The Beijing Opera Murder Page 2

  ‘Dead people go downstairs,’ said the constable

  ‘I wonder if he will,’ Bao replied, but the young man didn’t get the joke.

  *

  Bao reckoned that the heads of Neighbourhood Committees fell into two categories. Some were kindly and experienced, giving their time freely to mediate in disputes, to care for the sick, and to advise youngsters heading in the wrong direction. Others seemed to do no good at all, were often nosey, petty and vindictive, and added to the unhappiness of the people they were supposed to serve.

  ‘Good riddance,’ said Mrs Wan when Bao told her of Xun’s murder.

  ‘He was a bad element?’ he asked.

  ‘Thoroughly. Alcohol, fighting, noise at night-time. Trouble with the police: I’m surprised you have to ask me about him.’

  Bao was about to launch an explanation about how specific criminal records were stored at more central locations, but decided not to bother.

  ‘Girls used to come and stay the night at his flat, too,’ Mrs Wan went on. ‘There’s not room for two beds in there. I looked in through the window once and ‒’

  ‘Different girls or always the same girl?’

  ‘Different ones most of the time.’

  Bao nodded. Xun must have been quite a charmer, then. He felt a shiver of disapproval – and behind that, though he hardly dared admit it, a touch of envy. Bao had not been good with women as a young man – his outgoing elder brother had surpassed him in that department (for all the good it had done him…) The great passion of his youth had – well, that was history.

  ‘There was one who visited quite regularly until a few months ago,’ Mrs Wan went on.

  ‘D’you have her name?’

  ‘No. Ask round Goldfish Alley.’

  Bao nodded. Goldfish Alley was notorious for prostitution. ‘But she hasn’t been back recently?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you describe her?’

  ‘Overdressed. Men probably found her attractive, though she was too tall. I never spoke to her.’

  Bao nodded. ‘Tell me about Xun’s work. “Businessman”, it says in his hukou.’

  Mrs Wan scowled. ‘We all know what that means. Chairman Mao was right. All capitalists are black elements.’

  ‘So you don’t know what he actually did?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Did he have any particular enemies?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘So there’s nobody who might have a reason to kill him?’

  ‘Not that I can think of. But whoever did has done us all a favour.’

  *

  The old hutong alleyway where Xun had lived was typical of the area: narrow, winding, its surface cracked by tree-roots or subsidence. On either side rose windowless brick walls two or three metres high, many still topped with old glazed tiles, now chipped. Behind them would be old Qing Dynasty courtyards. These had once been the homes of rich officials and their retainers, but now they were mass housing and going to seed. Bao knocked at the thick wooden door of number 31.

  No one answered. He knocked again. A young man in a T-shirt, jeans and reflector sunglasses appeared. ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘I’m looking for a fellow called Xun Yaochang,’ said Bao, displaying his police ID.

  ‘Don’t know him.’

  Bao narrowed his eyes. ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘I’ve got a residence permit.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Now answer my question. How long?’

  ‘Couple of years.’

  ‘So you must know Xun.’

  ‘I see him about. What’s he done?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  The young man seemed unmoved.

  ‘Do you know anything about a woman he was seeing? A few months ago?’

  ‘I kept out of his business.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t meddle in others’ stuff and they don’t meddle in mine.’

  ‘You never saw any female with him?’

  ‘No.’

  Bao nodded. ‘And you don’t know anything about his business dealings?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any changes in his appearance in the last few months?’

  ‘Dunno. Well – he looked smarter. Maybe he’d struck lucky somehow. No idea what or how, though. Sorry,’ the young man added.

  Bao gave him a smile for this tiny piece of politeness. ‘Mind if I come in and look around?’

  ‘I haven’t got much choice, have I?’ said the young man, reverting back to surliness.

  Bao stepped over the stone lintel into the long, dog-leg hallway. A second door took him into the courtyard itself, a plot of bare earth about five metres square littered with rubbish, surrounded by single-storey accommodation. Bao knocked at a few doors, and got no reply.

  ‘Which room was his?’ he asked the young man, who had followed him into the quad.

