The Runner

I

They drove west along Xizhimenwai Dajie past the towering floodlit neo-classical buildings that housed the Mint and the China Grain Reserves Corporation, the Paleozoological Museum guarded by a velociraptor, the French supermarket and department store, Carrefour, the latest in Beijing chic. Li was lost in silent thoughts Margaret did not want to interrupt. Burned still on his retinas was the image of the grave in the shadow of the mountains. Lao Da had led them by torchlight through a moongate from the courtyard into a small adjoining orchard. Trees that in summer would be laden with fruit and leaves, were winter stark, silent mourners for a young man who had played in this place as a child, guardians of a grave marked by a crude stone slab. A large pink wreath leaned still against the wall. Frozen fruit and vegetables, a bowl of rice, were laid by the stone. The charred remains of paper money, burned by poor people to provide their wealthy son with the means to survive in the afterworld, had been scattered by the breeze and were stuck now by frost to the ground all around. He had heard the mother sobbing, and seen her shadow moving in the courtyard. She had not wanted her son disturbed. But his father had said if there was the slightest doubt about how he had died, then they should know the truth. For they could not lay him properly to rest until they did.

Li had waited until he and Sun were away from the house before he called in the exhumation team on his cellphone. They would need pickaxes to break the ground, he had told them, perhaps even a pneumatic drill. And he warned them to bring screens to place around the grave. He did not want to subject the parents to more grief than he was already causing them. And lights, for it would be dark.

Margaret had agreed to do the autopsy. But he had deliberately refrained from telling her too much. He did not want in any way to influence her findings.

He turned in at the entrance to the Chinese Skating Association, and showed his Public Security ID to the man on the gate, who ventured reluctantly from his glass cubicle wrapped in a thick coat, hood pulled tight around a face that was red with the cold. He waved them through. Li steered north past the competition hall and the training gym and parked in front of the Shouti Hotel where the American athletes were staying.

They walked the rest of the way to the stadium, joining the streams of people heading in excited expectation to watch the athletics, and crossing an ornamental bridge over a narrow stream whose still water filled the air around it with the perfume of raw sewage.

The stadium was a huge oval, with upper terraces leading to the eighteen thousand seats which ringed the interior track. At various times, the floor space was flooded and frozen to create an ice rink, and in front of the competitors’ entrance, there was a massive silver representation of a speed-skater. In the vast subterranean space beneath the stadium, thousands of shoppers still thronged a popular market selling clothes and fancy goods.

‘We’re not really just coming here to watch the athletics, are we?’ Margaret asked as they approached a large ornamental wall carved with the figures of ice-skaters and the five inter-linked rings of the Olympics.

Li dragged himself away from his thoughts. ‘I want to talk to some of the athletes,’ he said. ‘And their coach.’ Qian had downloaded some biographical information for him on Chinese athletics’ recently appointed Supervisor of Coaching, a position created with new powers over even the national team coach. It had made interesting reading.

Supervisor Cai Xin was a tall, lean man with short, grey hair and square, steel-rimmed glasses. Li had expected to find him in a tracksuit and trainers. Instead, he wore a dark business suit with polished black shoes, a white shirt and red tie. He seemed distracted, and less than pleased to see Li and Margaret. With field events under way, and the first track event in less than an hour he did not consider this a convenient time to conduct an interview with the police, and told them as much. Li apologised and introduced Margaret. Cai, although displeased, remained polite. His English was immaculate, and he spoke it, unbidden, in deference to the American doctor. He led them down a long, brightly lit corridor beneath the main stand, and into a private room with leather settees and a large television set, and panoramic windows with a view on to the track. The stadium was vast, rows of seats rising up on either side into a cavernous roof space criss-crossed with tubular supports. The pole vault, the men’s long-jump and the men’s shot-put were already in progress. Competitors and officials milled around the area inside the six-lane track. The bleachers were about two-thirds filled, and people were still streaming in. Occasional bursts of applause punctuated the hubbub of people and competition that filled the hall.

Cai told them to sit, but remained standing himself, patrolling the window, keeping a constant, distracted eye on proceedings beyond it. ‘How can I help you?’ he asked.

