The Firemaker tct-1 Page 14

  The girl, a timid nineteen-year-old, was fazed and looked around helplessly. ‘Where’ll I put them, then?’

  Li glanced round the room. ‘There,’ he pointed. ‘On the floor under the window. Separate the cases and keep three separate piles. I want only stuff I’ve asked for on my desk, all right?’

  She nodded, flustered, and crouched down to start arranging the files on the floor as requested. Another huge pile thumped down beside her. She looked up, startled, as Li said, ‘And you can sort that lot out while you’re at it.’

  Now that he could see his desktop again, Li began sorting out the files he wanted to hand. He glanced at the autopsy report and, quite involuntarily, found himself thinking about Dr Margaret Campbell. They were fragmentary thoughts, bits and pieces of conversation: ‘no man is an island’, ‘must have broken a mirror’, ‘you don’t want to know about my sordid private life’. Visual moments: the wedding ring on the third finger of her left hand, the freckles on her arm, the soft thrust of her breasts against the thin white cotton of her tee-shirt.

  Annoyed with himself, he put the autopsy report to one side and forced himself to concentrate on the forensics reports. But they told him nothing he didn’t already know. The spectral analysis on the blood found in Chao’s apartment would, however, be telling. As would the result of the request he had put to Dr Wang. But neither of those would be available until tomorrow. He felt a twinge of irritation at having to wait. Which was unusual, for he was normally a patient man. But there was some instinct at work telling him that somehow speed was important in this, that the usual pedantic sifting of information, the slow building of layer upon layer of carefully gathered evidence, was not the required approach. And yet that was what all his training and experience demanded.

  His eyes wandered thoughtfully across the text of the three forensics reports. Still the only real evidence gathered at each scene had been the Marlboro cigarette ends. The fact that Chao smoked, and that Marlboro was his brand, had been troubling Li since he found the cigarette ends and the pack in Chao’s apartment. It raised the possibility that the cigarette end found near the body in the park had been smoked by Chao himself, a final wish granted by his killer. In which case there was nothing to connect Chao’s murder with the other two, except coincidence. But Li didn’t like coincidence. And, in any case, Chao had been sedated, his cigarettes had been left in the apartment, and if he had been capable of smoking, the cigarette would have had to have been provided by his killer, who must also have smoked Marlboro. Another coincidence. Altogether too many. Li drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk. And tomorrow, he thought, seemed far too long to have to wait for answers.

  Another batch of statements was carried in and distributed on the piles beneath the window. Through the open door he saw that the detectives’ room was still a hive of activity. He lifted the file on Chao and flipped it open. There was precious little detail here. Born 1948, in the town of Nanchang in Jiangxi province, the year before the founding of the People’s Republic of China. His father was a professor of English and his mother a Party cadre. He came to Beijing in 1966, the year Li was born, and enrolled at Beijing Agricultural University just as the Cultural Revolution was sweeping the country. Two years into a degree course in agronomy and crop sciences he was denounced by fellow students turned Red Guards and forced to drop out. The phrase denounced by Red Guards conjured for Li images of repeated beatings, hours of enforced self-criticism, endless essays confessing to reactionary weaknesses and imperial tendencies. Often it was simply an opportunity for adolescents, freed from the constraints and disciplines of an organised and civilised society, to explore the dark and cruel side of their human nature. Bullies and brutes given the freedom to express themselves in torture and murder without fear of retribution. They were, after all, only cleansing their country of its class enemies, those upholders of the Four Olds. Children were freed to taunt and torment their teachers, forcing them to wear dunce caps and grovel before them in class. Li had witnessed it first hand in his own primary school. Fortunately, by the time he reached middle school, the madness had just about run its course. He imagined that Chao’s fellow students had probably picked on him because he was soft, perhaps overtly homosexual, perhaps simply still confused about his sexuality. He was sent to the countryside for re-education.

