The Hua Shan Hospital Murders

CHAPTER ELEVEN

At first, Shanghai’s five-star hotels ignored the police request to check their guests against the following description: Caucasian male, thirty-five to fifty, overweight, six-foot-one or -two, white belt, white shoes, golf shirt, glasses on a silver chain around his neck, video camcorder. Then they heard about the police command post set up dead in the centre of the Hilton’s lobby. In an effort to keep Shanghai cops out of their own lobbies the luxury hotels started diligently to compare the police description to the appearance of their hotel guests. Soon data began to flow from the hotels to the police.

As it did, Joan Shui, the arson specialist sent by the Hong Kong constabulary, was in a stare-down with an immigration officer at Shanghai’s International Airport, Hong Qiao. She’d already shown the man her Hong Kong passport, a copy of the Shanghai police commissioner’s faxed request, and her Hong Kong constabulary ID. As far as she was concerned, it was enough – fuck, it was more than enough.

Her opinion on this matter was not shared by the hard-faced immigration officer across the table from her. For the third time he asked about her exact origins. For the third time she asked him why he needed to know that information and demanded to see his superior. He refused and allowed his eyes to linger just long enough on the triangle of skin exposed by the undone top button of her blouse so that Joan almost winced. “Funny,” she thought, “stuff like that never used to bother me.”

“I’m a cop. I’ve been asked to help in a serious case of arson in your city.”

“The baby bomber.”

She didn’t nod. She didn’t do anything. To dismiss the fire bombing of an abortion clinic as the work of a “baby bomber” was breathtakingly callous, even for a Chinese male. Before she could help herself she muttered, “Fucking ignorant peasant” – not exactly the most tactful approach to class politics in the People’s Republic of China.

The immigration officer leapt to his feet and began screaming at her. His Shanghanese was so loaded with colloquialisms and colourful local idioms that she only got the gist of the rant – imperialist, running dog capitalist, yeah, yeah, yeah, and yeah. God she wished mainlanders would get past this ancient crap.

The man’s bellowing brought several guards on the run. The guards didn’t bother her, but their drawn Kalashnikovs were another matter. For the briefest moment it occurred to her that should she be shot to death in this situation St. Peter would laugh at her as she approached the pearly gates. “Why didn’t you just tell them your father was Chinese and your mother of indeterminate Northern European heritage? And a whore – such things happen.”

“My background is my business, St. Peter.”

“How quaint of you to think that. But surely you understand that now it is my business too,” he said, his voice filled with a warbling laugh.

On second thought she wasn’t sure if a woman whose last sexual dalliance was little more than a wispy memory of limousines and champagne cocktails would ever get the chance to hear St. Peter laugh.

Then, without warning, the shouting in the office stopped and the weapons were quickly shouldered. The deep voice of Wu Fan-zi ordered the young soldiers back to their stations. Then his bulky frame filled the door. He reminded Joan of the New Zealand rugby players who played for the All Blacks. Not the fleet runners but the solid men in the scrum. She liked solid men. She instantly liked the man in the doorframe though she didn’t even know his name.

When he grabbed her documents from the desk, warned the immigration officer to keep his nose out of police business, and apologized to her for the “inconvenience” – her fondness grew by a full leap if not a bound. Hustling her out of the immigration section he muttered under his breath, “Welcome to Shanghai.” She nodded and smiled. And he had a wry sense of humour – what more could a girl ask for? Then he said, “They found a second fetus in a cage.”

“No bomb?”

“Not yet.”

She stopped smiling. She’d fought to get this assignment because she desperately needed to work on something that had some meaning. She’d had her fill of saving oodles of money for insurance companies that were already richer than some Third World countries. She whispered a silent promise, that this one was different – this one was important.

* * *

The hospital cleaner was coming round. They’d found him unconscious, stuffed into a closet. He had a deep wound on the back of his head. Now he sat, frightened and bleeding, in front of Fong.

“Nothing. You say you saw nothing?”

“Yes, he hit me from behind. Don’t believe me? Look at my head.”

“Do you know when it was?”

“Before.”

“Before what?”

“Before now.”

Fong looked at the man’s wrist. He had no watch. No doubt he woke with the sun and went to sleep when it got dark. As the head of housekeeping had said, “He’s a peasant.” Suddenly Fong envied him. “They’ll patch up that head of yours now.”

The man harrumphed.

Fong left the room and almost bumped into a cleaner’s trolley. It looked much like those used by chambermaids in big hotels. The bottom half of the thing was covered by sheets on both sides. Fong pulled back one of the sheets. There was lots of room to put a titanium cage there.

A patient in a chair across the way barked out, “Watchya’ lookin’ for? You lost your daughter or sumptin’?” Fong looked at the near toothless man. He had no clever retort, not even a snarly comeback. So he turned on his heel and headed out without saying a word.

* * *

As Wu Fan-zi drove up the ramp to the newly built Gao Jia Expressway, the Hong Kong specialist perused the new photos of the blast site that he had given her. Then she set them aside and concentrated on the latest facts and figures. It didn’t take her long to come to a conclusion. She let out a sigh.

“Yeah,” Wu Fan-zi said.

“Your figures are right?” It wasn’t really a question.

“Yes, they are.” It wasn’t really an answer.

“Then it has to be an exotic,” she said. “The formula for force has been with us since that British guy ate that apple or whatever it was he did. Even in the matrix of relativity it still basically holds, especially in a confined space.”

He turned to her, “I know.” Wu Fan-zi slammed his ham of a fist down hard on the car’s horn. It blared and a path through the cyclists slowly opened.

“What are bicycles doing here? I thought this was an expressway.”

“This is Shanghai. Pavement is pavement here.”

Wu Fan-zi drove for a while then asked, “So which exotic?”

She thought about that for a moment then said, “I wonder if it matters.”

“How do you mean?”

“I assume all the exotics are available in Shanghai if you have the contacts to find them and the money to buy them.”

“True.”

“The contacts would be hard to generate but it could be done. But the money involved – I don’t know. Exotics are incredibly expensive, not to mention his little trick with the titanium cage.”

With a final honk they exited the expressway. A silence followed. Wu Fan-zi guided his car expertly through the thick traffic of Hong Qiao Lu moving toward Ya’nan Lu.

Finally she spoke, “Why not ignore the explosive for now and follow the money? You might get lucky.”

Wu Fan-zi almost had an accident as he hurtled the car across three lanes of traffic and screeched it to a halt on the sidewalk. He turned to her, “Explain.”

“The force co-efficient tells us that an exotic combustible was used. Right?”

“Right.”

“Exotic combustibles are expensive.”

“Right.”

“Whoever did this wouldn’t dare carry either the explosive or tons of cash into the country with them, would they?”

“Not if they were in their right mind.”

“Oh, I think there’s very little doubt he’s in his right mind. Not our right mind, but his.”

“Got that.”

“So if he didn’t carry the money he’d have to have it transferred to him here – no?”

Wu Fan-zi nodded.

“This is the People’s Republic of China, isn’t it?”

“Last time I checked.”

“Well, the last time I checked the People’s Republic of China monitored all bank transfers to and from foreigners. No?”

Wu Fan-zi was too busy calling Fong on his cell phone to answer the beautiful woman’s question. When he finished his call he looked at her. “What’s your name?”

“Joan Shui.”

“You look like an actress.”

“I’m not. I’m a cop. May I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Are you married, Wu Fan-zi?”

The stolid man blushed. She liked him even more for that.