‘Very gracious.’ He nodded.
I turned the photograph over. On the reverse, in blue, faded ink, were written the words: Barrackpore, January 1918.
‘There’s our link between Nurse Fernandes and Alastair Dunlop,’ said Surrender-not. ‘They were both working at Barrackpore Military Hospital in 1918.’
I shook my head. ‘That can’t be right,’ I said. ‘If her personnel file’s correct, Ruth Fernandes couldn’t have been in this photo.’
As the car drove back towards Lal Bazar, I explained it to Surrender-not.
‘Rawalpindi,’ I said. ‘Her file said she’d spent a year there from September 1917. So what’s she doing turning up a thousand miles away in a photograph in Barrackpore?’
Surrender-not took a while to respond, possibly because his jaw was beginning to swell up like he’d ingested a mouthful of marbles.
‘Maybe the date is wrong?’ he mumbled.
‘I doubt it,’ I said, ‘though we could always ask McGuire up at Barrackpore. He may even have a copy of this photograph.’
Surrender-not stared at me. ‘I believe Section H just told us in no uncertain terms that we were no longer in charge of this investigation. I doubt they’d take kindly to us going back up there. It’s a military cantonment after all.’
‘Two of the victims knew each other and Barrackpore is the connection,’ I said. ‘And given we’re not able to question Anthea Dunlop any further, we’ve no choice but to go back up there.’
‘We could always tell Section H what we’ve discovered and let them deal with it?’
‘I don’t think they’d be interested. I just told Allenby that we were about to arrest Mrs Dunlop and he didn’t even ask why. And anyway, you don’t want to leave it to Section H any more than I do,’ I said. ‘That’s why you went through that little performance with your turbaned friend back there. You could have pointed out the faces in the photos to Allenby and saved yourself a beating, but you didn’t. Besides, I think Allenby’s superiors already know of the link between Dunlop and Fernandes. Why else would they eject us quite so unceremoniously from the scene? Whatever’s happening here is more serious than a disgruntled native killing a few foreigners, and my gut tells me that Section H already know what’s going on. That’s why they showed up so quickly – they’re trying to keep a lid on it.’
‘But how does your dead drug pusher in Tangra fit in?’ asked Surrender-not. ‘You’re sure they’re connected?’
‘He was butchered in the same way. In fact,’ I said as I ordered the driver to stop, ‘why don’t you see for yourself?’
Thirty minutes later, after stopping off at Premchand Boral Street for a flask of kerdū pulp, and amid more protests from Surrender-not as to the inadvisability of upsetting Section H further, we approached the outskirts of Tangra.
‘It’s lunacy,’ he said. ‘Trying to gain access to a building that is no doubt still under surveillance and that you’ve been specifically warned not to go near and from which you’ve already once been caught exiting. Sheer lunacy.’
‘We’re not debating the matter,’ I said.
The light was fading as the driver pulled to a halt, and the smoke from newly lit fires hung in the greying dusk. Surrender-not and I got out. We’d make the last mile of the journey on foot and under cover of darkness.
We walked, hugging close to the walls of the buildings that abutted a narrow gullee. ‘How are we supposed to gain access without being spotted?’ complained Surrender-not. ‘They’re bound to have the doors and windows covered.’
‘You should have more faith in me, Sergeant,’ I said. ‘I have a plan.’
‘Really?’ he said. ‘Would you mind telling me what it is?’
‘The roof,’ I said. ‘It’s how I got out without being caught by Vice Division when they raided the place a few nights back. And it’s how our killer got into Alastair Dunlop’s house. I’m hoping our friends from Section H have either forgotten to consider it or are spread too thinly to cover it.’
‘And if they do have it covered?’
I patted him on his shoulder. ‘Then you won’t need to worry too much. It’ll be pitch black by the time we get there, and I’m a much bigger target than you. Your ability to pass for a stick insect means you’ll be perfectly safe. They’ll be so busy shooting at me that I doubt they’ll even notice you.’
My words must have given him the comfort he needed because the rest of our journey was passed in relative silence. The streets were semi-deserted. It was Christmas Eve and I imagined the God-fearing Chinese of Tangra, converted by Jesuits and Baptists and Lord knows what other competing strains of the true faith, were at home donning their Sunday best and preparing for the midnight services which would herald the Messiah’s birthday, leaving the streets to the dogs and the destitute.
