Peter May

The Ghost Marriage

Chapter One

I

Sweet though it was, the perfume of the incense could not disguise the odour of putrefying flesh. And the summer heat was not helping.

The cadavers were at the back of the room on a long table, surrounded by bowls of fresh fruit, boiled eggs in bowls of rice, dim sum still warm from the steamer, buns, a bottle of chilled white wine running with condensation.

The guests assembled at the far side of the room, near the door, and the window with a view on to the siheyuan courtyard. In the hutong beyond, children played unaware of the bizarre marriage taking place behind high walls.

The spirits of the dead man and his fiancée stood before a temporary altar: paper effigies to be burned, along with paper money, a paper car, and paper furniture that stood outside as comforts to be treasured in the afterlife. A gong sounded in the hands of the priest, and with a swirl of his red robe he placed a ring on the left hand of the paper groom. From the back of the observers, Feng Qi watched as the dead boy’s mother placed a ring on the paper finger of the bride, and he let his eyes return uneasily to the open coffins behind them and the dead girl, whose face was troublingly familiar.

II

The No. 1 Kindergarten in Anzhenxili was not far from the No. 3 Ring Road, just north of Tiananmen, and the Forbidden City. As she waited for Li Jon, Margaret gazed from a window across the almost unrecognizable cityscape of post-Olympic Beijing, reflecting on how rapidly much of this city had transformed itself from medieval to ultra-modern in the ten years since she first arrived.

She turned at the sound of children’s voices filled with the euphoria of freedom after a long day of educational incarceration. Li Jon wrapped himself around her legs, and she lifted him up into her arms: something she would not be able to do for very much longer. He was growing like bamboo. She brushed dark hair from his eyes and saw only his father in him: fine Chinese features that owed nothing to her fair-haired, blue-eyed Celtic heritage. But he had, she knew, inherited his mother’s fiery, querulous spirit, and she took pleasure from his father’s frustration that he had not transmitted to his son more of his gentle Chinese fatalism.

‘Did you get my iPod, Mommy?’ He spoke English with her distinctive American accent. But also Chinese, like a native. Both she and Li spoke to their son in their native tongues, sending him to this bilingual kindergarten where he would learn to be a citizen of the world — bridging the cultural divide that had so often caused misunderstanding and conflict between his parents.

‘Sure I did, honey. It’s waiting for you back at the apartment.’

He descended from her arms and took her hand, impatient to be home as soon as possible.

But he was forced to temper his excitement by a lady who intercepted them at the front door. She wore blue overalls, and a white cloth cap, a few strands of greasy black hair hanging down from one side of it. Her hands were red and callused, her flat peasant face rough and weathered, with troubled dark eyes. Margaret had seen her before, washing the floor of the lobby with slow, languid movements of her mop.

‘Sorry to trouble you, lady.’ She was strangely formal, half bowing, almost deferential. ‘They tell me you are wife of Section Chief Li Yan.’

Margaret took satisfaction from exercising her increasing skill in Chinese. ‘Then I’m sorry to say they tell you wrong.’ The woman’s disappointment was almost palpable, and Margaret immediately regretted her abruptness. She added quickly, ‘An American woman is not permitted to marry a serving Chinese police officer.’ She pulled the child at her side a little closer. ‘But Li Jon is our son.’

She saw hope flicker again in the woman’s eyes, like the flame of a candle stirring in the wind. The woman reached out a hand to clutch Margaret’s arm, and Margaret could feel the desperation in her bony grasp. ‘Then I beg you to help me, lady.’ She glanced at Li Jon. ‘You are a mother. I am a mother too. But my little girl is gone.’

III

The apartment block where Li shared his life with Margaret lay to the east of Tiananmen Square, just south of East Chang’an Avenue, in the old British Embassy compound that was now occupied by the Ministries of State and Public Security. It was the same two-bedroomed police apartment he had once occupied with his late uncle. Now he and Margaret and their child lived there, in flagrant disregard of the rules. Only his elevated position as chief of Section One, Beijing’s serious crime squad, had persuaded the authorities to ignore his indiscretion. That, and perhaps the fact that Margaret still occasionally took time off from her lectures in forensic pathology at the University of Public Security to perform key autopsies for the Beijing police.

He pulled the door shut on Li Jon’s bedroom and stood listening for a moment. It had taken him some time, and the reading of a favourite bedtime story, to persuade the child to put away his new video iPod and settle down to sleep.

Margaret had placed bowls of rice and a plate of sweet and sour pork on the table in the living room, and they sat down to eat together with bottles of beer as darkness fell on Zhengyi Road. The light of the streetlamp outside their first-floor window danced as the breeze blew through the leaves of the locust trees that lined the street. But even with all their windows open, the heat remained oppressive and overpoweringly humid. Li’s fresh white shirt was already sticking to him. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, then ran the palm of it back over his short-cut hair.

‘There are seventeen million people in Beijing,’ he said. ‘Thousands of them go missing every day. They look for work, they don’t find it, they move on.’

‘She’s just seventeen, Li Yan.’ Margaret had no idea why she was playing advocate for the cleaning woman at the kindergarten. Except that the appeal from one mother to another had touched something inside her.

‘Teenagers are always disappearing. Runaways mostly. Unless there is evidence of a crime there is nothing much I can do about it.’

‘Imagine,’ Margaret said, ‘that we were talking about Li Jon.’

Li’s chopsticks paused, midway to his mouth, and he looked at the woman with whom, in spite of every cultural and linguistic obstacle, he had fallen in love. She always knew just what buttons to press. Not that he felt manipulated. It pleased him to think that someone could know him that well, and yet still choose to be with him. Finally he popped the pork into his mouth, masticating thoughtfully.

‘Where does she live?’

‘Somewhere in the north-west of the city. She wrote down her address.’ Margaret pushed a dirty piece of paper across the table. ‘Her family came to Beijing from Shaanxi Province about five years ago. A place called Chenjiayuan, on the Loëss Plateau.’

Li nodded. He had heard of the Loëss Plateau, a dense labyrinth of eroding canyons along the Yellow River. A remote and arid place, where some villages were still unreachable by road. Anyone who could, left. Many of them came to the Chinese capital in search of work, sharing homes at first with friends or relatives who had preceded them, before finding somewhere to stay themselves. Beijing was increasingly dividing into small, distinct communities, tiny ghettos that shared the same rural and provincial heritage.

‘Her father recently lost his job. Their only income is what the mother makes cleaning at the kindergarten. The girl’s been gone almost a week, Li Yan.’

‘I suppose they reported it to Public Security.’

