The Fourth Sacrifice (46 page)

‘And do you think he found it before you disturbed him?’

Li shrugged and winced. The medic had strapped up his ribs, but they still hurt. ‘Who knows. But if there’s something there, I want to find it.’

It was almost five o’clock before Qian emerged from the apartment holding up a small, clear plastic evidence bag. Li was squatting in the corridor, small piles of ash and cigarette ends around him. The analgesics he had taken earlier were wearing off and he was starting to hurt again. He got painfully to his feet. ‘What have you got?’

Qian shook his head despondently. ‘Maybe something, maybe nothing.’

The first light was appearing in a sky washed clear by the previous night’s rain. The clouds had all moved on. Li took the bag and examined its contents. It was a small diamond stud not much bigger than a match head on the end of a short, blunt pin. ‘What the hell is it?’

‘It’s a stud earring,’ Qian said. ‘The kind of thing people wear in pierced ears to stop the hole healing up. I don’t think it’s Birdie’s.’

Li looked at him with undisguised dismay and pointed at his own face. ‘Are you telling me it was a woman that did this to me?’

Qian grinned, amused by the thought. ‘Not very likely, boss. Lot of young men get their ears pierced these days. A nasty habit picked up from the West.’

Li looked beyond him, disappointed, towards the apartment. ‘Nothing else?’

‘Afraid not, boss. At least, nothing that would raise an eyebrow. We were lucky we found that in the mess in there. If it hadn’t caught the light …’ Qian went to take the bag from Li, but his boss hung on to it.

‘Could be Dr Campbell’s,’ Li said. ‘She was in the apartment yesterday. What room was it in?’

‘The bedroom.’

Li nodded thoughtfully. To Qian his face was impassive, but inside his heart was pounding painfully against bruised ribs. He had a reason to see her. It was stupid and self-defeating, he knew, and it would probably only lead to more pain. But it was a valid reason.

‘I’ll get cleaned up,’ he said, ‘and go and ask her.’

*

The stalls of traders in furs and toys that lined the west sidewalk of Ritan Lu were shuttered and padlocked. In the park opposite, groups of men and women were gathering to dance the foxtrot or practise their
tai ch’i
or
wu shu
. Li could already hear the sound of scratchy music issuing from ghetto blasters mingling, among the trees, with the plaintive wail of a violin and the haunting voice of a woman singing a song from the Peking Opera. The first rays of watery yellow sunlight slanted and flickered among the leaves. The air was fresh in a way that it rarely was in Beijing these days.

Although it had barely gone six, the street was already thick with cyclists on their way to the park or factory or office block. A few vendors had established themselves at street corners selling freshly baked sweet potatoes hot from the coals of their braziers, or
jian bing
or roasted chestnuts. The smell of sweet things cooking for early breakfast drifted across the street in the smoke.

Li cycled slowly north. Each revolution of the pedals hurt his ribs. He had a splitting headache, and his lower lip throbbed painfully with the swelling. But he was almost unaware of these things as he looked up and saw the white-tile façade of the Ritan Hotel rising behind the trees. As he reached the gate he braked and slowly dismounted. A taxi honked its horn at him as it drove by, skirting a neatly arranged flowerbed and drawing up under the red painted framework of steel and glass that formed a canopy over the hotel entrance. Li was about to follow it through the gates when he saw a familiar figure hurrying out of the hotel and climbing into the taxi. It was Michael Zimmerman, looking happy and relaxed, and with a marked spring in his step. The sight of him leaving her hotel struck Li with more force than his assailant at Birdie’s apartment. Zimmerman could afford to be pleased with himself, Li thought bitterly. He had Margaret.

Li immediately pulled back, withdrawing behind a car parked on the sidewalk, and watched as the taxi emerged from the driveway and headed off down the street. Zimmerman did not notice him. Why would he? After all, Li was just another Chinese face in a city of eleven million Chinese faces. He caught sight of two security guards in brown uniform watching him with undisguised suspicion from where they stood smoking outside the gatehouse. He hesitated for a long time. He could not go in now. She would know he had seen Michael leave. He did not want to confront the reality of that. He never had.