‘I want to talk to some of your athletes,’ Li told him. ‘In particular, members of the men’s sprint relay team. But, in general, anyone who knew the three sprinters who died in last month’s car crash.’

Cai looked at him sharply, his distraction suddenly gone, his focus very clear. ‘Why?’

‘I have reason to believe their deaths might not have been accidental.’ Li watched his reaction very carefully, and could have sworn that the colour rose very slightly on his cheeks.

Cai was clearly searching for a response, but in the end nothing came.

Li said, ‘And at some time I would like to speak to colleagues of Jia Jing, his coach, others in his weight class. I thought protocol demanded that I should speak to the Supervisor of Coaching first. You know Jia was found dead last night?’

Cai remained silent for a moment or two longer. Then he said, quietly, ‘I understood it was a heart attack.’

‘It was.’

‘Then what’s the connection?’

‘I don’t know that there is one.’

Cai regarded him thoughtfully. ‘We seem to be losing most of our best medal hopes,’ he said at length. ‘But, really, I don’t think I want you speaking to any of my athletes when they are just about to engage in competition with the United States. I don’t believe my superiors, or yours, would be particularly happy if we were to upset our competitors and lose to the Americans.’ He made a tiny nod of acknowledgement towards Margaret. ‘With all due respect.’

‘With all due respect,’ Li said, ‘I won’t speak to anyone until after they have competed. Do we have any of the sprint events tonight?’

Cai said grudgingly, ‘The men’s and women’s sixty meters, the four hundred and the eight hundred.’

‘Then I’ll be able to speak to some of them later,’ Li said.

Cai glanced at his watch. ‘Is that all?’

‘Actually, no,’ Li said. ‘I’d like you to tell me what you know about doping.’

Cai’s face clouded, and a frown gathered around his eyes. His demeanour conveyed both defensiveness and suspicion. ‘Why are you asking me?’

‘Because as National Supervisor of Coaching, I would have thought you might have some expertise in the subject,’ Li said evenly. ‘Even if only to ensure that none of our athletes is taking drugs.’

‘That’s impossible,’ Cai said defiantly.

‘Why?’

‘Because we have so many competitors, in so many disciplines, and there are so many different drugs.’

‘So tell me about some of them.’

Cai sighed deeply. ‘There are five main categories of drugs, Section Chief. Stimulants, narcotics, anabolic agents, diuretics, and peptide hormones.’ He appeared to think this was sufficient.

Li said, ‘That doesn’t tell me much. What are the more commonly used substances?’

Cai glanced at his watch again. ‘Anabolic steroids,’ he said. ‘Mostly testosterone and its derivatives, including clostebol and nandrolone. They increase muscle strength by encouraging new muscle growth.’

Margaret spoke, almost for the first time. ‘And bone mass,’ she said. ‘They stimulate the muscle and bone cells to make new protein.’

Cai nodded. ‘They help the athlete to train harder and longer. But usually an athlete stops taking them at least a month in advance of competition, because they are so easily detectable. They’re used mainly by swimmers and sprinters.’

‘And weightlifters?’ Li asked.

Cai flicked him a look. ‘Yes,’ he confirmed. ‘Although generally human growth hormone would be the drug of choice for weightlifters. Being a naturally produced hormone, it is very difficult to detect. It is excellent for building muscle and muscle strength, and allows the user to take shorter breaks between workouts.’

Margaret said, ‘And it can cause heart and thyroid disease.’ Li looked at her and raised an eyebrow. She went on, ‘As well as acromegaly.’

‘What’s that?’ Li asked.

Cai said, ‘Enlargement and thickening of the hands and the face.’

Margaret said, ‘Not necessarily noticeable in a weightlifter, who has already distorted his body by building muscles beyond their natural shape and size. But if he was taking it long enough it could also distort the growth of bone and internal organs.’

‘Which, of course, would be preferable to taking steroids which would only shrink your testicles and give you acne,’ Li said.

‘Oh, worse than that,’ Cai said ignoring Li’s sarcasm. ‘Steroids can damage your liver and your kidney. They can change your blood cholesterol and increase the risk of heart disease and stroke. Oddly some men even grow breasts. And that’s not to mention the psychological effects. Paranoia, psychosis, or roid rage as the Americans call it.’

