The Man From Beijing (50 page)

When the trial resumed the following day, the woman was in the same seat again. Something about her made Birgitta feel insecure. During a brief adjournment she summoned an usher and asked him to check if the woman kept to herself even outside the courtroom. Just before the court reconvened, he called in to report that she did indeed – she hadn’t spoken to anybody at all.

‘Please keep an eye on her,’ said Birgitta Roslin.

‘I could remove her if you like.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘That she worries you.’

‘No, I’m just asking you to keep an eye on her. No more than that.’

Although she was doubtful until the last minute, she did manage to conclude proceedings late that afternoon. She announced that sentences would be passed on 20 June and declared the case closed. The last thing she saw before going back to her office, having thanked her various assistants, was the Vietnamese woman, who had turned to watch Birgitta leave the courtroom.

Hans Mattsson came by. He had been listening to the closing arguments by the prosecuting and defending counsels on the internal speaker system.

‘Palm has had a few good days.’

‘The only question is how to hand down the sentences. There’s no doubt the brothers are the ringleaders. The other two are also guilty, of course, but they seem to be afraid of the brothers. It’s hard to avoid the suspicion that they might have shouldered more guilt than they deserve.’

‘Just let me know if you want to discuss anything.’

Birgitta gathered her notes and prepared to go home. Staffan had left a message on her mobile phone to say that all was well. She was about to leave when her office phone rang. She hesitated. Then she picked up the receiver. It was the usher.

‘I just wanted to say that you have a visitor.’

‘Who?’

‘The woman you asked me to keep an eye on.’

‘Is she still around? What does she want?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘If she’s related to any of the accused Vietnamese, I’m not allowed to talk to her.’

‘I don’t think she’s a relative.’

Birgitta was beginning to get impatient. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that she’s not from Vietnam. She speaks excellent English. She’s Chinese. And she wants to speak to you. She says it’s very important.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Waiting outside. I can see her from here. She’s just plucked a leaf from a birch tree.’

‘Does she have a name?’

‘I’m sure she does. But she hasn’t told me what it is.’

‘I’m coming. Tell her to wait.’

Birgitta walked over to the window. She could see the woman, standing on the pavement.

A few minutes later she left the courthouse.

33

The woman, whose name was Ho, could have been Hong Qiu’s younger sister. Birgitta was struck by the resemblance, not only the sleeked-back hair but also the dignified posture.

Ho introduced herself in excellent English, just as Hong Qiu had done.

‘I have a message for you,’ said Ho. ‘If I’m not disturbing you.’

‘I’ve just finished work for the day.’

‘I didn’t understand a single word of what was said in court,’ said Ho, ‘but I could see the respect that was shown to you.’

‘A few months ago I attended a trial in China. The judge on that occasion was also a woman. And she was also treated with great respect.’

Birgitta asked if Ho would like to go to a cafe or restaurant, but Ho simply pointed to a nearby park where there were several benches.

They sat down. Not far away a group of elderly drunks was arguing noisily. Birgitta had seen them many times before. She had a vague memory of having found one of them guilty of some misdemeanour, but she couldn’t remember what. Drunks in parks and the lonely men who rake dead leaves in churchyards are the very hub of Swedish society she often said to herself. Take them away, and what’s left? She noticed that one of the drunks was a dark-skinned man. The new Sweden was asserting its identity even here. Birgitta smiled.

‘Spring has sprung,’ she said.

‘I’m here to tell you that Hong Qiu is dead.’

Birgitta hadn’t known what to expect – but it wasn’t that. She felt a wrench deep down inside her. Not of sorrow, but of immediate fear.

‘What happened?’

‘She died in a car accident while on a trip to Africa. Her brother was there as well. But he survived. He may not have been in the same car. I don’t know all the details.’

Birgitta stared at Ho in silence, chewing over the words, trying to understand. The colourful spring was suddenly surrounded by shadows.

‘When did it happen?’

‘Several months ago.’

‘In Africa?’

‘My dear friend Hong Qiu was part of a big delegation to Zimbabwe. Our minister of trade, Ke, was the leader of the visit, which was considered very important. The accident happened on an excursion to Mozambique.’

