Peter May - The Firemaker

‘I’m interested in one of your patients, Chao Heng.’

The doctor tipped his head in Margaret’s direction. ‘Who is she?’

‘An American doctor. A pathologist helping us with a case.’

The old man turned to Margaret, eyeing her now with interest. ‘Where did you train?’ he asked her in perfect English.

She was taken aback. ‘The University of Illinois.’

‘Ah. I spent some time at the University of California, Davis Medical School. A research project on glandular cancer with my very good friend Dr Hibbard Williams. Endocrinology is his speciality. Perhaps you have heard of him?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ She frowned. ‘I thought you were a practitioner of traditional Chinese medicine.’

‘I studied both traditional Chinese and Western medicines. There is much that each can learn from the other. What is your speciality?’

‘Burn victims.’

His nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘How unpleasant.’

Li interrupted. ‘Chao Heng did consult with you? Is that right?’

The doctor nodded. ‘Mr Chao, yes.’

‘I understand that he was unwell for some time.’

‘Has something happened to him?’

‘He was murdered.’

‘Ah.’ The doctor seemed unconcerned. ‘How unfortunate. But he was dying anyway.’

‘What of?’ Margaret asked.

‘I have no idea. I treated his symptoms for about six months but nothing worked for him. Eventually I suggested to him that he see a former colleague of mine at the Beijing Hospital in Dahua Lu. He was not very keen. He was a great believer in traditional remedies. But there was nothing more I could do for him.’

‘What were his symptoms?’ Margaret was curious.

‘They were many,’ the old doctor said, shaking his head. ‘He suffered from exhaustion and diarrhoea, and he had frequent fevers. He had recurrent bouts of thrush and a cough that would not go away. He later developed swollen glands in the groin and the armpits. He was losing a lot of weight latterly. Some of his symptoms responded to treatment, at least for a time. But they always came back.’

Margaret was frowning. ‘These are all possible indicators of HIV. Was he ever AIDS-tested?’

‘Yes, I believe he was tested for HIV at the Beijing Hospital. That was about the last time I saw him.’

‘And?’ Margaret asked.

‘And what?’ the old man responded testily.

‘Was the test positive?’

‘Oh no.’ The old herbalist scratched his chin. ‘Mr Chao did not have AIDS.’

Li parked the Jeep in the shade of the trees at the east end of Dong Jiaominxiang Lane, a stone’s throw away from the back entrance to Municipal Police Headquarters where Li and Margaret had had their first encounter the previous Monday. She gazed along the street towards the redbrick building that housed the headquarters of the Criminal Investigation Department and the arched gateway that led into its compound. Was it really only three days since that first meeting? She said to Li, ‘That’s where we first bumped into each other, isn’t it?’ And she grinned. ‘Literally.’

‘Yes,’ he said, smiling and remembering how angry he had been. ‘I was going for an interview for this job. Or, at least, that’s what I thought. I’d spent all morning ironing my uniform so that I would look my best. And I ended up covered in dirt, with my elbow grazed, and my shirt splashed with water where I tried to wash away the blood.’

Margaret laughed. That’s why he had been so annoyed. ‘It got you the job, though, didn’t it? They must have thought you looked like a man of action.’

‘I’d got the job anyway. I’m just lucky they didn’t change their minds when they saw the state I was in.’

She touched his arm where he had grazed it, and he felt the heat of her fingers like a burn. ‘It’s taken a long time to heal,’ she said.

‘That’s a fresh one.’

‘Oh.’ She sounded surprised. ‘Some other girl knock you off your bike?’

He smiled. ‘It’s a long story.’

‘Better not tell me, then. Because we don’t have much time left.’ She had meant it in fun, but no sooner had she said it than they both felt the truth of it, and there was an unacknowledged pain in the fact of her looming departure.

They walked east in silence then, under the leafy canopy of trees, and turned left into Dahua Lu. It was a long street running north, with mature trees down the east side, shading the entrance to Dongdan Park. The Beijing Hospital, a modern jumble of sprawling white buildings of two and five storeys, ran along the west side behind high white-painted railings. There was a constant traffic of white-uniformed nurses in the street, the occasional ambulance coming or going. An old man in slippers and pale pyjamas, with a face as grey as the ash on his cigarette, shuffled at one of the gates, puffing smoke into the late afternoon sky. They passed the smoker on the way in, and Li asked for directions to the administration block from an armed policeman on sentry duty.

When they got inside, Li spoke for several minutes to a receptionist before they were led upstairs to a waiting room on the third floor and left there to kick their heels. It was a square room, with low, khaki-green settees around the walls and glass-topped tables with lace doilies — standard factory-issue furniture for reception rooms across China. After ten minutes a Reception Officer arrived to shake hands and exchange cards with Li and enquire politely about the purpose of their visit. Margaret watched the ritual exchange in Chinese and tried to exercise all three Ps simultaneously. The dialogue seemed interminable. The Reception Officer left and she asked Li what was happening. ‘He has gone to arrange a meeting with the Administration Officer,’ he said. ‘And to send in some tea.’

‘Tea?’

‘We might be some time.’

In fact it was several cups and another twenty minutes before the Administration Officer arrived with an entourage of assistants and the Reception Officer, who then made the introductions. More ritual handshaking and exchanging of cards. Then they all sat down, Li and Margaret on one side of the room, the reception committee on the other. They had all cast curious glances in her direction, but otherwise made no comment.

Margaret sat in frustrated ignorance during the subsequent exchange between Li and the Administration Officer. It was a short conversation. She saw Li visibly pale, then the Administration Officer stood up, signalling an end to their meeting. More ritual handshaking, and they were led back down to the ground floor. She was itching to ask Li what had been said, but the Reception Officer was determined to see them out of the door himself, and there was some paperwork to be completed at the reception desk. She contained her impatience.

Li retraced their steps down Dahua Lu in long, loping strides, his hands plunged deep in his pockets. Margaret was struggling to keep up with him, half running to do so. ‘But what did they say?’ She was almost beside herself with curiosity, and he was being infuriatingly uncommunicative, concentrating on unshared dark thoughts that swam through his head behind deeply furrowed brows. They reached the Jeep and he got in behind the wheel. She got into the passenger side. ‘For God’s sake, Li Yan!’

He turned towards her. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘What?’

‘I could really go a jian bing . I haven’t eaten all day.’

‘Neither have I, but I’d rather know what they told you in the hospital.’

‘Mei Yuan will still be selling jian bing at the corner of Dongzhimennei,’ he said. He started the Jeep and pulled away from the sidewalk. They had driven north, the length of Dahua Lu, and were turning east on to Jianguomennei Avenue when he said, ‘It seems they ran all sorts of tests on Chao.’ He replayed in his mind the short conversation he had conducted with the Administration Officer at the hospital. ‘But certain results never came back from the laboratory, and the next thing all his medical records were removed from the Beijing Hospital and he was transferred as an in-patient to Military Hospital Number 301.’