‘And that’s just the men,’ Margaret said. ‘Women get hairy, it screws up their menstrual cycle, and gives them deep voices.’

Li listened with growing disbelief. It seemed inconceivable to him that people would voluntarily submit themselves to such horrors. ‘So what else do they take?’

‘EPO,’ Cai said. ‘Erythropoietin. And its new, improved version, Darbepoetin. It’s a naturally occurring hormone produced in the kidney. It promotes the production of red blood cells, so more oxygen gets carried to the muscle, increasing the stamina of the athlete. Used by distance runners and cyclists.’ He gazed out as a Chinese pole-vaulter cleared five meters seventy-two, and the crowd roared its approval. ‘When a genetically engineered version of EPO became available in the late eighties its use became virtually endemic among cyclists.’ He turned and looked at Li. ‘Between nineteen eighty-seven and nineteen ninety, nearly twenty cyclists died mysteriously in their sleep.’

‘I read about that,’ Margaret said. ‘They all died from heart failure. Increase the number of red blood cells and you increase the viscosity of the blood. It gets thicker, reduces the speed of the blood flow, and when the athlete is sleeping and his heart rate falls, the blood gets so thick it just stops. And so does the heart.’

Li swore softly.

‘Of course, they got around that,’ Cai said, ‘by diluting their own blood with a saline drip and monitoring their heart rate while sleeping. It used to be undetectable, which is why they all loved it. But now there is a very efficient test which can detect synthetic EPO, differentiating it from the endogenous hormone.’

‘And what about blood doping?’ Margaret asked.

Cai nodded. ‘It happens.’

‘What is that?’ Li asked.

Margaret said, ‘The athlete draws off some of his own blood and stores it in a frozen state. He trains in his depleted blood condition, prompting his body to replenish its blood supply, then re-injects himself with his own blood just before competition, again increasing the red blood cell count. Of course, he’s just as likely to infect himself with something nasty, and if he uses blood products other than his own, risks allergic reaction, kidney damage, fever, jaundice, even AIDS or hepatitis.’

‘There are plenty of other drugs,’ Cai said. ‘Diuretics for losing weight, or flushing other substances out of your system. Amphetamines to give you a competitive edge, increase alertness, fight off fatigue if you’re a team sport player. Beta blockers to steady your hand if you’re a shooter or an archer. Narcotics to mask the pain of an injury.’

Li shook his head. ‘We live in a sick world,’ he said.

Cai shrugged. ‘It’s human nature, Section Chief. Just like today, victory in the ancient Olympic Games in Greece brought rich rewards. Money, food, housing, tax exemptions, release from army service. So the athletes started taking performance enhancing substances — mushrooms, plant extracts. Ultimately drug use was one of the main reasons the ancient games were abandoned. So, you see, nothing has really changed in the last two thousand years.’

‘That’s hardly a justification for not cracking down on it now,’ Li said.

‘Of course not,’ Cai responded. He glanced at Margaret as if he felt the need to underline his point. ‘Which is why supplying banned drugs to athletes was made a criminal offence in China in 1995. Unlike the United States where most of them can be bought freely on the Internet.’

‘Why don’t we keep our point-scoring to the track and field?’ Li said pointedly.

Cai glared at Li. ‘I really cannot spare any more time, Section Chief. Are you finished, do you think?’

A collective sigh washed across the stadium beyond the glass. The Chinese pole-vaulter had finally brought the bar crashing down with him.

‘For the moment,’ Li said.

II

They took their seats high up in the main stand with a superb view of the track below and the layout of the field events within it. A giant television screen kept them apprised of what was happening, and a constantly changing scoreboard flashed digital figures in red, green and yellow. Lengths jumped, heights gained, distances thrown; the current standings in every ongoing event; the points totals to date. Every seat was taken, and the stadium was filled with the buzz of anticipation, and the monotonous voice of the female announcer whose relentless, high-pitched, nasal commentary penetrated the very soul.

