Half the World Away

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Peter Dunne, the consul, is balding and tanned, with short silver hair and a close-clipped beard. He wears a white chambray shirt, open at the collar, and black trousers. Wire-rimmed glasses. Some citrus type of cologne. His greeting is warm and sympathetic as he shakes hands and checks that everything is OK with our accommodation.

We meet in a private lounge on the ground floor of the hotel. He orders tea, asking if we want black or green. We choose green. It is grassy and refreshing.

He checks his watch and explains we’re expected at the police station in an hour.

‘There are some things we can sort out now before we meet the police,’ Peter Dunne says. ‘You’ve arranged to have posters and leaflets printed?’

‘Yes,’ Tom says. ‘We’ve draft copies here.’ He pats ‘the file’, the growing sheaf of papers related to Lori’s disappearance. ‘Just need to email the document to the printer and they’ll do them for us overnight.’

‘May I see?’ Peter Dunne says.

Tom finds a copy and Peter Dunne reads it through. It’s similar to the text on the Missing Overseas website, but also gives a number for the PSB, the Chinese police, that Edward at Missing Overseas found for us.

‘Good,’ Peter Dunne says. ‘And you’ve got an interpreter for yourselves?’

‘Yes,’ Tom says. ‘Missing Overseas have found someone for us. We’re meeting him this afternoon.’

‘I’ve brought you a city map,’ Peter Dunne says. ‘It’s in English as well as Mandarin – there are useful numbers and so forth on the back.’ He unfolds it and shows us the three ring roads. Points to where we are, near the second.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘We want to talk to Lori’s friends. Dawn’s getting people together for us this evening.’

‘Excellent,’ Peter Dunne says. ‘My understanding is that the police have already spoken to them and we should hear about that in the meeting. I would like to stress that the police will be in charge of the investigation and they will determine the direction of enquiries. Anything you feel might be relevant, please tell me and I’ll pass it on to the investigator.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Also we want to visit Lori’s flat.’

‘Of course. I’ll explain that to the PSB.’

‘We’ve heard nothing from them in all this time,’ Tom says, ‘apart from the fact that they checked her apartment-’

‘Hopefully anything further they do know will be made clear,’ Peter Dunne says. ‘Had there been any breakthroughs, I can assure you we would have heard and you would have been informed. If you will address any concerns, queries and so on through me, we can ensure things go as smoothly as possible and that nothing gets lost in translation, as it were.’ His voice is light, his manner gracious, but there is warning in what he is saying. ‘The authorities are understandably cautious in cases like this. Imagine if the situation was reversed and a Chinese family came to the UK looking for their daughter. We would expect them to understand that the police are the investigating authority and have the resources, experience and, most importantly, the legal powers to undertake a comprehensive inquiry. And for the family to be guided by them as to campaigning activities.’

He adjusts his glasses, then tugs at his shirt cuffs. ‘The authorities are committed to resolving the situation. Chengdu is a growing city, a hub of economic development, eager to welcome overseas partnerships, foreign visitors and workers. They bend over backwards to extend hospitality to the international community so they’re understandably concerned that Lorelei is missing.’

‘What publicity has there been here?’ Tom says.

Peter Dunne twists his cup to and fro. ‘The consulate has issued an appeal for information.’

‘Where?’ Tom says.

‘On our website, on the Chamber of Commerce site and on English-speaking networking sites.’

‘How do people know it’s there? They have to visit these sites?’ Tom says.

‘Yes.’

‘Can’t we get it on television – in the papers?’ Tom says.

‘I hope so. That’s one of the matters we’ll discuss today,’ Peter Dunne says. ‘It’s a sensitive time. The anniversary of the Tiananmen Square massacre is coming up – twenty-five years.’

My first encounter with Tom as I drummed up petition signatures and publicized our vigil. His prediction: ‘When the Chinese government have had enough, they’ll clear the lot of them out. Water cannon or whatever. None of this will make a bit of difference. Put money on it – the protest is quashed, the Commies carry on and you have a drink with me.’

‘You want me to bet on people’s lives? Talk about shallow.’

Then the horror unfolding. The tank man with his shopping bag. The ruthless slaughter.

Our first date.

‘So you’re saying we’re not free agents?’ Tom’s got his knees crossed and swings his foot. It reminds me of a cat waving its tail, a sign of mounting aggression.

‘I’d be lying if I told you otherwise,’ Peter Dunne says. ‘I’m a diplomat, and that’s what I’m here for, to make communication, co-operation, work as well as possible. I promise I’ll do everything I can to get the action we want from the PSB and the media.’

His phone beeps and he answers, speaks briefly in Chinese, then tells us the car is ready.

The air is almost solid, a thick, steamy heat, as we step outside and walk to where the car waits. The haze remains thick over everything. Inside, the big, black SUV is comfortable and pleasantly cool.

Peter Dunne sits up front with the driver and we are in the back. The journey is slow, erratic. Short bursts of speed are curtailed by sudden braking and long waits until we lurch forward again. A stop-go, stop-go, stop rhythm. The traffic is bumper-to-bumper and scooters and bikes weave in and out. There are lots of taxis, green saloons. We draw up beside one and I can see, painted on the bonnet, a picture of a panda clutching bamboo. The cab driver is shaving. We race away and then we’re flung forward when our driver hits the brakes to avoid a car cutting in from the left. A chorus of horns screams. My hands are gripped in my lap, my stomach tense – I’m not a great back-seat passenger at the best of times. An emergency siren starts up, a lazy chime that rises and falls as though someone had slowed down a British version to 33 revs per minute and channelled it through an ice-cream van.

‘This is the second ring road,’ says Peter Dunne, pointing to the overhead bridge that crosses the junction. ‘It was completed with these new elevated sections last year.’

‘Lori posted pictures of it,’ I say. ‘She can see it from where she lives.’

‘That’s right,’ he says. ‘There’s a bus service on the ring road – it’s a good way of getting about. It connects to the Metro, which is closer to the city centre.’

‘How long have you been in China?’ I say.

‘Fifteen years,’ Peter Dunne says.

‘It must have changed a lot,’ Tom says.

‘Beyond recognition,’ Peter Dunne says, ‘with the explosion in economic growth, construction, infrastructure. Immigration here is mainly Chinese, coming in from the countryside and smaller towns in their thousands. The population’s seven million in the city itself, fourteen million in the municipality, and growing.’

An industrial revolution for the twenty-first century. Not unlike what happened in Manchester in the nineteenth but at a far greater pace and on a much bigger scale. Through the window I watch the crowds on the streets and think of the massive changes they’re living through, coming from paddy-fields and apple orchards, from rearing pigs and chickens to a world of marble-floored shopping malls and the Metro, to disposable income and the daily commute.

We turn left and the traffic halts again. In the shadow of the flyover, under the ramp, there is a paved area with some planters around the edge and, in the middle, half a dozen people are moving in formation, one arm slowly lifting, elbow bent, hand cupped, head bowed. Tai chi perhaps. Then we sprint forward and they are gone.