Peter May - The Runner

‘Ah,’ he said, and filled his mouth with more jian bing .

Her black eyes twinkled. ‘Why do I feel an excuse coming on?’

‘I haven’t had time,’ he said lamely. ‘And, anyway, I couldn’t remember what age you said the young woman was.’

‘I didn’t.’

He frowned. ‘You didn’t?’

‘It is the key, Li Yan. Find it, and you will open the door to enlightenment.’

‘Is that also the philosophy of the Tao?’

‘No, it is the philosophy of Mei Yuan.’

He laughed, and tossed some coins into her tin. ‘I will see you tomorrow night,’ he said.

As he turned to head back to the Jeep, she said, ‘Your young friend came yesterday.’ He stopped, and she drew a book out from her bag. ‘He brought me this.’

It was a copy of the Scott Fitzgerald classic, The Great Gatsby . ‘You haven’t read it, have you?’ Li asked.

‘No,’ Mei Yuan replied. ‘But neither has anyone else.’ She paused. ‘He said his friend gave it to him to lend to me.’ She ran her finger along the spine. ‘But this is a brand new book, never opened.’

Li smiled. ‘He means well.’

‘Yes,’ Mei Yuan said. ‘But he lies too easily. Tell him if he wants to give me a book, I will be happy to accept it. But I would prefer his honesty.’

Li stopped at the door of the detectives’ office. ‘Where’s Sun?’

‘He’s out, Chief,’ Wu said.

Li glanced at the TV, which was flickering away in the corner with the sound turned down. ‘And so is Deputy Section Chief Tao, I guess.’

Wu grinned and nodded. ‘All the swimming finals this morning, the athletics this afternoon.’

‘How are we doing?’

Wu shrugged. ‘Could be better. They’re ahead on points, but there’s some big races still to come. Do you want me to keep you up to date?’

‘I think I can live without it.’ Li glanced over at Qian’s desk. The detective was concentrating on typing up a report, two fingers stabbing clumsily at his computer keyboard. He had never quite got comfortable with the technology. ‘Qian?’ He looked up. ‘I want you to look into a burglary for me. It’s probably being handled by the local public security bureau. An American photographer called Jon Macken. He had a studio down on Xidan. It was broken into the night before last.’

Qian frowned. ‘What interest do we have in it, Chief?’

Li said. ‘None that I know of. Just take a look at it for me, would you?’

‘Sure.’

He was about to go when Qian stopped him. ‘Chief, I left a note on your desk.’ He hesitated, and Li had the distinct impression that everyone in the room was listening, even though they appeared still to be working. ‘Commissioner Hu Yisheng’s office called. The Commissioner wants to see you straight away.’ Several heads lifted to see his reaction. Now he knew they’d been listening. And why.

The noise of diggers and demolition resounded in the narrow Dong Jiaminxiang Lane. A couple of bicycle repair men sat huddled against the cold in the weak winter sunshine opposite the back entrance to the headquarters of the Beijing Municipal Police. The stone arch which had once led to the rear compound had been demolished, and the entrance was blocked by heavy machinery, a digger, a crane.

Li picked his way past them to the red-brick building which still housed the headquarters of the Criminal Investigation Department, although for how much longer he did not know. The building looked shabby, covered in the dust of demolition, windows smeared and opaque. Most of the sections had long since moved to other premises around the city, and the original CID HQ across the way — once the home of the American Citibank — was now a police museum.

Even in the outer office of the divisional head of CID, Li could hear the insistent rasp of a pneumatic drill and the revving of engines as machines moved earth and concrete in preparation for whatever new development was being planned. Commissioner Hu’s secretary called him to let him know that Li was there, and after a moment he emerged from his office pulling on his jacket. He nodded toward Li. ‘Section Chief.’ And then told his secretary, ‘Can’t think with all this goddamn noise. If anyone’s looking for me, we’ll be next door.’

They swung past the workmen crowding the old entrance, and Li followed the Commissioner up the steps of the museum, between tall columns, and through its high, arched entrance. Inside, they were confronted by an elaborately carved totem pole dedicated to the ‘soul of the police’, a bizarre-looking monument whose centrepiece was the crest of the Ministry of Public Security. But here, in this old marble building, the work of the demolition men outside was a distant rumble and there was a sense of peace.

‘I used to have my office on the top floor,’ the Commissioner said, and they climbed several floors, past exhibits which illustrated the history of the police and fire departments, gruesome murders and horrific fires. The top floor was a celebration of the modern force, mannequins modelling the new uniforms, an electronic shooting range where you could pit your wits against video baddies. But it was dominated by a huge curved stone wall, twenty feet high, carved with cubist-like representations of the features of policemen past. Eyes, noses, mouths, hands. This was the Martyrs’ Wall, a monument to all the police officers of Beijing who had died on active duty since the creation of the People’s Republic in 1949. There were strategically placed flowers to commemorate the dead, and a large book, on a glass dais, which named all of the fifty-nine officers who had so far gone to join their ancestors.

A group of uniformed policemen was being given an official tour, and a young female officer wearing a headset which amplified her voice across the top floor, was describing the history and purpose of the monument. When she saw the Commissioner, she cut short her speech, and the group moved discreetly away to try their luck on the electronic range. Li stood staring up at the wall. It was the first time he had visited the museum.

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ Commissioner Hu said.

Li looked at him. He was a short man with an impressively large head, and Li wondered if maybe he had modelled for some of the faces on the wall. His hair was greyer than the last time Li had seen him, and the first lines were beginning to etch themselves on an otherwise smooth face. ‘Unusual,’ Li said diplomatically.

‘You know your uncle is listed among the Martyrs?’

Li was shocked. It was the first he had heard of it. ‘But he did not die on active duty,’ he said. ‘He was retired.’

‘He was murdered by the subject of an active investigation. And in light of his outstanding record as a police officer, it was decided that his name should be included in the roll of honour.’

Oddly, Li found this unexpectedly comforting. His uncle had not passed into the unsung annals of history, to be forgotten with the death of living memory. He had been given immortality of a kind, a place among heroes, which is what he had been.

The Commissioner was watching him closely. He said, ‘There are two matters I want to discuss with you, Section Chief.’ He glanced across the floor to make sure they would not be overheard, and lowered his voice. ‘I received a call last night from the Procurator General regarding the official report into the death of the weightlifter, Jia Jing. It had been drawn to his attention that the report was not entirely accurate.’ Li opened his mouth to speak, but the Commissioner held up a hand to stop him. ‘His enquiries on the subject revealed this to be true. He also discovered that since you attended the incident you must have known this to be the case. And yet you signed off the report as being an accurate representation of events. The Procurator General is furious. And frankly, Section Chief, so am I.’