David Rotenberg - The Lake Ching murders

He reached up and Chen helped him gain a sitting position. “Time to get back to work, sir?”

The sound of a stick match breaking fire and the whiff of sulphur drew his attention. “Looks fine to me. Not ready for my autopsy table yet,” the coroner spat out the phlegm. “Soon though.”

Fong smiled at the old man. “Why aren’t you dead?” he articulated carefully.

“Bad luck, I guess.”

Fong nodded and slowly swung his legs out of the bed. Neither of his Shanghanese colleagues missed the blinking of the ankle bracelet.

Fong ran his tongue over his teeth – they felt odd. He signalled to Chen to lean in. The ugly young man did. Fong spoke slowly, enunciating clearly, “Tell Lily I’m starting a new fashion.” He lifted up his cuffed leg.

Chen relayed the message. Lily stepped forward. The light picked up her sharp facial features – lit her beautiful, pained eyes. She pointed at the ankle bracelet. “Do those come in green?”

Fong tried to laugh. But it hurt. “Help me stand.”

Chen helped him to his feet. “How long have I been out?”

“Two and a half weeks,” said the coroner flipping through the chart he’d taken from the foot of the bed. “A fast recovery, I’d say.”

“From what?”

“Typhoid, it says here. You’ve been on heavy sedatives for the past three days.”

“Waiting for you two to arrive,” Fong thought, but didn’t speak. Just nodded. That hurt too. What hurt most was Lily’s refusal to look at him. She kept glancing out the window as if there was something to see.

“Ready, sir?” asked Chen as he held up Fong’s Mao jacket.

For a moment Fong panicked, but then he heard the reassuring rustle of the Shakespeare texts he’d sewn into the lining. He tried to take a step but nausea overwhelmed him. He fell to the floor and quickly released the contents of his stomach.

Chen helped him to his feet.

“The nausea should pass soon, Fong. It’s from the sedatives,” said the coroner.

He nodded. They headed out.

Lily’s eyes never met his.

The building in which the meeting was taking place was new but the ideas were as old as the organization itself. The youngest of the men in the room claimed direct ancestry with one of the five original monks who were supposed to have begun the Triad societies back in the days of the first Manchu incursions. No one questioned his claim since this young man was now at the pinnacle of his power. It was a new time indeed that one so young could climb so high. All the way to Shan Chu.

The eldest man in the room had been a small boy when the group took the bold step of separating from the coastal head office. That move and the subsequent deal with Mao’s men had secured the group’s present power. And its present power was substantial, as evidenced by the brisk sales of franchises throughout the Xian region.

“This Detective Zhong?” the young leader ordered a response.

A heavy-set man rose, bowed, then laid out Zhong Fong’s history in full. Quick rise through the ranks to head of Special Investigations in Shanghai, his fall from grace, his years in Ti Lan Chou prison, his internal exile then his recent resurrection.

The young leader, the Shan Chu, turned away from the others at the table and stared out the window. He didn’t fear the present circumstances – the matter of the deaths on that boat – the mess. But he knew that at times of turmoil gain can be realized. He was trying to figure out what benefit could be wrought from the murders of seventeen foreigners. What new foothold of commerce could be purchased from this interesting situation.

“Did we supply the girls?” he asked.

“Naturally, from Xian,” came back the simple reply.

“And their transportation to the ship?”

“We pulled in a favour from a bus driver. But he broke down along the way. The girls never got to the boat.”

That surprised him. “None of the girls got to the boat?”

“Not unless they got there on their own.”

“Is that possible?”

“I guess. Whores can be quite resourceful.” The man laughed. The young leader didn’t, so the rest of the room decided that the jest was in bad taste.

After allowing the man to sit for a moment of embarrassment, the young Shan Chu said, “Get me the calling cards of the girls – of all the girls.” He turned to the rest of the table and smiled. “It is a rare opportunity for a Triad to help the police in their investigations, don’t you think, gentlemen? We must grasp such opportunities to be good citizens of the New China.” He laughed and the rest of the table followed suit. Evidently this gibe was not in bad taste.

Fong set tasks for Lily and the coroner that brought them into town. He returned with Chen to the warehouse.

Chen had secured an oval meeting table, chairs and Japanese-style futons for them. He’d also found the large, flat-topped desk and chalk that Fong had requested.

Fong nodded.

“The transparencies will be ready shortly, sir.”

Fong nodded again, still unsure what a transparency was. “What about the model of the boat?”

It’s been ready for some time. We just have to pick it up.”

Chen drove him to an old-style workshop just outside the city limits. From the twin front doors it might well have been a stable at one time. When Fong knocked at the door, the sound echoed.

After a few moments the door was opened by a tall, elegant, aesthetic-looking man who was about ten years older than Fong. The man wore army-issue wirerimmed glasses. His eyes were oddly pale; his fingers long. His nails were buffed, yet his palms were deeply calloused. His handshake was firm.

“Welcome, Detective Zhong.” His voice was light, breathy. His clothing appeared to be standard issue but made of extremely fine fabrics. He took off his clunky metal-rimmed glasses and cleaned them with an expensive linen handkerchief. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Fong glanced up into the man’s face. He found no trace there of anything but a carefully kept mask. The man stepped aside. Fong entered the surprisingly generous space. Before he took two steps, the man quickly crossed behind him and closed the door, leaving Captain Chen outside in the cold. Fong turned. As explanation, the man said, “At a recreation, the recreationist is king. Besides, talent has its privileges – even in our China.” His eyes twinkled.

Fong nodded slowly, unsure that he wanted to agree with anything someone who called himself a recreationist said.

The man walked past Fong to one of the two large tables that occupied the centre of the space. On the first table a partially completed terra-cotta figure of an archer lay on its side. Scattered around it were hundreds of terra-cotta shards, few larger than an inch across. On the other large table sat an object some four feet by three feet covered in a grey canvas shroud. Pinned on boards on three sides of the object were duplicates of the crime scene photos.

The man walked past Fong, knelt and plucked a stone from a pile on the floor. He allowed the rock to roll in his palm for a moment, then placed it on top of a slender column of free-standing stones. It was like a stalagmite growing from the hard earthen floor. There were two other columns of stones nearer the wall, each a miracle of balance; each rock fitted perfectly to the one above and below. Before Fong could ask, the man spoke. “The stones are a way of marking time, Detective Zhong. Time. One stone for each . . .” His voice trailed off before he completed the thought. He got to his feet, pulling down his jacket over a shiny black vest bearing an English tag – “100% Thinsulate” – thinsu-what? Fong had been on the other side of the Wall for a long time.