Peter May - The Fourth Sacrifice

Politeness forced Li to take his hand. ‘Li Yan,’ he said curtly.

Margaret stood up slowly and turned her gaze on the woman with Li. ‘And this is?’ she asked pointedly. She wasn’t going to let him away without having to make an introduction.

Li looked at Margaret steadily for a moment, and the directness of his gaze disconcerted her. ‘This is Xiao Ling,’ he said. ‘My sister.’

Another slap in the face, this time one of rebuke. Margaret didn’t know which was the dominant emotion, embarrassment or relief. But whatever else, she felt very foolish. She tried a smile and shook Xiao Ling’s hand. ‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ she said.

Xiao Ling nodded politely, her eyes meeting Margaret’s for only a moment before flickering downward.

‘Hi,’ Michael said, shaking her hand also. ‘Won’t you join us?’

Margaret threw him a horrified glance. But Li coldly dismissed the invitation. ‘We were just leaving,’ he said. ‘We made a mistake. This is not usually a jazz night.’

‘No,’ Michael said. ‘It’s a one-off tonight. A special event.’

Li nodded, and ushered Xiao Ling past him. ‘Enjoy it,’ he said, and they left.

Margaret and Michael sat down. ‘Wow!’ Michael said. ‘I feel like I just spent the last few minutes in the freezer.’ He examined his fingers. ‘I’m not sure I didn’t get frostbitten.’

Margaret smiled reluctantly. ‘I’m sorry, Michael.’

‘Who was that guy? Or shouldn’t I ask?’

‘No, you can ask,’ Margaret said. ‘He’s just about the most stubborn, difficult and downright discourteous man I think I’ve ever met.’

‘Right.’ Michael nodded sagely. ‘So you and he were an item.’

She flicked him a quick look. ‘That obvious, was it?’

He smiled. ‘It was the stamp on your foreheads that said “ex-lovers” that really gave you away.’ She grinned ruefully. ‘Who is he?’ he asked.

‘Li Yan is Deputy Section Chief of Section One of the Criminal Investigation Department of the Beijing Municipal Police.’

‘A cop?’ Michael was clearly astonished.

‘Unfortunately, in my line of work, it’s very difficult to avoid them.’

He shook his head in amazement. ‘What’s Section One?’

‘Oh, it’s kind of like a serious crime squad. They handle all the big robberies and murders.’

Then the penny dropped for Michael. ‘So he was the one you were working with during that rice thing?’ She nodded. ‘And now? This autopsy you did for the embassy? He involved in that, too?’

‘Unfortunately,’ Margaret said. And she added, with feeling, ‘It’s just a pity he wasn’t the one on the table.’

‘Ouch,’ Michael said. ‘Wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of your scalpel.’

She smiled. ‘Some people have accused me of having a sharper tongue.’

‘Wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of that either.’

She gave him a sheepish grin.

Plum arrived with their beers. Michael took a long pull at his and eyed Margaret thoughtfully. ‘So what is it you’re working on, a murder? Or is that a state secret?’

‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Margaret said. She took a swallow of beer. ‘Just a guy at the embassy, a Chinese-American, got his head lopped off by some serial killer. Or, at least, that’s what the Chinese think.’

Michael made a face. ‘Decapitated? That sounds pretty unpleasant. An ancient Chinese form of execution.’

She looked at him, interested. ‘Is it?’

‘For thousands of years,’ said Michael. ‘Until quite recently, in fact. And, you know, when they buried their emperors in these huge underground tombs, it was quite common for dozens of the imperial concubines and members of the entourage to be entombed with them. Some of them were buried alive. The lucky ones were executed first. There are plenty of examples of headless skeletons found in tombs that have been excavated.’

Margaret shuddered. ‘Wouldn’t make working for the emperor the most attractive career.’

Michael shrugged and said, ‘It was the price they paid for incredible privilege while he was alive.’ He took another draught of his beer. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you don’t think the Chinese-American guy was killed by this serial killer?’

She shrugged vaguely, her mind still very much on Li. ‘Not really. Too many inconsistencies.’

‘So who do you think did it?’

‘Haven’t a clue. And neither do the Chinese. And by the time they find out, if they ever do, I’ll probably be drawing my pension.’ She looked up from her beer and smiled, shaking her head. ‘But it’s pretty boring stuff, really. Not nearly as interesting as it sounds.’ She sipped her beer. ‘So how was your day, darling?’ She made a determined effort to tear her thoughts away from Li.

‘Pretty dull, really,’ he said.

‘I thought you started filming today.’

‘We did. But it wasn’t anything very exciting. We’re still setting things up. But the sun came out, so we did some aerial shots from a helicopter of the tomb at Ding Ling.’

She burst out laughing. ‘Ding-a-ling?’ she asked incredulously.

‘No.’ He smiled at her silliness. ‘ Ding Ling . It’s the site of the tomb of Zhu Yijun, thirteenth emperor of the Ming Dynasty, Emperor Wanli. It is built into Dayu Hill in the cradle of the Heavenly Longevity Hills, just an hour out of the city. And it looked fabulous today. The first sunshine in ages. We couldn’t believe it. So we got the chopper up there fast, and came in very low over the mountains, so that as we traversed the final peak, the tomb opened out below us in all its glory. With the autumn colours, and the light, we got some great pics.’

Margaret said, ‘I don’t mean to be a killjoy, but pretty pictures aren’t going to sustain a whole series, surely? And, well, to be honest I can’t say I’d be riveted by the prospect of looking at a lot of tombs.’

Michael smiled indulgently at her ignorance. ‘That’s not what the series is about,’ he said. ‘History is about people, Margaret. And this series is about an amazing person called Hu Bo.’ He stopped himself. ‘But you don’t really want to know about this.’

She laughed. ‘No, I’m sorry. I do. Honestly. Go on.’

He shrugged, a little embarrassed. ‘Hu was a pioneer of archaeology in twentieth-century China.’

‘On second thoughts …’

Michael grinned. ‘OK, I know. That might not sound very interesting in itself. But when you look at his life and what he achieved — in the face of incredible odds, against a backdrop of war and revolution, and political madness — it’s an incredible story. A story that started when he was just ten years old, and his father sold him to an entourage of foreign explorers. A story that ended with a final act of will — the publication of the true story of the excavation at Ding Ling, which he and a handful of colleagues had kept safe from the destructive forces of the Cultural Revolution at considerable cost to themselves.’

Margaret said, ‘Sounds to me like the voice-over for the start of a TV series about a Chinese archaeologist.’

He chuckled. ‘Not far off it. I haven’t actually written it yet. It’ll be better when I do.’ His eyes smiled and twinkled at her. ‘Would it make you watch?’

She sucked in a breath through her teeth. ‘Well … I’m hard to please, Michael. It might make me give it a minute or two.’

He leaned forward. His enthusiasm was infectious. ‘If you give me a minute, I’ll give you an hour. And if you give me an hour, you’ll watch the whole series. I promise you.’

In spite of an in-built resistance to the idea that anything about archaeology or archaeologists might be of the slightest interest to her, Margaret was intrigued. Although she wasn’t sure whether it was the story, or the storyteller, that aroused her interest.