Death of a Red Heroine [Chief Inspector Chen Cao 01] (9 page)

“So what shall we do with him?”

“Just keep him informed about the investigation.”

“Ah well, I see.” Chen sighed.

Chen saw only too clearly what he was in for: four or five calls from the commissar as a daily routine, not to mention the necessity of listening to Zhang’s long lectures larded with quotations from Mao, Deng, or
The People’s Daily,
and the necessity of suppressing frequent yawns.

“It’s not that bad. At least he is an incorruptible commissar.”

Depending on one’s perspective, that was a good point—or a bad one.

“It’s in your interest, too, to work closely with a comrade of the older generation,” the Party Secretary concluded in a lowered voice.

When Chen returned to the main office, he saw Detective Yu scanning a group of pictures at his desk. Chen took a seat opposite his assistant.

“Was Guan that important?” Yu asked.

“A national model worker is always important.”

“But that was in the sixties and seventies, Comrade Lei Feng and all that propaganda.”

“Yes, we have been brought up with these communist role model myths,” Chen said. “In fact, such a concept is not without its root in Confucianism. Only Confucian models were called sages, whereas in the twentieth century, they are called model workers, model peasants, model soldiers. And even today, I can still sing the song, ‘Learn from the Good Example of Comrade Lei Feng.’“

“So can I,” Yu said. “There’s another one. ‘Be a Good Soldier to Chairman Mao.’ I was humming the tune the other day, and my son was totally lost.”

These songs had been very popular throughout the nation in the early sixties. Comrade Lei Feng was a model PIA soldier who served the people wholeheartedly, helped others in need, and never cared about his own interest. The Party lauded such mythical communist models to whom the people were expected to measure up, giving but not taking, contributing but not complaining, conforming but not making trouble. After the Cultural Revolution, and especially after the summer of 1989, however, few really believed in the orthodox propaganda.

“So,” Chen said, “Comrade Lei Feng may be more needed than ever now.”

“Why?”

“Contemporary social polarization. Nowadays, a handful of upstarts live in luxury beyond ordinary people’s dreams, but so many workers are laid off—’waiting-for-retirement’ or ‘waiting-for-assignment.’ Many people have a hard time making ends meet. So propaganda advocating a selfless communist model is all the more necessary.”

“That’s true.” Yu nodded. “Those high cadres and their children, the HCC, have everything and take it for granted.”

“That’s why the propaganda ministry is trying very hard to come up with some contemporary role model. Guan was, at least, a pretty young woman. A considerable improvement—in the fashion-shop window of politics.”

“So you don’t believe in the political shit either.”

“Well, so much for political myths,” Chen said. “What do you think of the case?”

“It’s anything but a political case.”

“Yes, put politics aside.”

“Guan was attacked that night on her way to a vacation. Forced to take off her clothes in a car, raped, and then strangled to death. Since she was not dating anyone at the time of her death—according to the department store—we can presume that the murderer was a stranger, probably the taxi driver.”

“So what action do you suggest?”

“Inquire at the taxi bureau. Collect the drivers’ receipts for that night, and check the records at the bureau. And of course, question those with suspicious pasts.”

It was the same hypothesis, Guan as the victim of a taxi driver. Detective Yu had discussed it with Chen even before they had established the identity of the dead woman.

At least it explained how the body came to be found in that distant canal.

“Yes, that makes sense. Cover all the areas you think worth looking into.”

“I’ll do my best,” Yu said, “but as I’ve mentioned, it won’t be easy, with so many cars running around the city nowadays.”

“In the meantime, let’s do the regular checkup as well. I’ll go to the dorm building where Guan lived, and you’ll interview her colleagues in the department store.”

“Fine,” Yu said. “It’s a special political case, I understand. But what about Commissar Zhang?”

“Well, keep him informed about our work. Whenever he wants to say something, just listen to him—as respectfully as possible,” Chen said. “After all, Zhang’s a veteran cadre, influential in his way.”

* * * *

Chapter 7

etective Yu woke up early. Still sleepy, he took a look at the radio clock on the nightstand. It was barely six, but he knew a full day awaited him. He got up, moving carefully so as not to wake up his wife, Peiqin, who curled up against the towel-covered pillow, a striped blanket tucked down to her ankles, her bare feet exposed on the sheet.

As a rule, Yu got up at seven, jogged along Jinglin Road, read the morning newspaper, had his breakfast, sent his son Qinqin off to school, and left for the bureau. But that morning he decided to break this rule. He had to do some thinking. So he chose Renmin Road to do his jogging.

His mind was on Guan Hongying’s case as he ran along at his customary pace, inhaling the fresh morning air. The street was quiet, with only a couple of old people doing Taiji on the sidewalk by the East Sea Furniture Store. A milkman was sitting in a corner, staring at a small crate of bottles at his feet, murmuring to himself, counting perhaps.

This was just another homicide case. Detective Yu would of course do his best to solve it. He had no objection to doing so, but he did not like the way the investigation was going. Politics. Nothing but damned politics. What was the difference between a model worker and non-model worker lying naked against the bare walls of an autopsy room?