‘Of course. But like you said, the city is full of missing people.’

Li sighed. ‘And what do you suppose I can do about it, Margaret?’

‘You could ask Public Security for a progress report. An enquiry from the great Section Chief Li Yan would surely put a fire up their ass.’

Li raised an eyebrow and regarded her with a mixture of affection and irritation. He was accustomed to her sarcasm by now, of course, but cursed himself for still letting it affect him. He thought for a moment. ‘And you conducted this entire conversation in putonghua?’

Margaret allowed herself a tiny smile of satisfaction. ‘Of course.’

Li nodded his approval. ‘Good. After ten years you finally seem to be making some progress with the language.’

Her eyes narrowed.

Chapter Two

I

Li gazed from his office window, down through the dusty leaves of the trees into the narrow Beixinqiao Santiao below. Faded gold characters spelled out the name of the All China Federation of Returned Overseas Chinese on brown marble across the street. The air was filled with the roar of traffic on the new boulevard that cut through what had once been a quiet, residential neighbourhood, and air pollution reduced the apartment blocks which had appeared all around to carbonized shadows.

The square, four-floor, flat-roofed building that housed Section One was one of the few left standing in an area redeveloped beyond recognition.

Li blew smoke out through the open window, taking another pull on his cigarette before turning at the sound of his door opening. Detective Wu leaned in and forced a smile. He had not been happy to be sent on a commission to the Missing Persons Bureau, like some messenger boy. He was a homicide detective, and above such things. The only thing that pleased him was the message he had brought back. ‘Bureau Chief Chen says if things are quiet in serious crime, he would be happy to pass some of his missing persons over to you.’

Li was not amused. The minimum he expected from an inferior officer like Chen was a little respect. But respect was a rare commodity in the brash new China. ‘What did he tell you about the girl?’

Wu shrugged his shoulders, working his chewing gum from one side of his mouth to the other. He had not changed in all the time Li had known him, and the moustache he’d been trying to grow for the last fifteen years was still no thicker now than then. Ubiquitous sunglasses were pushed high up on his forehead. ‘Nothing, Chief. Her folks reported her missing about five days ago. They opened a dossier, and since then... nothing.’

Li knew that in all probability the dossier had never been opened beyond that first entry. The bureau had neither the time nor the manpower to go chasing every missing teenager. ‘Okay, thanks, Wu. Oh... and you can tell Bureau Chief Chen that if he ever wants to work in serious crime, he’s going to have to improve his success rate and find a few missing persons first.’

Wu smirked ironically and closed the door behind him.

Li sat down and gazed at the paperwork accumulating in piles on his desk. In normal circumstances he would have let the matter drop there. But he knew that Margaret would press to know what action he had taken. He sighed and checked his diary. He had a dental appointment later that afternoon in Haidian District, not far from where the girl’s parents lived. He determined to visit them on his way home.

II

The girl’s family lived in one of those Soviet-style apartment blocks thrown up in the Seventies in an attempt to solve Beijing’s housing problem. It was one of the few remaining in a derelict quarter of Haidian marked for demolition. The sombre, weathered exterior was disfigured by lines of decrepit air-conditioning units, most of which no longer functioned.

Li chained his bicycle to a crowded stand beneath a rusted metal roof. In these days of dense traffic, bicycle was still the most efficient way to get around. The elevator in the block was broken, and he climbed to the fourth floor up a graffiti-covered stairwell that smelled of stale urine.

The narrow hall of the Jiang family’s apartment gave access to the single room in which they lived and slept, a bathroom in which it was nearly impossible to turn around, and a tiny kitchen with a single gas ring, a microwave and a stone sink.

Jiang Ning greeted him at the door. It was her day off work, and she was both startled and overjoyed to see him, grateful nearly to the point of tears. She guided him into the disorderly room shared by mother, father and daughter. A double bed was pushed into one corner, a single bed diagonally opposite. A small TV sat on a wooden cabinet behind a square table covered with an impermeable tablecloth. There was an old, worn divan, a single armchair, and almost no room to move. An emaciated, dark-skinned man with thinning black hair brushed across a narrow skull sat at the table playing solitaire with a pack of soiled playing cards. He wore grey shorts and a dirty white singlet.

‘My husband, Jin,’ Ning said, and the man nodded cautiously in Li’s direction. ‘That’s Meilin’s bed over there.’

Li looked at the tiny single bed, and the posters taped to the wall above it. Chinese sports stars. Runners. Faces and names that had become familiar in every home during the Games. Medals and ribbons were carefully exhibited in a glass-doored cabinet beside the bed, along with several photographs of a teenage girl smiling at the camera.

Ning followed his eyes. ‘That’s her,’ she said. ‘The best daughter a mother could hope for. Not hanging about on street corners, or out at clubs and bars downtown. She’s an athlete, Section Chief. A junior champion. One day she will run for China, I know it.’

Li wandered over to look at her victor’s medals. Meilin was a middle-distance runner — 800 and 1500 metres. She had won an impressive number of events. He turned to face her parents. ‘When did you first become aware she was missing?’

‘When I returned from visiting my family in Shaanxi last weekend she was gone,’ Ning said.

Li’s gaze moved to the girl’s father. Jiang Jin shrugged. ‘She was in and out over the weekend. I was out a lot myself, and back late Sunday night. She wasn’t home yet. But I didn’t think much of it. She’s been seeing some boy over at Dahuisi. Coming home later and later.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘She’s not the angel her mother thinks she is.’ And Li sensed the tension between them. ‘Anyway, I went to sleep, and didn’t start to worry till I woke up in the morning and she still wasn’t here.’

‘She’d been gone more than twenty-four hours by the time I got back,’ Ning said. ‘That’s when I reported it to Public Security.’

The name ‘Ning’ meant ‘tranquillity’, but there was very little tranquil about the missing girl’s mother now. Her hands trembled, and she seemed always on the point of tears.

Li looked at her husband again. ‘What is it you do, Mr Jiang?’

‘Plays cards!’ Ning’s voice was heavy with resentment.

But Jiang Jin ignored her. ‘I start a new job with the city parks division next week.’

Li nodded. ‘Tell me about Meilin’s boyfriend.’

III

Lao Rong lived with his parents in one of the few remaining hutongs in Dahuisi, just north of Beijing Zoo, in one of four small houses enclosing a traditional siheyuan courtyard. Slate roofs descended toward a locust tree that shaded the paved yard. In among the carcasses of long-dead bicycles, coal briquets were already piled high in preparation for the winter. A white-painted sign on the wall outside gave notice that the property was to be demolished.

