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The Killing Room
When the mutilated and
dismembered bodies of eighteen women are discovered
in a mass grave in Shanghai, Li is sent to establish
if the corpses relate to an unsolved murder in
Beijing, and finds the most horrifying catalogue of
killings ever uncovered in the Middle Kingdom.
Once more, Margaret's mercurial personal
relationship with Li threatens their professional
collaboration. Margaret, having just suffered the
heartbreak of burying her father, arrives in
Shanghai to find her partnership with Li threatened
by another woman. Born in the Year of the Tiger,
Mei-Ling seems to have her claws firmly fixed in Li.
How can Margaret, a mere "foreign devil", compete
with Mei-Ling, deputy head of Shanghai's serious
crime squad?
But faced with the grisly proposition that the
murdered women have been subjected to "live"
autopsies, the three realise they are tracking a
monster of inhuman capacity. And the closer they get
to this ruthlessly cold-blooded killer, the closer
they come to realising their own personal
nightmares.
Extract
Prologue
Towers of steel and glass rise into the mist
around him, insubstantial and wraith like. They
remind him of something strangely incongruous. A
remote and rugged coastline on the northwest
extremes of Europe. A trip made in search of his
roots to a distant Scottish island, where
fingers of stone reach for the sky in strange
circular arrangements. Standing stones raised in
worship to who knows what God.
Beyond the colossal pagoda-like Jin Mao
Tower, its peak lost in cloud, more towers loom
out of the misted distance, rising from the
ashes of Mao's dream of a communist utopia. The
once desolate marshlands of Pudong, fed by their
privileged status of 'special economic zone',
now sprout tower blocks like weeds, watched in
wonder by the Shanghainese across the river, a
whole generation thinking, what next? The
American looks up at these twenty-first century
standing stones, and knows that the only God
worshipped by those who raised them is Money.
And he smiles. A sense of satisfaction in this.
For he worships at the same altar.
They pass a high, sweeping wall painted
salmon pink and topped by spiked black railings.
His limo draws in behind others it has been
following. Umbrellas, black and shiny, cluster
immediately around his door. He steps out on to
red carpet, and water pools around his feet as
the weight of his steps squeezes rain from the
pile.
Through open gates, the site unfolds before
him, a forest of steel rods rising out of the
concrete blocks already sunk there. On the far
perimeter two tiers of workmen's huts rise from
the mud. Pale oriental faces gather in the rain
to watch with dull curiosity as the party makes
its perilous way across the quagmire, red carpet
submerged now in liquid mud that sloshes over
black shiny leather, spattering the bottoms of
freshly pressed trousers. The American feels
cold water seeping between his toes and curses
inwardly. But his outward smile remains, fixed
and determined for his Chinese hosts. They are,
after all, partners in the biggest Sino-American
joint venture yet attempted, although it is hard
for him to believe that this sodden site will
support the massive construction of steel and
glass that will become the New York-Shanghai
Bank, the tallest building in Asia. But he is
reassured by the knowledge that his position as
its chief executive officer will make him one of
the most powerful men on earth.
He climbs the stairs to the stage,
protected from the rains by its huge canvas
awning, and steps into the glare of the world's
press, television lamps flooding this grey
winter morning with a bright blue-white light,
cameras flashing in the rain like fireflies. His
PR people have done their job.
Strings of coloured bunting hang limp in
the wet as his Chinese opposite number, smiling,
approaches the microphone to begin the
obligatory speeches. The American lets his mind
and eyes wander. Above the temporary
construction of the stage, a huge hopper leans
over, its snout pointing downwards to the deep
trench below. When he steps forward to release
its lever, tons of concrete will pour from its
mouth into the bowels of what will be his bank -
a ceremonial foundation stone upon which he
knows he will build a future of unparalleled
success.
A sprinkling of applause, like water
pouring from a jug, breaks into his thoughts. A
hand on his elbow steers him towards the
microphone. Fireflies flash. He hears his own
voice, strange and metallic, through distant
speakers, words he has learned by heart, and he
cannot help but notice that the trench below him
is rapidly filling with water, thick brown water
like chocolate, boiling in the rain.
More applause, and he steps forward from
the cover of the awning on to a small, square
projecting platform, a Chinese at his right hand
holding an umbrella above his head, beaded
curtains of water tumbling around him. He takes
the lever in his hand, and with a sense of
absolute control of his own destiny, draws it
down. All faces lift expectantly towards the
hopper. For a moment, it seems, everyone is
holding their breath. Only the tattoo of rain on
canvas invades the sense of expectation.
The American feels something shift beneath
his feet. There is a loud crack, then a strange
groaning like the rattle of a dying man's last
breath. The struts supporting the boards of his
tiny platform give way as the walls of the
trench below collapse inwards. He turns,
clutching in fear at the sleeve of the arm
holding the umbrella, but already he is pitching
forward through the curtain of rain. The
sensation of falling through space seems to last
an eternity. His own scream sounds disconnected
and distant. And then the shock of cold liquid
mud takes his breath away. The whole world
appears to be falling in around him as his
flailing arms endeavour to prevent him from
being sucked under. He sees an arm reaching out
towards him and thinks, thank God! He clutches
the hand and feels its flesh oozing between his
fingers. But he has no time to consider this. He
pulls hard to try to haul himself from the mud,
but the outstretched arm offers no resistance,
and as he falls back again he realises that it
is not attached to anything. He lets go
immediately, repulsed and uncomprehending. He
can hear voices shouting above him as he flips
over in time to see a woman's breasts emerging
from a wall of mud, followed by her shoulders
and belly. But no arms, no legs, no head. His
own arms windmilling in panic, he kicks away
again, only to find himself staring into a face
with black holes where the eyes should be, long
dark hair smeared across decaying flesh. He
feels bile rising in his throat with his scream,
and as he looks upward in a desperate appeal for
help, he sees again the standing stones rising
over him in the mist. Only now he sees them
quite differently, clustered together like
headstones in a cemetery.
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