  Here there was a gap in the record of nearly a year. There was no indication of where he had been sent. Either through extraordinary good fortune, or through some influence that his mother had been able to bring to bear, he suddenly turned up in the United States enrolled as a student at the University of Wisconsin. Graduating in 1972 in microbial genetics, he stayed on a further year to complete a postgraduate doctorate in biotechnology. And then he won a research fellowship to the Boyce Thompson Institute at Cornell University, where he remained until 1980, when he returned to China to teach at the very university he had been forced to abandon twelve years earlier.

  He had married very quickly then, but was divorced again within three years, during which time he had managed to father a daughter. Li wondered why he had felt the need to marry. Clearly it was always going to be a relationship doomed to sexual failure. Was there really a need to create a veneer of heterosexual respectability? Might he not just have been discreet in his lifestyle?

  Whether or not his particular predilections were known, they had not affected his career. He had been influential in the setting up of Beijing Agricultural University’s National Key Laboratory of Agricultural Biotechnology, under the auspices of the Ministry of Agriculture, and spent the next ten years directing field projects in Beijing, at the Changping Experiment Station in Hui Long Guan District, Changping County, and then at the agro hi-technology development region in Zhuozhou. He had spent nearly four years working on some unspecified research project near Guilin, then in 1996 he had been brought back to Beijing and appointed senior technical adviser to the Minister of Agriculture before being forced to retire through ill health six months ago.

  Li shut the folder. A life summed up in a few scant paragraphs. But it told him nothing about the man, what had driven his ambition, what had led him to heroin and the destruction of his health, what had motivated someone to kill him. Tomorrow, he hoped, he would glean much, much more when he paid a visit to Chao’s danwei at the Ministry of Agriculture. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Everything was tomorrow! He reached for the file Wu had left for him on The Needle. Somewhere in the drugs connection, he felt sure, he could establish the first concrete link between two of the murders at least.

  There was a soft knock at the door and Section Chief Chen came in. He closed the door behind him. ‘Chaos out there.’ And he took in the piles of statements gathering under the window. ‘This could keep us busy for weeks.’

  ‘Or months,’ Li said gloomily.

  ‘How is it going?’

  ‘Slowly. I’ll be in a better position to brief you on progress tomorrow when we get some tests back from forensics. Until then, we are still sifting through the jigsaw for the first piece.’

  Chen nodded. ‘Well, I have some good news. In view of the success of the autopsy carried out this morning by Dr Campbell, Professor Jiang has offered us her services for the duration of her stay in Beijing. Provided, of course, that it does not interfere with her lectures.’

  Li drew a deep, slow breath. ‘That’s very good of the professor, Chief, but it’s really not necessary.’

  ‘Oh, but I’ve already accepted on your behalf. I told the professor she could carry out the other two autopsies in the morning.’

  Li clenched his jaw, trying to stay calm. ‘Well, you shouldn’t have done that, Chief. I’ve already asked Professor Xie to do the autopsies. This is a Chinese investigation, about which Dr Campbell knows nothing. I have no need of her.’

  Chen was about to overrule his junior colleague when their eyes met and he thought better of it. Li was clearly determined, and Chen had already overruled him once on the same subject. Perhaps the younger
man should be allowed a little latitude to do things his way. He sighed. ‘Oh, well, I’ll tell the professor that other arrangements had already been made, and that while we are very grateful for the offer, Dr Campbell’s services will not be required.’ He paused and added, ‘But if this is something personal, Li Yan, then you are very foolish to allow it to cloud your professional judgment.’

  He left, and Li stared into space, part of him wishing he had accepted the offer, part of him knowing that if he had, then the danger was that it would have become personal — in a way that might well have clouded his professional judgment. She had stirred in him feelings he had spent ten years suppressing, in favour of his career, and did not want to encourage now. He opened the file on The Needle to cast an eye over an old adversary.

