Death of a Red Heroine [Chief Inspector Chen Cao 01] (33 page)

“That’s really something!” Yu said. “Wu lied to me. Let’s get hold of him.”

“Do you know anything about Wu’s family background?”

“Family background?”

“His father is Wu Bing.”

“What are you saying?”

“Yes, no other than Wu Bing, the Shanghai Minister of Propaganda. Wu Xiaoming is his only son. Also the son-in-law of Liang Guoren, former governor of Jiangsu Province. That’s why I want to talk to you here.”

“That bastard of an HCC!” Yu burst out, his fist banging on the table.

“What?” Chen seemed surprised at his reaction.

“These HCC.” Yu was making an effort to calm himself down. “They think they can get away with anything. Not this time. Let’s issue a warrant.”

“At present, we only know there was a close relationship between Guan and Wu. That isn’t enough.”

“No, I don’t agree. So many things fit. Let’s see,” Yu said, draining his tea, “Wu had a car, his father’s car. So he was capable of dumping her body in the canal. The plastic bag makes sense, too. Not to mention the caviar. And as a married man, Wu had to keep their affair a secret, and for the same reason, so did Guan. That’s why Guan made such a point of concealing her personal life.”

“But all this is not legally sufficient proof that Wu Xiaoming committed the murder. What we have so far is just circumstantial evidence.”

“But Wu has been withholding information. That’s enough for us to interrogate him.”

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about. A lot of politics will be involved if we are going to confront Wu Bing’s son.”

“Have you discussed it with Party Secretary Li?”

“No, not yet,” Chen said. “Li’s still in Beijing.”

“Then we can go ahead without having to report to him.”

“Yes, we can, but we have to move carefully.”

“Is there anything else you know about Wu?”

“Just these official files.” Chen produced a folder out of his brief case. “Not much, general background information. If you want, you can read it tomorrow.”

“I would like to read a few pages now if you don’t mind,” Yu said, lighting a cigarette for Chen and then one for himself.

So Yu began to read the documents enclosed in the folder. The most comprehensive one was an official dossier Chen had obtained from the Shanghai Archives Bureau. The dossier did not offer much of immediate interest, but it was more thoroughly compiled than what Yu had been used to seeing in ordinary bureau files. Wu Xiaoming was born in 1949. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His father Wu Bing was a high cadre in charge of the Party’s ideological work, living in one of the most luxurious mansions in Shanghai. Wu Xiaoming grew to be a “three good” student in his elementary school. A proud Young Pioneer with the streaming red scarf and then a Communist Youth League member with a golden badge shining in the sunlight of the early sixties. The Cultural Revolution changed everything. Wu Bing’s political rival, Zhang Chunqiao, a Party politburo member, was merciless toward his opponents. Wu Xiaoming saw his parents dragged out of the mansion, handcuffed, and thrown into prison, where his mother died a miserable death. Homeless, Wu and his sister were left struggling on the streets. No one dared to take care of them. For six or seven years he labored as an educated youth in Jiangxi Province. In 1974 he was allowed to move back to Qingpu County, Shanghai, on the grounds of his father’s poor health. In the late seventies, the old man was let out of jail, and rehabilitated—more or less symbolically, since he no longer had the strength for his office. Wu Xiaoming, too, had been assigned a good position. As a photographer for
Red Star,
he had access to the top Party leaders and made several trips abroad. With praiseworthy diligence, the report went on in some detail about Wu Xiaoming’s own family. Wu was married in Jiangxi province in his educated youth years. His wife, Liang Ju, was also from a high cadre family. They came back to Shanghai together. Liang had a job in the city government, but suffering from some serious neurosis, she stayed at home for several years. They had no children. As Wu Xiaoming had to take care of his father, he and his wife lived in his father’s mansion.

In the part about Wu’s work, Yu found several pages of more recent date, the “cadre promotion background checkup” filled out by Wu’s current boss, Yang Ying. Wu was described as the magazine’s photo editor and “ace photographer,” who had produced several pictures of Comrade Deng Xiaoping in Shanghai. The report highlighted Wu’s dedication to his work. Wu had demonstrated his political commitment by giving up holidays to carry out special assignments. At the end of the report, Yang Ying gave his “full recommendation for a new important position.”

When Yu finished reading, he found his cigarette totally burnt out in the ashtray.

“Not much, eh?” Chen said.

“Not much for us,” he said. “What will his new position be?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“So how shall we proceed with our investigation?”

“A difficult investigation, even dangerous,” Chen said, “with Wu’s family connections. If we make one mistake, we’ll be in serious trouble. Politics.”

“Politics or no politics. Do you have a choice?”

“No, not as a cop.”

“Then neither have I,” Yu said, standing up. “I am your assistant.”

“Thank you, Comrade Detective Yu Guangming.”

“You don’t have to say that.” Yu moved over to the cabinet and returned with a bottle of Yanghe. “We’re a team, aren’t we? Drink up. It’s a bottle I’ve saved for several years.”

Yu and Chen drained their cups.

In
The Romance of Three Kingdoms,
Yu remembered, the heroes would drink wine when vowing to share wealth and woe.