Slowly he turned his bicycle round and remounted it. Later today he would send Sang to ask her about the stud earring. It was not something he had to do himself.

IV

As soon as he turned his bicycle into Beixinqiao Santiao, and saw a dozen uniformed officers standing smoking in the dappled shade of the trees, he knew that something was wrong. An ambulance stood half on the sidewalk at the side entrance to Section One. The officers turned and looked at him as he appeared, and the hubbub of lively conversation died away. He parked his bike and hurried inside.

There were more officers gathered at the far end of the corridor, at the top of the half-flight of stairs that led down to the holding cells. Li had a sick sensation in his stomach. He ran the length of the corridor, pushing past the officers, and down the steps two at a time.

Birdie’s cell was full of plain-clothes and uniformed officers. Two medics were crouched over a prostrate form on the floor. Bodies parted to let Li in. Birdie’s head rested at a peculiar angle. His eyes were wide, and staring lifelessly at the wall. The tip of his tongue protruded through blue lips. A short length of dirty rope lay on the floor beside him, its weave still visible in a dry, golden-red abrasion furrow around his neck.

‘He hanged himself, boss. Sometime during the night.’ Li turned to find Wu at his shoulder.

‘How the hell did he get the rope!’ Li’s shock was turning to anger.

Wu said, ‘Seems he used it to hold up his pants. He wore his tunic out, so no one saw it.’ He paused and added significantly. ‘And no one checked.’

Anger was now turning to despair. Li let his head drop and squeezed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He released a long, slow exhalation of frustration and looked at Birdie again. Grotesque though his features were, contorted by strangulation, there was a strange peace in his eyes. He had escaped. After thirty-three years he was finally free of his guilt. Free, like the birds he had loved all his life.

‘He left a confession, boss.’ Wu was watching him carefully.

Li turned to him, frowning. ‘A confession?’

Wu nodded. ‘The chief’s got it.’

*

Chen handed him the two flimsy sheets of paper, characters scrawled across them in a clumsy, childish hand. He said grimly, ‘There’s going to be hell to pay for this, Li Yan. The Ministry does not like prisoners killing themselves in police custody. There will be an investigation.’

Li nodded. He scanned Birdie’s confession with a sinking heart.

‘At least,’ Chen said, ‘we have his confession. The case has been cracked, so the political pressure will relax. You have no idea just how much pressure I’ve been protecting you people from.’

Li could imagine only too well. He shook his head. ‘It is just a pity the “confession” does not stand up.’

Chen glared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

Li waved the sheets of paper dismissively. ‘All he’s done, Chief, is repeat, almost word for word, the accusations that Sang levelled at him yesterday. Go and listen to the tape. He’s just told us what we wanted to hear. It’s like the kind of self-criticism they would have made him write in the Cultural Revolution. Confess, confess, confess. That’s all they ever wanted. Whatever “crimes” they dreamed up, that’s what they wanted you to confess to. And that’s what he’s done. Confession is the path of least resistance – even when you didn’t do it.’

Chen glared at him angrily. ‘Rubbish!’ he said. ‘He gave us a false alibi, he had the perfect motive, and we found the murder weapon in his apartment.’

‘Motive isn’t proof of guilt, Chief. You know that. He was confused about where he was last Monday night, that’s all. And the murder weapon was planted in his apartment.’

‘What proof do you have of that?’

Li pointed a finger at his face. ‘What do you think this is?’

‘You got a bloody nose when you interrupted a burglar at Ge Yan’s apartment. What does that prove?’

For a moment Li was stumped. Of course, he knew he had no proof that the sword had been planted in Birdie’s bedroom, no matter how certain he was of it. ‘There are a dozen other inconsistencies, chief. The nickname, the wine––’

Chen cut him off. ‘I don’t want to hear it, Li. And I don’t want you repeating it.’

‘But, Chief––’

Chen’s voice was low and threatening. ‘As far as I am concerned, Deputy Section Chief, we have proven beyond doubt that Yuan Tao murdered the victims known as Monkey, Zero and Pigsy. It was an act of revenge for their victimisation of his father during the Cultural Revolution. We now have a confession from an individual who believed he was next on the list, that he murdered Yuan before Yuan could murder him. His confession is given credence by the fact that the murder weapon was found in his apartment. End of story. End of case.’ He paused for a long time. ‘Do you understand me?’

