Although the key evidence from the fireplace had already been transferred to the forensics department, Chen Chaosheng, the second son-in-law, was still worried about whether his wife could endure the situation and considered moving out. However, the family trust stipulated that heirs must cohabit for a full hundred days, so he could only tighten Sheng Peishan’s cashmere shawl around her shoulders a little more securely.
Fortunately, the two interconnected villas offered relative independence. Chen Chaosheng half-embraced Sheng Peishan’s shoulders and said, "Apologies, my wife is having a heart palpitation episode. I’ll accompany her back to rest."
The second daughter of the Sheng family leaned weakly against her husband, the hair at the nape of her neck damp with cold sweat.
Mo Shazhan nodded in understanding. "We’ll need to confirm the air conditioning ducts with forensics before wrapping up. Please, go ahead."
As the private elevator doors opened, a Filipino maid’s broken Cantonese echoed from the third floor: "Young master, it’s dangerous! Stop running!"
Out of the corner of her eye, Sheng Peishan caught sight of her younger brother sprinting like a whirlwind, and a cold sweat broke out over her. She leaned forward urgently. "Be careful on the stairs!"
"Marysa, take him back to his room," Chen Chaosheng said calmly, continuing to steady the wheelchair handles. "Peishan, don’t worry about these things right now. Your health comes first."
Hao Zai raised an eyebrow and nudged Zeng Yongshan’s elbow.
The storm over the will was likely brewing new complications.
"That young master can’t be more than three or four years old," Zeng Yongshan whispered conspiratorially. "How can he compete with his two older sisters?"
The aroma of angelica and deer tendon soup wafted from the kitchen, where Aunt Ping was sprinkling goji berries into a stew pot.
Mo Zhenbang stepped inside, clipping his police radio to his belt.
"The shrimp fried rice at the police canteen barely has any shrimp in it. Not like this fine soup—packed with ingredients."
Even the plating was meticulous. Aunt Ping, still distracted by the skeletal remains, only snapped back to attention when the officer praised the dish’s fragrance.
"Right?" Mo Zhenbang sniffed the air.
He was tossing the conversational ball to Zhu Qing.
She took a step closer. "Did you add Ficus hirta root to the soup? Not many people know that trick."
"The late master loved it best…" Aunt Ping wiped the glass stovetop absently. "I didn’t expect Madam to be such a gourmet."
Once the floodgates opened, Aunt Ping couldn’t help reminiscing about the old days—how the master and his wife had tried chefs from all over the world but always preferred her cooking.
Mo Shazhan leaned against the kitchen island, surprised. "Aunt Ping, you’re a veteran of the Sheng household."
"Twenty-three years now," Aunt Ping said. "After moving to the hillside, the second madam worried I’d overwork myself, so she hired two kitchen assistants."
The rich aroma of the simmering soup filled the air as Aunt Ping stirred gently with a ladle.
Mo Zhenbang pulled out a cigarette, holding it unlit between his lips, his tone deliberately casual. "It must’ve been hard for everyone when Sheng Peirong’s daughter passed away."
"Sir, you mean the little miss?" Aunt Ping said. "She looked like a doll—when she was born at Mercy Hospital, all the nurses crowded around to see her. Who would’ve thought…"
Aunt Ping covered the clay pot. "Who would’ve thought she’d be gone… The master was always troubled by the Sheng family’s lack of heirs. He consulted so many feng shui masters in his time."
"Such a shame," Mo Zhenbang sighed deeply. "From what your second son-in-law said, the little miss’s passing was very sudden."
Zhu Qing didn’t jot anything down in her notebook, committing the key details to memory instead.
Who would’ve guessed that a detail Chen Chaosheng had never mentioned could be teased out so effortlessly?
"At first, they thought it was a kidnapping—worried it’d turn into a high-profile case like the ship magnate’s family, where the victim was killed after ransom demands. They waited, but the kidnappers never called. Later, they realized the child had been taken by the family driver. By the time they rushed to the driver’s old home in the village, it was already on fire."
