But he would know. He would always know.
He backed out of the kitchen and went to sit in the living room. His father’s picture was still staring at him from the mantlepiece.
Joining the police force had been against his mother’s wishes. ‘Be an architect or a doctor,’ she had told him. ‘Look how much building is going up in Shanghai. There’s a profession which will never run out of work.’
But he was set on becoming a policeman, following in his father’s footsteps. He should have listened to her. If he had, she would still be alive. Still cooking her soups in the kitchen. Still waiting for him every night when he came home from work, to listen to his stories of the day.
But she wasn’t.
She was dead.
Because of him.
If only he had protected her better. If only he had not invited the witness to stay with them. If only he had managed to get there earlier.
Too many if onlys.
He sat in the chair and stared at the wall.
On the mantlepiece the clock ticked the hours. His father looked down on him. The house creaked like the bones of an old man getting out of bed.
He imagined himself in a prison cell with a single barred skylight in the ceiling and a wind rustling through a crack in the casement. He could see the world outside but it seemed so far away from where he was; untouchable, unreachable.
And in that sound of the wind and the clock ticking, Strachan finally understood he was alone now.
7
Sally Chen was at home alone in her bed, basking in the wonderful time between waking and sleep. Stretching her limbs like a cat after a long nap, her foot touched something solid, followed by sharp, slicing pain.
She woke up.
The arc light was still shining down on her; a constant moon on her darkest day. The walls of the pit were clear now, with little glints of light betraying the presence of the razor blades. Her hands fell to her sides and touched the dark, dank soil with its stench of fish and damp and mould.
She was still in the pit, sitting on the earthen floor.
She checked her arms and legs. The blood had stopped flowing from most of the cuts, congealing into long, horizontal stripes with a dark crust forming over the top.
As she looked at the wounds, the pain increased. A sharp, screeching pain, coming from a thousand places on her arms and legs and neck. She hugged her body to protect herself from it, but the pain became stronger. Some of her wounds were open again now, the blood oozing out.
How long had she slept? How long had she been there?
Ignoring the pain, she stood up, banging into a snake-like object hanging from the light-filled blackness. She remembered climbing, the rope swinging, the sharp, slicing kiss of the wall.
Where was he? He seemed to be a wraith, silent as a ghost.
She listened for his breathing, drawing on some long-lost sense to become aware of his presence in the blackness outside of the pit.
Nothing.
Why had he taken her? What had she done to deserve this? She was only a dancer, trying to make a living. What had he said? All her life was a lie. But didn’t everybody create little untruths to make life more bearable. Was it so wrong? She had told those thugs where Gordon was hiding, but what else could she have done? Their threats had been obvious; either she told them or she wouldn’t have been dancing for a long while. She couldn’t dance with a broken leg.
A wave of self-pity flowed over her, drowning her in its warm embrace.
Stop it.
Stop it.
You’ve fought all your life to get what you want. You’re not going to let another bastard grind you down. There had been so many of those, there would be no more. She would have to climb again but smarter this time, more carefully, avoiding the wall as much as she could.
She examined her camisole. Already it was frayed and ragged where the blades had sliced through it to get to her skin. She pulled it over her head and stood in her underwear. Taking a handful of earth, she rubbed it into her arms and legs. The pain seared through her head, but she had to protect herself from the kiss of the razor blades.
The rope hung down at her side. If she climbed carefully without letting it swing, she could make it to the top.
She would make it to the top.
She lifted her right leg and wrapped it around the rope, pulling herself up with her arms. Already, she was closer to the top. The edge of the pit wasn’t so black any more and she could see a little brown sliver of the room above.
The rope began to swing towards the wall. She put her hand out to stop it and felt a razor blade slice into her palm. A bright-red gash opened and the blood dripped on to the damp earth.
The voice of reason kicked in. ‘Don’t move, don’t protect yourself. Let the rope swing until it stops and move again.’
She let the rope come to a stop, before reaching up with both hands, gripping it tightly and, at the same time, kicking her leg free. She felt a searing pain as the rope bit into her gashed palm.
Ignore the pain.
The rope swung towards the wall. She gripped it more tightly, watching as the dark walls came closer and closer. She moved her shoulder to stop it touching the side, but her head fell back and her face kissed the blades. The sharp edge bit into her cheek, followed by a slice of pain.
My face, not my face.
Instinctively, she pulled away and the rope began to swing more violently.
Don’t move. Don’t panic.
Blood began to flow on to her neck and underwear. She braced her arms for the impact with the wall again. When it came, it wasn’t as sharp as she expected, just a light kiss. But the pain was immense, flooding her head, drowning her mind.
Must keep going. Don’t give in.
She reached up again. A couple more feet and she should be at the top. The rope swung and she could feel the blades bite into her right arm through the fabric of her torn camisole.
Can’t stop now. Got to keep going.
She pulled herself up once more. The rope was swinging wildly now, the blades slicing into her arms and legs. She could feel the blood flowing down her body and dripping on to the floor.
One more pull. She gritted her teeth, excised the pain from her mind and pulled herself up.
