Bad Seed (20 page)

After yesterday's dressing-down at the consulate they'd all retreated to their hotel rooms to brood. Cato could hear Lara through the wall giving her report back to DI Pavlou. Through the wall on the other side, James Blond was watching a succession of action movies. By mid-afternoon Cato was getting cabin fever so he'd checked his guidebook and gone out shopping for souvenirs. South of the Bund, the City God Temple market had offered some manufactured old-world energy and charm. The temple itself was an antidote to the skyscrapers with its ancient open courtyard, smoking incense, and believers kowtowing to their ancestors. He'd sipped an expensive cuppa in a teahouse midway across a zigzag bridge over a lake festooned with water lilies, koi and turtles. Further south and west, the Dongtai Road Antiques Market offered all you could want in the form of tacky memorabilia: from Chairman Mao ashtrays to Cultural Revolution alarm clocks. Nostalgia knows no shame, reflected Cato. He bought his son a fur-lined army hat complete with red star and fold-down earmuffs. Jake was at an age when something that naff might be ironically cool. He hadn't got around to making that call to Jane to discuss their son's apparent unhappiness; maybe later, after this meeting with Li, he'd give it a go. Or in a few days when he returned.

He'd bought some tea for his sisters and felt guilty for not popping in to say goodbye to his father before he left. For all he knew the old man would cark it while he was gone. Cato Kwong – Family Man. Further meandering brought him to the Shanghai Street That Time Forgot. Old shambling terraced houses leaned drunkenly into their neighbours as if to help keep the other from falling. Winding sunless alleyways were crammed with people crouched on small plastic chairs eating from bowls of noodles. The street itself bustled in gentle chaos with peddlers hawking basins of wriggling eels, twitching crabs, and gasping fish. The gutters ran red with piscine blood and guts. There was room only for bikes, mopeds, and pedestrians in the narrow tree-lined road, no cars or trucks. All available space was utilised. Washing even hung from
the low-slung powerlines. Cato had watched as a young mother, baby in one arm, used a steel pole to hook two metal hangers of laundry onto the line. From a health and safety perspective it gave him the heebie-jeebies, from another it was almost life affirming.

On his return mid-evening, Cato had sent a brief text to Hutchens –
shit, fan etc
– checked and answered a few emails, napped, watched CNN, and eaten a room service dinner. He'd failed to fall asleep and around 10.30 he'd rapped on Lara's door.

‘That stuff about Yu Guangming and Genevieve Tan, is that real or made up?'

Lara looked ready to retire. ‘Is this urgent?'

‘Just tell me.'

‘Yes. He was at the house and his sperm was inside the wife.'

‘How come I'm the last to know?'

‘Ask DI Pavlou.'

‘Don't worry, I will.'

Slumber was a long time coming. He'd woken and showered and resolved to play his cards a little closer to his chest. The look that passed between him and Li yesterday: Li knew that it wasn't just him who had been ambushed by Lara; Cato too had been played. But it was clear that this was now between the two of them and, for that reason, he was keeping this morning tea rendezvous with Li a secret. That may or may not turn out to be a mistake, he would know soon enough. Kites skipped in the air and nightingales sang in their bamboo cages but Cato felt his sense of serenity slip away as he stepped over the threshold of the Royal Garden Restaurant.

Thomas Li had taken a window table. He was dressed in pastel casuals; perhaps he'd just been to, or was on his way to, a game of golf. He greeted Cato with a warm smile. ‘Tea? It's Cloud and Mist from the Yellow Mountain. Or would you prefer coffee?'

‘Tea's fine. Thanks.' Cato took a seat.

‘Are you hungry?'

‘No, I'm good. Cheers.' The tea had a sweet musky fragrance and a delicate taste.

‘I love Zhongshan Park,' said Li wistfully. ‘I used to play here as a child, fly my kite, run around. I grew up in an old overcrowded
shikumen house near here, bulldozed now, to make way for a shopping mall. My family history, all dust.' Li fiddled with a pack of cigarettes before deciding against lighting up. ‘Such is the march of progress. Fortunately, I now own the shopping mall.'

‘That must help ease the pain,' said Cato.

A humourless nod. ‘I would like to apologise for the ugly scene yesterday.'

‘Why? It was not your doing.'

‘Still, I was the host. It occurred while you were my guest. It was unpleasant.'

Cato doubted Li's sincerity. They both knew an apology was not needed. This was the overture for a completely different transaction. ‘Thank you,' said Cato. ‘Water under the bridge.'

A small smile tugged the corner of Li's mouth. He gestured out of the window at two men standing close up against each other, hand-sparring in slow motion. One would push with a hand or arm and the other would block and push back. Others nearby stood in clusters, doing the same.

‘Tuishou,' said Li. ‘Pushing hands. It's a form of taiji, or tai chi, as you may say. The idea is to maintain constant contact, pushing neither too much nor too little in a harmonious, natural and spontaneous flow.' Li sipped from his Cloud and Mist tea. ‘The essence of tuishou is that you dissolve an oncoming force before striking a blow. Push too hard and too early and you will most likely lose your balance and fall.'

The flow of movement was hypnotic. With difficulty Cato returned his attention to the here and now. To Thomas Li.

‘You should take it up,' said Li. ‘I think you would be a natural.'

‘Why?' said Cato.

‘Instinctively you seem to understand the way of things here. Unlike your colleague, Ms Sumich, a beautiful woman but so angry and impetuous.'