A call to Wu from his cellphone had pre-armed Li with the information that Lao, although just nineteen, already had a criminal record. For theft. The boy was alarmed by Li’s visit. A tall, thin lad, with long hair that fell into his eyes, he directed the Section Chief away from the house to a dark corner of the courtyard. ‘What do you want? I ain’t done nothing wrong.’

‘I never said you had. But when you act this nervous it makes me wonder.’

‘My father’ll kill me if I get in trouble with the police again.’

Li looked around the courtyard, at all the doors and windows that stood open, and wondered how many ears were listening from the dark beyond. ‘I wanted to ask you about Jiang Meilin.’

Concern immediately inscribed itself on the young face. ‘What’s happened to her?’

‘I was hoping you might tell me. Her parents reported her missing five days ago. Have you seen her?’

The boy paled visibly. He shook his head. ‘Not since Sunday. She came here to the house. My folks like her, but they were out. She stayed quite late and went home about twelve.’

‘You didn’t think it was strange that she hasn’t been in contact since then?’

‘Well, yes. Normally she would call me. From a public telephone. She doesn’t have a cellphone, so I can’t call her. And she wouldn’t ever let me go to the house. Said her parents wouldn’t like it. Usually I only see her at weekends.’

‘So you wouldn’t have any idea where she might have gone?’

‘No.’

‘And she never talked to you about leaving home? Running away, maybe?’

The young man’s hesitation was almost imperceptible. ‘No, she didn’t.’

Li took a fresh business card from his maroon Public Security ID wallet and handed it to the boy, holding it at each corner and facing towards him. Lao Rong looked at Li’s name and rank before glancing up, open-mouthed. ‘Section Chief?’

‘Just call me if you hear from her.’

He was almost at Dahuisi Lu when he heard a woman’s voice calling after him. He stopped his bicycle and looked back to see a middle-aged woman in a black skirt and cardigan and pink running shoes hurrying after him. In spite of the heat, she wore a headscarf, as if somehow that might hide her identity. When finally she reached him it took her a moment to catch her breath.

‘I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Lao Rong in the siheyuan,’ she said. One of the many ears listening in the dark, Li surmised. ‘He told you that Meilin went home around midnight.’

‘Did she not?’

‘It was later, Section Chief.’ She glanced over her shoulder, back along the hutong. ‘He’s a bad lot, that boy. Been in trouble with your people a few times.’

‘Are you telling me he lied?’

‘Not exactly. But it was nearer one o’clock when she left. And in tears.’

Li cocked his head, interested for the first time. ‘Do you know why?’

She shook her head. ‘I just know they had a big argument. Raised voices. I heard him shouting, her crying. But I don’t know what it was about.’

Li pursed his lips thoughtfully.

Chapter Three

I

The letter arrived three days after Li asked Wu to circulate a poster of the girl’s face — an image reproduced from one of the photographs in Meilin’s medals cabinet. He had also asked Wu for background investigations on the girl’s family, and the boyfriend. Considering his attachment to a missing-persons case to be something close to demotion, Wu had instigated the checks with bad grace, and ordered teams of uniformed Public Security officers to paste up posters in public places all over Haidian. Now he came into Li’s office holding a sheet of paper and a torn envelope. His face was, unusually, bright with excitement.

‘We’ve got a response, Chief.’

Li looked up blankly from his desk.

‘Jiang Meilin. The missing girl.’ Wu waved the paper and envelope. ‘Anonymous letter.’

Li stood up and reached into his pocket. ‘And you didn’t think to wear gloves?’

Wu’s face fell. ‘I didn’t know what it was until after I’d opened it.’

Li produced a pair of latex gloves and put them on. He took the letter and envelope and placed them carefully on the desk, then leaned over to have a look.

‘It was posted yesterday in Haidian,’ Wu said, as if trying to compensate for his mistake.

Li examined the postmark, then ran his eyes over the neat calligraphy that the sender had used to address the envelope. ‘An educated hand,’ he said. His gaze returned to the postmark. ‘And this is the post office that serves Beida, if I’m not mistaken. It could be the letter was written by a student, or a professor, at Beijing University.’

Wu said nothing. He knew that this was not a conclusion he would have reached himself. But then, that was probably why he was still a detective, while Li was Section Chief.

‘The university recently installed a biometric fingerprint scanner to speed up processing in the canteen. So let’s see what prints we can lift off this...’ Li glanced at Wu, ‘... excluding yours, of course. Then do a comparison check with their database.’

Li turned his attention to the letter itself. It was a cryptic note:

I saw your missing girl at a ghost wedding last week. She was the bride.

Li looked up, perplexed. ‘Ghost wedding?’

Wu nodded. ‘That’s what I thought. I did some asking around. Apparently it’s a tradition that still exists in some remote rural communities. It’s bad luck for a young man to die unmarried. So the family buys the corpse of a recently deceased female and they perform some kind of marriage ceremony. A ghost wedding. It seems there’s a sociology professor at Tsinghua University who is something of an expert on the subject.’

II

Tsinghua University was once described by the nearly president of the United States, Al Gore, as the MIT of China. It was an eclectic collection of faculties, from mechanics and technology to law, sociology and medicine. Each faculty was represented by one of the vast stone or marble edifices on each side of a wide, tree-shaded avenue leading to the massive master building at the far end. At this time of year there were almost no students on campus. Only occasional cyclists passed along the boulevard, possibly here for special summer classes. Many of the staff, however, were still at work.

Professor Bao seemed happy for Li to interrupt the monotony of the summer vacation, and used the excuse to stretch his legs and get some air. Two young men in shorts and T-shirts played basketball on a macadam court as the young policeman and the elderly professor walked by.

‘Minghun,’ said Professor Bao, ‘is what it is called among the peoples of the Loëss Plateau. An afterlife marriage. It has its roots in the ancient form of ancestor veneration which maintains that we all continue to exist after death, and that the living are obliged to tend to our needs.’

‘Including the arranging of a marriage?’

‘Indeed. It is traditional Chinese belief that an unmarried life is incomplete, and some parents fear that an unmarried dead son could be an unhappy one. So they find a bride for him after death.’

‘How do they do that?’

‘Oh, usually through an informal network of family or friends, they will find parents who have recently lost a single daughter. Those parents will sell the body as a way of finding their daughter a place in the dead man’s family line. You see, Section Chief Li, outside of the cities, China is really still a paternal clan culture. A woman does not belong to her parents. She has no place on her father’s family tree. She must marry into her husband’s ancestral lineage.’

‘So money changes hands.’