  VI

  The scrape of a door opening was sufficient to penetrate the fragile quality of her sleep. She blinked and lifted her head from a pillow that seemed uncommonly hard and unyielding. One arm had gone to sleep and would take longer to waken than she. Her neck seemed locked in one position. Through fuzzy, unfocused eyes, she saw a man approach the bed. What was a man doing in her bedroom? She raised herself up, blinking hard, heart pounding, and realised she wasn’t in bed. For a brief, panic-stricken moment she had not the faintest idea where she was, before suddenly the truth dawned on her. She had fallen asleep at her desk, head resting on her right forearm, in which her blood supply was now painfully re-establishing itself.

  ‘You all right?’ Bob asked.

  ‘Yeah. Sorry. I guess I must have fallen asleep. Didn’t get much last night.’

  Last night? When was that? Her brain couldn’t seem to find a context for anything. Like the blood finding its way back into the veins of her arm, memories of the last twenty-four hours leaked back into her consciousness accompanied by a series of pains — behind her eyes, at either temple, at the base of her neck. She remembered the autopsy, the lunch with Li, and her subsequent depression. And then she remembered being called in to see Professor Jiang and asked if she would be prepared to carry out another couple of autopsies and advise Deputy Section Chief Li’s murder inquiry in a consultative capacity.

  That recollection brightened her again now. She remembered apologising to Professors Tian and Bai and Dr Mu for having displaced them from their office and, in a grand and magnanimous gesture, offering to let them have it back. After all, she had told them, now that she was assisting Section One with a murder inquiry she would not be spending so much time at the university. She was excited by the prospect.

  ‘But where will you prepare your lectures?’ Dr Mu had asked Veronica to ask her.

  ‘In my hotel room,’ Margaret had replied. ‘There’s plenty of space, it’s air-conditioned, I have access to a telephone, and downstairs there’s a business centre where I can get anything I want photocopied, faxed, e-mailed, you name it.’

  They had clearly thought she was mad, but were happy enough to get their office back, and so were not going to argue.

  ‘You should have gone back to your hotel,’ Bob told her.

  She shook herself to try to clear her head, but only succeeded in producing a pain that felt as if it would crack open her skull. ‘Ow.’ She rubbed her temples. ‘I know. I meant to. I must just have put my head down for a minute, and then … well, bang. What time is it?’

  ‘Five thirty. Professor Jiang would like a word.’

  ‘Another one? What, now?’

  Professor Jiang smiled uneasily when she came into his office. Veronica sat primly in a chair, hands folded neatly in her lap. She regarded Margaret with some caution. The professor indicated a chair and Margaret sat and listened while he spoke to her earnestly for about two minutes. Then he sat back and allowed Veronica to translate.

  ‘Professor say Section Chief Chen call to say sorry, but his deputy think you are … how to say? … superfluous to the inquiry.’ She sat back, pleased with her ‘superfluous’, unaware of its connotations of uselessness and rejection which hit Margaret like a slap on the face.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I

  Tuesday Evening

  Beijingers get their hair cut at all hours of the day and night. And so the ladies in their white coats and peak caps were still doing brisk business outside the gates of Yuyuantan Park on Sanlihi Road at six o’clock. No sooner had one customer vacated a stool than another would replace him. The sidewalk was littered with locks of black hair which the barbers would meticulously sweep up when they finished work. The park, too, was busy, people shifting back and forth in waves beneath the rainbow that arched across its entrance, joining dance groups on their way home from work, or catching some air after long hours in a factory or shop. Early evening traffic, beyond the trees that shaded the cycle lane, was manic.

  Li wheeled his bicycle past the barbers at work and lifted it over a low railing into a shaded area of trees and shrubs between flagstone paths that led in various directions down to the river. Here the sound of the traffic seemed remote, the air cooler, shadowed as it had been through the heat of the day, and rising off the water to blow a gentle breeze through the leaves. Birds sang in cages that hung from the trees, their owners — old men mostly — gathered on stools round stone tables playing cards or Chinese chess. A woman had hung large red character posters from a line strung between two trees, and a couple of men, hands behind their backs, stood staring at them without comment. The woman watched their expressions with interest, but they showed no discernible emotion as far as Li could see. In a pergola hanging with creeper an old man played a violin, while a few feet away a dead-eyed young man in army camouflage trousers and skip cap was drinking alcohol from a plastic bottle.

