A Calamitous Chinese Killing Read online

  “Do not worry, Mama. I have a very good method to earn some real money soon and then Papa’s cough will be better and you will both watch Chinese soap operas on the biggest colour television money can buy.”

  “You are a good and dutiful daughter,” said her mother. Even across the distant line, Qing could hear the higher tone that signalled her improved mood. The factory girl grimaced as she rang off. Why had she been debating her next course of action as if she was one of those rich people who had a choice about what to do in life? The bottom line was the bottom dollar and she would have to seize this unexpected opportunity, however dangerous, with two greedy hands.

  ♦

  SQ800. Had the number been chosen because the Chinese believed that the numeral eight was lucky and symbolised good fortune and wealth? Were there any SQ444 flights to China? Singh doubted it. There would have been empty planes on the route as the Chinese words for ‘four’ and ‘death’ sounded similar to native ears. In fact, decided Singh as his plane reacted to turbulence like a small boat on stormy seas, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have caught flight ‘death’ to China either.

  “Your Indian vegetarian meal is ready, Inspector Singh.”

  The policeman smiled at the stewardess. The Singapore police department was flying him business class and it was a pleasure to find a seat big enough for him to house his posterior comfortably. And who would have expected a curry at thirty-eight thousand feet? Singh’s enthusiasm waned when he saw the mountain of chickpeas in front of him. He’d been hoping for more variety – some pickles perhaps, or yogurt. Still, a man who eschewed food was a skinny man and the inspector was certainly not that. He gulped some beer and tucked in, slowly reviewing the rest of his conversation with Superintendent Chen.

  “Beijing? The victim was killed in Beijing?” he’d asked. “Surely you don’t think I’d be of any use there! I don’t even speak Chinese.”

  The Singapore government had run a campaign called Speak Mandarin First. Singh had immediately decided to speak it last. After all, he was not a school-going child to be bullied into memorising an Oriental system of hieroglyphics so that his nation could find favour with the global superpower of the future.

  “Believe me, I don’t think you’re the right man for the job,” said Chen. “I put forward every single policeman above the rank of sergeant ahead of you.”

  “What is the job? Who’s dead anyway?”

  “Justin Tan – the twenty-three-year-old son of the First Secretary at the Singapore Embassy in China.”

  Singh steepled his fingers and stared at his superior. “How important is the First Secretary?”

  “Very important. China is a critical posting.”

  “Then why is he getting me?”

  “She – Susan Tan.”

  “All right – why is she getting me?”

  Chen didn’t pretend to misunderstand. His most successful crime solver was only sent abroad to keep him out of mischief or if a scapegoat was necessary. The fact that trouble, in the form of mysterious corpses, followed him wherever he went was an unhappy coincidence. Singh suspected that Chen half believed that he killed them himself just to have something to do.

  “You wouldn’t have been my choice – ”

  “You mentioned that already.”

  – “but the First Secretary demands it and she has the backing of the Ambassador.”

  “The ‘poppadum policeman’?”

  “Exactly. Your exploits have been well documented in the press and the First Secretary seems to think that you’re the man for the job. She insisted we send you.”

  Singh exhaled slowly and licked his pink pouting lower lip. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so chuffed that the story of his Indian exploits had been picked up by the international newswires. Not if he was going to be summoned by various Singaporean diplomats to investigate the death of their offspring in foreign parts. Where next? Kazakhstan? Venezuela? North Korea?

  “How was her son killed?”

  “Bludgeoned to death in some back alley.”

  “Wasn’t there an investigation?”

  “The Chinese police concluded it was the work of unidentified ruffians during the course of a robbery.”

  “But the mother is convinced there’s more to the story?”

  “Yes.”

  “So? The mothers are always convinced there’s more to the story…”

  “She’s an influential woman at an important post – you’re the cavalry.”

  Singh picture himself galloping to the rescue astride a horse. Poor horse.

  “I don’t have to tell you that relations with China are very sensitive right now…”

  “Why right now?”

  “The Chinese authorities are not happy about the bad press Chinese migrants are getting in Singapore.”

  “Ahh – the China girls!”

  Chen looked surprised that Singh was so well informed about tensions between citizens and newcomers but he nodded. “Yes – we’ve had to cut back on people from the mainland coming to Singapore and the Chinese government is offended.”

  “Am I on some sort of secondment to the Chinese police?”

  “No, this is off the record. The First Secretary is cashing in a lot of favours to get you to China.”

  “If it’s not official, why are you worried?”

  “I’m afraid that you’ll somehow find a way to cause a diplomatic incident. Isn’t that what you usually do?”

  “We aim to please,” said Singh, smiling cheerfully.

  “I’m giving you a week,” said Chen, “and not a minute more.”

  Now, as he wiped his plate with a slice of bread to ensure that no drop of gravy went to waste, the inspector regretted that flippant remark. A young Singaporean man had gone to China to die. And now Singh was being sent to find out who had done it. Three weeks too late, in a country he knew nothing about, where he did not speak the language and where people with power and influence would be watching his every move. If he annoyed someone important, they’d probably send him off to a work camp and he’d spend the rest of his life breaking rocks with a pick and eating Chinese food. This case was precisely the sort that he would have crossed several streets to avoid. Maybe crossed several streets, skipped lunch, the accompanying cold beer and even forsaken his post-prandial cigarette.