‘There,’ I said, pointing to a mound of refuse piled high against the wall of a squat, brick-built shack. ‘That’s our staircase.’
The building had a low roof of terracotta tiles resting on bamboo beams and leaned precariously against the side of a taller, two-storey structure. Surrender-not eyed the shack dubiously.
‘Are you sure it will take our weight? I doubt the residents would be impressed by the sight of two policemen falling through their roof.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ I said as I began scaling the mound of rubbish. ‘Besides, if we do happen to fall through the roof, we’ll say we’re angels and pass it off as a Christmas miracle.’
The stench from the refuse was almost enough to make me reconsider, but I kept climbing and soon was able to reach for the edge of the roof tiles and pull myself up. I turned and offered a helping hand to Surrender-not whose face suggested he might have stepped in something unsavoury. He clambered up and sat on the ledge beside me. From beneath us came the muffled sound of chatter. The language was indecipherable but the cadences suggested the usual rhythms of family talk rather than the alarm one would expect had they heard the noise of two policemen climbing onto their roof. Slowly we turned and scrabbled our way along the roof to the wall of the adjoining building. This time Surrender-not went first, leaping across the narrow gap and onto a ledge above a barred and shuttered window. I followed and then gave him a leg-up. The sergeant pulled himself over the lip of the roof wall and landed with a thud. For a moment he disappeared from sight, then suddenly his head appeared, bobbing over the parapet as though the fall had disconnected it from his body. He looked down, smiled and leaned over, extending a hand. I grabbed it and began scaling the wall. Suddenly he lurched forward and for a second it felt as though I might have achieved nothing more than to pull the little fellow back down, but he steadied himself against the roof wall and, straining, managed to help me get a hand-hold at the top.
I pulled myself over and we both collapsed onto the flat roof, breathing heavily from the effort.
‘Right,’ I said eventually, ‘break time’s over. Let’s get moving.’
I stood and made for the far end of the roof, then negotiated the small gap between two adjacent buildings. In the distance I could make out the alcove where I’d hidden from Callaghan’s men three nights earlier. Ahead of us was the funeral parlour. If the rooftops were under surveillance, now would be the moment of maximum danger. Crouching low, we crept quietly forward, eventually reaching the ledge that separated it from its neighbour. The door to the stairwell leading down into the building was situated in the centre of the roof. I pointed it out to Surrender-not. He nodded, then put a hand on my wrist.
‘Wait here, sir,’ he whispered. ‘Let me check if the coast is clear.’
‘I should be the one to go,’ I said.
‘But I’m the one who can do the impression of a stick insect.’
With that, he clambered over the ledge and crawled slowly forward towards the door.
At any moment I expected voices to ring out in challenge, or worse still gunshots. I braced myself, but save for the flapping of a pigeon disturbed by our approach, the silence remained blessed
ly unbroken.
He reached the door and pushed it gently. The wooden panels rattled against the frame. I climbed over the ledge and made my way to him.
‘No use,’ he said. ‘It’s locked.’
‘We’ll just have to find another way in.’
Scrambling to the roof edge, I looked down. To my left, one storey down, was a balcony. It looked deserted, the windows behind it in darkness. Halfway along was a door. I beckoned Surrender-not over.
‘See that balcony?’ I said. ‘That’s where you’re going.’
He stared at me dubiously.
‘I’m going to lower you down and you’re going to try that door. I’m hoping that when Callaghan’s men finished searching the floor, they didn’t have the presence of mind to lock a door merely leading to a balcony. If it’s open, make your way inside and up the stairs to the roof and let me in.’
‘And what if it’s locked?’ he asked.
‘Then I’ll owe you an apology. Now get moving.’
I grabbed his arms and began to lower him slowly over the edge of the wall. His feet scrabbled for purchase against the smooth cement, until finally he was hanging over the balcony. I let go and he dropped to the floor. Somewhere close by a dog barked. Surrender-not froze and I held my breath. Eventually the commotion ceased and I let out a sigh of relief. On the balcony, the sergeant made for the door and turned the handle. I heard a click, then a muffled creaking, and suddenly Surrender-not stuck his head out from under the ledge, beamed a smile and waved.
