The Firemaker (12 page)

‘Microscopic examination of multiple sections of the lungs shows granulomata and multinucleated giant cells containing polarisable material.’

The process was repeated with the skin samples taken from the areas of needle track on the left foot. Margaret pushed her goggles up on to her forehead. ‘Same thing,’ she said.

‘Meaning what?’ Li asked.

‘Heroin users often grind up whatever other narcotics they can and inject the powder the way they do heroin. Particles of the pill residue get trapped in the tiny capillaries of the lungs and the surrounding lung tissue. Where the particles remain they get engulfed by inflammatory cells. There is clear evidence of that in this man’s lungs, as well as in the tracks in his foot.’

‘So what does this tell us?’

‘Nothing, except that he was probably a heroin user.’

‘And cause of death?’

‘As we all thought. Extensive thermal injury. Burning.’

‘You said something about contusion, haemorrhaging, a fracture of the skull … What does all that mean?’

‘It means someone hit him on the head with a blunt instrument. Not enough to kill him, but it would certainly have rendered him at least semiconscious, if not wholly unconscious.’

Li was startled. ‘It couldn’t have been accidental, or self-inflicted?’

She said dismissively, ‘Oh, I don’t think so. With an injury like that he’d have been in no condition to go walking around and setting himself up as a bonfire. And, as I understand it, he was found still in the lotus position. So he didn’t fall and hit his head on anything once he’d started burning. I believe he was knocked on the head and then sedated.’ She paused. ‘Are you familiar with the term Special K?’ Li frowned, clearly not. She smiled. ‘At least, that’s what they call it on the streets. A drug called ketamine. They used to use it as an anaesthetic induction agent in the States. Got some pretty nasty hallucinogenic side effects. My guess would be that when we get the blood tests back we’ll find he had been injected either with ketamine, or a very high dose of heroin. That would have made him more compliant and easier to handle.’

‘You’re telling me he didn’t kill himself.’ Li was stunned.

‘Suicide? Good God, no. This man was murdered.’

CHAPTER THREE

I

Tuesday Afternoon

They stood outside blinking in the sunlight – a very different kind of light from the bright lamps that illuminated the subterranean gloom of the autopsy room. Margaret slipped on her sunglasses. Lily had still not reappeared after her dash to the toilet, and Li and Margaret stood uncertainly, unsure how to conclude their business. Each exhibited a strange hesitancy about saying goodbye. To share the experience of something as traumatic and revealing as the dissection of another human being had an almost bonding effect, inducing a shared and heightened sense of mortality.

Margaret looked up and down the street. ‘Did you leave your car up at Administration?’

‘No, the Chief took it. I’ll take the bus back.’

‘Bus?’ Margaret was shocked. ‘Surely police resources would stretch to a taxi.’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t mind the bus.’

‘In this heat? I’ve seen the buses in this city. They’re jammed full. Standing room only. How far is it?’

‘Other side of Beijing.’

Lily appeared, looking distinctly pale. Her heightened sense of mortality had clearly manifested itself in an emptying of her stomach. ‘Lily,’ Margaret said brusquely, ‘I need to go back to Section One with Deputy Section Chief Li.’ She waved her hand vaguely. ‘Administrative detail.’ She paused. ‘So I won’t be needing you any more.’

‘That not possible, Doctach Cambo.’ Lily puffed up her indignation. ‘How you get back to university? I get car and take you there.’

‘Thought she might.’ Margaret smiled sweetly after her as Lily strutted off in the direction of Administration to find their car. Margaret turned to Li. ‘Can I offer you a lift?’

Li returned a wry smile, perfectly well aware of how she had just manipulated Lily. ‘There’s really no need.’

‘Oh, but I insist. I have no further classes today, and I’d be intrigued to see the operational headquarters of Beijing’s serious crime squad. I’m sure Section Chief Chen would have no objections.’

*

On the long drive across the city, Margaret had ample time to regret her impulsiveness. Lily sat up front with the driver, and Margaret sat in the back with Li in uncomfortable silence, a very awkward space between them that could easily have accommodated a third person. After the adrenalin rush of the morning, her body and brain were once again crying out for sleep, and she found herself having to blink frequently to stay awake. She should, she realised, have gone back to her hotel and slept for the rest of the day. After all, it was bedtime back home. But then again, she persuaded herself, if she had done that her body clock would never adjust to Beijing time.

