‘I’m not being told everything that’s going on. I’m not hearing any explanations, although I’m convinced they exist.’
‘You’re right,’ said Ho. ‘But you’re forgetting that it’s possible neither Hong Qiu nor Ma Li knew any more than they said.’
‘I didn’t see it clearly when you came to Sweden to visit me,’ said Birgitta, ‘but I do now. Hong Qiu was worried that somebody would try to kill me. That’s what she said to Ma Li. And the message was passed on to you, three women in succession to warn a fourth that she was in danger. But not just any old danger. Death. Nothing less than that. Without realising it, I’ve put myself at risk, the extent of which I’m only now beginning to comprehend. Am I right?’
‘That’s why I went to see you.’
Birgitta leaned forward and took Ho by the hand. ‘Help me to understand. Answer my questions.’
‘If I can.’
‘You can. It wasn’t the case that you had somebody with you when you came to Helsingborg, was it? It’s not the case that at this very moment there’s somebody keeping an eye on us, is it? You could have called somebody before coming here.’
‘Why would I have done that?’
‘That’s not an answer, it’s a new question. I want answers.’
‘I didn’t have anybody with me when I went to Helsingborg.’
‘Why did you sit in my courtroom for two whole days? You couldn’t understand a word of what was said, after all.’
‘No.’
Birgitta changed over into Swedish. Ho frowned and shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Are you sure? Or do you actually understand Swedish very well?’
‘If that were the case, surely I’d have spoken to you in Swedish.’
‘You must realise that I’m very unsure. You might find it advantageous to pretend that you don’t understand my language. I even wonder if you’re wearing a yellow raincoat to make it easier for somebody to see you.’
‘Why should I?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything at all at the moment. Most important of course is that Hong Qiu wanted to warn me. But why should I turn to you for help? What can you do?’
‘Let me start with your last question,’ said Ho. ‘Chinatown is a world of its own. Even though thousands of English people and tourists wander around our streets — Gerrard Street, Lisle Street, Wardour Street, all the alleys — we only allow you to see the surface. Concealed behind your Chinatown is my Chinatown. It’s possible to hide away there, change identity, survive for months and even years without being discovered. Even if most of the people living here are Chinese who have become naturalised English citizens, the bottom line is that we all feel that we are in our own world. I can help you by giving you entry into my Chinatown, a place you would otherwise never be allowed into.’
‘What exactly should I be scared of?’
‘Ma Li wasn’t at all clear when she wrote to me. But you mustn’t forget that Ma Li was also scared. She didn’t say as much, but I could sense it.’
‘Everybody’s scared. Are you scared?’
‘Not yet. But I can be.’
Her mobile phone rang. She checked the display and stood up. ‘Where are you staying?’ she asked. ‘Which hotel? I have to go back to work.’
‘Sanderson.’
‘I know where that is. What room?’
‘One thirty-five.’
‘Can we meet tomorrow?’
‘Why do we have to wait that long?’
‘I can’t get away from work before then. I have a meeting this evening that I can’t skip.’
‘Is that really true?’
Ho took hold of Birgitta Roslin’s hand. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A Chinese delegation is going to talk business with the bosses of several big British companies. I have to be there.’
‘Right now you’re the only one I can turn to.’
‘Call me tomorrow morning. I’ll try to get time off.’
Ho went out into the rain, her yellow coat fluttering as she walked. Birgitta Roslin stayed for quite some time, feeling incredibly weary, before walking back to her hotel, which of course was not the Sanderson. She still didn’t trust Ho, just as these days she mistrusted anyone vaguely Asian in appearance.
She ate in the hotel’s restaurant that evening. It had stopped raining by the time she finished dinner. She decided to go out to the park and sit for a while on the same bench that she and Staffan had sat on once upon a time.
She watched people coming and going. A young couple sat briefly on her bench, kissing and cuddling, followed by a man carrying yesterday’s paper, rescued from a rubbish bin.
She made another attempt to call Staffan on his sailing boat off Madeira, even though she knew it was a waste of time.
She noted how many fewer and fewer people were strolling through the park, and eventually stood up to return to her hotel.
Then she saw him. He came along one of the paths diagonally behind where she had been sitting. He was dressed in black and could only have been the man whose photo was taken by Sture Hermansson’s surveillance camera. He was walking straight towards her, carrying something shiny in his hand.
She screamed and took a step back. As he came closer, she fell over backwards and hit her head against the iron edge of the bench.
The last thing she saw was his face; it was as if her eyes had taken one more picture of him. Then she faded away into an all-embracing and silent darkness.
35
Ya Ru loved the shadows. He could make himself invisible there, just like the beasts of prey he both admired and feared. But others had the same ability. It had often occurred to him that young entrepreneurs were in the process of taking over the economy, and hence before long would be demanding a seat at the table where political decisions were made. Everybody starts in the shadows, where they can watch and observe without being seen.
But the shadow he was hiding behind on this particular evening in rainy London had a different aim. He watched Birgitta Roslin, sitting on a bench in a little park in Leicester Square. From where he was standing he could see only her back. But he didn’t dare risk discovery. He had already noticed that she was on her guard like a restless animal. Ya Ru didn’t underestimate her. If Hong Qiu had trusted Birgitta Roslin, he needed to take her extremely seriously.
He had been following her all day, ever since she turned up outside the building where Ho lived. He had been amused to realise he owned the restaurant where Ho’s husband Wa worked. They didn’t know that, of course — Ya Ru seldom owned anything under his own name. The Ming Restaurant belonged to Chinese Food, Inc., a limited company registered in Liechtenstein, where Ya Ru had placed his European restaurant portfolio. He kept a careful eye on the accounts and quarterly reports produced by young, gifted Chinese employees he had recruited from the top English universities. Ya Ru hated everything English. He would never forget what history told him. He was delighted to rob the country of talented young businessmen who had taken advantage of the best universities.
Ya Ru had never eaten a meal at the Ming Restaurant. He didn’t intend to do so on this occasion either. As soon as he had fulfilled his mission he would return to Beijing.
There had been a time in his life when he’d regarded airports with almost religious emotions. They were the modern equivalent of harbours. In those days Ya Ru had never travelled anywhere without a copy of The Travels of Marco Polo. The man’s fearless desire to investigate the unknown had been an inspiration. Nowadays he thought more and more that travelling was a pain, even if he did have a private jet and was usually spared the agony of hanging around in disconsolate and soul-destroying airports. The feeling that one’s mind was revitalised by all these sudden changes of location, the intoxicating delight of passing through time zones, was negated by all the pointless time spent waiting for departures or baggage. The neon-lit shopping malls at airports, the moving walkways, the echoing corridors, the ever-smaller glass cages in which smokers were crammed together, were not places where new thoughts or new philosophical ideas could be developed. He thought back to the time when people travelled by train or by transatlantic liners. In those days intellectual discussions and learned arguments had been taken for granted, as much a part of the accepted environment as luxury and idleness.