The Beijing Opera Murder Read online

  ‘I wish she’d sing something a bit more cheerful,’ Ren said finally.

  They talked some more about the deal. Before he became deskbound, Bao had used this alias several times in covert work, and it had not taken him long to update himself on developments in the air-con business. After a little more alcohol had been consumed, he steered the conversation onto business contacts, then dropped the name Xun Yaochang into it. Ren, who was halfway through a mouthful of beer, nearly choked.

  ‘You’ve dealt with him?’ he asked, wiping froth off his suit with a silk handkerchief.

  ‘Only briefly. Was that unwise?’

  ‘No. I don’t really know the man. I’ve heard he’s not very reliable, that’s all. I wouldn’t do business with him.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Bao. He didn’t mention the name again; he didn’t need to.

  *

  ‘So let’s get him,’ said Lu, as the two men sat in the back of another taxi.

  Bao shook his head. ‘We’ve found a link, but we’ve no real idea what it consists of.’

  ‘Can’t we just bring him in and work on him?’

  Bao grimaced. He disliked the heavy-handed approach of some of his colleagues.

  ‘This case isn’t straightforward, Lu. If Xun simply broke the Triad code, he would have received “death by ten thousand swords” – or rather by five or six meat cleavers, wielded by Xun’s fellow recruits under Ren Hui’s supervision. Messy business. Instead he was killed, quite surgically, at an opera performance. Why?’

  He looked thoughtful, then cheered up. ‘But we have begun. Learn to savour moments like these, Xiao Lu. Detection is like jungle war. The enemy is out there. To start with you have no idea where. Then you get a clue: a sign, a story, something that leads you to where they might be. Sometimes that turns out to be false. But then the confirmations begin to build up. Then you spot a point of opportunity. Then you take that opportunity and win that battle. Then you follow it up, taking care not to be lured into any kind of trap. Finally, you make the decisive strike and victory is yours! We are still near the start but beginning to make progress.’ He clapped the young man on the shoulder. ‘Such times are good, Xiao Lu. Enjoy them!’

  *

  It was Friday. No work this afternoon; instead, Political Study. The team had returned from Huashan, in time to shower off the red dust that got over everyone who worked there and to smarten up for the session.

  It was held in a lecture room with a stage and raised banks of seats. During the Cultural Revolution, this room had witnessed the humiliation of a number of the capital’s finest police officers. Since then it had been the venue for regular Political Study and the occasional talk on criminology. Party Secretary Wei took the chair, as usual.

  ‘Today is a particularly important session,’ Wei began, also as usual. ‘Now, I know the incident on Tiananmen Square was nearly two years ago, but there are still, er, ramifications that have to be dealt with. Our leaders have decided to launch a new campaign, Strengthen the Party. I have details here.’

  He glanced round at his audience. Usually people would have opened books or files by now and would be covertly reading them. But not after that announcement.

  ‘It’s quite simple. All Party members will make a thorough self-criticism of their thoughts and actions from 26 April to 4 June 1989. We will then formally resign our membership.’ He paused, to let his words sink in. ‘Then, of course, we apply to rejoin. The point is that vetting procedures, which we normally apply to others, will be applied to ourselves. All of us.’ Wei grinned. ‘This is not a trick. We have no quotas of rightists to fill. The aim is to increase our self-awareness, to see how we made mistakes, to prevent such mistakes happening again. I feel we should be glad of the opportunity the Party is offering us. A chance to close the door and think carefully. Honesty is the keyword. Comrade Bao, you don’t agree?’

  ‘Of course!’ said Bao.

  Why had Wei singled him out to ask?

  *

  Saturday night. Late. Bao was still at his desk. He made himself another cup of green tea, scratched his head, glanced up at his calligraphy scroll – JUSTICE – then returned his attention to the piece of paper in front of him.

  My name is Bao Zheng. I am an Inspector (Second Class) in the Criminal Investigation Department of the Beijing Public Security Bureau. This is a detailed account of my thoughts and actions from 26 April to 5 June 1989.

  Chapter Four

  May 1989.

