Peter May - The Fourth Sacrifice

‘How well did you know him?’

‘I didn’t. I passed him on the stairs, maybe twice. Didn’t look like he had that much blood in him. A washed-out sort of face he had, pasty and pale. What did they do to him to make him bleed like that?’

‘They?’

‘Well, whoever did it.’

‘So you didn’t see anyone coming or going last night?’

‘Not a soul.’

‘And you didn’t hear anything?’

‘Not a thing. The wife’s half deaf, you know. We have to have the television up at a terrible volume. We never hear anything from above or below.’

‘When did you go to bed?’

‘That would be about nine o’clock. I’m normally at my work by six.’ He scratched his belly and stubbed out his cigarette.

So there was no sign of the blood at nine. Li guessed that beneath the floorboards there wouldn’t be much of substance between floor and ceiling. That amount of blood would have soaked through fairly quickly. Which would put the killing perhaps a couple of hours later than the doctor’s estimate.

‘When did you wake up?’

Old Hua started rolling another cigarette. ‘I don’t know for sure. About three, half-three maybe.’ Which narrowed the time of the murder to a six-hour window.

Li said, ‘How long do you think the blood had been dripping on you?’

Hua shrugged. ‘Who knows. Usually I sleep like a baby. And the wife takes pills, so it takes a bomb to wake her. But it was pretty sticky, so it couldn’t have been that fresh.’

Maybe around midnight, then, Li thought. When the street would be deserted and most people in their beds. He jerked his thumb towards the bedroom. ‘Do you mind if we take a look?’

‘Go ahead.’ Hua finished rolling and lit his cigarette.

Li and Qian went to the bedroom door and surveyed the dark stain on the ceiling, the blood drying brown on the crumpled bed sheet below.

‘Just who’s going to clean up all that mess?’ the old man shouted through. ‘That’s what I want to know.’

Li turned back into the hall and was startled by the apparition of old Hua’s wife, stark naked, emerging from the bathroom clutching a towel. She let out a tiny scream of fright and with a judder of old and sagging breasts, hurried back into the bathroom and slammed the door.

Old Hua just laughed. ‘Not a pretty sight, eh?’

Li and Qian exchanged glances and suppressed smiles.

‘Thank you, Mr Hua,’ Li said. ‘We’ll take full statements from you and your wife later.’ He paused at the door. ‘One more thing. Do you have any idea who owns the apartment upstairs?’

‘Nope. The guy who had it died about a year ago and left it to some relative who’s been renting it out. Just like the old landlords, eh? We had a revolution to get rid of these types. Seems like we’ve just come full circle.’

As Li and Qian re-entered the victim’s apartment on the fourth floor, two assistants were manoeuvring the corpse into a body bag for removal to Pao Jü Hutong, where the autopsy would be carried out in a few hours’ time.

‘Once forensics are finished, I want the apartment sealed off,’ Li said. ‘No one gets in here without referring to me first. And I want to know who the hell owns this place. If anyone knows who our John Doe is, it’s got to be the guy who rented him the apartment.’

A sudden commotion in the back room distracted him. One of the assistants called out, ‘Is Deputy Section Chief Li still around?’

‘Here,’ Li said, and crossed quickly to the room.

The assistant stood up and handed him what appeared to be a small, dark blue notebook. ‘It was hanging out his back pocket.’

Li held the corner of it between thumb and forefinger, and his heart skipped a beat as he recognised the silver crest on the front. It wasn’t a notebook. It was a passport. He eased it open and looked at the photograph inside, then at the head still staring back at him from the floor. His eyes flickered down the page to the name, Yuan Tao.

‘Shit,’ he whispered, realising the implications.

‘What is it?’ Qian asked anxiously over his shoulder.

‘This might be the same as the other murders in almost every other detail. But there’s one very big difference.’ He held up the passport and Qian immediately recognised the eagle crest. ‘This guy’s an American.’

‘This had better be good.’ Margaret strode across the floor of the lobby in the Ritan Hotel, glancing at her watch, Sophie hurrying in her wake. ‘I’ve got exactly two hours to finish packing and get to the airport.’ She stopped at the glass doors and turned to Sophie. ‘Anyway, how can you not know what it’s about?’

‘Because they haven’t told me anything. Honest, Margaret. All I know is the RSO’s been in with the Ambassador for the last two hours and all engagements for the rest of the morning have been cancelled.’

They ran down the steps to where a sleek black embassy limousine idled quietly in the damp morning air.

‘And they didn’t need to send a car, for God’s sake!’ said Margaret. ‘It’s just a couple of streets away.’

‘They said it was urgent.’ Sophie opened the door for Margaret and then slid in after her.

‘This isn’t one of your little jokes, is it?’ Margaret said, suddenly suspicious. The car drew away from the steps and swung out of the gate, past the glowering security guards.

‘Of course not,’ Sophie said. Her tone was defensive, even hurt. ‘I’m sorry if my little bit of fun backfired last night.’

‘It didn’t,’ Margaret said quickly, but she avoided meeting Sophie’s eye. ‘Bit of a coincidence, though, you being his little sister’s best friend.’

‘Not really. Michael was out here most of last year shooting the series that starts back home next month. It was he who encouraged me to apply for the posting. China sounded, well … a bit exotic. And so here I am.’

‘And so is he — for the next few months if he’s just starting filming. I don’t suppose that had anything to do with your decision to apply for the job?’

Sophie turned and smiled. ‘I can always dream, can’t I? But I’m sure he’d much rather spend time with you than me. He was disappointed that you left so early last night.’

Margaret checked her watch again and changed the subject. ‘I hope this isn’t going to take too long, Sophie, or the American government will be picking up the tab for me missing my flight.’

Sophie shrugged. ‘Who knows — maybe the Chinese have refused you an exit visa.’

Margaret turned, genuinely shocked. ‘They couldn’t do that, could they?’

*

The Ambassador’s secretary led them straight into his office. The Ambassador, in his customary shirtsleeves — rolled up this time — was standing with hands on hips looking out of the window. Stan Palmer sat at the coffee table sipping black coffee, papers spread in front of him. His normally smooth façade seemed a little ruffled.

Jon Dakers, the Regional Security Officer, was perched on a corner of the Ambassador’s desk, talking into the telephone. He sounded agitated. ‘Well, get them to give me a call as soon as they’ve got it. And fax it direct to the embassy.’

The Ambassador turned as Margaret and Sophie entered. ‘Thank you for coming so promptly, Margaret.’

‘What’s this all about, Mr Ambassador? I need to be at the airport in less than two hours.’

‘And I need a favour, Margaret.’ He crossed the room and indicated that she should take a seat. She did so, reluctantly. The Ambassador remained standing. He paused for a moment. Then, ‘A member of the embassy staff, a Chinese-American called Yuan Tao, was murdered last night,’ he said. ‘Someone decapitated him.’