Her head was above the edge now. The pit was in the centre of a whitewashed room, with puddles of water reflecting light on the ceiling.
The rope was swinging less now as she neared the top. It was attached to a hook and crossbeam, two feet above her head. She reached up, one hand fastening on the metal of the crossbeam, then the other. The rope hung by her side. Now she was dangling over the centre of the pit. She swivelled her head and saw the edge. If only she could inch her way over there; it wasn’t far.
She peered through her legs to the pit below. The glint of the razor blades shone from the wall.
She swung her legs, jackknifing from the hip. Her right foot caught the lip of the pit, her toes gripped the edge and fell away again, dangling in mid-air.
Come on, you can do it. Just one more try.
She steadied herself and thrust her legs forward, kicking with all the strength she had left. Her toes caught the edge and stayed there. She pulled up with her arms and pushed off the crossbeam, standing upright on the edge of the pit.
I’ve made it, she thought. I’ve finally made it.
The soft edge of the pit gave way beneath her feet and she was falling backwards.
A hand reached out and grabbed her arm. ‘Well done, Sally, you did much better than I thought.’
She stared into the face of the thing that had grabbed her. There was nothing but darkness. In the black mass of the head, she saw a pair of eyes looking straight at her.
Dark eyes with no soul.
An arm pulled her towards the dark body. She caught the glint of a blade, reflecting the light of the spotlight. A whisper: ‘I did say I would set you free if you made it.’
In slow motion, the blade swept round
in a wide arc, stopping just below her left eye, the blade pressing into her skin.
‘You can go,’ the voice whispered, without the lips moving.
It was a mask. He was wearing a black mask. Her body was pushed towards the door, her feet stumbling through pools of stagnant water.
‘One last thing, Sally. I want you to tell Danilov something important. Tell him, “Let the game begin.” Remember to tell Danilov, only him. “Let the game begin.”’
She stumbled out of the door, up some wet and greasy steps and out into the daylight.
It was a bright day, a bright new day. She had to get away from the man and his eyes.
An open door. She stumbled through it, her bare feet bloody on the uneven brick path.
Get away, get away, run, just run.
She ran down the road, screaming loudly, not caring where she went.
8
Strachan was still sitting on the chair in front of the fire. There were no flames now, only a few white embers glowing white, the same colour as his funeral sackcloth.
He hadn’t moved for the last two hours, just sat there staring into the dying flames.
A sharp rap on the door.
Strachan hoped it wouldn’t be the neighbours coming to offer their condolences and commiserations. He couldn’t stand any more reminders his mother was dead.
Another sharp knock.
Go away, leave me alone. I don’t want to be with anybody. I don’t want to hear how sorry you are. I don’t want to feel your pain.
A double knock, more impatient now.
Slowly, Strachan stood up and stumbled to the door. He looked through the small square of crinkled glass in the centre and immediately recognised the old hat and slightly hunched posture. A waft of tobacco smoke confirmed his identification. What did the man want?
He opened the door.
‘Good evening, Strachan.’
Danilov stood outside his door, smoking one of his roll-ups, water dripping off the brim of his battered trilby.
‘A naked woman has been found near Soochow Creek screaming my name.’ The inspector brought the roll-up to his mouth, the end flared a bright, intense orange, and he blew a long draught of smoke up to the sky. ‘We have work to do. Let’s get going.’
Strachan took one look back at the house. Inside, it was quiet and empty. The clock ticked on. His father’s picture still sat on the mantlepiece. His mother was not beside the stove.
‘Come on, man, what are you waiting for? I want to get to the hospital before those fools scare the living daylights out of her.’
What was he waiting for?
Nothing. Not any more.
Without putting on his hat and coat, Strachan closed the door and followed Inspector Danilov to the waiting car.
9
‘Is she inside, Constable?’
The young Chinese constable stood to attention and saluted. ‘Yes, sir, the doctor treated and sedated her as soon as she arrived.’
They were on the fourth floor of Shanghai General Hospital, outside one of the rooms the police reserved for the victims of crime.
As if hearing his name being called, a man in a white coat, stethoscope dangling from around his neck, appeared next to Danilov. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Possibly, Doctor…?’
‘McLeod. I’m the registrar here. This patient should not be disturbed.’
The doctor was polite but firm. A tall man, he towered over the small Chinese constable standing next to him.
‘I was hoping to ask her a few questions.’
The doctor laughed and as he did so his shoulders moved up and down in tandem. ‘You’ll be lucky. The amount of sedative we’ve given her would keep an elephant asleep for a week,’ he said in his soft, lowland Scots burr.
‘Can I at least look at her?’
The doctor stroked his ginger moustache and nodded, opening the door. Inside the room, the light was dim, a nightlight giving off a pale glow at the side of her bed. Danilov could make out her body beneath the tent of a sheet. Her face was swathed in bandages with only a small hole for her mouth and nostrils. It was like the ghost of Tutankhamun had taken up residence in a hospital room in Shanghai.
