Death of a Red Heroine

see you,” Old Hunter said, looking into his tea, instead of at Chen. “I still have some connections, in the bureau and elsewhere. I’m a retired nobody, so people are not so guarded talking to me.”
    “Of course, people trust you,” Chen nodded.
    “I’m old. Nothing really matters that much to me now. You’re still young. You are doing the right thing. An honest cop, there are not many like you left nowadays. But there are some people who do not like seeing you do the right thing. Some people high up.”
    So Old Hunter had called him for a reason. He had ruffled feathers at a high level. And people were talking about it. Was it possible that he had already been placed under surveillance?
    “Those people can be dangerous. They’ll have your phone tapped, or your car bugged. They are not amateurs. So take care of yourself.”
    “Thank you, Uncle Yu. I will.”
    “That’s all I can tell you. And I’m glad Guangming’s working with you.”
    “I still believe justice will prevail,” Chen said.
    “So do I,” Old Hunter said, raising his cup. “Let me drink a cup of tea to your success.”
    It could be his last case as a chief inspector, Chen thought somberly, as he made his way out of the crowded City God’s Temple Market, if he insisted on continuing the investigation. If he buckled under the pressure, however, it might still be the last case for him. For he would not be able to call himself either an honest cop or a man with a clear conscience.

Chapter 27
    W hen Chen reached Henan Road he thought he noticed a middle-aged man in a brown T-shirt walking behind him steadily, always at a distance, but never totally out of sight. The pressure of feeling watched, with every movement registered, every step followed, was a new experience. But when he went into a grocery store, the man in the brown T-shirt passed without slowing. Chen heaved a sigh of relief. Maybe he was too nervous. It was already past four. He was in no mood to go back to the bureau. So he decided to go to his mother’s home, which was located in a small, quiet, graveled lane off Jiujiang Road.
    He went out of his way to buy a pound of roast suckling pork in Heavenly Taste, a new privately run delicatessen. The suckling pork skin looked golden and crisp. She would like it. Though in her seventies, she still had good teeth. She had been out of his thoughts for days. He had even forgotten to buy anything for her in Guangzhou. He felt bad; he was her only son.
    As the old house came in view, it struck him as strange, nearly unrecognizable, despite the fact that he had lived there with his mother for years, and in his own apartment for only a few months. The common cement sink by the front door was so damp he spotted green moss sprouting abundantly near the tap. The cracked walls would need extensive repairs and redecoration. The stairway was musty and dark, and the landings were piled with cardboard boxes and wicker baskets. Some might have been there for years.
    His mother was silhouetted against the light falling through the curtain pulled halfway across the attic window.
    “You haven’t called for a few days, son.”
    “Sorry, Mother. I’ve been so busy recently,” he said, “but you’re always in my thoughts. And this room, too.”
    The familiar yet unfamiliar room. The framed photograph of his father in the forties in cap and gown stood on the cracked chest of drawers, an earnest-looking young scholar with a bright future. The photograph shone in the light. She was standing by it.
    She had never really gotten over her husband’s death, he reflected, though she seemed to manage, going to the food market every day, chatting with her neighbors, and doing Taiji practice in the morning. On several occasions he had tried to give her some money, but she declined. She insisted that he should save for himself.
    “Don’t you worry about me,” she said, with the emphasis on the last word. “I’ve got a lot to do. I talk to your uncle on the phone almost every day, and I watch TV in the evening. There are more channels this month.”
    She had accepted only two things from him: the phone and the color TV.
    The phone was not really his. The bureau had bought and installed it for him. When he was about to move out, he had another one set up in the new apartment. Theoretically, Chief Inspector Chen ought to have given up the old one, but he had made a point of having to talk to his mother everyday. She was in her seventies, living all