“So we have to interview him,” Chen said, “as soon as possible.”

“It may not be too good an idea to startle a snake by stirring the weeds. And possibly a poisonous snake,” Yu said, pouring himself another cup.

“But it’s the route we must follow, if we make him our main suspect,” Chen said slowly. “Besides, Wu Xiaoming will get wind of our investigation one way or another.”

“You’re right,” Yu said. “I’m not afraid of the snake’s bite, but I want to finish it at one blow.”

“I know,” Chen said. “So when do you think we should act?”

“Tomorrow,” Yu said. “We may be able to take him by surprise.”

By the time Peiqin returned with Qinqin, Yu and Chen had finished the bottle of Yanghe and agreed on the steps they would take the following day.

The dessert Peiqin had promised was an almond cake.

Afterward, Yu and Peiqin accompanied Chen to the bus stop. Chen thanked them profusely before he boarded.

“Was everything okay this evening?” Peiqin said, taking Yu’s arm.

“Yes,” he said absentmindedly. “Everything.”

But not quite everything.

Once back, Peiqin started cleaning up the kitchen area. Yu moved out into the small courtyard, lighting another cigarette. Qinqin was already asleep. He did not like smoking in the room. The yard presented an unlovely sight—like a battlefield with each family trying to occupy the maximum space. He stared at the mound of coal briquettes, twenty at the bottom, fifteen above, and then seven at the top, confronting him like a large letter A.

Another achievement of Peiqin’s.

She had to carry all of them from a neighborhood coal store, to store them in the yard, and then, every day, to carry a briquette in her hands to the stove. In
The Dream of the Red Chamber,
Daiyu carried in her hand a white basket full of fallen petals.

And he turned to find Peiqin scrubbing the pots over the sink under the glaring light. It was hotter there. He could see the perspiration on her brow. Humming a tune, though off-key, she stood on tiptoe to put the dishes back in the makeshift wall cabinet. He hurried over to help. After closing the cabinet door, he remained standing close behind her, slipping his arms round her waist. She nestled back against him and made no attempt to stop him as he slid his hands up her back.

“Strange, isn’t it,” he said, “to think Chief Inspector Chen should come to envy me.”

“What?” she murmured.

“He told me what a lucky husband I am.”

“He told you that!”

He kissed the nape of her neck, feeling grateful for the evening.

“Go to bed now,” she said smiling. “I’ll join you soon.”

He did, but he did not want to fall asleep before she came to bed. He lay there for a while without turning off the light. Out in the lane, all sorts of vehicles could be heard moving along Jingling Road, but once in a while came a rare minute when all the traffic faded into the night. A blackbird twittered nostalgically in the maple tree. His neighbor’s door slammed closed across the kitchen area. Somebody gargled at the concrete common sink, and he heard another indistinct sound like swatting a mosquito on the window screen.

Then he heard Peiqin snapping off the kitchen lights, and stepping lightly into the room. She changed into an old robe of shot silk that rustled. Her earrings clinked into a dish on the dresser. She pulled a plastic spittoon from under the bed and put it in the corner partially sheltered by the cabinet. There was a gurgling sound. Finally she came over to the bed and slid under the towel blanket.

He was not surprised when she pressed herself against him. He felt her moving the pillow to a more comfortable position. Her robe fell open. Tentatively, he touched the smooth skin on her belly, feeling the warmth of her body, and pulling her knees against his thighs. She looked up at him.

Her eyes mirrored the response he had expected.

They did not want to wake up Qinqin.

Holding his breath, he tried to move with as little noise as possible; she cooperated.

Afterward, they held each other for a long time.

Normally he would feel sleepy afterward, but that night he found his mind working with intense clarity.

They were ordinary Chinese people, he and Peiqin, hardworking and easily contented. A crab dinner like tonight’s could make them happy, excited. In fact, little things went a long way for them: a movie on the weekend, a visit to the Grand View Garden, a song on a new cassette, or a Mickey Mouse sweater for Qinqin. Sometimes he complained like other folks, but he counted himself as a lucky guy. A marvelous wife. A wonderful son. What else mattered that much on this earth?

“Heaven or hell is in one’s mind, not in the material things one has in the world,” Old Hunter had once told him.

There were a few things, however, Detective Yu would like to have. A two bedroom apartment with a bathroom, for instance. Qinqin was already a big boy who needed a room of his own. He and Peiqin would not have to hold their breath making love. A propane gas tank for cooking instead of coal briquettes. And a computer for Qinqin. His own school years were wasted, but Qinqin should have a different future . . .

The list was quite long, but it would be nice to have just a few of the items at the top.

All of these, it had said in
People’s Daily,
would come in the near future.
“Bread we will have, and milk, too.”
So said a loyal Bolshevik in a movie about the Russian Revolution, predicting to his wife the marvelous future of the young Soviet Union. It was a movie seen many times in his high-school years—the only foreign movie available at the time. Now the Soviet Union was practically gone, but Detective Yu still believed in China’s economic reform. In a few years, maybe, a lot would improve for the ordinary Chinese people.

He dug out the ashtray from under a heap of magazines.