The Fourth Sacrifice (The China Thrillers 2) by Peter May

Author:Peter May [May, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Quercus
Published: 2012-06-27T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

I

Li took a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and wandered through a cloud of depression, bare-footed, to dropped himself into an armchair in the living room. His shirt was unbuttoned and hanging loose over his jeans. He swung one leg up over the arm of the chair and took a slug at the bottle. It tasted cold and sharp. A drip of condensation fell from the bottle and landed on the flat, hard muscle of his bare stomach, making him wince. The light from the streetlamp outside cast the long shadow of the window frame across the room. He had no desire to turn on the light, to see Xinxin’s little jacket hanging on the chair opposite, to be reminded that Mei Yuan’s generosity could only be a temporary solution.

He lit a cigarette, letting his head fall back, and blew smoke at the ceiling. None of your fucking business, Margaret had told him. And she was right. It wasn’t. He had no right to be jealous, no right to be hurt, no right to hurt her. So why had he treated her that way on the phone? She had clearly been thinking about the investigation, about the myriad conflicting evidence, and had called him, excited by a fresh thought. A valid thought. If Yuan Tao’s murderer was indeed a copycat, it was entirely possible that he had been there at the previous three murders, and therefore knew exactly how to make the fourth one look the same. It was an intriguing thought but, if anything, muddied the waters even further. Who was the other murderer? There was no clear motive in any of it. The first three victims had been members of the same Red Guard faction, but Yuan had not even been in the country then, nor for thirty years afterwards.

Li was still not convinced that Yuan’s was a copycat murder. One of his team – it was Sang, he recalled – had suggested that the murderer had deliberately adopted a left-handed stance and tied the knot differently in order to confuse the investigation. It was entirely feasible, even if Margaret thought it unlikely.

His mind drifted back to Margaret. He drained his bottle and went to fetch another. Why had he been so short with her when he had wanted so much to say, Margaret, I was wrong, forgive me, we can still find a way? Why, instead, had he deliberately taunted her, provoking her angry response? None of your fucking business! And the sound of the phone slamming in his ear. He slumped again in the chair and lit another cigarette. Was this his destiny? To be alone and in the dark, smoking and drinking and regretting the might-have-beens? He saw his life stretching ahead of him, an endless repetitive cycle of working days and lonely nights. He thought of his uncle and how he had used his work to fill the void left by the death of his wife. But for Li there had never been anything but work.

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