Whispering Shadows by Jan-Philipp Sendker Page A

and the small digital camera into his trouser pockets, wrapped the hard drive, the case with the memory chips, and the notebooks in his jacket, wrote a short note for Mrs. Owen, which he laid on the table in the living room, and left the apartment as quietly as hecould.
    During the journey to the border, his head was full of Zhang’s words. His voice had sounded unusually sharp, almost a little unfamiliar. What was the meaning of his instructions? Paul could understand his suspicion of most of his coworkers, but why did he distrust the investigations of the Hong Kong homicide squad in this case before they had even started on their work? Were there connections between the Shenzhen police and the Hong Kong police that Zhang knew about, or did he just want to play it safe? His behavior was more than strange.
    Paul wondered if he should call Christine, but decided not to do so. It would only worry her; he would be back in a few hours and would call her then.
    In Shenzhen, he bought a fake leather briefcase at the train station and put Michael Owen’s things in it. Although he could not imagine that any secret information was really hidden in there, he felt unsettled nonetheless, and held the case close to his chest with both hands. He felt like calling Zhang to pick him up from the station, but then felt it would be silly to do so.
    â€”——
    Mei opened the door and greeted him with a smile. Paul had always thought her an extremely beautiful woman, even though she did not fit the ideal image of a Chinese woman; she was too short for that. She had inherited the short, stocky build of her mother, a farmer from Sichuan, but she had a very sensual mouth and eyes, which expressed an infectious joie de vivre.
    â€œCome in. Zhang is still out getting the groceries. He’ll be back any minute. Would you like some tea?”
    â€œYes, please.” Paul sat down at the folding table and put the briefcase down by his feet. “Tell me, why is there so much underwear hanging outside?”
    â€œToday is laundry day for the brothel,” she said, turning on the gas stove, taking a large spoonful of dark-green tea leaves from atin and putting them in an old porcelain teapot. She turned to face him suddenly. “It’s nice to see you more often again, Paul,” she said.
    â€œThank you,” he said, a little surprised.
    â€œWe’ve missed you.”
    â€œI’ve missed you both too.”
    â€œWill you come and visit us more often again now?”
    â€œI don’t know. Maybe.”
    He fell silent, unsure whether there was another, deeper meaning in what she said, if there was something she was hinting at.
    â€œThere’s something I want to talk to you about,” she said, her voice becoming unusually quiet. “I’m worried.”
    â€œWorried? About what?”
    But before Mei could reply, they heard Zhang panting his way up the steps. Swearing softly, he put his key in the door lock. Mei turned wordlessly and poured the hot water into the pot.
    Zhang put his shopping bags down with a loud sigh and sank onto the kitchen stool. “You’ll have to carry me up here one day,” he said.
    â€œJust stop smoking,” Mei replied, in a tone of voice that wavered between irritation and worry. “Then you’ll be able to get up the stairs again.”
    â€œIt’s not the breathing. It’s the legs. They’re much worse.” Zhang rubbed his right knee with both hands.
    Paul knew about his friend’s joint pains. They were a constant reminder of the years that he had spent in the countryside during the Cultural Revolution. He had suffered his first inflammation of the knee after he had planted rice for almost forty-eight hours nonstop with a group of young people. They had stood for two days and nights in the paddy field, often knee-deep in cold water, in order to prove that they were not spoiled brats, not the pampered city kids of soft