David Rotenberg - The Lake Ching murders

Like him, Jiajia had made contacts on the mainland as faraway as Xian. He was a patient learner and had a keen ear and sharp eye. He was even able to break down the sullen barriers of secrecy erected by the devious fishermen who lived on the island’s south shore.

Then Chu Shi, Jiajia’s intended, became infatuated with the off-islander, took him as a lover, became ill and suddenly died. It had changed Jiajia – made him stand up to Iman on that matter of taking her from the Earth. Made him almost uncontrollable. But he had come around lately. Although his face was now hard and almost unreadable, Iman believed his first great grandson to be loyal, and reliable, and resourceful, and smart. “Like me,” Iman thought, “like me.”

“We must collect Hesheng’s body,” Jiajia stated. “He must be buried with us.” Then he added, “Especially at a time like this.”

Everyone in the room knew what that meant. A long silence entered the room like an unwelcome guest. Finally the old man spoke, “I will see to this.” He held Jiajia’s eyes.

“It is the least we can do,” spat back Jiajia.

Iman was shocked by the openness of the challenge in the younger man’s voice. Was it what happened or the unearthing of his beloved Chu Shi that bothered Jiajia most? It was the unearthing. The other seemed to have brought him back to life. A cold, angry life, but one that Iman understood. Loss did that to young men.

Jiajia broke the silence. “Will Madame Minister . . . ?”

“We are not slaves!” Iman shouted, furious that Jiajia dared to presume. “We made our island. We make our own choices. We will act in our interests, not those of any minister in Beijing. Is that clear, Jiajia?”

Still stone-faced, Jiajia got to his feet and leaned against the mud wall of the hut.

The old man shifted in his squat and waited until all eyes turned back to him. “Is everyone prepared for the arrival of this policeman?” Affirmative grunts in many forms came from around the room. “Good. The everneighbourly townsfolk of Ching will no doubt point him in our direction shortly. More now than ever be wary of the fishermen; they are never to be trusted.”

Many nods. “We believe that others have arrived from Shanghai to help this police officer.”

The old man nodded slowly, “He’s amassing his forces.” Iman didn’t bother saying out loud, “just as I would.” He grunted then asked, “What’s this policeman’s name?”

“Zhong Fong, Iman.”

“They brought this man here then drugged and beat him?”

“So it seems, Iman, but he appears to be in command now,” his youngest great-grandson replied. The other men in the hut nodded agreement.

“Fong?” They nodded. “He’s got a simple man’s name?”

“Yes, Iman.”

“I’d like to know more about him.” He tilted his head.

A middle grandson looked at a first cousin. “It will be done.” The two men left.

“Do we go for Hesheng’s body now, Iman?” asked his first-born.

“No,” the old man replied and pushed himself to his feet. “Now we plant.” He strode out of the hut with remarkable agility and unhooked the two metal cans of shit on his doorposts and then slung them over his shoulder. “Six days of fermenting is enough. Now even this works for us,” he announced. His large brood laughed and grabbed their farm implements. They fell into line behind him, shovels, rakes, hoes and a collection of small hand-forged tools slung over their shoulders.

As they headed toward the raised terraces of the island, Iman and Jiajia looked back at the beach. Two cormorant fishermen were readying their young birds for a first session on the water. Sensing they were being watched, the fishermen looked up. Wary nods were exchanged. The farmers and fishermen lived in a complicated truce worked out over the years but unsealed by marriages between the two groups.

On the fifth terrace level, the men passed a small graveyard. Barely twenty discreet plots. Oddly small for a place that buried its own and had done so for as long as anyone could remember.

One of the graves was freshly dug. The men looked away as they passed as if looking at the turned earth would bring Jiajia’s intended, Chu Shi, back to haunt them yet again.

After two hours of grilling Hesheng’s brothers, Captain Chen and Fong met in the warden’s office to compare notes.

“So, do you think they knew about this?” demanded Fong. The younger man hesitated. “Take a guess, Captain Chen!”

“You really want me to guess, sir?”

Fong looked at his ugly young colleague. He’d seen farm animals that were more attractive. But it was possible that Captain Chen was honest; maybe he’d been born that way. Maybe that’s why the mongoose chose him. “Yes, Captain Chen, I want you to guess.”

“Fine. I guess they both – the two of them – they both knew and didn’t know.”

Fong would have put it more elegantly, but that was his assessment too. “I agree.”

“You do?”

“I do, Captain Chen. I think they both knew that Hesheng was in danger, but neither knew how or when or even if an attack was going to take place.”

“They didn’t murder their brother, then?” There was obvious relief in the statement.

“Not by anything they did,” said Fong. “But that’s only my guess.”

Chen’s anxiety increased. “Did they know about the insecticide in the water?”

“No. I don’t think so.” Fong looked away, anxious that Chen not read his face. When he turned back, the ugly young man was staring at him.

“Why bother bringing me along if you don’t trust me?”

“Do you trust me, Captain Chen?” Before Chen could answer, Fong continued, “You remind me of a young detective in Shanghai. His name was Li Xiao.”

After a breath of silence the younger man asked, “Was he a good cop?”

“Yes, Captain Chen, he was a good cop.” Fong nodded, momentarily lost in a memory. He shook it off and said, “He was the chief investigator into my wife’s death. In fact, five years ago, his testimony was central to the case that sent me to jail. So I ask you again, Captain Chen, do you trust me, a convicted felon?”

Captain Chen was cowed by Fong’s admission. He sat and looked at his stubby fingers. When he finally opened his mouth, his usually dark voice was light – breathy – as if he were about to faint. “I don’t think the world is a simple place, sir. I’ve often thought I should hand in my shield. I see both sides of everything. I can’t begin to understand how justice works.”

Fong sensed that it was unusual for Chen to speak so openly, so personally. He took advantage of the moment to plumb for information on this strange young man. “Are you married, Captain Chen?”

“I am, sir.”

“What kind of woman is your wife?”

“She’s a sad woman, sir.”

“Sir, he called me sir,” thought Fong, “but this time, like I was his . . .” Before Fong could complete his thought, the young man spoke again.

“She can’t seem to get pregnant. She wants a child. She blames me.”

Three thoughts. Three short sentences. The end of a marriage – something that Fong knew a great deal about. Fong reached for a platitude and then rejected it. Instead he said, “I think we have two killers at work, Captain Chen. One sent the snake. The other poisoned the water.”

“Both at the same time. A little far-fetched, isn’t it?” His voice still had traces of falling in it.

“It was the first opportunity. It was the prisoners’ next scheduled shower, after my interrogation. The shower facilities only allow for two at a time. It was Hesheng’s turn to wait while the other two cleaned up.”

“How did . . .?”

Fong held out a prison schedule.