Zhu Qing listened quietly.
No wonder the young master in the children’s room had mentioned Sheng Wenchang hiring bodyguards for him.
"Both the adult and the child were burned to death."
"Decades ago… If the little miss were still alive, she’d probably be around Madam’s age now."
It just went to show—when a wealthy family wanted to bury a secret, even a child’s birth certificate could be erased.
"How did they confirm the child was inside?"
"They found the jade pendant the master had personally placed around his granddaughter’s neck—it rolled out from the thick smoke!"
The scandal of a wealthy family twenty years ago was fodder for the media, not the police.
Hiding the young master’s existence was the Sheng family’s way of preventing history from repeating itself.
"The master didn’t want outsiders treating this as gossip, so he suppressed—"
Aunt Ping suddenly fell silent, her expression not yet fully suspicious before Zhu Qing deftly cut in.
"Aunt Ping, your soup is incredible." Zhu Qing leaned in, her stray hairs brushing against her pale face, the steam misting her nose. "Could I…"
By the time she finished speaking, Aunt Ping’s wariness had dissolved, and she handed over a bowl with a smile.
"Thank you." Zhu Qing’s slender fingers cradled the bowl. As she blew away the oil droplets, her cheeks puffed slightly, flushed pink in the steam.
The warmth of the bowl seeped into her palms, its familiar porcelain texture reminding her of that winter when she was seventeen, in the back kitchen of a hotel. A bone-china plate had shattered, the supervisor docked her pay, and she’d crouched to gather the shards, her fingers cut but not daring to stop.
The hot soup slid down her throat. Zhu Qing’s lashes fluttered as she drained the bowl in one go, her fleeting look of satisfaction replaced the moment she set it down, her lips pressed into a restrained line.
Meanwhile, in the third-floor children’s room, the young master lay sprawled on the carpet, peering through a telescope to monitor his rivals.
"I want the bodyguard’s bowl of soup," he muttered, swallowing hard, his soft cheeks dimpling. "Three minutes."
The maid, Marysa, nearly wept with relief as she dashed downstairs.
The young master was finally willing to eat!
…
By afternoon, the police team had left the Sheng residence. The officer in the driver’s seat rolled up the window swiftly, shutting out the TV reporter’s microphone.
"The Sheng family was surprisingly cooperative—immediately called to restore the surveillance records from the renovation period."
"A room with skeletal remains… How much will the property value drop per square foot?"
"The world-famous painting in their foyer alone could buy half a public housing block."
"The Sheng Charity Foundation just donated a shooting training center to the junior police academy last year. Wanna bet the commissioner’s getting a call from the family soon? Cases like this—wealthy families always nitpick procedural flaws."
Hao Zai mulled it over. "Could the killer be one of the renovation workers? The way the body was hidden was too meticulous—sealed behind layers of cement in the fireplace. That kind of craftsmanship takes at least twenty years of experience."
Mo Zhenbang cut off Hao Zai’s speculation.
Without confirming the victim’s identity, jumping to conclusions was pointless.
After hastily swallowing a few bites of barbecued pork rice, the team split up to investigate further. By the time they regrouped in the station’s conference room, the sun had just set.
As the B-team detectives settled into folding chairs, updates began flying.
"I checked the property records at the Land Registry—the place has been under Sheng Wenchang’s name since 1984, with three major renovations," Hao Zai reported. "One converted the attic into a wine cellar, another redid the backyard, and the most recent was two years ago, upgrading to a smart security system."
Mo Shazhan pinned several photos to the whiteboard, connecting them with arrows, a marker in hand. "Forensic specialist Xiang found metal plates in the victim’s left leg. We’re cross-referencing missing persons’ medical records and arranging for family identification tomorrow."
"The contractor from ten years ago now runs a building materials company. The labor crew wasn’t officially registered."
"The Sheng family's legal team sent over the construction contract from that year. These are just the material purchase records now." Mo Shazhan set down the marker and rapped the whiteboard with his knuckles.
