The Fourth Sacrifice Read Online Free PDF

sound of Sophie’s voice as she stepped on to the terrace.
    ‘You didn’t tell me she was leaving tomorrow,’ Michael said, almost a hint of accusation in his voice. He turned to Margaret. ‘And we haven’t even been properly introduced.’
    ‘Probably better that way,’ Margaret said. ‘If you never say hello, you never have to say goodbye.’ She turned to Sophie. ‘Thanks for the invite. I’ve enjoyed it. But I still have my packing to do.’ She forced a smile and nodded, and pushed off through the dining room, bumping shoulders with guests down the length of the long lounge. She retrieved her things from the cloakroom and hurried through the big red doors and down the steps into the cool evening.
    In the street she stopped for a breath. The sound of the music had receded to a distant tinkle. She put a hand on the wall to steady herself. It had been her first encounter with real life, with normality, for far too long. And it had been much too heady. Like the first draw on a cigarette after years of abstinence. She would have to break herself in more gently.
    III
    He heard Margaret calling for help. Long, insistent cries. But he couldn’t see her – only a flickering glimmer of light somewhere beyond this darkness that enveloped him like a web, entrapping him in its blind, sticky mesh. But the plaintiveness of her voice was gut-wrenching, and he knew he could not reach her, could not help. He sat bolt upright, suddenly awake, lathered in sweat, entangled in the bed sheet. And the long, single ring of the telephone in the living room pierced his consciousness. He leaped quickly out of bed and was halfway down the hall, intent on reaching the phone so it wouldn’t waken his uncle, before he remembered that Yifu was dead. And the memory came like a blow in the solar plexus, painful, sickening. He almost cried out from the pain. He clattered breathlessly into the living room, and in the darkness knocked over the tiny telephone table. The phone rattled away across the linoleum, the receiver tumbling from its cradle. He could hear a strange and disembodied voice in the dark. ‘ Wei … wei … ’ Scrambling naked across the floor, struggling to see in the reflected glow of the streetlight outside, he finally found the receiver. ‘Li Yan.’
    ‘Deputy Section Chief, this is the duty officer at Beixinqiao Santiao. There’s been another murder.’
    Li had retrieved the rest of the phone by now and turned on a lamp beside the sofa. He sat down and glanced at his watch. It was 4 a.m. ‘Another beheading?’
    ‘Yes, boss.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘An apartment on the fourth floor at No. 7 Tuan Jie Hu Dongli in Chaoyang District.’
    ‘Who’s out there?’
    ‘Detective Qian left a few minutes ago. Do you want me to send a car?’
    ‘No, it’ll be as quick by bike. I’m on my way.’
    Li hung up and sat for a moment, heart pounding, breathing hard. Another murder. He felt sick. Then he wondered if he would ever get used to his uncle not being there. That quiet voice so full of calm and reason, a wisdom and intelligence that Li knew he could never aspire to. He rubbed his face vigorously to try to banish the final vestiges of sleep, and the cloud of depression that hung over him whenever he thought about Yifu. He wished he believed in ghosts. He wished that Yifu would come back and haunt him, not just be there in his mind, in his memories. And yet he knew that a part of his uncle lived on in him. He still had a responsibility to him, and a hell of a lot to live up to. It had never been easy to walk in the footsteps of one of the most revered police officers in Beijing while he was alive. It was even harder now that he was gone.
    Li went back to his bedroom and pulled on his jeans, a pair of trainers and a white tee shirt. He took his black leather jacket from the wardrobe and checked that he had cigarettes and his maroon Public Security ID wallet. He lit a cigarette and screwed up his face at the foul taste of it.