Peter May - The Firemaker

The drive to the Centre of Criminal Technological Determination in Pao Jü Hutong was a revelation to Margaret, an insight into the street life of the real Beijing tucked away behind the façades and advertising hoardings of the new China. Even at this late hour, the streets teemed with night life, the population emerging again from steamy-hot homes into the relative cool of the hutongs after the rain. Li’s Jeep followed in the wake of a forensics van, two sets of headlights raking the narrow alleyways and siheyuan , capturing for brief moments families eating at tables on the sidewalk, a man sprawled in an armchair gazing at the flickering blue light of a television set, food served to card players through open windows whose light spilled across the tarmac, people on bicycles that wobbled in the headlights as the vehicles raced past. Margaret peered from the window on the passenger side, faces flashing past, staring back at her. Some blankly, some with hostility, others with curiosity. Beijingers, Margaret thought, had a preoccupation with getting their hair cut. Barbers everywhere were still doing business. She checked the time. It was almost 1 a.m.

There was an urgency now about Li. His face had swollen around his left eye. It was bruised a deep blue. But the eyes themselves were sharp and alive and burning with a fierce intensity. He was in a hurry to get his man.

They abandoned the Jeep in the street and ran up the ramp through large open gates, past armed guards, into the bowels of the Pao Jü laboratories of forensic pathology. ‘A few minutes, Li, that’s all,’ the lead forensics officer told him. They waited in an office on the ground floor, Li sitting on the edge of a desk swinging his legs impatiently. Margaret recalled Bob’s tale about the Three Ps — Patience, Patience and Patience. The three things you must have to survive in this country , he had said. Li seemed to have run out of all of them. She examined his face. ‘They must have some witch-hazel here.’

‘Some what?’ he said.

‘It’ll bring down the swelling and stop your face from going completely black and blue by the morning.’

She spent some time in conversation with a lab assistant before he went off, returning a few minutes later with some clear fluid in a bottle and some large wads of cotton wool. She soaked a wad and told Li to hold it to his face. He didn’t argue with her, but with his free hand shook a cigarette from its packet and lit it. He had only taken one pull at it when the lead forensics officer hurried in, pink with exertion and breathing hard. He, it seemed, had also been infected by Li’s sense of urgency.

‘A single index finger. Smudged. No use.’

‘Shit!’ Li looked sick.

‘Hang on,’ the forensics man admonished him. ‘We also got a thumb.’ He held up a sheet of paper with a blow-up of the print. ‘It’s not Chao’s, and it’s just about perfect.’

It was after two when Li and Margaret stepped back out into Pao Jü Hutong. It was cool now, the air fresh and breathable. For the first time since she had arrived, Margaret could see stars in the sky. She was tired, but she wasn’t sleepy. She felt an odd sense of exhilaration. The glove and the key had been a major breakthrough. An officer had been sent to Chao’s apartment building to check that the key fitted the stair gate. It did. Close forensic examination of the glove had revealed a speck of blood at the top of the interior lining of the middle finger. It might have come from a paper cut, or a damaged cuticle. But there was enough there to enable a DNA comparison with the saliva on the cigarette ends. That test would be done at the Centre of Material Evidence Determination in the morning — along with a comparison of the bloodstain on the outer glove with blood samples taken from Chao Heng. If both tests proved positive, it would conclusively tie the wearer of the glove to the murder of Chao and both the other victims. The thumbprint from the key had been faxed to Hong Kong. It was possible, just possible, that by morning they would know the identity of the killer.

In spite of being on the wrong end of a beating, Li was euphoric. He was still pressing the wad soaked with witch-hazel to his face. ‘Let me see,’ Margaret said as they reached the Jeep. She took his hand away from his face and stood on tiptoe to look closely at the bruising. Her face was only inches from his. He could feel her breath warm on his cheek. He flicked a glance at her, but she was focused on his injuries. ‘The swelling’s gone down already,’ she said. ‘You won’t be such a mess in the morning.’

But the mention of the morning only depressed him. He would have to tell her then that she could no longer assist on the case. It was too dangerous. His superiors would forbid it. He knew how she would react. With anger and hurt. After all, he would not have come this close to breaking the case without her. He glanced at her again. Her face was open, eager and happy. She had exorcised ghosts from her past tonight, she had trusted him with her pain. And tomorrow… He closed his eyes and sighed. He did not want tonight to end.

She laughed. ‘What’s the big sigh for? You should be pleased with yourself.’

He forced himself to return her smile. ‘I’m pleased with both of us,’ he said. ‘We make a good team.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, nodding. ‘I do the thinking, you take the punches. You’re good at that.’

He grinned and took a mock swipe at her. And when she raised her arm as a shield he grabbed it, pulling her close and pressing her back against the side of the Jeep. They froze in anticipation of a moment they had been flirting with all night. But the moment passed, unconsummated, as she smiled wryly and tipped her head in the direction of the two armed guards watching from the gate. ‘I think we’re in danger of putting on a show,’ she said.

He glanced ruefully at the guards. ‘You want me to take you back to the Friendship?’

‘You were going to buy me a drink,’ she said. ‘Before someone had the crazy idea of going gallivanting through Ritan Park in the dark and the rain. Will that bar still be open, do you think?’

He shook his head. ‘Not at this hour. But I know somewhere that will.’

There was no queue to get into the Xanadu at this time in the morning. Li had been half afraid that it might be closed. But there was still a steady traffic in and out. Groups of youngsters stood about on the sidewalk outside, smoking and talking. They eyed Li and the yangguizi with vague curiosity as they pushed through them and went in past the bouncers. Li took out his wallet to pay, but was waved on through. Inside, the music was still loud, but slow, reflecting the late hour. Margaret took his arm and put her lips to his ear. ‘I wouldn’t have thought a place like this was your scene,’ she shouted.

‘It’s not,’ he shouted back. ‘But you wanted a drink. This is about the only place we’ll get one.’

He led her through to the bar. Most of the tables on the main floor were still full, and through the haze of smoke that filled the place, Li could see that there were no free tables up in the gallery. ‘What do you want to drink?’

‘Vodka tonic with ice and lemon. But I’m paying.’ She took out some notes.

He waved them aside. ‘No, no.’

‘Yes, yes,’ she said. ‘You bought me dinner, I’m buying the drinks.’

‘No.’ He still refused to take the money.

‘I thought you people believed in equality,’ she said. ‘Women hold up half the sky in China. Isn’t that what Mao said?’ And in that moment she thrust the notes into his hand. ‘You’re buying, I’m paying. And I’m going to get us that table over there that these people are just leaving.’ And she breezed off across the floor to lay claim to the table.