  ‘That one.’

  Bao peered through the window. The room looked oddly empty.

  ‘Has anyone been here and cleared it out?’ he asked.

  ‘Haven’t seen anyone.’

  He’d send a team to search it, anyway. Bao took a card out of his pocket. ‘If you hear anything, can you give me a call? It might help us find out how this man died.’

  ‘Hao,’ said the young man. OK. He took the card and shoved it in a pocket without looking at it.

  So many of the capital’s young people were like this nowadays, Bao thought. Self-absorbed, surly, passionless. Would they really throw away everything the previous two generations had fought, sweated and died for? His mind went, as it often did, to events right at the heart of the capital, a couple of years previous.

  *

  Bao was back at HQ by three-thirty. Lu was ready with his report.

  ‘Petty crime,’ said the young man, clearly disappointed.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘He is suspected of involvement in various rackets: currency dealing, unlicensed street trading, handling stolen goods.’

  ‘Any convictions?’

  ‘One for drunk and disorderly, one for stealing a bicycle …’

  A recitation of minor offences followed. Bao listened, deep in thought, spinning a pen across the backs of his fingers like a propeller, a trick he’d learnt while recovering from the wounds he had received in Vietnam. Why kill such a petty operator? In a public place, therefore at some risk to the perpetrator?

  ‘These rackets,’ he said slowly. ‘He works with others, I take it. Do we have any accomplices on record?’

  ‘A few, sir. Someone called Wu Chengfa. Zhang Hua … There’s a Meng Lipiao.’

  The propeller stopped. ‘Ah! Meng Lipiao will have a story for us! If we can find him.’ Bao’s voice faltered. He began staring at the dusty, pin-pricked map on the wall.

  ‘Lu, have you ever wanted to own a nice piece of Ming Dynasty porcelain?’

  ‘No, sir. I’ve always felt that antiquities are a common heritage and should belong to the People.’

  ‘How about one made in Shanghai last week?’

  ‘I thought the Ming Dynasty was a long time ago, sir.’

  Bao paused. Was it worth explaining? No. He grabbed his jacket and made for the door, beckoning the rookie to follow.

  Chapter Two

  The clocks on the pagoda-topped towers of Beijing Main Station snapped round to the hour. Their chime began to boom out the opening bars of The East is Red. A few rustic faces lifted up to listen, but Beijingers had long since stopped taking notice of the old Maoist anthem. Bao checked his watch – it had started losing time recently – and began scanning the scene in front of him.

  ‘Any sign of him, sir?’ Lu asked.

  ‘Not yet.’

  The young man looked fretful.

  ‘Patience, Lu,’ Bao went on. ‘Three feet of ice are not formed in one day.’

  The large open space in front of the station was, as usual, crammed. Soldiers stood in groups, the young recruits holding hands like
children. Minorities from the mountains and deserts of the west sparkled in their bright clothes and flashing jewellery. Newly-prospering Han peasants from a million places like Nanping Village sat in family groups, stockaded behind bags full of the purchases that would give them so much face back home. Lao bai xing, old hundred names, the soil from which China’s culture had grown over millennia.

  Between these largely static islands of humanity moved the vendors and racketeers, selling food, magazines, soft drinks and black-market seat allocations, buying Hong Kong dollars or Foreign Exchange Certificates for grubby rolls of People’s Money. In a far corner, a man had set up an illegal game of ace-in-the-hole. He was calling for bets; the fellow in his audience perpetually upping the stakes was obviously a plant but several travellers had been taken in. Another time, Bao would have done something about it. Today, he wasn’t interested. None of the participants was Meng Lipiao.

  ‘Let’s wander about a bit more,’ he told Lu.

  They walked across the front of the station and into its vast marble main hall. THE PEOPLE’S RAILWAY SERVES THE PEOPLE, proclaimed a banner over the eighty-foot high map of China. An announcement about a late departure cut into the wistful folk music coming out of the tannoy. More waiting travellers, more vendors, no Meng.