  Still, he decided, closing his heavy lids and gently letting sleep claim him, all he had to do was back up the official Chinese version. Killed by unidentified ruffians in the course of a robbery. It sounded perfectly plausible to Singapore’s leading criminal detective. After all, who would have a motive to kill the son of the First Secretary? This Justin Tan had been an unlucky young man. Not the first, and certainly not the last. He’d be in and out of Beijing in twenty-four hours if he stuck to the script.

  ♦

  Anthony Tan, husband of the First Secretary, could still remember a time when the future had looked bright. A time when his son was still alive and he’d been on the cusp of the sort of financial breakthrough that would have allowed him to hold his head up, to stand tall as a man and not merely be the husband of a successful woman.

  “Where are you going?” asked his wife, the disdainful tone a provocation in itself.

  “I have a meeting.”

  “With whom?”

  “Do I ask you which country’s diplomats you are meeting? No! So why must you know whom I see?”

  “Because your business dealings have the capacity to embarrass me, as well as the Singapore government.”

  “That is only your prejudice – my work allows Singapore companies to take part in the Chinese economic miracle. I do more for Singapore interests in China than you do.” It was an old argument. Both protagonists uttered their lines by rote but much of the feeling had gone. That was what happened when you lost a son.

  “Many of the business practices here do no pass the smell test. You should be careful which projects you become associated with.”

  “I become ‘associated�
�, as you say, with the profitable ventures.” Crooked fingers traced the inverted commas.

  “That cannot be your only criteria. Some of the Chinese parties are basically criminals, pure and simple.”

  “Entrepreneurs and nationalists,” he retorted.

  It was too much of a clue for someone of his wife’s insight. “You are going to see Dai Wei, aren’t you?”

  “Why do you object to him? He’s a brilliant deputy mayor of Beijing. He’s cracking down on organised crime in the city. The people view him as a hero.”

  “When a turnip is pulled out of the ground, some soil will inevitably come with it,” was his wife’s cryptic response.

  Anthony Tan walked out of the residence without bothering to respond. Her suggestion that Dai Wei would eventually be tainted by association with the same people he was cracking down on was the common view among the supercilious elite. The First Secretary’s husband took the Embassy limo that was assigned to his wife. Strictly, he was not permitted to use the vehicle for non-consular activity but he didn’t really care. Who was going to stop him anyway? Everyone knew that rules were made to be bent if not broken. The only martinet was his wife – she, who saw life in black and white. No shades of grey. No compromise.

  Anthony Tan’s meeting with Dai Wei was at his business offices, the penthouse of a gleaming new building in the heart of the business district. He knew it was his last chance to persuade Dai Wei to play along. The question was – would it work? It had to. The money he’d borrowed from the moneylender to grease the wheels was overdue. And Anthony Tan knew that his life would not be worth a bucket of warm spit if he did not get the deputy mayor to fast track the planning permit, receive his commission from the developers and pay the fellow back.

  The Singaporean stepped out of the car, walked to the elevator at a slightly heightened pace and adjusted his tie in the mirrored walls. He looked, he decided, like a man who knew what he was doing. A dark, conservative suit, the hair well-combed and trimmed, the good-looking face, thinner than it had been before Justin’s death and lined enough to suggest maturity, gravitas. There was no doubt about it in Anthony Tan’s mind – he belonged in the big time. He exited the lift, patted his hair down and announced himself to the secretary cum supermodel at the front desk. He wondered whether she could type or whether she was purely for show. He suspected the latter. Dai Wei was famous for having an eye for beautiful things – his wife was a perfect example. Anthony Tan bit back his resentment that a short, pushy man like Dai Wei should have as many badges of success as an enthusiastic Boy Scout while he, Anthony, blessed with so many natural gifts, was reduced to the role of supplicant.

  “Mr Dai will see you in ten minutes,” said the supermodel, smiling sweetly to reveal implausibly perfect teeth. “He’s on a conference call.”

  Great. He would have to kick his heels and pretend he didn’t mind. It was the privilege of the powerful to keep lesser beings waiting and Anthony knew from experience that Dai Wei was a wielder of power who enjoyed every petty display.

  “Would you like coffee or tea?”

  “Tea,” he snapped. His nerves were already getting the better of him.

  In a few minutes, tea arrived on a tray carried by another employee, this one dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt with a small bow tie at his neck. Anthony acknowledged the drink with a curt nod, scalded his lips on his first sip and tried to decide what he was going to say to the man who held his future in his hands. Despite the financial hole he was in and the fact that Dai Wei was the one who had wielded the shovel, he knew he would have to proceed with extreme caution.

  The heavy door behind the secretary opened and Dai Wei himself stood there in his platform shoes and Italian suit. Socialism for the twenty-first century.

  “Anthony, very good of you to visit. Come in. Come in!” The bonhomie was theatrical and the smile did not reach his eyes.

  “Thank you for making time to see me.”