Two of the drunks suddenly started screaming and pushing each other.

‘Let’s go,’ said Birgitta, rising to her feet.

She took Ho to a nearby cafe where they were almost the only customers. Birgitta asked the girl behind the counter to turn down the music. Ho drank a bottle of mineral water, Birgitta a cup of coffee.

‘Tell me about it,’ she said. ‘In detail, slowly, as much as you know. During the few days I met Hong Qiu she became a sort of friend. But who are you? Who has sent you all the way from Beijing? And above all, why?’

Ho shook her head.

‘I’ve come from London. Hong Qiu had a lot of friends who are now mourning her loss. Ma Li, who was with Hong Qiu in Africa, gave me the sad news. And she asked me to contact you as well.’

‘Ma Li?’

‘One of Hong Qiu’s other friends.’

‘Start at the beginning,’ said Birgitta. ‘I still find it hard to believe that what you say is true.’

‘All of us do. But it is. Ma Li wrote to me and described what happened.’

Birgitta waited. She had the impression that the silence also contained a message. Ho was creating a space around them, closing them in.

‘The information is not consistent,’ said Ho. ‘The official story of Hong Qiu’s death seems to have been sanitised.’

‘Who told Ma Li about it?’

‘Ya Ru, Hong Qiu’s brother. According to him Hong Qiu had chosen to go on a trip deep into the bush, to see wild animals. The driver was going too fast, the car overturned, and Hong Qiu died instantly. The car burst into flames; petrol had leaked out.’

Birgitta shook her head. And shuddered at the same time. She simply couldn’t imagine Hong Qiu dead, a victim of a banal car accident.

‘A few days before Hong Qiu died she’d had a long conversation with Ma Li,’ Ho continued. ‘I don’t know what about; Ma Li is not the type to betray the confidence of a friend. But Hong Qiu had given her clear instructions. If anything happened to her, you should be told.’

‘Why? I barely knew her.’

‘I can’t answer that.’

‘But surely Ma Li must have explained?’

‘Hong Qiu wanted you to know where I could be found in London, if you needed any help.’

Birgitta could feel her fear growing. I’m attacked in a street in Beijing; Hong Qiu has an accident in Africa. The two events are somehow connected.

The message scared her.
If you ever need help you should know that there is a woman in London called Ho.

‘But I don’t understand what you’re saying. Have you come here to give me a warning? What might happen?’

‘Ma Li didn’t give any details.’

‘But whatever was in the letter was sufficient to make you come here. You knew where I lived, you knew how to get in touch with me. What did Ma Li write?’

‘Hong Qiu had told her about a Swedish judge called Mrs Roslin who had been a close friend of hers for many years. She described the regrettable mugging, and the meticulous police investigation.’

‘Did she really say that?’

‘I’m quoting from the letter. Word for word. Hong Qiu also told her about a photograph you had shown her.’

Birgitta gave a start.

‘Really? A photograph? Did she say anything else?’

‘That it was of a Chinese man you thought had something to do with incidents that had taken place in Sweden.’

‘What did she say about the man?’

‘She was worried. She had discovered something.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know.’

Birgitta said nothing. She tried to work out what was implied by the message from Hong Qiu. It could only be a warning cry out of silence. Had Hong Qiu suspected that something might happen to her? Or did she know that Birgitta was in danger? Had Hong Qiu discovered the identity of the man in the photograph? In which case, why didn’t she say so?

Birgitta could feel her discomfort growing. Ho sat in silence, watching her, waiting.

‘There’s one question I must have an answer to. Who are you?’

‘I’ve been living in London since the beginning of the 1990s. I first went there as a secretary in the Chinese embassy. Then I was appointed head of the English-Chinese chamber of commerce. Now I’m an independent consultant to Chinese companies that want to establish themselves in England. But not only there. I’m also involved in a big exhibition complex that’s going to be built near a Swedish city called Kalmar. My work takes me all over Europe.’

‘How did you get to know Hong Qiu?’

The reply surprised Birgitta.