  The policemen moved back to the square then down a side alley full of tea-stalls and noodle cafes. There was a bristle of fear as they walked by. They reached the long-distance bus park.

  ‘Ah!’ Bao pointed to a man sitting on an irregular brick wall, surrounded by nick-nacks. ‘There’s our man.’

  Lu began rolling up his sleeves.

  ‘We’re going to talk, Lu.’

  The young man’s face fell.

  ‘If you want some action, go and wait by the Metro entrance. If he tries to run, that’s the way he’ll go. It’ll be up to you to stop him. You’ve double-checked his recognition characteristics?’

  ‘Of course,’ Lu said, then did so. ‘Dark glasses, leather jacket, jeans, height about one metre seventy.’

  ‘Half the liumang in Beijing look like that, Lu. Find something special.’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘That ridiculous haircut. The tear on the jacket sleeve. That fat leather belt – might be useful if you need to grab hold of him, too.’

  Lu nodded.

  ‘Now close your eyes. Bring his image to mind. Now open them again and double-check your image. Got him correctly?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right. Metro entrance. Blend in. Have a story. Who are you waiting for?’

  ‘This guy Meng, er – what’s he called again?’

  ‘A story, Lu. Think a story, and you’ll look natural. Waiting for your girlfriend?’

  ‘I haven’t got a girlfriend.’

  ‘Use your imagination. Now go.’

  *

  Meng Lipiao pointed to one of the objects on his tray. ‘That’s worth two hundred yuan,’ he told the foreigner. ‘At least. I can let you have it for one hundred and fifty.’

  ‘Eighty?’ said the foreigner.

  ‘Eighty? This piece is two hundred years old. At least … One hundred and forty. People’s Money. In the shops ‒’ Then Meng froze. ‘Tamade!’

  The foreigner paused to look this word up in his phrase-book (it roughly means ‘motherfucker’, so he wouldn’t have found it).

  ‘Ten yuan. Take it!’ Meng shouted.

  The foreigner scratched his head and began reaching for his wallet – then saw what Meng had seen. A policeman heading his way. There was a tinkling sound as the pot hit the pavement.

  ‘Hey!’ Meng shouted as the foreigner fled in panic. He thought of doing the same, but Bao was too close.

  ‘I’ve got a licence, officer.’

  ‘I’m sure. For selling genuine goods at fair prices.’

  ‘You heard me. Ten kuai, I was asking that ghost-devil.’

  ‘Foreign friends, we call them nowadays.’ Bao picked up a bowl with a blotchy red glaze and looked at the markings on the bottom. ‘Xuande reign? That must be worth a bit.’

  Meng smiled. Bao threw the bowl on to the pavement.

  ‘Even by your standards that’s rubbish.’ Bao picked up another bowl. ‘Tang Dynasty? And it looks so new! Mind if I show it to a colleague in the fraud squad?’

  Meng sighed. ‘How much d’you want? The last gold-badge was happy with ten kuai a week.’

  ‘I don’t take bribes.’

  ‘You’re a policeman.’

  ‘I want to talk.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘An old colleague of yours. Xun Yaochang.’

  Meng flinched. ‘Who?’

  ‘Your old colleague.’

  ‘I haven’t seen him for years.’

  ‘Let’s start back then, shall we?’

  ‘OK,’ said Meng.

  Bao must have relaxed the tiniest bit. Suddenly there was a crash of tumbling crockery and the huckster was away into the crowd. The inspector, wrong-footed, was behind him. Too far behind.

  ‘Stop that man!’ he called out.

  A group of boy soldiers watched gormlessly as Meng jinked past them.

  ‘Stop that man!’

  An old woman bravely reached out a hand but Meng swept her aside.

  Then he was gone, swallowed up by the people.

  *

  Constable Lu leant against the wrought iron railings around the Metro entrance, staring at the passers-by. A young woman strutted past in a short skirt and black stockings. A southerner, no doubt. No morals, those southerners. A good Socialist does not waste thoughts on –

  There was a commotion in the crowd ahead. Someone was barging towards him. Haircut, jacket – what was the third one?

