Qiu Xiaolong - Enigma of China

“Thank you, Peiqin and Yu, for the meal, for the cake, for the lecture about the Internet and crowd-sourcing, and for everything else,” Chen said, rising. “Now I have your endorsement, I think, for what I’m going to do next.”

As a special consultant, Chief Inspector Chen wondered about his role in the investigation: what was left for him to do, and what was not. As the old proverb says, there’s no point in or justification for cooking in another’s kitchen. Detective Wei, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind that much.

But Wei wasn’t the one and only chef in there. Jiang was another, and he was following his own recipe. Then there was the city Party Discipline Committee team, even though it looked like Liu wasn’t at the hotel most of the time.

Chen began to have second thoughts about this assignment after his dinner with the Yus.

The city government might not be able to convince people with just an announcement that Zhou had committed suicide. A police investigation into his death could be a necessary show, one that had best be performed in convincing earnestness. So as Yu had put it, Chen’s role as a consultant could simply be to endorse the conclusion.

If so, Chief Inspector Chen was in no hurry to do anything.

What made the situation even more complicated was the divergent investigations of Wei and Jiang.

Judging from his discussions with Wei, the stubborn detective was more and more inclined to conclude that Zhou had been murdered. This persistence had to be an annoyance to Jiang, who, to protect the interests of the city government, wanted a conclusion of suicide.

Chen didn’t think that he had to confront Jiang right away. Still, he felt compelled to do something on the case, so he settled on a visit to Zhou’s widow.

The Zhous lived in Xujiahui, just a block away from the Oriental Commerce Center. For a Party cadre with Zhou’s position, their three-bedroom apartment might not be considered too luxurious-that is, if one didn’t take into consideration the other properties he owned.

Mrs. Zhou opened the door in response to Chen’s knock. She was a fairly buxom woman in her early forties, and the way she was leaning against the light-flooded doorframe was suggestive of something soon to go out of shape, like a full blossom at the end of the summer. She was wearing a white blouse and white pants, with a black silk crepe on her sleeve. She looked Chen up and down with undisguised hostility.

“How many times are you cops going to snoop around here?” she snapped. “Why aren’t you out trying to catch the real criminal?”

How could she tell that he was with the police before he even said anything? There must be something that tipped people off about him, whether he was in uniform or not.

“My colleagues have already talked to you, I believe.”

“Yes. Several of them,” she said, then added in mounting frustration, “Different groups of them. They searched the apartment repeatedly, turning the whole place upside down. And what did they find? Nothing.”

There was nothing surprising about searches having been conducted here. The first one was probably right after Zhou was put in detention, and then they continued after his death.

“I was just assigned to the case,” Chen said, taking out his business card. “My colleagues may not have told me everything. In fact, I’m only serving as a consultant to the team. But first let me express my sincere condolences, Mrs. Zhou.”

She examined his business card; then a visible change of expression came over her face.

“Oh, come on in,” she said, holding the door for him. “It’s so unfair, Chief Inspector Chen. Zhou did a great job for the city. All this happened because of a pack of cigarettes. I just don’t understand.”

Chen sat down on a black leather sofa in the spacious living room, and she perched herself on a chair opposite.

“I must have met Zhou at some government meeting, but I didn’t know him personally. Nonetheless, there’s no denying all the work he did on new construction in Shanghai,” said Chen.

“But no one has taken that into consideration. People talked about nothing but that pack of 95 Supreme Majesty. It was given to him by an old friend. He told the Party Discipline officials all about it. They should have let him explain to the public, but instead they rushed him into shuanggui. No one would help him. All those buddies of his in the city government only wanted to save their own necks. The police did nothing.”

“Shuanggui is not within the police force’s domain,” he said, somewhat taken aback by her unconcealed resentment. “I wasn’t in a position to do anything about it. The discipline team and the city team had moved into the hotel with him days before I was told anything about the case.”

“If there was anything improper or wrong about his decisions at work, it shouldn’t have been reported as his responsibility alone. He worked directly with the people above him, and without their approval, he couldn’t have done anything. You know how much of the city’s GDP last year was due to the real estate sector alone? More than fifty percent.”

“It’s huge, I understand,” he said vaguely, wondering about the accuracy of her claim.

“People are complaining about housing costs. Zhou knew that only too well. But if the property price fell dramatically, it could have a domino effect that would be disastrous for the economy of the whole city. So Zhou emphasized the market stability, but it was in everybody’s interest.”

Apparently, she was aware that the pack of 95 Supreme Majesty wasn’t the real issue.

“I haven’t paid much attention to the fluctuations in the real estate market, but I agree with you, Mrs. Zhou, that it wasn’t fair for Zhou to have been targeted just because of a pack of cigarettes. Now, I just have some routine questions for you. For starters, did you have any contact with him during the last few days of his life?”

“They didn’t permit me to visit him at the hotel. The phone there was tapped, and most likely, so is the one here in the apartment as well, and he knew better than to call back regularly or talk too much.”

“When did you last talk to him?”

“Sunday. The day before his death. He hardly said anything, except that he was fine, and that I’d better not call the hotel or talk too much.”

“Did you notice a drastic change in his mood?”

“It was such a short conversation, it would have been difficult for me to tell. I don’t remember noticing any change.”

“When did you last see him?”

“The day before he was shuangguied.”

“How was he?”

“He was terribly upset at being targeted on the Internet. It was a cold-blooded lynching.”

“Did he say anything specific about it?”

“He wondered how the government could allow mobs on the Web to go on like that. He thought the government should have exercised total control over the Internet.”

“What did he mean by that?”

“He thought they should order all the Web sites to shut up about 95 Supreme Majesty, and delete all posts about it. If the authorities had really wanted to do that, they could have. In fact, they’ve taken actions like that on previous occasions. But they were unwilling to do this for him.”

“Well, it could be difficult,” Chen said vaguely. He didn’t know what else to say.

“‘When the rabbit is caught, the hound will be stewed too,’ Zhou always said, quoting an old saying. I know for a fact that particular speech that started his trouble had been approved by the people above him. It’s not fair that he shouldered all the blame.”

Her complaining didn’t surprise Chen, but the object of her complaints did.