Li was regretting accepting the lift for very different reasons. He was going to have to take her into the office. Already he could see the smirking faces, hear the whispered comments at his expense. And he knew that he would be unable to conceal his embarrassment. He blushed too easily. And yet it was a measure of his growing ambivalence towards her that he almost relished the opportunity to demonstrate his status and authority.

They approached Section One from the west along Beixinqiao Santiao, passing, at number five, an impressive building studded with colourful mosaic patterns beneath traditional upturned eaves. Marble gateposts were guarded by ubiquitous lions. ‘What’s that place?’ Margaret asked as it slid past their window.

‘Hotel for Overseas Chinese,’ Li said.

Margaret frowned. ‘You mean they have their own hotels?’

‘Some overseas Chinese think they are better than us poor mainlanders,’ Li said. ‘They think their money makes them better.’ He did not approve of the status awarded these overseas Chinese, some of them second and third generation, who returned from places as diverse as Singapore and the United States to flash their wealth and shower gifts upon poor relatives. It was true that for many years the money they had sent back to relatives in China had made an important contribution to the Chinese economy. But that was changing now. So much so that with the rapidly changing economic and political climate, many of these exiled Chinese were returning for good. China itself was becoming a land of opportunity, a place to make money.

As they passed the red-tiled façade of Noah’s Ark Food Room on their right, Li peered in the window, hoping that at this time of day a number of his colleagues would be grabbing a quick lunch – the fewer to snigger at his enforced association with the
yangguizi
. But the place appeared to be empty. He sighed.

If Margaret had been expecting some impressive showpiece building to house the headquarters of Section One, she would have been disappointed by the undistinguished brick block skulking anonymously behind the trees. From the street there was nothing to suggest that this was the nerve centre of Beijing’s fight against serious crime. Only a well-informed and observant onlooker would have spotted that the registration numbers of all the unmarked cars parked in the street began with the Chinese character representing the word
Capital
, followed by a zero – the telltale registration mark of all Beijing police vehicles. Li led Margaret, followed by Lily, in through the side entrance and up to the top floor. To his extreme discomfort the detectives’ room was full of officers sitting around poking chopsticks into carry-out dishes of noodles and rice, jars of green tea sitting on desks. There was an odd air of expectation as he walked in, and a hush that descended on their conversation, even before Margaret appeared in the doorway. Her appearance served only to heighten an already tense atmosphere. Detectives sat up self-consciously, wondering, clearly, who she was and why she was there. But Li was determined to play it cool.

‘Qian,’ he said. ‘We’ve made an identification of our burn victim. His name is Chao Heng, graduated from the American University of Wisconsin in 1972 in …’ He glanced at the piece of paper in his hand, ‘… microbial genetics. Whatever that is. Let’s get an address and find out what we can about him ASAP. Okay?’

Qian almost sat to attention. ‘I’m on it already, boss.’ And he reached for a telephone. But he hesitated before dialling, watching, like everyone else in the room, as Li opened the door to his office. There were some stifled sniggers as he stopped in his tracks, confronted by the bizarre figure of an old man with long, wispy white hair and an equally long silver goatee. He was wearing what could only be described as black pyjamas and was sitting cross-legged on Li’s desk. Margaret peered round Li to see what the cause of the hilarity was.

‘What the hell …’ Li looked at the old man in consternation, aware now of some less restrained laughter behind him. Lily had come into the room and was staring open-mouthed at the old man.

‘Who is he?’ Margaret finally asked, perplexed by the bizarre nature of the scene unfolding before her.

‘No idea,’ Li said. And in Chinese to the old man, ‘Would you like to tell me what you are doing in my office?’

More laughter from the detectives’ room as the old man emerged from some deep contemplation and turned on Li a wizened and solemn face. ‘Bad
feng shui
,’ he said. ‘Ve-ery bad
feng shui
.’

‘
Feng shui
?’ Margaret said, recognising the words. ‘I know what that is.’

Li turned to her in astonishment. ‘You do?’

