Dai said, ‘I knew him when he was a rookie cop and I was Section Chief. I didn’t trust him then. Look at his face. There is the weasel in it.’ And there was, indeed, something weasely about his face, Margaret thought. He was not the usual pan-faced Chinese. He had a weak, receding jaw, and a forehead that sloped steeply back from his brow. ‘He is like a bellows. Empty when at rest, and full of air when set in motion.’ Dai chuckled. ‘In his case, hot air.’
Zhu finished his speech, and with a flourish stood aside, extending his arm towards the wings to welcome Li on stage. As Li walked briskly to the table to accept his award, he received a standing ovation, almost as if the guests had been briefed. As she herself stood, Margaret wondered if it had been stipulated on their invitation cards. Li took the shield from the Minister, shaking hands with both men. So many cameras flashed the stage was transformed into something like a scene from an old black and white movie, too few frames making the picture flicker and jerk and run too fast. The papers would be full of it tomorrow, and there would be plenty of images to choose from for the hoardings around the city.
Li cleared his throat as he approached the microphone, but spoke in a strong, clear voice.
‘Do you want to know what he is saying?’ Dai whispered.
Margaret shook her head. She had schooled him in his speech, persuaded him to reduce it from more than ten minutes to a little over three. She knew it by heart. His acceptance of the award not for himself, but on behalf of all his fellow officers. The need for the police in China to move forward, embracing new ideas and new technology to fight the rising wave of crime that was coming with increased prosperity.
His speech was met with yet another standing ovation, and Li walked off with the others as the curtain came down to a loud reprise of the martial music which had kicked off the whole proceeding.
‘Well, thank God that’s over,’ Margaret said. ‘Where’s the food?’
Old Dai grinned. ‘In the Sichuan Room,’ he said.
* * *
The Sichuan room was at the bottom of a flight of stairs, beyond the empty and forlorn-looking Taiwan Room. It was clad entirely in white marble, pillars, walls and floor, beyond a huge tapestry of a Sichuan forest scene. Tables for a banquet were set out on a pale Chinese carpet. Ten tables, ten to a table. Only special invitees were to be fed in the company of the principal guest of honour. A four-man troupe of Sichuan folk musicians played discreetly at the far end of the room.
Li Yan’s family and Lao Dai were escorted to a table near the door. To her surprise, Margaret found herself being seated at the same table as Li, along with the Minister and his deputy, the Commissioner and his deputy, and their wives. She leaned towards him and said in a stage whisper. ‘How did you manage this?’
The Minister said in impeccable English, ‘He told us that if he couldn’t have you at our table, he would take you for a McDonald’s instead.’ There was no trace of a smile as he spoke, but something in his eyes told Margaret he was not as po-faced as he appeared.
There was a ripple of uneasy laughter around the table.
‘Personally, I prefer Tony Roma’s,’ Margaret said. ‘Or the Hard Rock Café — they do good burgers. But I guess I’ll just have to make do with this instead.’
No one seemed certain whether she was being funny, or just rude, and her response was met with an uneasy silence. Li looked embarrassed.
‘It’s a joke,’ Margaret said. ‘I love Sichuan food.’ And she waved a hand in front of her mouth and blew. ‘Hot!’
‘You like spicy food, then?’ Deputy Cao said languidly.
‘Sure.’
‘Personally, I think Sichuan cuisine lack something in subtlety and sophistication. All that chilli only there to disguise poor quality of meat.’
‘What is your taste, then, Deputy Cao?’ the Minister asked him.
‘He likes hotpot,’ his wife said. She was a small, wiry woman, with short, bobbed hair the colour of steel. She looked uncomfortable in a black evening gown.
‘Ah, yes,’ Margaret said. ‘Invented by the Mongols, wasn’t it? Water boiled up in their helmets over an open fire to cook chunks of mutton hacked off the sheep.’
‘So?’ Deputy Cao said, a hint of defensiveness in his voice.
The Minister laughed. ‘I think Ms Campbell is implying that hotpot is not quite the height of sophisticated eating either.’
Cao shrugged dismissively. ‘Well, that is rich coming from American. Not a country exactly famous for its cuisine.’ He lit a cigarette.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Margaret said breezily. ‘There are a hell of a lot more McDonalds’ around the world than there are hotpot restaurants.’
Even Commissioner Zhu, silent until now, cracked a smile. ‘She might have a point there, Cao.’ Margaret looked at him carefully, and saw more clearly the weasel in him that Lao Dai had pointed out.
‘Only the young in China eat burger,’ Cao said. ‘With age come wisdom. People eat hotpot for thousands of year. In a hundred year they will still be eating hotpot. I wonder how many McDonald’s restaurants there will be.’
‘So you don’t approve of American culture, then?’ Margaret said.
‘It is short-lived and worthless,’ replied Cao.
‘Is that why you smoke American cigarettes?’ Margaret nodded towards his pack of Phillip Morris lying on the table. ‘So your life will be equally short-lived and worthless.’
There was a moment’s dangerous silence, before the Minister guffawed. ‘I think you’ve finally met your match, Cao,’ he said.
Margaret caught Li’s eye, and felt pierced by the cold steel of his silent disapproval. She turned her most charming smile on the Deputy Commissioner and said, ‘Actually, I’m only joking, Deputy Cao. I love hotpot, too.’ And she turned the same smile back on Li, as if to say, You see, you can take me places without getting a red face.
Through all the hubbub of voices in the Sichuan Room, above the sound of crockery as waiters brought food to tables, came the unmistakable warble of a cellphone. Deputy Minister Wei Peng tutted his disapproval. ‘Some people have no sense of propriety,’ he said. But within half a minute, the individual lacking that sense of propriety revealed himself to be Deputy Section Chief Qian. He was clearly embarrassed to interrupt proceedings at Li’s table, but determined nonetheless. His face was drained of colour.
‘Please accept my apologies for the interruption, Minister,’ he said, and then turned to Li. ‘I’m sorry, Chief, there’s been another murder.’
Qian’s words struck him with the force of a fist in the solar plexus. He almost physically winced. ‘There can’t have been,’ he said.
Qian shrugged. ‘Girl found dead. Strangled. Throat cut. Pathologist Wang seems to think it’s our man again.’
‘But that’s not how it’s supposed to be …’ Li had been so sure that the killer would stick to his mentor’s script. He felt sick. He had taken his eye off the case, relaxed for just a moment. And a girl had died. He stood up. ‘Gentlemen, ladies. I’m sorry, I have to go.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Li,’ Commissioner Zhu said sharply. ‘You have a whole section of detectives to handle something like this. You can’t walk out on your own banquet.’ He glanced with some embarrassment towards the Minister. But the Minister remained silent.
Deputy Cao said, ‘Oh, let him go. He hasn’t learned yet that the art of management is delegation. He thinks he’s so good that no one else can do it better. Isn’t that right, Li?’
Li calmly folded his napkin and laid it on the table. ‘Excuse me,’ was all he said, and he headed off through the tables with Qian to where Wu and several others were waiting for them at the door. Animated conversation became suddenly hushed at the sight of the guest of honour leaving the banquet.