Enigma of China(14)

Mrs. Zhou opened the door in response to Chen’s knock. She was a fairly buxom woman in her early forties, and the way she was leaning against the light-flooded doorframe was suggestive of something soon to go out of shape, like a full blossom at the end of the summer. She was wearing a white blouse and white pants, with a black silk crepe on her sleeve. She looked Chen up and down with undisguised hostility.

“How many times are you cops going to snoop around here?” she snapped. “Why aren’t you out trying to catch the real criminal?”

How could she tell that he was with the police before he even said anything? There must be something that tipped people off about him, whether he was in uniform or not.

“My colleagues have already talked to you, I believe.”

“Yes. Several of them,” she said, then added in mounting frustration, “Different groups of them. They searched the apartment repeatedly, turning the whole place upside down. And what did they find? Nothing.”

There was nothing surprising about searches having been conducted here. The first one was probably right after Zhou was put in detention, and then they continued after his death.

“I was just assigned to the case,” Chen said, taking out his business card. “My colleagues may not have told me everything. In fact, I’m only serving as a consultant to the team. But first let me express my sincere condolences, Mrs. Zhou.”

She examined his business card; then a visible change of expression came over her face.

“Oh, come on in,” she said, holding the door for him. “It’s so unfair, Chief Inspector Chen. Zhou did a great job for the city. All this happened because of a pack of cigarettes. I just don’t understand.”

Chen sat down on a black leather sofa in the spacious living room, and she perched herself on a chair opposite.

“I must have met Zhou at some government meeting, but I didn’t know him personally. Nonetheless, there’s no denying all the work he did on new construction in Shanghai,” said Chen.

“But no one has taken that into consideration. People talked about nothing but that pack of 95 Supreme Majesty. It was given to him by an old friend. He told the Party Discipline officials all about it. They should have let him explain to the public, but instead they rushed him into shuanggui. No one would help him. All those buddies of his in the city government only wanted to save their own necks. The police did nothing.”

“Shuanggui is not within the police force’s domain,” he said, somewhat taken aback by her unconcealed resentment. “I wasn’t in a position to do anything about it. The discipline team and the city team had moved into the hotel with him days before I was told anything about the case.”

“If there was anything improper or wrong about his decisions at work, it shouldn’t have been reported as his responsibility alone. He worked directly with the people above him, and without their approval, he couldn’t have done anything. You know how much of the city’s GDP last year was due to the real estate sector alone? More than fifty percent.”

“It’s huge, I understand,” he said vaguely, wondering about the accuracy of her claim.

“People are complaining about housing costs. Zhou knew that only too well. But if the property price fell dramatically, it could have a domino effect that would be disastrous for the economy of the whole city. So Zhou emphasized the market stability, but it was in everybody’s interest.”

Apparently, she was aware that the pack of 95 Supreme Majesty wasn’t the real issue.

“I haven’t paid much attention to the fluctuations in the real estate market, but I agree with you, Mrs. Zhou, that it wasn’t fair for Zhou to have been targeted just because of a pack of cigarettes. Now, I just have some routine questions for you. For starters, did you have any contact with him during the last few days of his life?”

“They didn’t permit me to visit him at the hotel. The phone there was tapped, and most likely, so is the one here in the apartment as well, and he knew better than to call back regularly or talk too much.”

“When did you last talk to him?”

“Sunday. The day before his death. He hardly said anything, except that he was fine, and that I’d better not call the hotel or talk too much.”

“Did you notice a drastic change in his mood?”

“It was such a short conversation, it would have been difficult for me to tell. I don’t remember noticing any change.”

“When did you last see him?”

“The day before he was shuangguied.”

“How was he?”

“He was terribly upset at being targeted on the Internet. It was a cold-blooded lynching.”