  To start with, Bao Zheng had been hostile to the protesting students. They were a pampered elite messing up the life of the capital. They talked arrogantly to Party leaders. They were making China lose face in front of the whole world. He had volunteered for extra duty, to go out on to the streets and help the regular city police keep order. He’d been set to guard the census office, outside which a small group of protesters had encamped.

  These youngsters seemed eager to talk with anyone. Bao, ever curious about people, found himself drawn into arguments.

  ‘You should realize what the Party has achieved since liberation,’ he told them, quoting the remarkable facts and figures – infant mortality, literacy rates, GNP levels – that all conscientious Party members have at their fingertips. ‘In 1949 the life-expectancy of the average Chinese was below forty. Now it’s seventy. What an achievement that is!’

  ‘It’s even higher in Taiwan,’ said one of the students.

  ‘It’s higher still in Europe,’ another chimed in.

  A third, probably sensing the unwisdom of making these comparisons, said, ‘We love our country. We want it to be as good as these places.’

  ‘You must give the reforms time,’ Bao replied.

  ‘How much time?’

  ‘We don’t want to end our lives with China still backward,’ said the young man.

  ‘You won’t. Why should you?’

  ‘Because of corruption, nepotism, cover-ups of official incompetence. Only democracy will stop these things.’

  Min zhu. Democracy. Bao found their parroting of this Western word annoying. Weren’t they aware of all the things wrong with the West? But in other ways, he had to admit that the protestors had a point. There was corruption – as there always had been. Their intentions, he decided, were good. If only they’d tone down their objections and talk sensibly with their superiors. Harmony emerging from negotiation: that was the right way.

  One day, a young woman came up to the inspector and offered him a flower. She had red cheeks, keen intelligent eyes and a gawky, peasant style of speech. Listening to her speak, Bao imagined himself in Nanping Village again. He saw its one, rutted street surrounded by narrow lanes and the Ancestral Hall, officially closed but still secretly decked with flowers, food and hell-money at Qing Ming or Autumn Moon. He saw the red brick Party offices where his father had sat struggling through paperwork. He took the gift, even though he knew he shouldn’t.

  Another evening, the protesters wanted to light a fire. That was also against the rules, but Bao let them go ahead, anyway. He was rewarded with real pleasure at the light glowing on their faces and the songs they sang. This brought back memories, too: of Army training, of camp in Yunnan, of the company of men and women prepared to fight and die for their country. When they began the Internationale he joined in quietly.

  When summer came, they didn’t need fires any longer. Tempers frayed in the rising heat. Troublemakers infiltrated their ranks – the types Bao later saw in official videos attacking Army vehicles with clubs and petrol bombs. He tried to warn ‘his’ students (he’d come to think of them that way) about these people. Their response was naïve. He wrote a memorandum to his superiors, advising them to distinguish carefully between genuine protesters and disruptive elements. Luckily for him, the document had got lost somewhere.

  On 1 June, he was moved to Muxudi, a busy junction a couple of miles west of Tiananmen Square. The Army was closing in on the capital now, and a call had gone up for the townspeople to defend the students. Te
ns of thousands responded. Soldiers were sent in to disperse them; unarmed peasant recruits in trainers and casual clothes.

  The Beijingers blocked the road and stood arguing with them. The recruits listened, then retreated in confusion. Bao watched them go with mixed feelings. Something had to be done to bring the capital back to normal. Making the People’s Liberation Army look foolish was not that something. But what was?

  Next evening the crowds were out again, and a new force was sent in, uniformed and armed. Bao recognized them at once as the Twenty-seventh Division from Shijiazhuang. These elite troops lined up and fired their AK47s into the air. The crowd began to disperse. Bao watched with approval. A nicely balanced show of force. Show them who’s in charge, but nobody gets hurt.

  Then the Kalashnikovs were lowered. An order was shouted, and the men began pumping bullets into the retreating Beijingers.

  Bao couldn’t believe it. The Army was firing on the People.

  ‘Stop!’ he found himself shouting. ‘There must be a mistake! They have no weapons!’