According to the store’s preliminary report Guan was not involved with anyone at the time of her death. In fact, all these years, Guan seemed not to have dated anybody. She had been too busy for an affair. So it could only be one of the common rape and murder cases, and the rapist, a total stranger to her, had assaulted her without knowing her identity, and killed her somewhere on her way to vacation on the night of May tenth. With neither evidence nor witnesses, the investigation would be difficult. Similar cases they had been assigned led nowhere despite all their efforts.

Detective Yu had a theory of his own concerning rapists. Most of them were repeaters who would never rest with one or two victims. So sooner or later they would be caught and convicted. The police could do little without clues or concrete evidence. It was a matter of time. Just waiting might seem too casual, considering what had been done to Guan. But what else could a cop possibly do? Detective Yu was conscientious. He took pride in being a good cop—one who could make a difference, but he knew what could be done and what could not. It was a matter of priorities.

As for any political factors being involved in this case, that was far-fetched.

Chinese people were complaining about a lot of things these days—corruption, unemployment, inflation, housing shortages, traffic congestion, and so on, but nothing related directly or indirectly to Guan. True, Guan was a national model worker and political celebrity, yet her death would leave no dent in China’s socialist system. If so-called counterrevolutionaries had intended to sabotage the existing system, another far more symbolic target should have been chosen.

Yu was fed up with the Party Secretary’s talk.

Still, he had to play his part. It could be crucial to his career goal, which was a simple one: to do better than his father, Yu Shenglin, usually known by his nickname, “Old Hunter.” The old man, though an experienced and capable officer, was still a sergeant at retirement, with a meager pension, hardly enough to indulge himself with a pot of Dragon Well tea.

When Yu came back, panting and wiping his brow, Peiqin had already set a full breakfast on the table, a bowl of steaming beef noodle soup with a handful of green scallions.

“For you,” she said. “It’s still hot. I’ve had mine with Qinqin.”

Wearing a fluffy robe, she sat hunched with her elbows on the table, supporting her chin with her hands, and looked at him over the soup. She was a few months older than he. As an ancient Chinese saying went, “An older wife knows how to take care of a husband.” But with her long hair hanging down her back in ripples, she looked younger.

The noodles were good, the room clean, Qinqin already dressed for school, carrying a chicken sandwich with an apple in a sealed plastic bag. How could she have managed to do so many things in such a short while, he wondered.

And things were not easy for her, not just at home. She worked as an accountant in a small, plain restaurant called Four Seas, tucked far away in the Yangpu District. She had been assigned the job after coming back to Shanghai with him. In those days, the Office of Educated Youth assigned jobs, and decisions were made regardless of an applicant’s education, intentions, or location. There was no use complaining since the office had a hard time dealing with the millions of ex-educated youths who’d returned to Shanghai. Any job opening was a blessing. But she had to make a fifty-five-minute bike ride from home to the restaurant. A tortuous journey, riding three or four bikes abreast in the rush-hour traffic. Last November she had fallen after a night’s snow. She had needed seven or eight stitches, though the bike was hardly damaged, apart from a dent in the mudguard. And she was still riding the same old bike, rain or shine. She could have asked for a transfer to a closer restaurant. She didn’t. Four Seas had been doing quite well, providing many perks and benefits. Some other state-run restaurants were so poorly managed that the profits were hardly enough even to maintain the employees’ clinic.

“You ought to eat more,” she said.

“I can’t eat much in the morning, you know.”

“Your job is tough. No time for lunch today again, I am afraid. Not like mine in the restaurant.”

That was one disadvantage of being a cop, and an advantage of working at her restaurant job. She did not have to worry about her meals. Sometimes she even managed to bring home restaurant food—free, delicious, specially cooked by the chef.

He had not finished the noodles when the telephone started ringing. She looked at him, and he let it ring for a while before picking it up.

“Hi, this is Chen. Sorry about calling so early.”

“That’s all right,” he said. “Anything new—any change?”

“No,” Chen said. “Nothing new. No change in our schedule either, except that Commissar Zhang wants to meet you sometime this afternoon. Say before four o’clock. Give him a call first.”

“Why?”

“Commissar Zhang insists on doing something himself, he wants to conduct an interview. And then he would like to compare notes with you.”

“It’s no problem for me. I can set out earlier. But do we have to do this every day?”

“Perhaps I’ll have to. Since it’s the first day, you just do whatever the commissar wants you to.”

Putting down the phone, Yu turned to Peiqin with a sigh.

“You’ve got to take Qinqin to school today, I’m afraid.”

“No problem,” she said, “but you are doing too much for too little.”

“You think I don’t know? A police officer makes four hundred and twenty Yuan a month, and a tea-leaf-egg vendor makes twice as much on the street.”

“And that chief inspector of yours, what’s his name—still single, but he’s got an apartment.”

“Perhaps I was born a mistake,” Yu was trying to sound humorous. “A snake can never become a dragon. Not like the chief inspector.”