, fuck the Ambassador,’ Margaret said, and Sophie’s eyes widened with shock. Margaret told the driver, ‘Go to the Ritan Hotel.’ Then to Sophie, ‘First thing I’m going to do is take a shower. Strange as it may seem, I prefer the scent of Fabergé to formaldehyde. Then I’m going to change into some fresh clothes. And if he still wants to talk, then I will see the Ambassador.’

  The driver glanced back at Sophie for clarification. She hesitated a moment, then nodded. ‘I’m going to get bawled out for this,’ she told Margaret.

  ‘Well, bawl right back. It’s not your fault if this cranky pathologist won’t do what she’s told.’ She grinned. ‘Tell them I was scared I’d get blood on the Ambassador’s nice new carpet.’

  Their car cruised past the Moskva restaurant on the south-west corner of Ritan Park, a stone’s throw away from the Ambassador’s residence, past the rows of traders in Ritan Lu and the dull gaze of the furriers squatting beside the pelts that hung on long rails opposite Margaret’s hotel. Their enthusiasm had waned in almost direct correlation to the decline of the Russian economy and a drastic drop in business. Long gone were the days when Russian traders would measure the furs they bought by how many they could squeeze into a baggage car on the night train to Moscow. Even the Russian mafia, dealing exclusively in dollars, was feeling the pinch.

  Margaret stepped out of the car at the door of the hotel and leaned back in to Sophie. ‘Come for me in an hour.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Say five thirty.’ Sophie nodded, but did not look happy.

  In her room, Margaret stripped off her clothes and dumped them in a laundry bag for collection by room service. The shower felt good. Hot and stimulating. She tipped her head back, eyes closed, and let the water hit her face, pouring down between her breasts in a small stream cascading from the end of her chin. She tried to banish from her mind all thoughts of the autopsy, of her last encounter with Li. The two seemed inextricably linked, a single unhappy experience. She knew, of course, that she would have to wait for the results from toxicology on the samples she had prepared before she could write her autopsy report. Twenty-four hours, forty-eight at the most, and then she could go. No looking back. The trouble was she didn’t want to look forward either.

  She stepped on to the bathmat and dried herself vigorously with a big soft towel, before collecting her wet hair in a hand towel and wrapping it around her head. From the wardrobe she took the black silk dressing gown embroidered with gold and red dragons that she had bought on an idle afternoon in Silk Street. It felt wonderful as she wrapped it around her nakedness, sheer and sensuous on her skin. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, the skin of her face fresh and pink. But she was shocked by how tired and lined her eyes were, shadowed, and sunk back in her skull. And, unaccountably, they were filled suddenly by tears that ran hot and salty on her cheeks. She looked quickly away from her reflection. There was little less edifying, she thought, than the sight of one’s own self-pity.

  She was startled by a knock at the door, and she quickly wiped away the tears. ‘Just a minute,’ she called, and she took a couple of deep breaths.

  A bellboy stood in the corridor holding an expansive bouquet of flowers. He thrust them at her. ‘For you, lady,’ he said, and hurried away before she could even think about a tip.

  She carried the flowers back into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind her. She had always been scornful of those women who were suckers for flowers. Men knew exactly how to use a bouquet, or a single rose, to manipulate them. And, as far as Margaret was concerned, no one was going to manipulate her. Still, she felt an unexpected rush of pleasure. They were beautiful, a host of wonderful scents mingled in a dazzle of colour. She laid them carefully on the bed and saw the card tucked into the wrapping. For a moment she hesitated. She was not sure she wanted to know who it was from, or what it said. But curiosity quickly got the better of her and she ripped open the envelope and pulled out a small, simple card with a floral design on the front. She opened it up and, inside, in a hand she did not recognise, were the words, ‘Glad you’re still around. Pick you up at eight.’ It was signed simply, ‘Michael’.