Around them, People’s Liberation Army officers in green uniforms sat together joking and snacking and drinking beer. Li had obviously been given tickets in a section set aside for ‘guests.’ The fact that he was accompanied by a non-Chinese had drawn some curious looks.

A giant of an American with blond hair tied back in a pony-tail threw his shot-put more than twenty-three meters sixty, taking the lead in the competition, to a groan of disappointment from the crowd and a sprinkling of polite applause. The Americans had already won the pole-vault.

‘I don’t understand,’ Li said to Margaret, ‘why an athlete would risk so much just so they can stand on the winner’s podium. I mean, it’s not just the risk of being caught and branded a cheat. Humiliation’s bad enough. It’s what they’re doing to their bodies. The side-effects of those drugs are horrific. They must be out of their minds!’

‘Well, I’m sure psychology is the biggest part of it,’ Margaret said. ‘The pressure to win must be enormous. And it’s not just the expectations of your family and friends, is it? Or your state. It’s your country. Millions of people who live their lives vicariously through you. Your victory is their victory. You win for China, or for America, you win for them. So when you lose…’ She left the consequences of that hanging. ‘And then, of course, there are the rewards. Big prize money, millions in sponsorship.’

Li thought about the apartments he had visited earlier that day.

‘And then there’s the fame and the glory. One minute you’re nobody, the next you’re a star. Everybody wants to be your friend. Your picture’s in all the papers, you’re being interviewed on TV.’ She shrugged. ‘I can see how weak people could be seduced.’ She thought about it for a moment. ‘And then there’s national prestige. Just look at the lengths East Germany went to so that their athletes would bring home gold medals.’

Li shook his head. He knew nothing about East German athletes. ‘I’ve never really followed sports, Margaret.’

‘Sport?’ She laughed. But it was a laugh without humour, full of contempt. ‘It was never about sport, Li Yan. The East German state seemed to think that if their athletes brought home more gold medals than anyone else, it would somehow endorse a whole political system, prove to the rest of the world that their corrupt and repressive regime was actually working. So they took their most promising young athletes away from their parents, many of them still children, and systematically pumped them full of drugs.’

‘And the kids just took the stuff, without question?’ Li found it hard to believe.

Margaret shook her head. ‘They didn’t know. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen-year-old kids, taken from their homes, subjected to the most ferocious training regimes, and given little pink and blue pills every day which they were told were vitamins.’

‘But they were drugs?’

‘State-produced steroids. A substance called Oral-Turinabol, of which the active ingredient was chlordehydromethyl-testosterone. They also had something called Turinabol-Depot, which they injected into the muscle. It contained nandrolone.’

‘And did the athletes get caught?’ Li asked. ‘I mean, drug-tested, in competition?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘In the early days there was no simple urine test for testosterone. Then they discovered a test in the early eighties that could measure the levels of testosterone in the body against another naturally occurring hormone, epitestosterone. If the ratio of testosterone to epitestosterone was greater than six to one, they knew you’d been topping up your body’s natural production with additional testosterone. Of course, the whole corrupt machinery of the East German state went into hyperdrive to find a way round the new test.’

‘And did they?’

Margaret pulled a face. ‘It was very simple really. They started manufacturing artificial epitestosterone and giving that to their athletes in direct correlation to the amount of testosterone they were taking. That way the balance between the two was maintained, and so the drug-taking didn’t show up in urine tests.’

Li looked at her quizzically. ‘You seem to know a lot about this.’

She smiled. ‘I don’t know too much about drug-taking these days, but back in the nineties I came face to face with it on the autopsy table. A former East German swimmer, Gertrude Klimt, who emigrated to the United States.’ She could still see the pale, bloodless flesh of the young woman lying on her table. Short, blonde hair. Bold, aggressive, Aryan features. ‘She was still only in her early thirties. Died from tumours on the kidneys. Prosecutors in Berlin paid for me to go to Germany to give evidence in court proceedings against former East German coaches. A lot of former athletes were giving evidence. Some had tumours, some of the women had had children with horrific birth defects, one had even been pumped full of so much testosterone she had changed sex. Heidi had become Andreas. I gave evidence on behalf of poor Gertrude.’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘You see, it all came out after the collapse of the Berlin Wall and the files of the secret police, the Stasi, became public. It turned out that a lot of those coaches and doctors were also members of the Stasi, with code names and everything. In those days, the athletes were the victims, and they finally got their revenge in the late nineties when the people who tricked them into taking steroids as children were convicted under the new, reunified Germany.’