The white-haired old professor nodded and smiled. ‘I know, I know. It is illegal to buy and sell bodies, but it happens.’

‘Even in Beijing?’

‘Unlikely, I would have thought. Unless you had a community of families from an area of China that practised the minghun.’

Which was exactly, Li thought, what he had discovered among the condemned urban slums of Haidian District.

Chapter Four

I

Li and Wu arrived back at Section One at almost exactly the same moment. As Li wheeled his bicycle under the stand at the side entrance, Wu pulled his Beijing Jeep into the kerb and jumped out on to the sidewalk. His sunglasses were down, and he was chewing gum enthusiastically, evidently pleased with himself. ‘Got our man, Chief.’

‘Which man is that, Wu?’

‘Our anonymous letter writer. Did just as you suggested. Lifted fingerprints off the letter. There were four sets. I took copies of all four up to Beida and ran them past the scanner. Bingo. Up pops an ID. Feng Qi. Second-year student. He’s working at the university over the summer, and still living at the student residences there.’

Li raised one eyebrow and bowed his head to acknowledge a job well done. ‘Better bring him in, then.’

‘The uniforms are already on their way, Chief.’ Wu grinned happily.

II

Feng was sitting nervously on his own at the table when Li and Wu came into the interrogation room. Anxious dark eyes jumped in their direction. He sat uncomfortably on the edge of his seat, leaning forwards a little, and wringing his hands together. ‘You can’t hold me here like this. I have rights.’

Li sat down opposite him. ‘You’ve been reading too much Western detective fiction, son. You have no rights. It is your duty to help us in our investigation and tell us what you know. Failure to do so will only plant in my mind the presumption of your guilt.’

‘I have nothing to hide.’ He tried to sit up straight and present a defiant face.

‘Then why did you write to us anonymously?’

The young man’s fear that he had somehow been identified was finally confirmed, and his defiance foundered, along with his posture. He started to wring his hands again. ‘I didn’t want to get involved.’

‘You are involved.’ Wu pulled up a chair and sat down beside Li. ‘Witness to a possible murder.’

Feng Qi paled, and with Wu’s words, Li for the first time let himself countenance the thought that Jiang Meilin was actually dead. In his mind he saw her smiling photograph from the medals cabinet, and felt her mother’s pain. Margaret’s plea for him to look into the disappearance of a teenage girl had turned suddenly from a favour into a murder enquiry. ‘Better tell us everything you know, son,’ he said.

Feng glanced from one to the other. ‘Can I have a cigarette?’

Li nodded to Wu, who reluctantly offered them each a cigarette, then passed his lighter around. Blue smoke rose through the hot, still air into the shaft of light that fell at an angle from the narrow window high in the wall.

Feng said, ‘Sheng Wei and I were at university together. I’d known him since we were kids back in Shaanxi. My parents moved to Beijing when I was seven, and I didn’t see him again till he appeared one day at my middle school. His family had come to the city, too, and were living in a place just down the street.’

‘You were both from the Loëss Plateau?’

‘Sure.’

‘How many people from the plateau live in that area of Haidian?’

The young man shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. People have been coming here for a couple of generations now. There must be hundreds, maybe thousands.’

‘So tell me about Sheng Wei.’

A cloud, like cataracts, crossed the boy’s eyes. ‘He was killed in a motorbike accident about ten days ago.’ His lips tightened as he drew a deep, trembling breath. ‘Wei was so smart. He had a great future. Everything to live for. It was a tragedy.’ Feng shook his head. ‘I thought I was going to his funeral. It turned out to be his wedding.’

‘A minghun?’

He nodded. ‘Bizarrest thing I ever saw. Paper dummies, all dressed up in traditional wedding costume. The spirits of the dead, to be burned after the ceremony and sent to the afterlife as man and wife. There was a priest and everything. Proxy wedding vows, rings, the lot. Sure, I’d heard about it. But I assumed it was one of those urban myths. Just a story.’ He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to control his breathing. ‘You’ve no idea what it was like seeing Wei lying there in his coffin. And that dead girl in the coffin next to his. The minute I saw her I knew it wasn’t right.’

‘You knew her?’ Wu said.

‘From school. She was about three years behind me. A pretty girl. Kind of quiet. I heard she was doing well in athletics, that she could be up for a scholarship. I was sure I would have heard something if anything had happened to her.’ He looked at Li, an appeal for understanding in his eyes. ‘But there she was. Wei had been killed in an accident. I had no reason to think that something similar hadn’t happened to her, too.’ He paused. ‘Until I saw the Missing posters.’ He closed his eyes again and summoned the courage to ask the question that had been troubling his conscience all this time. ‘You don’t think they killed her, do you?’

Li’s mouth was fixed in a grim line. It was some moments before his lips moved. ‘Someone did.’

Chapter Five

Lianxiang hutong was yet another ancient alley scheduled for demolition. Little by little the authorities were effacing the city’s history, the labyrinth of hutongs and siheyuan that denoted a way of life dating back to the Mongols. Already most of it was gone, replaced by luxury apartments and shopping malls. A new generation of wealthy Chinese was replacing the old Beijingers, and the floating population from all around China which had descended on the city looking for work was being swept away. Where, Li wondered, would they all go? Where would they live? After all, not everyone could be rich — even if Deng Xiaoping had declared it glorious to be so.

He pushed his bicycle along the narrow alley, between high stone walls, until he found the gate to the condemned siheyuan occupied by the Sheng family. In the dark alley leading to the courtyard beyond, he leaned his bicycle against the wall and squeezed past the detritus of disposable lives. The tree shading the courtyard was decorated with bamboo bird cages, and in the confined space the sound of birdsong was almost deafening. The singing was accompanied by the discordant sounds of a piece from the Peking Opera playing on a radio somewhere in the dark beyond open windows and doors. Heat fibrillated in the thick summer air. A very old lady, dressed entirely in black, sat sleeping in the shade.

‘Hello!’ Li called out. And after a short time a middle-aged woman in a blue blouse and red cardigan emerged from the south-facing door. She looked at him curiously for a moment, before curiosity gave way to fear as realization dawned.

‘Can I help you?’ But she knew what he wanted.

‘Yes,’ Li said. ‘You can tell me where you got the body of the girl you married to your dead son.’

Sheng Nuwa and her husband Dai sat side by side in the semi-dark and comparative cool of an inner room, its window shutters closed, the only light spilling in through an open door. Both faces were ghostly pale as they surrendered to Li’s hard gaze. Li wondered if this was, in fact, the room where the minghun had been played out. Feng Qi’s description of the odour had stayed with him, and he wrinkled his nose at the thought of it.

