Thinking of what he had to discuss with Melong, he bookmarked the chart.

And he could not help thinking about what he had just discussed with Detective Yu.

Was it possible that the yellowish mask from the hospital had been planted as a protest against the air pollution? If so, what was the connection to the scenario he had developed out of the seven-seven ritual?

There were still a lot of questions unanswered, but he had a hunch that it was connected to the environmental crisis in a way not known to him yet.

All the more urgent for a documentary like Shanshan’s to be released for millions and millions of people to see.

With his back pressed against a pole in the packed train, he typed out a short message to Zhao.

‘Have talked to a number of people about the air pollution, and heard several satirical jokes. One reads like this: A CCTV journalist tried to interview people on the street about the pollution problem, “What kind of effect do you think the smog has on your life, Auntie?” The interviewee snapped back, “Too disastrous an effect, you cannot even see through the smog, I’m your Uncle!”’

It’s a joke he had heard among the audience in the Oriental Club.

On second thought, he composed another text message, shorter, with just one sentence, but much more serious: ‘While doing the investigation under your guidance, I think I’ve been followed.’

In The Thirty-Six Stratagems, number thirteen is called ‘to beat the bushes to startle out the snake’. He had no idea as to where the snake might be hiding, but Zhao might have, so he would start beating for the inspector.

Small River turned out to be a two-story restaurant with several large red lanterns dangling over its door, decorating the façade in a rather vulgar way. Apparently not a fancy restaurant like those in the New World. With several of the stalls in front sporting fish still gasping and shrimp still jumping in wooden or plastic pails and basins, the restaurant presented a shabby, slippery, sordid entrance.

Chen stepped in cautiously, looking around for Melong in the dining hall on the first floor, where a middle-aged man rose from behind the front desk and approached him.

‘So you’re Melong’s friend? Follow me. The private room upstairs. The best one in our restaurant. By the way, my name is Chang.’

‘A private room?’ Melong must have made the reservation, Chen realized. The place appeared so packed and plain, the wooden floor squeaky and sticky with the drippings from the plastic bags customers carried in, and with a not-too-pleasant tang continuously wafting in from the fish market.

‘Yes, follow me.’

But the private room turned out to be quite a dainty one, with a silk scroll of traditional Chinese landscape on the wall, and a bouquet of chrysanthemums in a shapely vase on the windowsill.

Chen had hardly seated himself when Melong burst into the room, carrying an extra-large black plastic bag in his hand, striding straight over to him.