  She felt the blood physically drain from her face, and for a moment felt dizzy, and had to put a hand on the wall to steady herself. Michael was dead. How could he possibly–– She stopped herself, mid-thought. Of course it wasn’t him. Her mind raced for a few seconds before she realised. Michael Zimmerman. He was the only other Michael she knew, and certainly the only Michael she knew in China. She had forgotten about his very existence. She smiled, but it was a grim smile, because she was reminded that the man she had married and lived with for seven years could still reach out and touch her, even from the grave, even now. She shivered at the thought, and then just as quickly pushed him from her mind.

  Michael Zimmerman. She remembered his smiling eyes, and how she had been attracted to him. Was that only last night? Already it seemed like a lifetime ago. Pick you up at eight. She felt a tiny thrill of pleasure like the faintest glimmer of light in a very dark place.

  *

  ‘The Ambassador was furious,’ Sophie said. She seemed very agitated.

  Margaret was unimpressed. ‘Was he?’ She slipped into the back seat beside her, and the limo purred quietly out into the street.

  ‘He couldn’t wait. He had some engagement he couldn’t get out of.’

  ‘That’s a pity,’ Margaret said. ‘So why are we still going to the embassy?’

  ‘To see Stan and Jonathan.’ Sophie flicked her a look. ‘Jonathan gave me a hell of a dressing down for not bringing you straight back.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Margaret felt her hackles rising. ‘Who the hell do these people think they are? I don’t work for the US government. I’m doing them a favour, for Chrissake. We may be in the People’s Republic, but I am a citizen of the United States, a free person, and I will do what the hell I like.’ She breathed hard for a few moments, then took a long, deep breath and let the tension slip away as she exhaled.

  They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, then Margaret said, ‘So how come Michael Zimmerman knew I was still in Beijing?’

  Sophie was caught off guard. ‘What?’

  ‘He sent me a bunch of flowers and a card saying he’s going to pick me up at eight tonight.’

  ‘Lucky you.’ There was just a hint of pique in Sophie’s voice. ‘He called before lunch. I guess I must have mentioned you’d postponed your departure to do this autopsy.’

  ‘And just happened to mention where I was staying, too?’

  She shrugged. ‘He asked.’ She paused. ‘So where’s he taking you?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  They were kept waiting for ten minutes in the security foyer of the Chancery, under the implacable gaze of the marine behind the window. Then a harsh electronic buzz and the dull click of a lock announced the arrival of the First Secretary. He was brusque and businesslike and came through the door without so much as an acknowledgement. ‘Follow me,’ he said, and hurried out and down the steps. Margaret and Sophie exchanged looks and went after him.

  ‘Want to tell me where we’re going, Stan?’ Margaret asked as they walked round the side of the building. The late evening sun washed yellow across the compound.

  ‘To get a bite to eat. I don’t know about you, but it’s more than five hours since I ate, and I’m hungry.’

  ‘Well, you know, that’s funny,’ but Margaret wasn’t smiling. ‘I haven’t eaten eith
er. Not since before I did the autopsy. You remember? The autopsy I did as a favour for you guys? By the way, thanks for the acknowledgement. It’s nice to know how much your country appreciates you.’

  Stan stopped in his tracks, looked skyward for a moment, then turned, pursing his lips. ‘You are a real pain in the ass, Margaret, you know that?’

  ‘You bet,’ she said, and Stan found himself smiling, albeit reluctantly. Margaret added, ‘After two hours hacking about a dead body, a girl’s entitled to a shower, Stan.’

  ‘OK.’ He raised his hands in self-defence. ‘Point taken. And the Ambassador appreciates your efforts, Margaret. He really does. But we need to talk. This whole thing’s in danger of turning nasty. Political.’

  He turned and they carried on past a long blue canopy set among a grove of trees. Embassy staff sat at tables chatting animatedly, taking their evening meals al fresco. Immediately opposite, was the canteen – a long, single-storey building. Stan headed for the door.

