written across the front. Behind the desk is a row of officers in black uniforms, one in civilian clothes, each at a computer terminal. Peter Dunne speaks to one and shows his ID. The man makes a call.
We wait on computer chairs in front of the counter. Facing us on the back wall is a large crest, like the ones on the cars, a garland of leaves around a silhouette of the Great Wall and five gold stars. There are several blue signs around the room with black and white Chinese writing. I can’t read any of them apart from the plaques in English on the doors: Duty Room, Training Room, Registration Area and Offices. On the end wall there is a colourful poster of the young Mao, surrounded by flowers, no doubt proclaiming some message of exhortation. There’s a water cooler in the opposite corner of the room, near to a rotating fan. And a clock on the wall. Three large potted plants provide a little greenery.
One officer has a book open and is copying characters from it onto a pad of paper. He gets up to answer the phone each time it rings, having to undo the plastic buckle on his belt, which is laden with equipment, and adjust it each time. He is too skinny or the belt too heavy.
It is hot, my hair sticking to the back of my neck. The fan doesn’t do much more than stir the air around; the breeze is warm, not cool.
Tom tips his head to the Chairman Mao picture. ‘ “Let a hundred flowers bloom.” ’ I shake my head, I don’t know the reference. ‘It started out as a way of encouraging criticism,’ he says, ‘and once people had put their heads above the parapet-’
A man comes through, short, stockily built, wearing smart, pressed trousers and an open-necked white shirt. He speaks to Peter Dunne and they shake hands. Then Peter Dunne introduces us: ‘Mr and Mrs Maddox, this is Superintendent Yin.’
The policeman takes my hand. His grip is faint, barely a squeeze.
‘Nǐ hǎo,’ he says to each of us. Hello. And we reply likewise.
Superintendent Yin takes us through the door marked Offices and into a small room. It is bare, functional. There are half a dozen white plastic chairs arranged around a trestle table. A water cooler in one corner, a pedestal in another with a pot of spiky succulents on it, a clock on the wall.
Superintendent Yin sits at the head of the table with Peter Dunne to his right, Tom and I opposite the diplomat. Superintendent Yin has a folder. He flips it open and my heart contracts at the picture of Lori, paper-clipped to a printed form full of Chinese characters.