‘Sure. It’s a current passion among middle-class Middle Americans with nothing better to do with their time. A girlfriend dragged me along to a class once. The balance of yin and yang and the flow of
ch’i
and all that kind of stuff. The spirituality of architecture and interior design.’ She paused. ‘So who’s this guy?’

‘Evidently, a
feng shui
man,’ said Li through gritted teeth.

‘And … he goes with the job, does he?’

Li glared at her, and was then distracted by more unrestrained laughter from his colleagues. He turned his glare on them, which muted their laughter a little, before turning back to the
feng shui
man. ‘What are you doing in my office?’ he repeated, although he already knew the answer.

His heart sank as the
feng shui
man confirmed, ‘Your Uncle Yifu asked me to fix your
feng shui
. He is very concerned about this place. And he is right to be. Ve-ery bad
feng shui
.’

Detective Wu brushed respectfully past Margaret with a solemn nod and appeared at Li’s shoulder. He pushed his dark glasses up on to his forehead. ‘Chief wants to see you, boss.’

‘What?’

‘As soon as you got back, he said. I think maybe he’s worried about your …
feng shui
.’ And he couldn’t keep his face straight any longer.

Li’s lips pressed together in a resolute line. ‘Excuse me,’ he said to Margaret, and pushed back out into the corridor.

At the far end he rapped on a door and walked into Chen’s office. Chen’s face clouded as he looked up from his desk. ‘Shut the door,’ he said tersely. ‘What is that man doing in your office?’

‘He’s a
feng shui
man,’ Li said hopelessly.

‘I know what he is.’ Chen was struggling to keep his voice down. ‘What is he
doing
here?’

Li sighed. ‘My Uncle Yifu sent him.’

Chen leaned back in his seat and groaned in frustration. ‘I suppose I should have guessed.’

‘I’m sorry, Chief, I had no idea …’

‘You
know
that the practice of
feng shui
is not approved of in official institutions. Just get rid of him. Now.’

‘Yes, Chief.’ Li turned to the door, but stopped, his hand still on the handle. He turned back. ‘By the way. The suicide in the park? It’s a murder.’

When he got back to the detectives’ office Margaret was engaged in what appeared to be animated conversation with the entire office, Lily acting as interpreter. Li closed his eyes for a moment and wished, fervently, that he was somewhere else. ‘Hey, boss,’ Wu said, ‘this is some smart lady. Lily’s been telling us how she figured out the identity of the body in the park.’

Margaret was sitting on one of the desks and swivelled towards the door. ‘This is a really nice bunch of guys you’ve got working for you, Deputy Section Chief Li.’

‘Li Yan,’ Li said. ‘My name’s Li Yan.’ And he felt the colour on his cheeks rise involuntarily, blushing to the roots of his hair. He wondered if his day could possibly get any worse, and hurried into his office. The
feng shui
man was standing in the centre of the room taking notes. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to go,’ Li said.

The old man nodded sagely. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I shall need to give this much thought.’ He pointed towards the filing cabinet on the door wall. ‘This cabinet is no good here. It stops the door opening fully. The door must open one hundred eighty degrees. Negative
ch’i
collects in empty spaces behind doors, and you can’t see the whole room when you enter.’ He shook his head and turned to the window. ‘Window is jammed. Restricts the view. Will bring limited opportunities.’ He tapped the desk. ‘Are you left or right-handed?’

Li sighed. ‘Right-handed. Why?’

‘We have to move the desk. Light must not come from your writing side. And we need water in here and fresh plants.’ He pointed at dead plants in old pots on the sill. They had once belonged to Li’s predecessor, but since his death no one had watered them and so they, too, had died. ‘This is very bad
feng shui
. And we should think about the colour of the walls …’

Li took him gently by the arm. ‘I’m quite happy with the colour of the walls. But you really have to go now.’

‘Tomorrow I come back with the plan.’

‘Oh, I don’t think you need to worry about that. I’ll speak to my uncle tonight.’

‘Your uncle is my very good friend. I owe him many favours.’

‘I’m sure.’

The old man took a last look back as Li guided him out into the corridor. ‘Bad
feng shui
,’ he said. ‘Ve-ery bad
feng shui
.’