  ‘Political in what way?’ Margaret wanted to know.

  ‘You’ll see when you look at Yuan Tao’s file,’ Stan said, and they followed him inside, past long rows of bookshelves, to a large white board with an extensive menu scrawled up in blue felt pen. There was a clatter of crockery from the kitchens behind it. ‘Turns out the guy was born here. Didn’t go to the States till he was seventeen, just before the Cultural Revolution. Never came back. Eventually applied for and got US citizenship.’ He lifted a piece of paper and a pencil from a table in front of the menu board and thrust it at her. ‘Here. You write the number of dishes you want, the number of the dish – they’re up on the board – and the price.’ He rapidly filled out his own slip. ‘And don’t forget to put your name on it.’

  Margaret glanced across at an opening leading to the bar. ‘I’d much rather have a drink,’ she said.

  Stan followed her eyes and smiled. ‘Sorry, Margaret. It’s only open Friday afternoons for an extended happy hour. You can get a soft drink from the cold cabinet.’

  Margaret sighed and scrutinised the board and chose sweet and sour pork, boiled rice and a Coca-Cola. ‘So he was born here,’ she said. ‘How does that make it political?’

  ‘There are folk back home who would like to think that the Chinese are capable of storing up their revenge for as long as it takes.’

  ‘Revenge for what?’

  ‘Someone like Yuan Tao might have been seen as having jumped ship,’ Stan said, ‘and then betrayed his country by going native in the States.’

  Margaret was incredulous. ‘So they wait thirty-odd years for him to come back and then bump him off? You don’t really believe that, do you?’

  ‘Not for a minute.’ Stan shook his head. ‘But you’ve got to remember, Margaret, the right wing back in the States has been scratching about looking for another bogeyman ever since the Soviet Union turned turtle. And China’s it. The press is full of anti-China propaganda. Some of it’s pretty gross. But some of it’s pretty subtle, too. Sometimes it’s all in the tone. And then they make movies like Seven Years in Tibet or Red Corner which get the folks back home all in a rage about Chinese injustice. I mean, Red Corner’s an entertaining story if you like that kind of thing, but its portrayal of the Chinese justice system was just ludicrous. Laughable. Except that the Chinese authorities weren’t laughing. They banned it, and then got accused of censorship.’

  Margaret followed him to a desk where a woman sat at a cash register. ‘I didn’t know you were such a champion of the Chinese, Stan.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he snapped. ‘But people back home who don’t know anything about this country should keep their ignorance to themselves. All it does is make our job more difficult.’

  He passed in his order, paid for it and collected a bottle of water from the cold cabinet before heading for a table where Jon Dakers was waiting for them. Margaret realised she was expected to pay for herself. She took a few yuan from her purse, grabbed a Coke and joined them. Sophie sat down beside Dakers and folded her hands on the glass top that covered a garish floral print tablecloth. She hadn’t ordered anything to eat. Dakers had already eaten. He grunted some kind of acknowledgement across the table to Margaret and passed her a buff-coloured folder. ‘The Yuan Tao file,’ he said. ‘Sophie tells us you don’t believe he was murdered by the same person who killed the other three.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But you think it’s a copycat job?’

  ‘That’s how it looks.’

  Stan and Dakers exchanged glances. Dakers said, ‘So what about this cop who’s leading the investigation?’

  ‘What about him?’ Margaret looked suspiciously at Stan.

  ‘You trust him?’ Dakers asked.

  ‘Trust doesn’t enter into it. He’s a good cop. As straight as they come.’

  They all sat back as a Chinese waitress came to the table with their orders. Margaret flipped open Yuan Tao’s file and glanced down the photocopied pages. A few dates and paragraphs, reports and statistics. A man’s life in black and white. As easy to scrumple up and throw in the trash as it had been to cut off his head. She wondered if he had gone to the same middle school as the other victims but couldn’t immediately see where to find it.

