Peter May - The Killing Room

Margaret stood, silently fuming, and watched as the young woman crossed the busy office, and then for the first time she saw Li at a window on the far side of the room. He was deep in earnest conversation with an attractive Chinese woman who appeared to be hanging on his every word. He said something that made her laugh, a strange braying laugh that Margaret could hear above the noise of the office, and she saw the woman touch the back of his hand. Just lightly, with the tips of her fingers. But there was something oddly intimate in it, and Margaret felt a sudden surge of fear and insecurity, swiftly followed by anger. She had not travelled six thousand miles across the world to watch her lover sharing an intimate moment with another woman.

The uniformed policewoman spoke to Li and he glanced quickly across the room to see Margaret in the doorway. His face lit up in a smile and he hurried across towards her. And for a moment Margaret’s anger and insecurity melted away and all she wanted was for Li to take her in his arms and hold her. But, of course, he couldn’t. And she saw that the woman who had touched his hand had followed immediately behind him.

‘Margaret,’ he said, strangely formal. ‘I thought you’d be here earlier.’

‘I would have been, if I hadn’t had to find my own way from the airport.’ Her voice could have frosted the windows on the other side of the room.

Li frowned. ‘But I sent a car out to meet you.’ He turned to the Chinese woman. ‘You put in a request for one, didn’t you, Mei-Ling?’

‘Yes,’ she said, looking very puzzled. ‘I do not understand what could have happened. I will make enquiries about it.’ She spoke in very good, clear English, with a slightly English accent. And Margaret knew immediately that Mei-Ling had somehow contrived to sabotage the pick-up. There was something in the smile she flashed at Margaret. Something slightly knowing, slightly superior. And all of Margaret’s instincts told her that this woman was after her man.

Li seemed oblivious. ‘I am really sorry, Margaret. I would have come for you myself, but I have been up to the eyes.’ He paused. ‘This is Nien Mei-Ling. She is my opposite number here in Shanghai. We are working together on the case.’

Mei-Ling gave her a winning smile and shook her hand. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Li Yan has told me so much about you.’

‘Has he?’ Margaret shook her hand a little more firmly than required. You did not cut through human ribs with heavy shears without developing greater than average hand strength. She saw Mei-Ling’s smile become a little more fixed.

Barely a dozen words had passed between the two women, but there had been an unspoken declaration of war, clear and unequivocal, with Li as the disputed territory.

Li had heard only the dozen words and had no reason to take them at anything other than face value. He glanced at his watch. ‘We had better move. The press conference is in half an hour.’

Margaret forced her thoughts away from Mei-Ling. ‘Press conference?’ So Jack Geller really did know his stuff, she thought.

The press conference was held in the Peace Palace Hotel, directly across Nanjing Road from the Peace Hotel where Margaret was able to book in quickly and have her cases taken to her room. Geller had been right again. She barely had time to take in the marbled splendour of the place with its tall arched windows of polished mahogany, its stained-glass galleries with wrought-iron lamp holders and pink glass uplighters, before Li hurried her back out into the rain. They had not even had an opportunity to discuss the case.

They joined Mei-Ling under the protection of two large black umbrellas, and dodged the traffic in the fading light to cross to the old Palace Hotel, recently acquired by its more affluent neighbour across the way. Inside the cream and redbrick building it was very dull, the light absorbed by darkwood panelling from floor to ceiling. A broad, dark staircase took them to an upper landing where armed uniformed guards ushered them into a large function room packed with the world’s press. TV lights created an overlit sense of unreality. Cameras were ranged right along the back of the room. The Chinese media had pride of place at the front. This was an unusual experience for them. The authorities were not in the habit of holding press conferences to discuss the investigation of crimes.

On a raised dais, a table and half a dozen chairs faced the room. Microphones bunched together, one taped to the other, sprouted like strange metallic flowers on the table top, cables spewing over the edge and on to the floor. Li, Margaret and Mei-Ling, aware of curious eyes upon them, were shepherded quickly into a side room where hasty introductions were made to what Margaret gathered, in the confusion, were the Commissioner of Police, two deputies, Section Chief Huang Tsuo — Mei-Ling’s boss at Section Two — and an interpreter. There was very little time to log exactly who was who. Section Chief Huang was steering the Commissioner away across the room, speaking quickly and quietly into his ear. Another man, with neatly clipped hair, hurried in and introduced himself as the head of public relations. He interrupted Huang and spoke quickly to the Commissioner, and Margaret surmised that the conference was about to begin. The tension was palpable as they entered the main suite and stepped up to the platform. If the press was unused to attending press conferences, then the Commissioner of Police was equally unused to holding them. He was clearly nervous.

On the platform the TV lights were blinding, and Margaret had to squint beyond the glare to see the rows of faces looking up at them expectantly. She saw Geller about five rows back. He was sitting with a notebook on his knee, a pair of silver-rimmed half-moon spectacles perched on his nose. He peered at her over the top of them and winked. Margaret looked away self-consciously, and began to wonder what the hell she was doing here. This was all happening so fast, and she was still quite disorientated. She glanced at Li who was, apparently, listening intently to the Commissioner as he droned on in a high-pitched staccato voice. Margaret let her mind wander, barely listening to the interpreter as he conveyed the Commissioner’s long preamble in English. She looked appraisingly, instead, at Mei-Ling. Grudgingly, Margaret had to concede that she was very attractive. Older than she appeared at first sight, but poised and confident and very petite, like a bird. She could speak Li’s language, she shared his culture. Beside her, Margaret felt big and clumsy, and crumpled after all the hours of flying and then being caught in the rain. Her make-up, she knew, was faded and smudged, her hair a tangle. She couldn’t speak Chinese, she had little or no empathy with the culture. How could she even begin to compete with someone like Mei-Ling? And she felt a cloud of depression settle over her, ready almost to concede the fight even before it had begun.

Then suddenly her attention was brought sharply back into focus by the interpreter. She heard him saying, ‘Initial fears that these were victims of a mass killer have proved unfounded. Preliminary examination by our pathologists at 803 have concluded that the most likely explanation is that these women died of natural causes …’ He broke off as a buzz of speculation rose among the reporters. ‘We believe that their bodies may have been subject to illegal medical experimentation or, even more prosaically, for illicit practice by medical students.’

Margaret flashed an angry look at Li who met her eye and gave an imperceptible shake of his head.

The Commissioner spoke again, turning and smiling towards Margaret. Clearly he was pleased with the way things were going. The interpreter said, ‘Our main task will be to identify the bodies. And, to that end, we are fortunate to have acquired the services of leading American pathologist, Margaret Campbell, who has worked before with the Chinese police.’ Margaret felt all eyes turning towards her.