Sheng Nuwa said, ‘We had no idea until we saw the Missing posters. She was only delivered to us on the day of the wedding. We thought she had come from the crematorium. That’s what the man who brought her said.’

‘I’ll need his name.’

‘We don’t know it.’ It was the husband who spoke this time, and when Li blew his disbelief through pursed lips, he added quickly, ‘They told us they weren’t able to get us a body, so we had resigned ourselves to proceeding with just the paper dummy. Then this guy arrives at the last minute.’

‘Who did you go to originally to ask for a body?’

Sheng Dai glanced darkly at his wife. Their reluctance to speak was clear.

But Li was losing patience. ‘Come on! Spit it out! You’re in trouble enough as it is. Don’t make it worse.’

The dead boy’s mother said, ‘We were given a name. A certain Gan Bo. He could find wives, we were told, for the living. It’s hard these days for a single man to find himself a woman.’

It was, Li knew, a demographic time bomb for the future of his country. A legacy of the one-child policy, and the traditional preference for boys over girls. With only 100 women for every 130 men, there was a growing demand for mail-order brides. And a criminal element had appeared to satisfy that demand, trading women for money.

Sheng Nuwa brushed a stray strand of hair from her eyes. ‘But we were told that sometimes Gan Bo could supply dead ones, too.’

Li could barely conceal his disgust. ‘So you put in an order for one.’

Her eyes dropped away from his. ‘We were only trying to do the best for our son.’

‘And what did Gan Bo say?’

Sheng Dai said, ‘He told us he would see what he could do. But he came back a couple of days later and said he couldn’t get one in time. And with the summer heat, we couldn’t wait.’

‘So then some guy just appeared from nowhere?’

‘Yes. On the morning of the minghun. He brought the girl in the back of a van. Said that Gan Bo had been able to find a body for us after all. We’d already acquired a second coffin.’

‘And you paid him.’

‘Yes.’

‘How much?’

‘He wanted dollars.’

‘How much?’

‘Twelve hundred.’

Li clenched his jaw involuntarily. So that was what a young girl’s life was worth these days. Twelve hundred dollars. The price of a plasma TV. ‘Tell me what the man who brought the body looked like.’

But the dead boy’s father just shrugged. ‘I didn’t pay him much attention. I was kind of in shock. He was just some guy. Forty, maybe. A little older. He didn’t stay long.’

Li found himself strangely disappointed that this description, however brief, in no way resembled the tall, skinny boy who had been Meilin’s lover. ‘And the bodies? I suppose you had them cremated.’ All evidence destroyed in the furnace.

‘That was the original plan,’ Sheng Nuwa said. ‘But then a cousin with a little land out near Donghulinmen offered to let us bury them there, and we jumped at the chance.’

Chapter Six

Li and Margaret drove in silence, south-west out of Beijing on the G109. Meilin’s parents sat in the back of the Jeep, Jiang Jin with his arm around his wife. But there was no consoling her. Li had broken the news to them that afternoon, and Jiang Ning had barely stopped crying since. Her eyes were red raw. There was only one final act now to be played out in the life and death of their daughter. And that was the identification of her body.

It was dark by the time they reached the cluster of houses among the trees at the end of a rough dirt track leading from the road. Li parked in a dusty square. These were poor rural houses with thin brick walls and low roofs, huddled around a badly equipped village store. Goats tied to a stand of willow trees raised their heads and bah-ed into the night. They heard the snuffling of pigs, and smelled them before they saw them.

Li guided the little group up a narrow track between crumbling walls towards a halo of light that broke the darkness ahead. Several Public Security vehicles and a white forensics van were assembled around the entrance to a long, low house beside a rectangular wall that enclosed a hundred square metres of wildly overgrown garden.

They passed through a moongate, and the officer standing guard nodded solemnly. Beyond, they could see where the vegetation had been beaten down and the earth freshly disturbed. The area was enclosed by white canvas stretched between wooden posts, and lit by arc lamps. Four men in white Tyvek suits stood around leaning on the spades they had used to uncover the shallow graves. All chatter ceased as Li led the girl’s parents to the graveside. Margaret stayed behind, leaving a respectful distance.

Li nodded to the nearest white suit, and the man stepped down into the hole where two coffins lay side by side. His shadow fell across the first of them as he prised open the top. Li heard Jiang Ning gasp as the decaying corpse of a young man was exposed to the full glare of the lamps. The maggots had already started to eat his face, which had taken on a ghoulish look, the flesh of his eyes, nose, and mouth receding, a ghastly grimace revealing long yellow teeth.

As the second lid was levered free, Jiang Ning howled: a piercing, desolate sound that came from deep in her throat and sent a glacial chill through them all, in spite of the heat.

Meilin’s body had not achieved the same degree of decomposition. She had been alive, it seemed, at least until the day before the minghun, several days longer than her ghost husband. But there was a strange lividity about her face. It seemed, if anything, slightly more distended than his. But there was no doubting who she was. Her mother turned away, burying her face in her husband’s chest to suppress her tears. He put comforting arms around her and closed his eyes.

Li became aware of Margaret at his side and half-turned. She was looking down into the dead girl’s coffin, and he saw that for once the professional detachment of the pathologist was missing. Moonlight flashed in tear-filled eyes.

‘I want to do the autopsy,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Chapter Seven

The naked body of Jiang Meilin was wheeled into the autopsy room by two assistants, and transferred to a steel autopsy table. The air was chill and suffused with the slightly perfumed odour of decay, like meat that has been left in the refrigerator two weeks past its sell-by date.

Margaret stood at the table preparing for the initial examination. Beneath a long-sleeved cotton gown, she wore green surgeon’s pyjamas covered by a plastic apron. Plastic covers protected white tennis shoes, and her long blonde hair was secured beneath a plastic shower cap. Now she pulled on a pair of latex gloves, followed by plastic covers, then a steel-mesh glove over her non-cutting hand, before finally pulling on a further latex pair.

She was being assisted by Pathologist Wang, with whom she had conducted autopsies on many occasions. When she had first arrived in China, young and arrogant, and skilled in the latest Western techniques, he had resented the shadow she cast over him and his department. But such resentments were history now, and they had long ago arrived at something approaching mutual respect. Their working relationship was comfortable, and she enjoyed his irreverent sense of humour. But even Wang could find nothing amusing to say today. He cast his eyes over the slim teenager and shook his head.

‘Pity. Pretty girl.’