  ‘The thing is, Margaret,’ Stan leaned in confidentially when the waitress had gone, ‘this is already making headlines back home. Chinese-American murdered on return to ancestral homeland. You know the kind of thing. But a lot more lurid. The anti-China brigade are jumping on it, rubbing their hands with glee. And with the Chinese President due to visit Washington next month we’d like this cleared up as soon as possible.’

  ‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with me.’

  Dakers said, ‘We want you to stick with the investigation.’

  Margaret laughed. ‘When I finish my autopsy report, I’m out of here. Why don’t you investigate it yourself, Jon? You used to be a cop.’

  ‘The Chinese wouldn’t contemplate taking an American cop on board. Even an ex-cop like me. You’re an expert in a specific field, one they acknowledge we know more about. That’s quite different. And besides, you’ve worked with them before.’

  Margaret shook her head. ‘I figure you’ll find that after what happened last time, they wouldn’t consider involving me again.’

  ‘I reckon you could be wrong there, Margaret,’ Stan said.

  Margaret shook her head, smiling at his ignorance. ‘What makes you think that, Stan?’

  ‘Because we already asked them,’ said Dakers.

  III

  It was dusk outside Li’s top-floor office window. Streetlights had gone on all over the city. People were eating at streetside stalls, or were hurrying home to cook meals for themselves. The barber shops were doing brisk business. Traffic had ground to a standstill on the ring roads and on the tree-lined avenues and boulevards, and arc lights had snapped on high above those construction sites where work would go on all night, bare-chested workers scrambling over bamboo scaffolding twenty storeys up.

  The trees in Beixinqiao Santiao below cast deep shadows and darkened the street. The staff of the All China Federation of Returned Overseas Chinese opposite had all gone home. Police vehicles, some blue-and-whites, some unmarked, were parked bumper to bumper on the sidewalk. Officers going off duty greeted officers coming on for the night shift.

  Li stood at the window, smoking, engulfed by a deep inertia. He heard a couple of kids laughing as they kicked a ball along the street. Other people had real lives out there. Hopes, aspirations, a future. Life went on. There was a purpose to it. He wondered if he had just lost all purpose to his. For as long as Margaret had existed in his mind, just as he remembered her before they were parted, he could not really believe that he would never see her again. Somewhere deep inside him was buried a small seed of hope. Now that he had confronted her, felt her anger and hurt, and told her they had no future, that seed had withered and died. It was finally over.

  There was a knock at the door and Qian appeared
with a folder in his hand, fluorescent light flooding in from the detectives’ office outside. ‘You not want a light on in here, boss?’ he said. ‘Can’t see a thing.’

  Li shook his head. ‘I like it that way.’

  Qian shrugged. ‘That’s the file on Yuan Tao in from the American embassy.’

  ‘Leave it on my desk.’

  Qian dropped the file on the desk and went out.

  Li ran his fingers lightly down his cheek, still tender where Margaret had slapped him with such force. When he had arrived back at Section One, the detectives had all looked at him very oddly. But no one had said anything. As he had gone into his office he had been aware of some stifled laughter, and each time he emerged the room had fallen silent. Finally he had demanded to know what was going on. There had been a moment’s embarrassed silence before Wu said, ‘The boys were just speculating, boss, about your new technique for collecting handprints from crime scenes.’ There was laughter around the detectives’ room. Li had frowned at first, not understanding. Wu went on, ‘So, you just press your face against the print and lift it off – is that how it works?’

  Li had put his hand immediately to his face and felt the weals that ran diagonally across it, left by Margaret’s fingers. His embarrassment was acute, but he daren’t show it or he would lose face. He must wear his slap like a trophy. After all, it was not so uncommon in China for men to be assaulted by women. A large percentage of the ‘domestics’ that the police were called out to involved husbands being battered by their wives. Li had grinned ruefully and said, ‘Come here, Wu, and I’ll show you how it’s done.’ He held his hand out, palm open, towards the detective.