Li shook his head in wonder. ‘I never knew anything about this.’

Margaret cocked an eyebrow. ‘Call me cynical, Li Yan, but I doubt very much if anyone in China heard much about it. And the Chinese were having their own drug-taking problems in the nineties, weren’t they? I seem to recall something like thirty-plus Chinese athletes testing positive at the world championships in the mid-nineties.’

Li shrugged, embarrassed by his country’s record in international competition. ‘Things have changed,’ he said.

‘Have they?’

He looked at her very directly. ‘I don’t think any country sees a virtue these days in winning by cheating.’

Margaret said, ‘Especially if they’re going to get caught.’ Her smile reflected her sarcasm. Then she thought for a moment. ‘What was going on downstairs between you and Cai?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know perfectly well what I mean, Li Yan. You were prodding him to see if he’d squeal.’ She mimicked, ‘As National Supervisor of Coaching, I would have thought you might have some expertise in the subject. What was that all about?’

Li watched the women warming up on the track below for the sixty meters sprint. Three Chinese, three Americans. He sighed. ‘In the late nineties Cai coached a team of athletes from one of the western provinces. Several of them scored big successes. At home and abroad. Gold medals, world records. Then one by one they started turning up positive in dope tests. They were almost all discredited, and so was Cai.’

Margaret looked at him in amazement. ‘So you made him your Supervisor of Coaching?’

Li said, ‘He was in the wilderness for several years. Largely discredited. But he always claimed he had no idea his athletes were taking drugs, and there was never any proof against him. And there was no denying his talents.’ He sneaked a glance at her, embarrassed again. ‘I guess he must have friends in high places who believe those talents can’t be overlooked.’

The crack of the starting pistol cut across their conversation, and they turned to see six women flying from their blocks, legs and arms pumping for a few short moments of powerful intensity. Americans and Chinese covering the ground with astonishing speed. And these were no tiny, coy Asian women. They were as tall as the Americans, powerfully built, the muscles of their legs standing out like knots in wood. In just over seven seconds they had covered the sixty meters, and crossed the finish line to run up the ramp to bring themselves to a stop. The Americans had won, and Margaret let out a shriek of delight, only to become suddenly self-conscious as silent faces all around her turned to look. ‘Oops,’ she said under her breath.

Li lowered his forehead into his hand and closed his eyes. It was going to be a long night, he could tell.

Margaret stood in the foyer, drawing looks from competitors and officials alike. They all knew she wasn’t an athlete because of her distended belly. The security man on the door kept staring at her uncertainly, as if wondering whether or not she should really be here. But he never asked. She heard some familiar accents as a group of male American runners in track-suits, carrying sports bags, brushed past her. She felt a momentary pang of homesickness as she heard them laughing, and she watched them push out through glass doors into the streams of spectators making their way out of the stadium. It had been pretty much honours-even over the course of the evening. The Chinese were just ahead on points, so the crowd was going home happy. And Li was in the dressing rooms talking to athletes.

It was hot here, and airless, a sour smell of body odour and feet hanging in what air there was. She was beginning to feel a little faint and for a moment closed her eyes and became aware of herself swaying.

She felt a hand on her arm and a girl’s voice said, ‘Are you okay?’

Margaret opened her eyes, startled, and found herself looking into the concerned face of a young woman with an ugly purple birthmark covering most of one cheek. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

The girl was nervous. ‘My name Dai Lili. Everyone call me Lily.’ A smile flitted briefly across her face before a shadow darkened it again and she glanced quickly around.

‘Are you an athlete?’ Margaret asked. She had forgotten about her faintness.

‘Sure. I run in three thousand meter heats tomorrow. Hope to be in final day after.’ She hesitated. ‘You lady pathologist, yes? With Chinese policeman?’

Margaret was taken aback. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Everyone talking about it in dressing room. Supervising Coach Cai, he say no one to talk to you.’