  Li found his uncle a little further on, sitting at a low stone table preparing to move in for the kill. The King’s Guide had made a fatal error, and Old Yifu was merciless in victory. His Horse jumped the river and the King was trapped. ‘Jiang jun!’ he cried, delighted with the pincer movement that had created his checkmate. His opponent scratched his shaven head and shook it in wonder.

  ‘I don’t know why I bother playing you, Old Yifu. I’m never going to win.’

  Old Yifu smiled. ‘You will win,’ he said, ‘when you stop losing.’ He looked up and saw Li approaching. ‘Li Yan.’ He jumped to his feet and shook his nephew’s hand vigorously. ‘How was your first day?’

  Li smiled ruefully. ‘Only three murders, Uncle.’

  His uncle’s chess opponent lifted a birdcage down from the tree that had been shading their game, hung it from the handlebars of his bicycle and said, ‘I’m off for my dinner. All this excitement has given me an appetite.’

  ‘Zai jian.’ Old Yifu did not take his eyes off Li. ‘You’re joking,’ he said.

  ‘No.’ Li sat down on the stool the defeated chess player had just vacated. ‘Three. In different parts of the city. But they’re connected.’

  Old Yifu sat down opposite him, both excited and concerned by the news. ‘You’ll give me a game of chess and tell me about it while we play.’

  Li took out his watch. ‘It’s late, Uncle Yifu. We should eat.’

  ‘We can eat after. First you tell me.’ He rearranged the chess pieces, simple wooden disks engraved in black or red with Chinese characters, on the board. ‘Then we eat.’

  Li shook his head fondly. He knew his uncle wanted to hear every detail, and his uncle knew that he wanted to tell him. He watched the old man as he laid out the pieces on either side of the ‘river’. He had a thick head of unusually curly hair, highlighted by an occasional strand of silver, and wore square tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses. His eyebrows were raised in a permanently quizzical expression, and more often than not a smile would carve deep creases in his cheeks. He always wore colourfully patterned short-sleeved shirts over baggy trousers that concertinaed around open sandals, and carried a small satchel in which he kept a jar of green tea, his chess set, a pack of cards, a book, and that day’s newspaper. ‘Your move.’ Old Yifu waved a hand at him impatiently, and L
i moved one of his Soldiers a single square forward. ‘Okay, tell me.’

  But Li had other items on his agenda ahead of the murder inquiry. ‘There was a strange man in my office today,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’ his uncle said casually, apparently focusing attention on his first move.

  ‘A feng shui man.’

  ‘Ah.’ Old Yifu seemed reassured by this and moved one of his Horses.

  ‘He said he was a friend of yours.’

  ‘Hmm-hmm, hmm-hmm.’ Old Yifu feigned indifference. ‘Your move. Pay attention.’

  ‘He said you’d sent him.’

  ‘Well, of course he would.’

  ‘Because you did?’

  ‘Why else would he say it?’

  Li sighed. ‘Uncle Yifu, it’s not that I have anything intrinsically against the idea of feng shui …’

  ‘I should hope not!’ Old Yifu was indignant.

  ‘In fact, I’m sure that many of its precepts are based on fundamental truths, and that there is practical value in them.’

  ‘Of course there is. Practical and spiritual. Come on, move!’

  Li moved a Horse to protect his Soldier. ‘It’s just that … well, as you know, the authorities are not very keen on it. At least, not officially.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Old Yifu was adamant. ‘No builder worth his salt puts up a new building these days without flying the plans past a feng shui man. State buildings, too.’

  ‘Well, that’s as may be …’ Li took a deep breath. ‘But the truth is, Section Chief Chen doesn’t want a feng shui man in the building and told me as much.’

  ‘Chen?’ Old Yifu snorted his derision. ‘What does that old fart know? You leave Chen to me. I’ll sort him out.’