The two men glared at each other for several more long moments. Li was seething. He wanted to throw Birdie’s confession in Chen’s face and tell him what he could do with it. But the longer he restrained the urge, the more he realised just how futile a gesture it would be.

In the end, all he said was, ‘Yes, Chief.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

I

Margaret stretched lazily on the bed, luxuriating in a sense of freedom. However painful it had been to make her decision, having made it she felt released from an enormous burden. She had lain for a long time in Michael’s arms last night, simply curled into him for comfort, childlike and secure, and then they had made love and she had slept like a baby until becoming aware of him leaving shortly after six.

‘Where are you going?’ she had asked.

But he had simply smiled and kissed her forehead. ‘Sunday is not a day of rest in China. And there is no rest for the wicked. I’m required on location. I’ll see you later.’

Now she rolled over and looked at the time. She had promised to take Xinxin to the park. A tiny stab of pain, an echo from another life, came to her with the recollection. She regretted having made the promise. She had done so before confronting Li with her revelations about Michael and her decision to go home. Now all she wanted was a clean break. It could only be painful taking that one step back, even if it was for just an hour or so. But she had promised, and she could not let the little girl down. Too many people had done that already.

She showered and washed her hair, and as she blow-dried it, looking in the mirror, she thought she looked older, pinched, a little haggard. She had lost weight and could see the faint outline of her ribcage. She enjoyed being slim, but skinny was unattractive. She had seen women in their thirties, desperate to stay attractive, dieting to the point where they aged themselves prematurely. A little flesh on the bone kept you looking younger. All she wanted to do now was get home, and a little comfort eating would do her no harm at all.

As she went through the clothes in her wardrobe, she realised she would have to pack sometime today. But she didn’t linger over the contents of the rack. There were clothes hanging there that carried too many memories. Clothes she had chosen to wear for Li on certain occasions. Clothes that would always make her think of him. Clothes that she would give to the Salvation Army back home. She pulled on a pair of jeans and tucked a fresh tee shirt into them, then rummaged through the shoes at the bottom of the wardrobe, looking for a pair of trainers. She picked out a white pair with pale pink piping, and froze as she saw a scattering of blue-black powder on the wooden base beneath them. For almost a full half-minute she remained motionless, the trainers in her hand, looking at the powder. She could hear her blood pulsing in her ears. Slowly she reached in and took a pinch of it between her fingers and looked at it closely. The texture and colour were the same as the sample Li had shown her. She turned over her trainers and saw the blue dust compacted in their treads. Without being aware of it, her breathing had turned rapid and shallow. She was trying to remember when she had last worn these trainers, where she could possibly have picked up this strange powdery residue. She retraced her life over the previous few days, and realised with a sudden shock that she had not worn these shoes since the day she had visited the Terracotta Warriors with Michael. Down there in the pits, with the dust and rubble of centuries, the smashed pottery of the warriors had deposited their crumbling ceramic dust, a fired clay that had turned blue-black in the searing heat of the kilns. And she had tramped it into the treads of her shoes.

But it made no sense. What possible connection could there be between the underground chambers in Xi’an where two-thousand-year-old ceramic warriors stood guard over their emperor, and a series of murders in Beijing? A series of murders which, to all intents and purposes, had already been solved.

And as quickly as she had let her imagination run riot, she stopped herself. She had no idea if this blue powder matched the other samples. But to her immediate regret, she realised that she wanted to find out. And she found herself suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, being drawn back into a world she had been trying very hard to escape. The force that drew her was irresistible, as was the curiosity which she recognised now was edged by just the faintest hint of apprehension.

*

Margaret’s doubts about whether Mr Qi would be at work on a Sunday or not were quickly allayed. After all, criminals did not take weekends off, why should criminalists? He looked at the sample of powder she had brought him in a white hotel envelope and scratched his chin thoughtfully. Her shoes, in a plastic bag, lay on the table.