‘We’re relatives. Cousins. Hong Qiu was ten years older than me, but we’ve known each other since we were young.’

Birgitta thought about Hong Qiu evidently having said that she and Birgitta had been friends for many years. There was a message in that. Birgitta could only interpret it as meaning that their brief acquaintance had formed deep links. Significant trust was already possible. Or perhaps, rather, necessary?

‘What did it say in the letter? About me?’

‘Hong Qiu wanted you to be informed as soon as possible.’

‘What else?’

‘As I’ve already said. You should know where I live, in case something happens.’

‘What might happen?’

‘I don’t know.’

Something in Ho’s tone of voice put Birgitta on her guard. So far Ho had been telling the truth. But now she was being evasive. Ho knows more than she’s saying, Birgitta thought.

‘China is a big country,’ said Birgitta. ‘For a Westerner it’s easy to confuse its size with the impression that it’s secretive. The lack of knowledge is transformed into mystery. I’m sure that’s what I’m doing. That’s how I experienced Hong Qiu. No matter what she said to me, I could never understand what she meant.’

‘China is no more secretive than any other country. It’s a Western myth that our country is incomprehensible. The Europeans have never accepted that they simply don’t understand the way we think. Nor that we made so many crucial discoveries and inventions before you acquired the same knowledge. Gunpowder, the compass, the printing press, everything is originally Chinese. You weren’t even first to learn the art of measuring time. Thousands of years before you started making mechanical clocks we had water clocks and hourglasses. You can never forgive us for that.’

‘When did you last see Hong Qiu?’

‘Four years ago. She came to London. We spent a few evenings together. It was in summer. She wanted to go for long walks on Hampstead Heath and interrogate me on how the English regarded developments in China. Her questions were demanding, and she was impatient if my answers were unclear. She also wanted to go to cricket matches.’

‘Why?’

‘She never said. Hong Qiu had a number of surprising interests.’

‘I’m not all that interested in sports, but cricket seems to me totally incomprehensible – it’s impossible to work out how one of the teams wins or loses.’

‘I think her enthusiasm was due to the fact that she wanted to understand how Englishmen work by studying their national sport. Hong Qiu was a very obstinate person.’

Ho checked her watch. ‘I have to go back to London from Copenhagen later today.’

Birgitta wondered whether she ought to ask the question that had been forming in the back of her mind.

‘You weren’t by chance in my house the night before last? In my study?’

‘I was staying in a hotel. Why should I have wanted to creep into your house like a thief?’ she said, bemused.

‘It was just a thought. I was woken up by a noise.’

‘Had somebody been there?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is anything missing?’

‘I thought somebody had disturbed my papers.’

‘No,’ said Ho. ‘I haven’t been there.’

‘And you are here on your own?’

‘Nobody knows I’m in Sweden. Not even my husband and children. They think I’m in Brussels. I often go there.’

Ho took out a business card and put it on the table in front of Birgitta. On it was her full name, Ho Mei Wan, her address and various telephone numbers.

‘Where exactly in London do you live?’

‘In Chinatown. In summer it can be very noisy in the streets all night long. But I like living there even so. It’s a little China in the middle of London.’

Birgitta tucked the business card into her purse. She accompanied Ho to the railway station to make sure she caught the right train.

‘My husband’s a conductor on the railway,’ Birgitta said. ‘What does your husband do?’

‘He’s a waiter,’ said Ho. ‘That’s why we live in Chinatown. He works in a restaurant on the ground floor.’

Birgitta watched the Copenhagen train disappear into a tunnel. She went home, prepared a meal and felt how tired she was. She decided to watch the news, but fell asleep soon after lying down on the sofa. She was woken up by the telephone ringing. It was Staffan calling from Funchal. It was a bad connection. He had to shout in order to make himself heard over all the crackling. She gathered that all was well and they were enjoying themselves. Then they were cut off. She waited for him to call again, but nothing happened. She lay down on the sofa again. She had difficulty taking in the fact that Hong Qiu was dead. But even when Ho told her what had happened, she had the feeling that something didn’t add up.