Bian was in his mid- or late-forties with a balding headline and constantly blinking eyes. Taking a cigarette from him without lighting it, Chen realized he should have made a more serious effort to quit smoking. Like so many in the city, he suffered from a sore throat, a symptom increasingly common, even among the people who did not smoke.

A blonde waitress came over, stepping light-footed as if floating out of the enveloping smog, moving to their table with a silver tray that contained a dainty coffee set, a fruit-topped white cake and a well-printed menu.

‘The Pavlova cake here is the best in the city,’ Bian said, stirring the coffee cup. ‘I cannot resist the sight of Pavlova in spite of my relatively high blood sugar. Melody knows that only too well about me.’

Apparently a regular customer here, Bian nodded at the waitress named Melody, who left the tray on their table, smiling an engaging smile before she disappeared back into the murkiness.

‘So you are associated with Yuan Jing – or Shanshan as I used to call her in Wuxi,’ Chen said as soon as the waitress left them alone, taking the direct approach.

‘Shanshan – ah, you must know her well. Yes, she’s such a celebrity; a lot of people know her in Shanghai or elsewhere.’

‘I met with her in Wuxi, but that was several years ago. So can you tell me something about her now – about the environmental project you are working on with her?’

‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Chief Inspector Chen. Mr Gu spared no effort recommending you as a trustworthy and reliable one,’ Bian responded deliberately, looking him in the eye. ‘Still, can you tell me first why you suddenly want to find out things about the project in relation to her?’

‘A leading comrade from Beijing wants me to look into it, that much I can tell you, though I do not know his real purpose either,’ Chen said, producing a copy of Shanghai Literature and turning to the page with the poem on it. ‘But let me show you a poem first.’

‘ “Don’t Cry, Tai Lake.” So you wrote it? Yes, you’re also a poet.’ Bian took the magazine and started reading in undisguised astonishment. ‘Sorry, I did not know anything about it.’

‘That’s little wonder. You can hardly find any literature magazines at newsstands in the city.’

‘For that matter, hardly any newsstands still in existence in the true sense of the word,’ Bian said with an annoyed wave of his hand. ‘There used to be one not far from the corner of Guangdong and Sichuan Roads, just a stone’s throw from here, but it now sells chestnuts and other dry nuts instead.’

With Bian still reading the poem, Chen took a sip of the coffee and looked up across the river, east of which surely appeared ‘the financial center of Asia’. An almost surreal forest of modern or ultramodern high-rises loomed through a smoggy mirage; Pudong certainly appeared more magnificent than Puxi, Zhao was right about that, which had been developed much earlier during the days of the British concession.