‘Get going,’ I urged in a whisper.
He disappeared again, and I made my way back to the door in the middle of the roof and waited. Soon I heard his footsteps on the stone stairs, and then a scraping as he removed from its brackets the wooden bar that held the door closed. I pushed gently and the door swung open.
‘The place seems deserted,’ said Surrender-not as we descended the stairs to the building’s upper storey. I took a moment to get my bearings.
‘This way,’ I said, setting off along a corridor and then down two flights of stairs to the basement. The air down here was cold but laced with the unmistakable stench of putrefaction. I led Surrender-not to the mortuary room and opened the door. The smell was stronger here. Taking the box of matches from my pocket, I extracted one and struck it against the side. It flickered to life and I walked over to the wall of drawers and pulled out the one that had contained the body of the dead Chinaman. The same scarred and eyeless face stared out at me once more. The match burned down and suddenly the room was plunged back into darkness.
I reached for another and lit it.
‘Here,’ I said, passing Surrender-not the match. ‘Take a look.’
As he examined the corpse, I took out a couple of cigarettes and, with another match, lit them both and passed one to Surrender-not.
‘Believe me now?’
The sergeant nodded slowly. ‘He’s definitely missing his eyes.’
‘Look down and you’ll see the two stab marks to the chest.’ I took a drag of my cigarette. The smoke helped to mask the smell.
‘And look,’ said Surrender-not, pointing to the victim’s left hand. ‘He’s missing a finger.’
I stared at the hand. The sergeant was right. It was a detail I’d missed. The wound was fresh, and I guessed the digit had been cut off at about the same time the other injuries had been inflicted. It reminded me of Ruth Fernandes’s broken finger.
‘What’s the significance of that?’ he wondered.
‘Torture, possibly,’ I said. ‘Maybe the killer wanted information? Maybe he was trying to get them to talk. Whatever the case, well spotted. I shouldn’t have missed a detail like that.’
‘There’s one more thing,’ said Surrender-not behind me. ‘This man’s not Chinese.’
‘What?’
‘This corpse,’ said Surrender-not. ‘I think it’s Indian.’
The match burned down and he dropped it to the floor. I went to light another but he stopped me and instead reached into his own pocket and pulled out his lighter.
He lit the flame and beckoned me over.
‘Here, look,’ he said. ‘I can see why you’d think the victim was Chinese. The shape of the eye sockets and the cheekbones, but look at the nose and the pallor. The man’s Assamese or Nepalese, or possibly Burmese.’
I looked closely at the disfigured corpse. Maybe Surrender-not was correct. The differences still weren’t obvious to me: I wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders but I knew better than to question the sergeant on a matter like this. In any case, when I’d first seen the body, I’d been opium-addled. In an opium den, a Chinaman is what I expected to see, and maybe I just assumed that’s what he was. When I’d then found him in this room, it had been dark and I hadn’t really considered it. All I’d been looking for was a corpse without eyes.
Beside me, Surrender-not was peering closely at the head. He had that curious look on his face. The one he got when his brain was working too fast.
Suddenly he looked up and smiled.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘This scar on his face! I’ve seen it before!’
‘Where?’
‘In that photograph we stole from Dunlop’s study.’
It looked like he was right. At least there was a good chance he was. I’d taken out the photograph and laid it flat on my palm. Surrender-not held the flame from his lighter close by. To the left of the shot was a figure, sitting cross-legged on the ground. He looked like a native orderly, in shorts and a khaki shirt. The detail was grainy but there it was, a long scar running down the left side, all the way from the hairline to the chin. What’s more if you discounted the eyes, the rest of the face bore a marked resemblance to what was left of the one in the drawer beside us.
I felt nauseous as the ground seemed to shift under my feet.
‘He’s not a drug lord but a hospital worker.’
‘That’s our link,’ said Surrender-not. ‘The three victims knew each other. They’re all in this photograph.’