The doctor whispered. ‘We treated over one hundred and fifty cuts on her body before we lost count. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.’
‘How is she?’
The doctor closed the door. Still whispering, he said, ‘Too early to say. She’s lost a lot of blood, too much blood. We’ve managed to stabilise her condition and now all we can do is wait. I saw a lot of terrible injuries during the war but nothing like this. Whoever attacked her, wanted her dead.’
‘Any identification on her when she was brought in?’
‘She hardly had any clothes on, never mind ID.’
Danilov pinched his lips with his index finger and thumb. ‘One last thing, Doctor. Did she say anything as you were treating her?’
The man thought for a moment. ‘She kept screaming a name over and over again.’
‘Danilov?’
‘That’s right. How did you know?’
‘I was told. It’s also my name.’
‘Why was she screaming your name, Inspector?’
‘That’s what I need to find out.’ He turned to Strachan standing behind him. ‘Check with the constables who brought her in. Have they seen this woman before?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do it now, Strachan, before they wander off.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Strachan turned and walked down the stairs.
‘Anything else that might be useful, Doctor?’
‘There was something. After we sedated her, before she went under, she suddenly sat up in bed, her eyes open wide, and said, “Tell Danilov, let the game begin.” Then the sedative kicked in and she lost consciousness.’
‘Are you sure it’s what she said?’
‘It was in the clearest English I’ve ever heard. Let the game begin.’
10
Danilov stood on the road outside the hospital, smoking one of his roll-ups. The smoke drifting around his face like his own cloud of gas. Why was the woman shouting his name? Did he know her? What did ‘Let the game begin’ mean? He took another long drag, hoping the cigarette would give him a few answers.
Strachan approached him cautiously and coughed.
‘What is it, Strachan? You have all the grace of a bear in cavalry boots; I heard you coming from three miles away.’
‘I’ve completed all the interviews, sir. The local coppers have nothing to add. She was seen running along the walkway covered in blood, screaming your name. They stopped her and called an ambulance immediately. Even when it came, she carried on screaming and babbling in English.’
‘Interesting, Strachan, She didn’t say a word in Chinese?’
‘Not that they heard, sir. They tried speaking to her in Mandarin and Shanghainese, but it was as if she couldn’t hear anything.’
Danilov took another drag of his cigarette, expelling the smoke into the cloud already hanging over his head. ‘Where exactly was she found, Strachan?’
The detective sergeant smiled. ‘I knew you would ask this, sir. They stopped her on Wenchow Road, where it meets Soochow Creek.’
‘Which direction was she running in? Along the river towards the city or back towards Chapei?’
Strachan’s face fell. ‘I didn’t ask, sir.’
‘You’d better find out before they leave.’
Strachan turned to go.
‘And make sure you get a proper description of the woman from them. We need to find out who she is.’
Strachan held up his notebook. ‘Already done, sir.’
Danilov grunted and threw the end of his cigarette on the road, stomping on it with the shiny new boots bought by his daughter specially for the funeral. The tone of his voice dropped as he remembered the service that afternoon. ‘I’m going home now. When you’ve finished with the police from Sinza, you should go home too. We�
��ll meet at 8.30 tomorrow at the place where she was found. I want to check it out for myself.’
‘Always go back to the scene after the crime, sir?’
‘You’re learning, Strachan.’ Danilov pulled up the lapels of his overcoat to protect himself from the cold night air. ‘My daughter’s waiting up for me. I do hope she hasn’t cooked anything, I can’t face pretending to eat her food.’
He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and hunched his shoulders like an old tortoise retreating into his shell. ‘Good night, Strachan. Don’t work too late.’
‘I won’t, sir. Just one thing, sir?’
‘What is it, Strachan?’
‘The doctor said she had over one hundred and fifty cuts on her body…’
‘Well?’
Strachan scratched his head. His voice when he spoke was tentative. ‘Well, sir, it’s just that it reminds…’
‘It reminds you of the death of Elsie Everett eighteen months ago? She had similar cuts to her body.’
Strachan nodded.
Danilov stroked his chin. ‘The same thought had occurred to me. But her killer is dead. I shot Allen myself on Garden Bridge.’
‘What about his accomplice, Li Min, sir?’
Danilov thought for a moment. ‘Check with the Chinese authorities what happened to him. He was tried in their court.’
‘Yes, sir.’
For a moment, Danilov stood there thinking of something to say to his young detective. Trying to think of the words to soothe the hurt and lessen the guilt. But they wouldn’t come. Not for the first time, he wished his wife was here with him. She would know what to say, and even more, she would know what to do. But it had been nearly six years since he had last seen her. Six years when he had missed her every day, and every hour of every day.
His lips moved but the words wouldn’t come.
‘Good night,’ he finally said, walking along the street towards the bright lights of the city.
11
Strachan watched as Inspector Danilov walked away, head down and shoulders hunched.
Why hadn’t he asked the Sinza police which direction the woman came from? It was such an obvious question. Once again, he felt he had disappointed Danilov, just as he had disappointed his mother.
The Murder Game Page 3