Margaret looked at the body on the table before her. Meilin was taller than the average Chinese, much of her height concentrated in the long femurs which had given her the power to run fast. But she did not possess the muscle mass that would have made her a sprinter. Instead her legs were slender and elegant. Margaret began with the feet and worked her way up the body looking for any unusual markings. She found some slight bruising on the forearms, noting them on a body chart she held in a clipboard, but did not consider them significant.

Wang examined her hands. ‘No sign of trauma,’ he said. ‘And no blood or skin beneath the fingernails.’ He and Margaret exchanged looks, and he nodded to one of the assistants, who drew blood from the femoral artery with a large syringe. ‘What do you think they’ll find in toxicology?’

Margaret shrugged. ‘These days, who knows? Rohypnol would have had a sedative effect after fifteen to twenty minutes. She obviously didn’t put up any kind of a fight.’

They continued the external examination. There was no sign of sexual activity, and no trauma around small, flat breasts with their tiny, dark areolae around the nipples.

Then they came to the neck, where a skin-coloured cosmetic foundation had dried and cracked. Using moistened cotton pads, Margaret carefully washed it away to reveal the bruising that the facial lividity had suggested would almost certainly be there: four circles on the left side of the neck, two of which were close to half an inch in diameter, one larger oval on the right side.

‘Her killer left his mark,’ Wang said.

Margaret carefully traced the line of the little crescent-shaped abrasions that were associated with the bruising. Tiny flakes of skin were heaped up at the concave side. ‘And took a little of her away with him beneath his fingernails.’

They moved up, then, to her face, where blood pressure had mounted in her head and caused petechial haemorrhaging of the tiny blood vessels around the eyes and nose. It was not necessary to stop someone breathing to strangle them. It only required around four-and-a-half pounds of pressure on the jugular to prevent blood draining from the head. Death would have come fast.

Margaret pulled back the eyelids and closed them again. ‘Strange.’

‘What is?’ Wang looked more closely.

‘There are circles of paler flesh around the eyes, blanched into the lividity.’ Margaret stared at the closed eyes of the dead girl, and could almost have sworn she saw patterns in those pale circles. ‘As if coins might have been placed over them to keep them shut.’ She turned to Wang. ‘Do we have a TMDT kit?’

‘We do.’ And he nodded to one of the assistants, who disappeared to return two minutes later with a four-ounce spray bottle of test solution, and a short-wave ultraviolet light source with a 4-watt bulb, sometimes known as a Wood’s lamp.

Margaret took the bottle, and carefully sprayed the solution around each eye, and they waited in silence for several minutes until it had dried. ‘Lights,’ she said. And the assistant turned out the overhead lights, plunging the autopsy room into total darkness.

Margaret snapped on the Wood’s lamp, and an eerie ultraviolet glow filled the room. She moved the lamp over the dead girl’s eyes. There over each one, marked in dark purple against the yellow background of the dried solution, were two perfectly round images with clearly engraved markings.

‘Coins,’ Wang said. ‘You were right. What metal is denoted by purple?’

Margaret stared thoughtfully at the circular patterns engraved into the lividity around the eyes. ‘Brass or copper,’ she said. ‘We’ll need to take photographs. And samples.’

Chapter Eight

I

Gan Bo ran a computer-dating agency from an office on the twelfth floor of a new tower block in Sanlihe Lu, overlooking Yuyuantan Park. He didn’t appear to employ any staff, except for a bored-looking young secretary who was painting her fingernails when Li arrived. She seemed pleased by the interruption, and made a great show of calling her boss on the intercom to announce Li’s arrival, before conducting him into the inner sanctum.

Gan’s office was big and empty with an enormous desk placed before a glass wall with a panoramic view over the park below. Li could see the sun reflecting off the lake where he and Margaret often skated with Li Jon when it froze over in winter.

Gan himself was a broad man with the yellowish skin and Han features of a southerner. A thick head of hair was gelled back from an unlined face that Li guessed had seen maybe thirty summers. He wore immaculately pressed black trousers, a plain white Armani shirt, and shiny black Gucci shoes. A Havana cigar smouldered in an ashtray on his desk, and the room was filled with the rich, toasty smell of it. The desk, too, was almost empty, except for a computer screen and keyboard, a telephone, and a cellphone which lay within easy reach of Gan’s grasp.

Gan stood up and waved Li nervously towards the only guest seat in the office. ‘What can I do for you, Section Chief?’

Li remained standing. ‘You can tell me where you acquired the body of a young girl called Jiang Meilin.’

Gan frowned. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Of course you do. About ten days ago you were contacted by a man called Sheng Dai who had recently lost his son in a motorcycle accident. He asked if you could provide the body of a young girl to take part in a minghun, to ensure their son’s happiness in the afterlife.’

Gan eased himself back into his chair and lifted his cigar from the ashtray. He puffed on it thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I remember that. But I run a computer-dating agency, Section Chief. A legitimate business finding brides for single men.’ His smile was smooth, like silk. ‘I don’t know where he got the idea I could provide him with a dead one, but I sent him away.’

‘Oh?’ Li sauntered towards the window, his hands in his pockets. ‘That’s bizarre, Mr Gan. Because on the day of the funeral someone turned up with the body of a young girl and told the Sheng family that you had found her for them.’

Gan rotated his chair towards Li. He could not conceal the look of puzzlement in his eyes, but feigned nonchalance. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

‘He took twelve hundred dollars for it. But I guess you never saw a cent of that.’

Something like anger shadowed his face, but there was no trace of it in his voice. ‘Twelve hundred dollars, Section Chief? That’s a lot of money for some dead meat.’

Li could see the distant figures of barbers cutting the hair of clients at the entrance to the park below. Among the trees beyond, groups of old men gathered around to watch games of chess in progress.

‘That “dead meat”, Mr Gan, was a living, breathing human being just a few hours before.’ He turned around. ‘Someone murdered that girl to provide a corpse for a ghost wedding. And I think that someone was you.’

Gan paled. ‘That’s ridiculous!’

‘Do you know how they execute murderers, Mr Gan? They take them into a public stadium and shoot them in the back of the head. It would make a hell of a mess of that expensive designer shirt of yours. All that blood and brain tissue.’

‘I run a legitimate business.’

‘You trade in human beings.’

‘Live ones. I never killed anyone in my life.’

‘I think you might have trouble convincing a court of that.’

‘In the name of the sky, I didn’t kill her!’

‘Then who did?’

‘I have no idea.’