  Nobody heard. He began to run towards the soldiers.

  ‘I demand to see your commanding officer!’ he yelled, words that had sounded ridiculous then, let alone now. Then a bullet struck him in the leg and he fell to the ground. People were running all round him, screaming, in panic. Self-preservation took over and Bao began to hobble back with them. A nineteen-year-old girl pitched forward in front of him. He tried to pick her up, but the pressure of fleeing, terrified Beijingers drove him by. Glancing back, he saw blood pumping out of a great hole between her shoulders; there wouldn’t have been any point in trying to help her, anyway. In a terrible second of absolute fury, he thought the unthinkable, that if he had a rifle of his own, he would turn round and use it against his own beloved People’s Liberation Army.

  Two days later, the same men went into Tiananmen Square. A clampdown followed. Bao, recovering from his injury, had had little to do with that. Now, two years on, things were returning to normal. But someone wanted them stirred up again.

  ‘The gun shoots the bird that sticks its head up,’ an inner voice whispered. It had a strong Shandong accent; it belonged to Laolao, his maternal randmother. ‘Be patient. Yang gives way to Yin.’

  Bao had kept his head down as an Army recruit during the Cultural Revolution and survived. He had kept his silence since June ’89 and had survived. He’d weather this new storm.

  *

  Constable Lu didn’t sleep at all on Saturday night, and precious little on Sunday. On Monday morning, he got up at first light and took the longest cold shower of his life. As he dressed, he checked his clothing – a recent article in Socialist Youth had said that this sort of thing could be caused by tight-fitting underpants. But they were as baggy as ever.

  ‘Spiritual Pollution, that’s what it is,’ he muttered, and felt revolted at himself.

  Yet as he took his bike out of the rack, he wished the old man from Flat 1406 as always up early doing his taiji a healthy ‘Good morning!’ And as he pedalled into town past the bright concrete towers of the Village built for last year’s Asian Games and the ancient wooden gate of the Temple of the Earth, he found himself weaving in and out of the other riders as if he were winning a race. Gold medal to China! The sun was shining. The plane trees along the cycle lane were bursting into leaf – this thing called spring seemed to have more power than even ideology or love of country. As such, he knew he should be wary of it – but suddenly he couldn’t bring himself to be so.

  BE MORAL! a hoarding adjured him.

  Yes, of course … Those thoughts that had buzzed around his head all weekend were totally unworthy. He should be thoroughly ashamed of himself. Perhaps he should include a passage on the subject in his self-criticism. As he locked his bike into its rack, he hid his face from Mrs Li, the old lady who watched over the cycles during working hours. If she could read his mind, what would this fine veteran revolutionary say?

  He found Bao already at work.

  ‘Good morning, sir!’

  The inspector looked up. His face looked worn as if he too had spent a weekend in turmoil.

  ‘Found anything interesting, sir?’

  ‘Not really. These other files just duplicate some of what Inspector Liu found out.’

  ‘Oh …’ said Lu.

  ‘Our operation was a success,’ Bao went on. ‘But we need another line of approach, too.’

  Lu nodded his head, then an idea struck him. ‘What about his daughter? Have you looked to see if there’s anything on file about her? There might be some leads.’

  ‘Hmm. Hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘I could do some investigating if you like.’

  ‘Yes, well, why not? I believe she sings under the stage name Jasmine. At the Qianlong Hotel, one of these big Western places. There’ll be a file on the hotel; you could start there. And then …’ Bao’s voice trailed away. ‘She’s an attractive young woman, isn’t she?’

  Lu blushed. ‘Well, yes, sir.’

  ‘Not the sort of girl you meet at pioneer camp.’

  ‘No, sir. But I’m sure – with a bit of re-education …’

  ‘Maybe she doesn’t want re-education.’

  ‘Not want?’

