Peter May - The Killing Room

They sat on stools at a long, polished bar. An old-fashioned golfer in plus-fours and cloth cap peered at them through round spectacles with real lenses. He was all of three feet high, brightly coloured paint on glazed china. Margaret could imagine executives of Jardine, Matheson gathering here at the day’s end seventy years before to quaff their gins and tonic and discuss the day’s dealings. Although the bar was empty, their ghosts still haunted it. A young waitress in a qipao took their order.

Margaret had a long draught of her vodka tonic and felt the alcohol hit her bloodstream almost immediately. She closed her eyes and let the feeling relax her. Geller watched her with interest over the rim of his beer glass. He said, ‘Dead fodder for medical students. That’s all they were, huh?’

She opened her eyes slowly and looked at him. ‘You expect me to comment on that?’

‘You don’t have to. It’s all bullshit.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Aw, come on. Eighteen young women, most of them under thirty …? I don’t think so. Life expectancy here is seventy plus, and there’s a hell of a lot more men than women. If they’d all died of natural causes, the law of averages would make most of them over fifty, and a majority of them male.’

Margaret made no comment. But she couldn’t argue with the logic. ‘And if someone had been conducting research on, say, declining fertility in young women across a twenty-year age range …?’

‘Were they?’

‘I have no idea. I’m just making an argument.’

‘It would still be bullshit.’

‘Why?’

‘Because eighteen young women, all dead from natural causes and conveniently available for illicit medical research, still goes against the law of averages.’ He took another sip of his beer. ‘By the way, has anyone told you you’re very attractive for someone who cuts up people for a living.’

‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘I’ve often been told how attractive I am by men who want to get into my pants. But a blow-by-blow account of how I dissect the male organ during autopsy is usually enough to put them off.’

Geller grinned, ‘I love it when a woman talks surgery.’

And, to her surprise, she found herself laughing. She looked at him a little more appraisingly and noticed there was no ring on the left hand. ‘Did anyone ever tell you you’re not bad-looking for someone who hacks people to pieces in print?’

‘Once,’ he said. ‘My editor. Sadly he was a guy. My kind of luck.’

‘You never married, then?’

‘Thought about it once. For a whole five seconds.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Or was it as long as that?’ He finished his beer. ‘You want another of those?’

She nodded. He ordered another round and she said, ‘So who do you work for out here?’

He smiled. ‘Remember I told you about the Whore of the Orient? Well, I am that whore. I’ll do it for anyone who pays me.’

‘And who pays you?’

‘ Newsweek , sometimes. Time , A couple of wire services, some of the big papers back home when their regular correspondents go off on a rest cure to a massage parlour in Thailand.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a living.’

‘How long have you been in Shanghai?’

‘Too long.’

She shook her head. ‘You’re a fund of information, aren’t you?’

‘I try not to be. Listen, I’m the hack here, I thought I was the one supposed to be asking the questions.’

Their drinks arrived and Margaret lifted her glass. ‘The best way to avoid answering questions is to ask them.’ She took a long draught, then checked her watch. ‘Oh, my God! Is that the time? They’ll be waiting for me in the lobby.’ She took another hurried drink and put her glass back on the bar. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Geller, I’m going to have to love you and leave you.’

He shrugged ruefully. ‘I’ll settle for that — with or without the leaving bit.’ She grinned and slipped off the stool. ‘So where are you off to?’ he asked.

‘A banquet. Hosted by some policy adviser to the Mayor.’

If she thought he’d be impressed she was wrong. ‘Ahh,’ he said seriously. Director Hu. The Director is not a very nice man.’

Mei-Ling eased the Santana through the crowds of people, cars and bicycles that choked Yunnan Nan Road. Two elderly women in the light blue uniform of traffic wardens were waving their arms at the junction, and blowing their whistles like demented birds. The Santana passed under a traditional Chinese gate and into a neon wonderland. Red lanterns and yellow banners were strung overhead. Every shop front and restaurant was lit in this narrow street, each fleck of coloured light coruscating in the rain. Steam rose from open windows where great racks of dumplings cooked over boiling water, smoke issuing from open barbecues, spicy skewers of lamb and chicken hissing and spitting their fat on the coals. A group of drunken young women with painted faces, staggering precariously on very high heels, banged on the hood of the car and leered in the window at Li. Margaret sat in the back, feeling remote and isolated from Li who sat up front next to Mei-Ling. There had been very little said since they left the hotel.

When Mei-Ling drew the Volkswagen into a tiny car park next to the twelve-storey Xiaoshaoxing Hotel, they made a dash through the rain to the front entrance. The elevator to the eighth floor slid silently up one of two glass tubes built on to the side of the building. From here they had an ascending view of the chaotic jumbled sprawl of rooftops and balconies below, washing hanging out across the street on long poles, wetter than when it had been put out.

They followed a waitress along quiet, panelled corridors, turning left and then right, past several private banqueting rooms. Director Hu and his guests awaited them in a large room at the end. They were standing in groups around a very large circular table, smoking and chatting animatedly, classical Chinese music playing quietly from large speakers in each corner. Li introduced Margaret to the Director. His eyes were on a level with hers and they ran up and down her appraisingly. His handshake, she thought, was limp and slightly damp. He had a wide smile, revealing unusually even and white teeth. He wore an immaculately cut designer suit, and she caught the briefest whiff of Paco Rabanne. She looked at his smooth, round face and thought that the aftershave was more for effect than any practical purpose. She resisted a sudden absurd urge to run her hands over his head to see if his closely cropped grey hair was as velvety to the touch as it looked:

‘Dr Campbell,’ he said, ‘I have heard very much about you. It is an honour to meet you.’ He turned and introduced her to his other guests — the Commissioner of Police and Section Chief Huang whom she had already met; the Procurator General, still in his uniform; another of the Mayor’s advisers, a square-set and unsmiling man; a personal friend, Mr Cui Feng, and his wife; and a couple of aides, younger men who nodded and smiled and ushered everyone to their seats. Li was placed on one side of the Director, Margaret on the other.

Tall waitresses in elegant pink qipaos filled their small toasting glasses with red wine. Nearly everyone was drinking beer, except for the Director who sipped at a glass of bright red watermelon juice. The ritual of toasting began with the Director, and was followed around the table by his guests. Each time a toast was drunk, there was a chorus of ‘ gan bei ’, and the toasting glasses were emptied and then immediately refilled. Plate after plate of food arrived and was placed on the revolving Lazy Susan in order to allow everyone to help themselves.

The Commissioner of Police sat on Margaret’s right. ‘You like Hormez?’ he asked.