Peter May - Chinese Whispers

‘And so does someone else,’ said Li.

The Commissioner leaned forward, grasping the back of Li’s seat. ‘Let’s keep this within the department for the moment, Li. We don’t want the press getting wind of it.’

‘That’s hardly likely,’ Li said.

‘There are journalists in this city who don’t know where to draw the line any more,’ Deputy Cao said ominously. ‘With the Olympics coming in 2008, the government has been …’ he hesitated, searching for the right words, ‘… overkeen, shall we say, to show the world what an open society we have become. There are those in the media who are taking advantage.’

‘And it’s not just a matter of creating public panic,’ Commissioner Zhu said. ‘That would be bad enough. You only have to look at how press coverage of the Washington sniper last year just about paralysed the US capital.’

‘It’s a political matter, Li,’ Cao said. ‘You can imagine the coverage such a story would generate around the world. Not exactly the image of Beijing that the government wants to promote ahead of the Olympics.’

‘So let’s keep it nice and quiet, Section Chief,’ the Commissioner said. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the front of the limo. ‘I want detailed progress reports on my desk. Daily. I am not going to preside over a police department which permits some lunatic to rerun the Ripper murders from first to last.’ He paused. ‘Get him, Section Chief Li, before he kills again.’ As if Li needed to be told.

The chatter of computer keyboards, like cicadas, filled the air as Li strode along the top floor corridor of Section One. Voices and cigarette smoke drifted out of the open door of the detectives’ room. ‘Wu! Qian!’ he shouted as he stalked past, but didn’t wait for a response. At the next door along he turned left into his own office and looked at the piles of paperwork gathering in drifts on his desk. A veritable paper blizzard. Reports from all the detectives working on the case, reports from forensics and pathology on each of the murders. Reports from headquarters on all manner of internal affairs in which he had absolutely no interest. The day’s mail, which he had not yet had an opportunity to open, was piled up in a wire tray. He hung his coat on the stand and slumped into his chair, letting his eyes close as it reclined. He could not bear an untidy desk. Somehow it cluttered his mind, fogged his thinking.

‘Chief?’ Qian’s voice from the door made him open his eyes. He sat up. Wu was hovering at Qian’s shoulder.

‘Qian, the Commissioner has asked for daily progress reports on the Ripper murders. I want you to take care of them.’ He could see Qian’s shoulders slump, but it wasn’t something he could afford to get bogged down with himself.

‘Yes, Chief.’

Wu said, ‘I checked out the publication date of the Ripper book. It’s been on the shelves here for less than a week, Chief.’

Li reached for the mail and started absently opening envelopes and consigning their contents either to the bin or to the pile on his desk. ‘So it wasn’t the appearance of the book which sparked off the killings,’ he said. ‘Given that the first killing was five weeks ago.’ He paused to think about it for a moment. ‘See if you can track down a telephone number, or even an e-mail address for the author. It might be useful if we could speak to him.’

‘Sure, Chief.’

Li screwed up some departmental circular and threw it in the bin. ‘And something else.’ He fixed them both with a look they knew well. ‘Someone in this section is feeding information to headquarters. Specifically the Commissioner’s office.’

Qian was shocked. ‘What, one of our people, Chief?’

‘One of our people, Qian. I don’t know who it is. I don’t want to know who it is. But it might be worth circulating the thought among the team, that if I ever find out, he can kiss his career goodbye, along with his testicles. I decide what information leaves this building, and what stays within its walls. Is that clear?’

‘Crystal, Chief,’ Qian said.

Li sliced open the envelope he was holding and pulled out a handwritten letter. Almost immediately he dropped both on the desk and sat staring at them.

‘What is it, Chief?’ Wu asked.

‘Get someone up here from forensics,’ Li said quietly. ‘Now!’ There was something imperative in his tone, and Wu turned immediately and headed back for the detectives’ room and a phone. Qian crossed to his boss’s desk.

‘What is it?’

‘A letter from our killer.’

The single sheet of stationery was folded once — large, untidy characters scrawled in red ink.

Dear Chief,

I am downward on whores and I will not stop the tear of them until I am caught. Good work the last was. I gave to the lady no time for squealing. I like my work and want to start again. You will hear more of me with my small funny plays. I saved a part of the red substance kept in a bottle from the last work to write with, but it disappeared thick as the adhesive and I cannot employ it. Red ink is good enough, I hope ha ha. Next work that I do I will cut off the ears of the lady to send to the senior police officers just for fun. My knife is so nice and sharp, I want to get to work immediately if I get a chance. Good luck.

Sincerely yours,

The Beijing Ripper

(Don’t mind me giving my trade name.)

Apart from the red ink and the strange, stilted language of it, what struck Li most forcibly about the letter was its signature. The Beijing Ripper . It was what the Commissioner had called him only half an hour earlier.

* * *

‘It feels like a translation from another language,’ Elvis was saying. He had a photocopy of the Ripper letter in his hands, scowling at its odd phraseology. ‘Nobody would write Chinese like this.’

‘Unless maybe he was a foreigner,’ Qian said, which brought a murmur of speculation from around the table. The meeting room was packed. Every detective on duty was crammed in, every one with a colour photocopy of the letter. This was new. No one in the section could ever remember a murderer sending a letter to the investigating officer. Since such cases did not normally receive widespread, if any, coverage in the media, the murderer would not know who the investigating officers were until they caught him. But in this case, the envelope was addressed to Section Chief Li personally.

Li turned the photocopy over and over in his fingers, considerably disturbed by it. Forensics had been quick to confirm that his were the only fingerprints on the original. It was written on commonplace stationery. The postmark on the envelope was Central Beijing. It had been posted that morning and arrived with the afternoon delivery. It could only have been a matter of hours after his last murder that the killer had written it. It made his killings seem even colder, more calculated — in direct contrast to Pathologist Wang’s verdict of frenzy. Of course, they knew now that there was nothing at all frenzied about the murders. They were meticulous replications of another man’s madness. But what kind of man was it who could map out his murders with such careful precision, who could cold-bloodedly murder a girl, then set about carving her up according to a one-hundred-and-fifteen-year-old blueprint?

‘Is there any significance to the red ink, do you think?’ Elvis asked. ‘I mean, I know he says it’s a substitute for his victim’s blood, but …’

He left his question hanging. In Chinese culture, red ink in a letter symbolised the end of a relationship. It was one reason why Li had asked for it to be copied in colour, so that if there was significance in the colour of the ink, no one would miss it. But no one in the room had any idea what significance it might have. The end of a relationship with whom? The victim? Did that mean he knew her, or she him?