  Who cared? This was the guy. Lu moved towards him. Meng spotted him and turned back into the crowd. Lu gave chase. He was young and fit, and was soon gaining on his quarry. Meng turned into an alley. Lu followed. Meng realized the alley was blind. He stopped and turned to face his adversary. Lu stopped too. The two men stared at each other.

  Bao Zheng had this saying about dogs and people in impossible situations. Lu couldn’t remember it, but he knew its basic message: this guy could get nasty. For a second, the young man’s courage failed and he took a step back – and Meng was running at him. Shamed by his momentary weakness, Lu crouched forward and spread his arms. Meng tried to swerve past but Lu grabbed him and pulled him to the ground, which he hit with a thud and a cry of pain. Lu had handcuffs on him in an instant.

  A small crowd of people gathered.

  ‘What’s he done?’ said one.

  ‘Criticized the government, probably,’ said another.

  *

  ‘All we want is some help,’ said Bao.

  ‘You’ve a bloody strange way of asking for it.’

  ‘You’ve an even stranger way of offering it.’

  Silence fell. ‘Why me?’

  ‘You were a colleague of his. Pretty close, by all accounts.’

  ‘I was. I’m not any longer.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘No reason. We’re just – not.’

  ‘You two once had a nice racket in stolen goods. What happened to it?’

  ‘It stopped.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it did.’

  ‘D’you want the proper interrogators in?’ said Bao, suddenly angry. ‘It could easily be arranged.’

  Meng glanced round at the room. Public Security HQ, Qianmen East Street. People could come in here and never reappear. He shook his head. ‘Xun tried to cheat me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About six months ago.’

  ‘Interesting. Tell us the story.’

  Meng glanced around again.

  ‘There aren’t any bugs here,’ Bao went on. ‘Lu, put that pencil down. This is unofficial.’

  The constable looked surprised but did as he was told. Meng began to speak.

  ‘Xun had a camcorder – a lovely one, a Sony, still in its box. Of course, I’ve
no idea where he got it from. I found him a client. We arranged to meet on a bus – one of those ones heading out into the suburbs. They’re pretty empty midday.’

  ‘Which bus?’

  ‘A 352,’ Xun answered without hesitation.

  ‘Good. Carry on.’

  ‘The client and I sat at the back. Xun was to get on a few stops from the end. If all was clear, we’d do a swap there and then. If there were too many other passengers, we’d go to a park near the last stop and do the swap there. But when Xun got on, he had three other guys with him.’

  Meng shook his head, then continued. ‘He told us to go to the park. So we did. Then he pulled a knife on us, took the camcorder, my client’s wallet, even our shoes. Bastard!’

  Bao nodded. ‘And you haven’t seen him since?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You must be keen to get your own back.’

  ‘You know the phrase, officer. The past is like smoke.’

  ‘It gets everywhere and can poison people. Who were these three guys?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just toughs. The sort who prey on hard-working businessmen.’

  ‘You seem particularly scared of these ones. Would you like to tell me why?’

  ‘I’m not scared!’

  Bao nodded, then turned to Lu and asked him to go and make tea for everyone.

  ‘Including him?’ Lu asked.

  Bao gestured at Meng, who gave a nod.

  ‘Tea for three,’ said Bao. The young constable left the room.

  ‘I mean what I say about our conversation being unofficial,’ Bao went on, once he and Meng were alone. ‘But I’ve also got a job to do. I could make things difficult for you if you leave me no choice. Tell me who those men were.’

  Meng began twisting on his seat. Bao watched him in silence. Finally, the detective spoke. ‘Why don’t I tell you what I think was going on, and you can correct me?’

  Meng seemed overcome with relief.

  ‘Your friend Xun got bored with pulling small jobs like camcorders and decided to move up in the world. The people on the bus were his new colleagues. This was a test of loyalty. Ditch an old friend for us. I imagine you got a visit from them a few days later, telling you to keep quiet. How am I doing?’

  Meng’s relief had drained away. ‘That’s not …’ he began, but there was no conviction in his voice.