I looked at the photo, examining the faces of Dunlop, Ruth Fernandes and the corpse in the drawer beside me. Surrender-not’s theory seemed to make sense. But there were others in the photograph too. What if the killer was going after all of them?
I quickly rescanned the other faces. There, of course, was Colonel McGuire seated next to Alastair Dunlop, Ruth Fernandes and Anthea Dunlop, who’d been spared. But as I looked closely at it, a shiver ran up my spine. There was someone else familiar too, younger and part hidden by shadow in the back row. Mathilde Rouvel.
TWENTY-FOUR
‘We need to get to Barrackpore!’ I said, closing the drawer and making for the stairs.
I thought about retracing our path across the rooftops, but the clock was ticking, and instead I opted for the direct route: out the front door, and a hell-for-leather sprint to the car. Avoiding the ire of Section H seemed less of a priority now. Three people had been murdered in as many nights, which suggested our killer wasn’t keen on wasting time. It was already dark, and for all I knew, his next target might even now be in his sights. As for who that might be, there were no guarantees of course, but given that all three victims so far had been pictured in that photograph in Barrackpore in 1917, the odds suggested the next one was probably staring out from it too. The question was, why hadn’t he killed Anthea Dunlop? Had she provided him with the information her husband hadn’t? Or was there some other reason?
Of the others still alive, I knew two. We had to decide which to get to first, but that was a matter that could wait till we were en route to Barrackpore.
The car was waiting where we’d left it, and the driver seemed in no mood to linger, stepping out and cranking the engine into life as soon as he saw us turn the corner.
The journey to Barrackpore took an hour – which still proved insufficient time for Surrender-not and I to try and work out what the hell was going on. My initial theories: that both the killing in the opium den was somehow related to d
rug smuggling, and the murder of Ruth Fernandes was a domestic affair, looked to have been blown out of the water. The first, I realised, had been based solely on the assumption that the dead man in the funeral parlour had been Fen Wang, the drug lord from Shanghai. In turn, that belief had rested on two factors: Callaghan’s statement to me that the man they’d been hunting that night was the famed drug baron; and my ridiculous conclusion that because the man in the drawer had Eastern features, he must be Chinese. I cursed myself for having been so sloppy. My assumption as to the man’s race was bad enough, but could be forgiven on the grounds that I was groggy from O when I first saw him. What upset me more, though, was the fact that even if he had been Chinese, I shouldn’t have taken for granted that he was Fen Wang. There were thousands of Chinese in this city after all. But it’s hard to resist the siren call of the quick and easy solution. I’d wanted him to be Fen Wang. It fitted my preconceptions of what was going on and I grabbed at it like a drowning man grasping at reeds.
But if the killings weren’t linked to a feud over drugs, what were they related to? There were, of course, the victims’ wounds – the gouged-out eyes and the same two stab marks to the chest. At first I’d assumed they were meant as a warning, but now I wasn’t so sure. Taken together, they seemed almost ritualistic, maybe even religious. At least my conviction that the body in Tangra was somehow linked to the murder of Ruth Fernandes in Rishra had been justified. It was a shame that Alastair Dunlop had had to die to confirm my hypothesis, but that’s just the way things go sometimes.
What’s more, for the first time we were heading somewhere in anticipation of events rather than chasing after them. The answers, or at least some of them, had to lie in Barrackpore and I was determined to find them.
‘We’ll speak to Nurse Rouvel first,’ I said.
Surrender-not seemed surprised by my choice. ‘Surely Colonel McGuire would be the logical port of first call, sir?’
‘It depends,’ I said.
‘On what?’
‘On whether we want to solve this case or not. McGuire’s a military man. He’s not going to tell us anything that hasn’t first been cleared through the appropriate channels. And even if, by some miracle, Section H’s operatives didn’t spot us high-tailing it from the funeral parlour, you can be sure they’ll have caught up with us within five minutes of us sitting down with the good colonel. Besides,’ I said, ‘he’ll be off duty by now and tracking him down could take a while. Nurse Rouvel, on the other hand, is more likely to tell us what we need to know. She probably resides in the nurses’ quarters and almost certainly has McGuire’s address. And anyway,’ I added, ‘if they’re both at imminent risk of being murdered, I think I’d rather save her first.’
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