Margaret felt her hackles rising. ‘Did he now?’ She looked at the girl. ‘But you’re talking to me.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I wanna speak to you, lady. I must speak to you. Ve-err important. Don’t know who else to talk to.’ Her eyes darted to the left and down the corridor to the dressing rooms. Her face visibly paled, and her birthmark seemed to darken. ‘Not now. Later, okay?’

And she hurried away down the corridor, eyes to the floor, brushing past Supervising Coach Cai as he emerged into the foyer. He glanced after the girl and then looked over at Margaret, clearly wondering if there had been some kind of exchange. Against all her inclinations, Margaret smiled over at him. ‘Congratulations, Supervisor Cai,’ she said. ‘The Americans will have to do better tomorrow.’

He inclined his head in the minutest acknowledgement, but his face never cracked. He turned and strode through double doors leading on to the track.

Margaret was left disturbed by the encounter. The image of the girl’s face had imprinted itself on her mind. A plain girl, with shoulder-length black hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Tall and skinny, with dark, frightened rabbit’s eyes. The strange purple birthmark. Margaret repeated the name to herself so that she would remember it. Dai Lili. What could she possibly have wanted to speak to her about?

When Li emerged from the dressing rooms fifteen minutes later, his mood was black. ‘A complete waste of time,’ he told her. ‘I learned nothing that I didn’t already know.’ He led Margaret out into the cold night, and they headed for the ornamental bridge and the smell of the sewer.

‘Not very talkative, were they?’ Margaret asked.

‘It was like trying to get blood from a stone,’ Li growled.

‘Perhaps that’s because Supervisor Cai warned them all not to talk to you.’

He stopped and looked at her. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Because a young female athlete told me. She’s running in the three thousand meters heats tomorrow. She said she needed to speak to me urgently about something very important, and that Supervisor Cai had told all the athletes not to talk to us.’

Li was seething. ‘What does that bastard think he’s playing at?’ And it was all Margaret could do to stop him from going back to pick a fight.

‘He’d only deny it, Li Yan,’ she said. ‘What’s more interesting is why that girl wanted to speak to me. What it was she had to say.’

‘She didn’t tell you?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘She saw Cai coming and scuttled off. But whatever it was, I didn’t get the feeling she was going to tell me there and then.’ She slipped her arm through his, and they hurried over the bridge together, holding their breath. When they got to the other side, she said, ‘So they didn’t tell you anything at all?’

Li shrugged. ‘Just confirmed what I already knew. That none of the three killed in the road crash had had their heads shaved the last time anyone saw them.’ He shook his own head. ‘And everyone thought it was really unlikely that Xing Da would have chosen to cut off his hair. It was his flag of independence, they said, his statement of individuality.’

‘So why would somebody else do it?’ Margaret asked.

Li was baffled. ‘I have no idea, Margaret. But it simply cannot be a coincidence. Four out of five athletes who have died in the last month, all with their heads shaved?’

‘And the weightlifter?’

Li sighed. ‘I don’t know. There doesn’t seem any doubt that he died from natural causes. Maybe there’s no connection. Maybe he really is just a coincidence.’

‘But you don’t think so.’

He held up his arms in frustration. ‘I don’t know what to think. I really don’t.’ He checked his watch. ‘But right now I’d better get you home. I have an appointment with a dead runner.’

Margaret said quietly, ‘Will you come back to the apartment after?’

He shook his head. ‘I have an early start tomorrow. An appointment first thing.’

‘What appointment?’

But he looked away, and she knew that when he refused to meet her eyes he was being evasive. ‘Just an appointment,’ he said, and she was certain that he was hiding something from her.

III

The drive out to Dalingjiang was treacherous. There was black ice on the road where the frost had melted in the sun and then refrozen. Li drove carefully, with the heating up high, but still his feet grew cold. The temperature reading on the dash was minus nineteen centigrade.

He parked the Jeep at the top of the dirt track where Sun had parked it several hours before. Only now there was a phalanx of vehicles gathered there. Official cars and the meat wagon from Pao Jü Hutong, and there were nosy villagers gathered at the entrance of the alleyway leading to Lao Da’s house. Even at this hour, and in these temperatures, the curiosity of the Chinese prevailed.