Li leaned over and removed Gan’s cigar from his hand, stubbing it out in the ashtray, then put his own hands on the arms of the desk chair, and placed his face just inches away from Gan’s. ‘You and I both know that this computer-dating crap is just a front. You procure women for desperate men. God knows how. But no doubt that will come to light as we start taking your little empire apart. I don’t know if you murdered Jiang Meilin or not, but there’s enough circumstantial evidence, I think, to get a conviction. Especially when we can demonstrate to the court how you really make your living.’

He could smell Gan’s fear, even above the stink of rancid cigar smoke on his breath.

‘Alright, alright.’ Gan raised his hands in submission, and Li stood up slowly. ‘It’s happened, you know, from time to time, that someone has asked me to procure a body for one of these stupid damned ceremonies. I tell them it’s not what I do. But I’m a nice guy, you know? I like to help if I can.’

‘How exactly do you help?’

Gan drew a long breath. ‘I know this guy. A porter at a hospital.’

‘Which one?’

‘The Beijing Hospital in Chongwenmen.’

Li knew it. It was just north of the Temple of Heaven. ‘And?’

‘And, well, you know, if there just happens to be a recently deceased person of the right specifications available, then sometimes a deal can be done.’

‘How?’

Gan shrugged. ‘The porter has a friend at the crematorium.’ He paused. ‘Who’s to say whether or not a coffin has a body in it when it goes into the furnace?’ There was a long silence. Then, ‘I swear on the graves of my ancestors, Section Chief, I never killed that girl. And I don’t know who did.’

For some reason that Li couldn’t quite put his finger on, he believed him. ‘But you asked the porter if he could get you a body, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he said he couldn’t?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I want his name.’

II

Huan Da was as defiant as he was stupid. But in a detached sort of way, Li almost admired his unshakeable loyalty. He was going to be a tough nut to crack. Gan had collapsed like a house of cards, but Huan was an altogether different proposition.

The smoke of many cigarettes hung thick in the air of the interrogation room. Years of wheeling cancer patients from the ward to the morgue had not diminished Huan’s enthusiasm for smoking. He had consumed nearly half a pack in the hour since Wu had brought him in from the hospital.

Confronted with what Li already knew, Huan quickly realized that there was no point in denying his part in the business of supplying corpses for cash. He had taken Li through the whole sordid procedure. There was, he said, not much demand, perhaps one or two a year. But he made more from the sale of a single corpse than he earned in twelve months as a porter.

An uneducated and stupid farm labourer from Sichuan, he had come to Beijing nearly twenty years ago and found the job at the Beijing Hospital almost immediately. He had been introduced to Gan by a mutual acquaintance nearly three years previously, and had supplied perhaps five bodies in that time. He had not kept count, he said.

Shrugging his shoulders implacably, he had told Li, ‘I didn’t see the harm in it. After all, they were dead already.’

When a request was received from Gan, Huan would scrutinise mortalities at the hospital for the previous few days. If he couldn’t find a match, he had colleagues in other hospitals who were always eager for a percentage and would check their own death lists. If a corpse was found that corresponded to the request, then arrangements were made with a contact at the central crematorium to remove the body before the coffin went to the flames. Sometimes, Huan said, the crematorium worker himself would come up with a suitable match, since he had bodies coming in from all over the city.

But where Gan had shown no scruples about betraying a colleague to save his own skin, Huan remained resolutely silent about the identity of his contact at the crematorium, the only other link in the chain who could have known in detail the requirements of the Sheng family.

‘That,’ Huan said yet again, ‘would be a betrayal of trust.’ And he lit another cigarette.

Li breathed his frustration through his teeth and lit a cigarette himself.

The door swung open and the duty officer leaned in. ‘Doctor Campbell is here, Chief. I put her in your office.’

Li hastily stubbed out the cigarette before searching for the peppermints he kept in his pocket. He was supposed to have quit smoking months ago. Of course, Margaret would smell the smoke on his clothes, but since almost everyone around him still smoked, that was easily explained.

‘You can tell her I’m on my way.’

When the duty officer had gone, he popped a peppermint into his mouth and stood up. He looked down at Huan, who seemed calmly unconcerned. Li leaned over him, supporting himself with fists on the table. ‘You said you saw no harm in what you were doing, because the souls you sold were already dead. Well think on this, Huan. That girl wasn’t dead. She was alive and well, with her whole life ahead of her. The chances are, the person whose identity you are refusing to reveal is her killer. There is no honour in that.’ He walked to the door, and held it open for a moment before turning back. ‘Besides which, it makes you an accessory to murder, and just as eligible for execution as he is.’

Huan remained expressionless. He sucked in more smoke and blew it at the ceiling.

Margaret had cleared a space on Li’s desk and laid out some photographs, and a preliminary autopsy report. The full report would follow tomorrow. She wrinkled her nose the moment Li entered the room, and sniffed the air. ‘Peppermints,’ she said. ‘I hear they can be almost as addictive as cigarettes.’

He raised an eyebrow in feigned innocence. ‘Really?’

Margaret smiled ironically. ‘Yes. I believe some people take up smoking to disguise the smell of them.’

Li blushed involuntarily. ‘What do you have for me?’

She sighed and indicated the photographs on his desk. ‘She was strangled. Sedated first, so she didn’t put up a fight. We’ll know what he used when the blood tests come back from toxicology.’

Li rounded the desk to look at the photographs — sharp, clear colour prints that left nothing to the imagination. He picked up the picture that showed the bruising on her neck.

‘Left by the fingers,’ Margaret said. ‘Four on that side, a thumb on the other, and several abrasions caused by the fingernails.’ She picked up another print. ‘The purple colouring around her face is caused by vascular congestion, and the petechial haemorrhaging of tiny blood vessels close to the surface. But...’ She cleared more space and laid out the final two photographs — one of each eye, taken under the ultraviolet light of the Wood’s lamp. ‘For some reason her killer placed coins over her eyes, whose weight had the effect of leaving their impression in the purple colouring caused by the congestion. Treated with a chemical spray and photographed under ultraviolet, you can clearly see the markings left by each coin.’

Li lifted one of the pictures and studied it without comment.

‘We’ve recovered traces of the metal they left on her skin. So if you were ever able to obtain the coins, we could match them up.’ She canted her head to one side to look at the photograph that Li was still holding. ‘Although, I have to say, I’ve never seen coins quite like these before. They might not be easy to identify, never mind find.’ When he didn’t respond, she turned to look at him and saw that he had gone quite pale. ‘Are you alright?’

‘I know exactly what these are,’ he said. ‘And I know exactly where to find them.’