  “I always have time for a good friend.”

  He led the way into the office and Anthony blinked at the gold and red interior. They sat down, not on the sofas like the first time, but behind the big desk and across from it. He remembered how his wife did not bother to come round her desk to speak to him either. His fists clenched and he had to will his hands open again.

  “So what do you need from me, an important man like you?”

  “I was wondering how things were going with my proposal?” said Anthony. “My backers are getting anxious.”

  “Your backers are getting anxious – I can understand that. But you know these things take time – Rome wasn’t built in a day!” He added this last in English, smiling with pleasure at his use of an idiomatic expression.

  “Ahhh…but we all know that the Chinese are better and harder workers than the Romans,” said Anthony.

  “Unfortunately, it is not as easy as it once was to issue permits for new projects,” explained Dai Wei. “The people are starting to protest in large numbers at being forcibly moved from their homes. It is always on these uncontrolled websites – sometimes even in the People’s Daily.”

  “The consortium backing this venture will build the best shopping mall in all of China. It will be the biggest, contain the leading brands and be a wonder of the world.”

  “That is capitalist talk. We are a socialist nation – the people come first.”

  Anthony bit his tongue.

  “As you know, I am leading a Maoist revival here in Beijing to ensure that the people participate in the growth and success of China!”

  “Your efforts are an inspiration to everyone,” said Anthony. He’d have liked to punch the other man. His ghastly choirs and orchestras playing tunes from the Mao era, his distribution of flyers with Mao revolutionary slogans, his insistence that television programming contained suitably laudatory historical segments and not just games shows and dating shows – all an attempt to cement his own grip on power.

  “But you need the land,” pointed out Dai Wei.

  “Yes, we need the land and it has to be the spot we identified because of its location in a high population area of Beijing,” agreed Anthony.

  “It is even more difficult for me to issue permits for the hutongs because they are those who say they are part of our history.”

  “The imperialist past – not the great socialist era.”

  “That is very true,” said Dai Wei.

  “So can you help?” asked Anthony, the edge of desperation in his voice like a suicide’s ledge.

  ♦

  Qing sat on the kerb, knees demurely pressed together in tight blue jeans, waiting for the bus that would take her into the city. She was resting because she knew that she would probably have to stand all the way to the centre of Beijing. There were a lot of people who wanted to experience the big city on the weekends. She had a half-day off that Sunday and had traded the other half to a girl who was keen to maximise her working hours. That meant she had one full day. Enough to go shopping, meet a friend, have a cheap meal, have her nails and hair done. Not that she was going to do any of those things. She still felt guilty after her call with her mother. The family was depending on her and she had let them down. Tempted by what the city had to offer, she had spent hard-earned money that was earmarked for home.

  She remembered a conversation with a senior worker at the factory back in Dongguan where she had stood twelve hours a day sticking the eyes on teddy bears. She had learned to hate the soft toys, destined for some privileged child’s bedroom. She had never had such a thing in her life! And the glue fumes made her feel nauseous. Despite this, she had waited for payday with bated breath and received her small wage – less deposits, payment for her cot in the dormitory, lunch money and other miscellaneous items.

  “Where are you going?” asked the older girl who had the top bunk and was lazily painting red onto her pouting lips with the use of a small hand mirror.

  “To send money to my family,” she replied.

  “Y
ou newcomers are all the same.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sending your hard-earned money home. Why should you do it? Are you their slave?”

  Qing was troubled by the mockery she heard in the other girl’s voice.

  “You know what I say to my family?” she continued.

  “What is that?” asked Qing.

  “I say that if you want this money, there is a train that will bring you from Yunan province right here to Dongguan. Then you too can earn the same.”

  Qing had wanted to protest but could not find the words to contradict the worldly creature now rummaging under the bunk for high-heeled boots.

  “What do you use your money for then?” asked Qing.

  Her friend held out her hands so Qing could see the painted nails, and the legs so she could admire the knee-high boots. “I buy myself nice things so I look pretty and can find a husband who is not too short, at least one hundred and seventy centimetres or ‘need not apply’!” She laughed at her own joke but Qing felt a frisson of worry for her younger brother whom she loved very much but who was still shy of that magic number that would make him desirable to both the women and employers of China.

  “So you see, I am investing my money in my future!”

  Qing had learned to spend money on her clothes and hair, on her nails and shoes, pushing any sense of guilt to the back of her mind and learning to live in the moment.

  In the distance, Qing saw the bus approaching and leaped to her feet. She had no intention of being forced to wait for the next one however many old women and children she had to trample to get on board. For some reason, the bus was not as full as usual and she found a seat towards the back next to a young man whom she instantly dismissed from her mind, despite his meaningful smile, because his teeth were crooked and his breath smelled. Her plan was to spend the day with her aunt in Beijing and decide how to maximise the knowledge that she had. Qing was quite sure that if she played her cards right, she would be able to send money home for her brother and parents as well as pretty herself up until she was of interest to young men less hideous than this fellow next to her. For once, she had the opportunity to obtain enough cash that she did not always have to make difficult choices. She smiled to herself at the thought and settled back for the ride to town.