Cato cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, mate, you've got me wrong. I might look Chinese but I can play the barbarian too. The oriental mysticism thing doesn't cut it with me.'

‘You think so? Many Overseas Chinese seem happy to lose their
culture. You? I sense some kind of loss, of yearning. Maybe you don't even see it yourself.'

Outside, one of the sparring partners leaned too far forward and lost his balance. They broke contact, smiling, and drank some water before facing off again.

‘Maybe you're right,' said Cato. ‘And I do accept your apology for yesterday. Perhaps, as a favour, you might be able to put me in touch with Yu Guangming. He may not be personally known to you but I'm sure a man with your influence could find him.'

Li signalled for the bill. ‘I'll see what I can do but you must understand once and for all that I had no part in those murders in your city. I will not say it again.' He gestured once again to the tuishou practitioners outside. ‘In the meantime enjoy this city and all it has to offer. A walk every day through this park can teach you much about life.'

They shook hands and Li left.

Cato wandered back along the winding path that would take him out of the park to the Metro station. He replayed Li's words, looking for layers of meaning, looking for warnings.

The essence of tuishou is that you dissolve an oncoming force before striking a blow.

He stopped again to admire the graceful and seemingly futile strokes of the calligraphers, wishing he could grasp their essence before they evaporated.

A walk every day through this park can teach you much about life.

Another group practising taiji, this time with swords. There would be a special name for this and Cato wanted to learn it. Why? Because there was no reason why he couldn't or shouldn't. It needn't be a mystical yearning to belong, he reasoned, just a thirst for knowledge. The swords flashed in the filtered smoggy sunlight. Cato's shirt clung damply to his torso. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed someone detach themselves from the taiji group and fall into step just behind him, sword in hand.

He could have you all sliced and diced in broad daylight.

He braced himself for the slash and hack, knowing already he was powerless to stop it.

‘G'day. How was brekky?'

It was Sharon Wang, blowing up from her bottom lip to cool her face. She handed her sword to a friend and waved goodbye as she slipped in beside Cato. He hadn't realised how short she was, her head just reaching his shoulder.

‘Let me guess. This isn't a coincidence.'

‘Not wrong. Nice chat with Mr Li?'

‘You're monitoring my phone?'

‘Jeez, you're not easy to get an answer out of. Li. What did he have to say for himself? Comprende?'

Cato couldn't help but notice the parts where her taiji outfit stuck to her. Only moments ago he was bracing for a bloody death. Now he was having impure thoughts about Sharon Wang. Maybe it was some life affirming yin and yang thing. ‘We shared a nice pot of tea. Li explained the rules of tuishou. He apologised for yesterday.'

‘He
apologised?'

‘Yup.'

‘And?'

‘I graciously accepted.'

‘That's it?'

‘That's it.'

‘You didn't push the Yu Guangming thing?'

‘Why would I?'

‘You're a cop. And I thought I detected something a bit more personal in your reaction to Sumich's stunt. You weren't in on that, were you?'

Stunt, thought Cato. The revelation that Yu Guangming may have raped and murdered his former lover? Some stunt. ‘No, I didn't push it with Li,' he lied.

They came to the park entrance. There was a car waiting for her, a Chinese police car.

‘This is me,' she said. ‘So, if I invite you to dinner to apologise for yesterday would you accept that invitation too?'

‘At this rate I'm going to be well ahead on the per diems.'

‘I'll take that as a yes. I'll pick you up at the hotel at eight.' She issued some stern-sounding Mandarin commands to the driver and
hopped in the back. At the last minute two men jogged up and joined her in the car. Two of the tuishou sparring partners.

‘So when are you coming home?'

‘Soon, precious. Same flight as planned.' Lara fought her rising irritation. Yes, they missed each other. Sure, she'd rather be there with him. But this was her job. She checked her facial expression on the small screen in the bottom corner to make sure she wasn't giving anything away. John wasn't bothering to hide his feelings. It was written all over his out-of-focus, juddering skyped face.

‘But if it's a dead end you may as well just get out of there.'

‘You know how it is.'

‘Yeah.' He dredged up a brave smile for her. ‘So what do you think of Shanghai?'

Her face twisted. ‘Makes me want to move to Manjimup, dig truffles, keep goats, fuck in the forest.'

‘That could work,' he said. ‘I could have the Officer In Charge down there sacked on some trumped-up charge. Create a vacancy.'

‘Don't bother. I'll take a job at the IGA, or make my own jam and sell it. Life's too short to be a cop, clearing up other people's crap. Getting nowhere.'

‘You, an Earth Mother? What kind of example is that to set for our daughter?'

Lara found herself caressing her tummy. ‘A glorious one. She can skip around the paddock picking daffodils while Mummy and Daddy cover each other in jam and root in the mud. What do you think of Skye for a name?'

‘We'll have Child Protection knocking at the door.'

‘For calling her Skye? How about Tiger Lily?' Another call was beckoning on the skype screen. It was Mike from the ACC. ‘Gotta go.' She kissed her fingertips and placed them over his lips on the screen. ‘Love you.'

They were in a busy Japanese place near the consulate. Sharon Wang looked unnervingly attractive in a figure-hugging blue Mandarin dress. She finished stirring some wasabi into her soy sauce and prodded a piece of tuna with her chopsticks.

‘You worry me.'