An unexpected knock at the door surprised them both. Wu entered, clutching a beige dossier. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Chief. But I thought you ought to take a look at this.’ He joined them at the desk and laid down the dossier to open it. ‘Those background investigations you asked me to do...’ He flipped over a page, and pointed his finger at a paragraph halfway down the one beneath it. ‘Can’t be a coincidence, can it?’

Li read in silence.

‘What is it?’ Margaret’s growing ability with the spoken word did not extend to the mystifying number of characters that made up written Chinese.

Li’s eyes burned with a dark intensity. ‘I know who killed her,’ he said. He met her eye. ‘And you’ve just provided me with the means of proving it.’

Chapter Nine

They could hear voices raised in anger as they stood on the fourth-floor landing outside the door of the Jiang family apartment. Li’s three sharp raps on the door were followed by a sudden silence. Then footsteps.

The door opened to reveal the flushed face of Meilin’s mother, long, greasy hair pulled back from her face. She seemed surprised to see Li and Margaret, the shadows of Wu and other officers behind them. There was a dead quality in her eyes, which had lost their brightness from the moment Li brought her the news of her daughter’s death. Her mouth opened, but it was some moments before she spoke. ‘What’s happened?’

Li said, ‘May we come in?’

‘Of course.’ She held the door open, and Margaret followed Li down the dark, narrow hall to the living room at the end. The other officers remained on the landing.

The faces of Meilin’s father, still in his singlet and shorts, and her boyfriend, Lao Rong, were turned expectantly towards the door. Li looked at the boy. ‘What are you doing here?’

But it was Jiang Jin who answered. ‘He thinks because he knew her for a month and called her his girlfriend, that he has some rights. The right to be at her funeral, the right to question how we treated her. Our daughter!’

‘You weren’t her parents, you were her jailers. She was terrified of you, you know that? Terrified to bring me home with her, terrified of how you would react.’ Passion and pain coloured Lao Rong’s face.

Jiang Jin’s lip curled in contempt. ‘Yes, because she knew we wouldn’t approve of scum like you. And she was right.’

‘That’s enough!’ Li stepped between them.

Margaret pushed past the small group towards the single bed in the corner. Meilin’s bed. Sheets and blankets neatly folded, a pillow untouched since the girl’s disappearance. She drew two photographs out of a large manila envelope and laid them side by side on the bed. They were the photographs, taken under ultraviolet light, of the impressions left by the coins on Meilin’s eyes. But they weren’t coins, she knew that now.

Li opened the door of the medals cabinet where they kept her photograph. It seemed more like an altar now. He scanned the array of medals on the shelves, before selecting two and carefully laying one alongside each of the photographs. It was easy to see, even at a glance, that they were an exact match.

Li turned towards Jiang Jin. ‘Seem familiar?’

Sweat began to appear on the man’s forehead as he stared with rabbit eyes at the pictures and medals lying on the bed. Suddenly he turned, running past his wife and Lao Rong and vanishing into the darkness of the hall beyond. They heard a struggle and raised voices at the door before Jiang Jin, his arm locked behind his back, was marched back into the room by Wu. He was ghostly pale, and sweat trickled down his face. Defeat already in his eyes. He knew it was over.

His wife turned towards Li, face filled with fear and confusion. ‘I don’t understand.’ They flickered towards the photographs, then back again.

‘Your husband killed your daughter, Mrs Jiang. For twelve hundred dollars.’

Her eyes opened wide now, incredulous. She turned them on her husband, and he visibly recoiled under their gaze. ‘They said they were going to kill me if I didn’t pay up.’ A feeble, desperate attempt at justification.

‘Who?’ Li said.

Anger and hatred fought for dominance on his wife’s face. ‘You bastard! You killed our daughter to pay off your gambling debts?’

Li’s mouth set in a grim line. Now he understood why. He said, ‘You couldn’t supply a dead girl for the minghun, because you had just lost your job at the crematorium. So you turned to a live one. Your own flesh and blood. And did the deal yourself.’

‘It was my only way out. She was my daughter. I gave her life. Why shouldn’t I have the right to take it?’ Defiance now.

Before anyone could move, Jiang Ning flew at the man she had married, tiny clenched fists hammering at his face and chest. Mucus frothed around her mouth as she screamed and cursed at him. Li stepped quickly forward to put his arms around her and control her flailing arms. She fought him for several moments, before going suddenly limp, turning to bury her face in his chest. He held her like a child.

Jiang Jin was breathing hard, his face red and stinging from the ferocity of his wife’s attack. ‘You did nothing but complain all these years that we never had a son!’ As if somehow it were all her fault.

She half-turned her head towards him. ‘That never meant I didn’t love our daughter. She was my life. And you’ve taken both.’

‘You shit!’ Lao Rong took a step towards him, but a single word from Li stopped him in his tracks.

‘Don’t.’

The boy looked at him, rage and hurt burning together in his eyes.

‘Justice will take its course.’

Wu turned Jiang Jin towards the door.

‘Just one question.’ Margaret’s voice stopped them. ‘Why did you put the medals on her eyes?’

Jiang Jin looked at her resentfully. ‘I couldn’t get them to shut. She kept staring at me, the whole damned night, till I couldn’t stand it any longer. Everywhere I went in the room her eyes were following me. In the end, I took the medals from the cabinet to cover them and keep them closed.’ He was lost for a moment in the memory of it. ‘Didn’t do any good though. I knew she was still looking at me. Watching. Wherever she was, her eyes were on me. I could feel them.’ A sob caught in his throat. ‘I still can.’

Neighbours had gathered in the courtyard of the apartment block to watch with naked curiosity as Jiang Jin was taken away by uniformed public security officers. Li and Margaret stood on the sidewalk with a dejected Lao Rong. Li glanced at him and felt a pang of pity for the boy. ‘What did you fight about that night, you and Meilin?’

‘I wanted her to run away with me. She wouldn’t.’

Margaret said, ‘Where would you have gone? How would you have lived?’

‘I have an aunt in Datong. And I’d saved money. Enough to get us there, and to live on until I could find work.’ He kicked at a loose stone and sent it clattering across the hot macadam. ‘If I’d only known about her father’s gambling debt, I could have paid it off myself and she would still be alive.’

Li raised an eyebrow. ‘You’d saved that much?’ The boy cast him a brief sideways look. ‘Where would you have got that kind of money, Rong?’

Now the boy turned dark, sincere eyes on him. ‘You don’t want to know, Section Chief.’

And Li knew that the boy was right. He didn’t.

Content

Peter May
The Ghost Marriage

Chapter One

I

II

III

Chapter Two

I

II

III

Chapter Three

I

II

Chapter Four

I

II

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

I

II

Chapter Nine