Peter May - The Fourth Sacrifice

He got up and opened a window behind him before lighting another cigarette. The room was almost blue with smoke and his eyes were starting to sting. ‘So what do we know?’ He looked around the assembled faces. ‘We know the killer used a bronze-bladed weapon of some sort — probably a sword. We know that the victims probably knew him. They were drinking wine with him, and as far as they knew had no reason to be on their guard. After all, he managed to spike all their drinks. He knew them well enough to know their nicknames.

‘Red ink on white card — an ancient Chinese symbol for the end of a relationship. I think that underlines the fact that he was well known to his victims. All the names written upside down and scored through — well, we all know the significance of that image. And the numbering of the victims. Starting with six and counting down. Which would lead us to believe that there are another two victims out there somewhere.’

It was a sobering thought, and helped refocus minds around the table.

‘I keep coming back to this age thing.’ It was Sang again.

‘Go on,’ Li said.

Sang scratched his head. He was a good-looking young man, probably not yet thirty, and almost the only detective around the table not smoking. ‘Well, if they’re all the same age, and this guy knows all their nicknames, wouldn’t it be reasonable to assume that at some time they’d all been in the same organisation, or institution, or work unit together?’

‘The first three were at the same school,’ Zhao said, and reduced the room to a stunned silence. He blushed fiercely as all eyes turned on him.

‘What?’ Li asked. His voice was steady and very level.

Zhao said, ‘I figured you usually get your nickname at school. So I spent yesterday checking it out.’

‘Why the hell did no one think of this before?’ Chen thundered.

It was a reasonable question. But Li had no answer to it.

‘It’s more than thirty years since any of them were at school,’ Zhao said, almost apologetically. ‘I guess that’s why it wasn’t the first thing we were looking at.’

‘And you didn’t think to share your thoughts with us before now?’ Chen asked pointedly.

‘I only got confirmation this morning, chief,’ Zhao said.

‘In the name of the sky, Zhao,’ Li said, ‘this is a team effort. We share information, we share thoughts, we talk to one another. That’s why we have these meetings.’ But how could he blame Zhao when he was the only one who had had the thought?

The detectives from Headquarters sat silent, happy that they shared no responsibility here. Sang, however, was riffling through his file.

‘What school was it?’ he asked. ‘I can’t find it here.’

‘It’s not in there,’ Zhao said. He cleared his throat, embarrassed. ‘It took me some time to track it down. It was the No. 29 Middle School at Qianmen.’

There was a brief hiatus, and they could hear the scratch of Sang’s pencil in his notebook. Then Li moved away from the window. ‘Right,’ he said decisively. He sat down and pulled his notebook towards him, taking notes as he spoke. ‘We’ll divide up into four groups of five. Group leaders will be Wu, Qian, Zhao, and — Sang.’ Sang positively glowed. ‘I want each group to review the evidence from all four murders and bring their thoughts back to this table. Additionally, each group will take responsibility for specific areas of the investigation. Zhao, we need to talk to the victims’ old teachers. Qian, we need to interview fellow pupils, all their old classmates. It may be that somewhere among them are the next two victims. And we want to get to them before the killer.’

Sang interrupted. ‘Aren’t we jumping the gun a bit here, boss? I mean, OK, so the first three went to the same school. But obviously the American didn’t.’

‘Fair point,’ Li said. ‘But the fact that the others did is too big a coincidence not to be significant. And it’s the first chink of light we’ve had in this case. There’s every possibility it could illuminate a great deal more.’ He paused. ‘Sang, I want your group to try to identify the weapon used. And Wu, I want your people to look at all the forensic evidence again. There’s got to be something we’re missing. We’ll meet again when we’ve got more information on Yuan Tao.’

The meeting broke up amid a hubbub of speculation on new developments, and as a pink-faced Zhao got to his feet, Li caught his eye and nodded. ‘Well done,’ he said. Zhao blushed more deeply.

Clouds of cigarette smoke wafted out into the corridor with the detectives.

Chen wandered round the table to where Li was collecting his papers. ‘I’m glad you finally seem to have learned the importance of working as a team, Deputy Section Chief Li,’ he said with a tone.

‘Just when they’re talking about introducing the concept of one-officer cases, too.’ Li’s tone echoed that of his boss, to Chen’s annoyance.

‘You know I don’t agree with that,’ he said.

‘Which is just about the only thing you and my uncle would have agreed on.’

‘But you don’t?’

‘I think the old way has its virtues, Chief. But we’re living in a changing world.’ Li glanced at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to go. The autopsy starts at ten.’

‘I’m afraid it doesn’t,’ Chen said, stopping Li in his tracks. ‘That’s why the Deputy Minister of Public Security was on the phone. The autopsy’s been delayed until this afternoon. And the Commissioner wants to see you at headquarters right away.’

The first blink of sunshine for days dappled the sidewalk beneath the locust trees in Dong Jiaominxiang Lane. The haze of pollution, as it sometimes did, had lifted inexplicably and the sky was breaking up. The city’s spirits seemed raised by it. Even the normally dour bicycle repairmen opposite the rear entrance to the municipal police headquarters were chatting enthusiastically, hawking and spitting in the gutter with renewed vigour. Li cycled past the Supreme Court on his right and turned left into the compound behind police headquarters. He alone, it seemed, was not uplifted by the autumn sunshine that still fell warm on the skin. As he passed an armed police officer standing to attention, and free-wheeled under the arch through open gates, he recalled his first encounter here with Margaret. Her official car in collision with his bicycle … his grazed arm … her insolence …

His smile at the memory was glazed over with melancholy.

He parked and locked his bicycle and walked apprehensively into the redbrick building that housed the headquarters of the criminal investigation department. He had stopped off at his apartment on the way to change into his uniform — dark green trousers, neatly pressed, pale green short-sleeve shirt with epaulettes and Public Security arm badge, dark green peaked cap with its red piping and loop of gold braid. He removed his hat as he stepped inside, ran his hand back across the dark stubble of his flat-top crewcut and took a deep breath.

The divisional head of the CID, Commissioner Hu Yisheng, was standing by the window when Li entered his office. The blinds were lowered, and the slats adjusted to allow thin lines of sunlight to zigzag across the contours of his desk. They fell in bright burned-out bands across the red of the Chinese flag that hung behind it. Li stood stiffly to attention as the Commissioner turned a steely gaze in his direction. He was a handsome man, somewhere in his early sixties, with a full head of iron-grey hair. He held Li in his gaze for what seemed an interminably long time. At first Li felt just uncomfortable, and then he began physically to wilt. It was worse, somehow, than any reprimand that words could have delivered.