"Hao Zai, Jiale—contact the jewelry dealers and verify the buyer information for the ring."
"Zeng Yongshan, get the list of construction workers who left Hong Kong after '84 from the Immigration Department."
"The butler submitted some driver and domestic staff records. Uncle Li, screen for anyone who resigned after the incident."
The meeting room was filled with restless sighs.
"Some changed careers, others returned to their hometowns. The successful ones even emigrated—how are we supposed to trace them?"
"Why not mention the ones eating royal meals in Stanley Prison?"
Someone burst out laughing: "That makes it easier. Get a list from the Correctional Services officers, bring some egg tarts when you visit."
The sound of polished leather shoes striking the floor cut through the laughter.
Inspector Weng Zhaolin adjusted his tie and checked his wristwatch. "The Sheng family's cold case has blown up in the media. The Regional HQ called this morning demanding answers."
The officers kept straight faces but exchanged knowing glances.
This was cutting into Weng's scheduled appearance on Police Report.
They quickly lowered their heads to flip through files. Weng's gaze swept over the team before settling on Zhu Qing.
"New here?"
"PC33196, Zhu Qing." She didn’t stand, turning instead to ask, "Mo Sir, am I handling the security guard interviews?"
"..." The rookie had assigned herself a task. Mo chuckled dryly. "Who’s the superior here, you or me?"
Inspector Weng was momentarily speechless, straightening his tailored suit. "Just wrap it up quickly."
Uncle Li took off his reading glasses and nudged a colleague.
Once the inspector left, Zeng Yongshan sidled up to Zhu Qing, mimicking an old-timer’s tone in a hushed voice.
"Not bad, rookie. Got guts!"
......
The mansion’s perimeter was guarded around the clock.
Zhu Qing got the security roster—Uncle Lin, the most senior guard, was on night shift today.
Getting from the station to the hillside villa required three bus transfers. The last ride crossed the harbor bridge.
Leaning against the window, Zhu Qing watched moonlight cast shifting patterns over her notebook. The sparse clues she’d jotted down dissolved into meaningless scribbles as her thoughts wandered, only to snap back to the grisly skeletal remains she’d seen that morning.
The night air was crisp. As she climbed the hill, the only sound was her own footsteps.
Residents here came and went in chauffeured luxury cars. Aunt Ping mentioned even the maids picked a vehicle from the garage for grocery runs.
Especially tonight, with the hillside scandal, even the usual evening strollers were absent.
Until a blinding light cut through the dark.
......
Young Master Sheng Fang had finally seized a chance to swipe the keys from Marysa’s waist, sneaking out fully equipped.
He hadn’t counted on the floodlight overhead and the military-grade flashlight—borrowed from his father’s study—giving him away completely.
Once again, the little master found himself hoisted up like a chick by the scruff of his collar.
Kicking indignantly, he twisted to glare at his captor.
The female officer held him effortlessly, her expression a blend of "keep your distance" and "no nonsense."
"Should I call the butler to fetch you?"
The boy’s bravado faltered. "What do you want?"
The estate’s security layout was convoluted, with nighttime patrol shifts differing completely from the structural blueprints. She needed an insider’s guidance.
Zhu Qing shook the duty roster clipped to her blueprint. "Lead the way."
Grudgingly, his grand adventure turned into a guided tour.
Nearby, snores echoed from the guard post. For all the prestige of the estate’s "impeccable" security—a job countless aspired to—the veteran on duty was catching beauty sleep.
Zhu Qing quickened her pace.
The boy, pride wounded, scrambled to reclaim dignity. "Hey, what’s your name?"
Silence.
"Fine, keep secrets." He bared his tiny teeth in a pout. "I won’t tell you mine either. Don’t regret it—plenty of people beg to talk to me!"
Hands clasped behind his back, he fumed, cheeks puffier than the little backpack on his shoulders.
The young master might’ve withheld his name, but the embossed initials on his straps betrayed him.
"Hurry up," Zhu Qing called over her shoulder. "Short Legs Sheng Fang."