  ‘Her father’s probably a gangster. From what I can gather, a ruthless ‒’

  ‘That’s not her fault!’ Lu exclaimed. ‘If bourgeois influences persist in our society … ’

  ‘You stick to your work, Xiao Lu. Let the Party sort out the bourgeois influences.’ Bao looked sternly at the young man, then felt guilty. It was a good idea, checking up on Ren Yujiao. He should have thought of it himself. ‘OK. If you think it’s worthwhile building up a dossier on Miss Ren, then go ahead. But be discreet. Discreet, understand, ya?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Lu picked up a file and strode purposefully out of the office. Bao wondered if he was doing the right thing. But he was always complaining that too much initiative was stifled in the force. Give the lad a chance.

  *

  Bao spent the day at and around the People’s Theatre, interviewing staff and vendors in the alley outside, showing them a photo of the murdered man and asking if they had seen him.

  The woman selling tickets recognized the photo. She was sure he had only bought one ticket.

  ‘Do you remember the mood he was in?’ Bao asked her.

  ‘Not really. There was quite a queue that night. I was busy.’

  ‘But you remembered his face.’

  ‘I’ve seen him here before. He’s young. Most of the people who come here are old.’

  Bao nodded. ‘When he went these other times, was he always on his own?’

  This, she didn’t know.

  A sweet-seller on the street outside recognized the photo, too. She had seen Xun talking to someone outside the building. Bao asked for a description of this person, but she said she didn’t get a front view.

  ‘Height?’ Bao asked.

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Compared to Xun?’

  ‘About the same.’

  Bao nodded. One metre seventy-five. Tall for a woman or a southern male. Average for a Beijing man. ‘Age?’

  ‘I said, I only got a back view.’

  ‘Clothes?’

  ‘Jeans, grey Zhongshan jacket – and glasses. I noticed the hook round their ears. I don’t know why, I just did.’

  ‘I wish the rest of the public was that observant. Footwear?’

  ‘I didn’t see.’

  ‘Male or female?’

  ‘Male, probably. Short hair, anyway.’

  ‘And the conversation. Was it friendly? Confrontational? Relaxed? Animated?’

  ‘It looked… intense. I suppose that’s why I noticed it. You pick up on things, don’t you?’

  ‘Some people do. “Intense” in what way? Friendly? Aggressive?’

  ‘There was some kind of disagreement, as your young man was shaking his head violently at one point. But they kept talking. That’s
all I know. Sorry.’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful. Anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  A photographer recognized Xun, too. He had posed for a portrait. With a woman.

  ‘When?’

  ‘About three months ago.’

  ‘Can you describe her?’

  ‘She seemed troubled. That’s why I remember them. I usually get happy couples grinning at me. These were… different.’

  ‘Physical characteristics?’

  ‘Tall.’

  ‘Tall? Attractive?’ Bao added, suddenly making a link in his mind.

  ‘No. Plain, actually. He was good looking – another reason why I remember them. Couples usually match.’

  *

  Constable Lu wheeled his bike up to the perimeter wall of the Qianlong Hotel and cast a quick glance over his shoulder. No one was looking. He hid the machine in a thorn bush and made his way on foot to the main gate.

  ‘I can’t do any harm,’ he said to himself. A crow screeched; Lu’s heart leapt, and he took some of those deep breaths Bao Zheng had taught him. Keep cool. This was going to be a combination of work and pleasure. Maybe he’d find some important clue – in a flight of fancy, he imagined himself sitting right behind Ren Hui and overhearing the guy say how he’d murdered this traitor at the opera. Would he arrest Ren there and then, or wait to tell the boss next day?

  The pleasure element of the evening was obvious.

  At the bottom of the hotel drive was a guard post. The occupant, whose job it was to keep Chinese out of this exclusive foreigners-only establishment, glared at the young man striding towards his window.

  ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘Xing Zhen Ke,’ replied the young man, producing his identity card with a flourish.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Special mission,’ said Lu.

  ‘Pei! Bullshit!’

  ‘I … It’s very … Now, wait a minute ‒’

  ‘Shall I phone your HQ to check?’

  ‘No. I’ve said, it’s a special mission.’

  ‘What are you after? Export-only goods from the Friendship Store? Kick-back on the new pool contract? Or just a bit of bourgeois decadence up in the Starlight Suite?’