Li heard the quickfire ratatat of a pneumatic drill as soon as he switched off the engine. And when he opened the door of his Jeep was shocked at just how loud it sounded in the still night air. It was little wonder that the villagers were curious. Overhead, stars shone in their firmament like the tips of white hot needles, incredibly vivid against the purest of black skies. Away from the lights of the city, such was their clarity you almost felt you could reach up and touch them, prick your fingers on their light. The moon, close now to its zenith, had risen over the mountains and washed the world with a silver light that you could only distinguish from daylight by its complete absence of colour. Li pushed his way through the crowd and made his way easily by the light of it to the gate of Lao Da’s courtyard, where a uniformed officer stood miserably on guard, wondering what he had done to deserve a job like that on a night like this. Li showed him his ID, and the officer raised his gloved hand stiffly to his frozen face in a brittle salute.

Through the moongate in the courtyard, Li could see black sheets stretched between the trees in the orchard to screen the activity around the grave from Xing Da’s family. Arc lights beyond them cast their light into the sky above, obliterating the stars. The drill stopped, and Li heard the hacking of several pickaxes trying to break through the frozen earth.

Through the windows Li could see, in the lit interior of the house, Lao Da sitting on his own at a table, a bottle and a glass in front of him. He looked up as Li stepped inside. From the bedroom Li could hear the faint, hoarse sobbing of Xing Da’s mother. There was no sign of the grandparents. Perhaps they had gone to a neighbour’s house. Lao Da waved him into the seat opposite, and filled another glass with clear liquor from a bulbous bottle with a label that read, Mongolian King. In the bottom of the bottle was a large, white twisted root of ginseng. The alcohol had the pungent, slightly perfumed smell of mao tai, distilled from the bitter-tasting sorghum wheat.

‘Gan bei,’ the runner’s father said, without enthusiasm, and they chinked their glasses and then drained them. Li tried to catch his breath as he watched Lao Da fill them up again. A photograph in a frame lay on the table, and Li turned it around to look at it. It was Xing Da breaking the tape in first place at some major event, his hair flying out behind him, unmistakable, the flag of independence his fellow athletes had described.

Outside, the pneumatic drill started up once more.

‘The saddest thing,’ Lao Da said, ‘was that he was supposed to come and see us at the end of October, for his mother’s birthday. But he phoned to say he couldn’t come, because he and some other members of the team had picked up the flu at a meeting in Shanghai. He sounded terrible. We were all very disappointed because, you know, we hardly ever saw him.’ He paused to drain half of his glass. ‘That was about three weeks before the accident. We never did see him again.’

Li emptied his second glass and stood up. There was nothing for him to say. No comfort he could give. He felt the mao tai burning all the way down to his stomach. ‘I’ll go and check on progress,’ he said. He wanted this over as soon as possible.

Beyond the screens, half a dozen men with pickaxes were breaking up the last of the earth around the coffin. It had been buried in only about three feet of soil, and the ground was frozen most of the way down. Li was sure there must be regulations covering burials like this, but if there were, nobody knew them. And if they did, they ignored them. The coffin itself was a crude, home-made box with a heavy lid, well nailed down. It took the officers who had uncovered the coffin several minutes to prise all the nails loose and remove the lid. The body inside was wrapped in a white blanket. Li moved closer for a better look as the pathologist stepped down into the grave to remove the wrapping.

Xing Da lay naked, with his hands crossed over his chest. His skin was a bloodless blue-white in the light of the arc lamps, and apart from the horrific chest and head injuries received in the crash, he looked as if he had lain down there the day before and simply gone to sleep. There was little or no sign of decay. The temperatures had plummeted just a day or two after he was buried, and he was fresher than if he had been kept in the chiller at the morgue.

He was a big man, with a well-developed upper chest and arms, and thick, sturdy legs. A sprinter. Built for power. The shadow of his hair lay across his scalp where it had been shaved off, shocking in its absence, and there was something like the hint of a smile on his face. As if he were mocking them. They had so many questions. And he had all the answers. Only, he could never tell them. Not now. Not ever.