He hurried through the swing doors of the hospital to catch the policemen before they went back to the station. He ran down the steps and found them just leaving the canteen in the basement.
Within a couple of minutes he had the story. She had been running towards the city but they hadn’t seen where she came from. They had just started their shift and were going out to their beat around the Gas Works and Amoy Road Gaol. She had come stumbling towards them wearing just underwear, covered in blood and screaming Danilov’s name. They had wrapped a blanket around her and called an ambulance.
‘She speaking English all time. Saying Danilov’s name and some other stuff. We tried speaking Chinese but she wouldn’t listen. Damn, strange woman, if you ask me.’
Then one of them had leant into Strachan and said, ‘Is this Danilov’s fuck? They have a fight or sum’ting?’
Strachan had clenched his fingers, imagining his fist smashing into the man’s round face. The nose spreading, teeth shattering, blood splattering. Another punch. More blood. The man dropping to the ground.
He unclenched his fist. Kicking the shit out of the man would have given Strachan immense pleasure, but it wasn’t worth it. ‘Get out of here,’ he snarled.
The other constable saw the look on Strachan’s face and quickly hustled his colleague down the corridor and out of the hospital.
Strachan ran his fingers through his dark hair. His work was finished now, but he couldn’t face going home to the empty house, full of the memories of his mother.
Perhaps, he would sit outside the door to the room, in case the woman woke up and wanted to talk. At least he would be doing his job properly for once.
He pressed his keys into the flesh of his thigh through the trouser pocket, feeling the point dig into the skin.
No more mistakes.
He wasn’t going to let anybody down again, least of all Danilov, the one man who trusted him more than he trusted himself.
The sharp point of the key twisted further into the skin of his thigh.
No more mistakes.
Day Two
12
‘I think this is where the constables found her, sir.’ Strachan pointed to an embankment beside the Soochow Creek, opposite Wenchow Road.
‘You think or you know, Strachan?’
The detective sergeant kicked himself. He should know better than to use imprecise language with Danilov. ‘I’m certain this is where they found her, sir.’
‘Which direction did she come from?’
Strachan pointed back along Sinza Road. ‘From over there, sir.’
It was quiet for a Wednesday morning. A few people were crossing the road, gingerly stepping over the tram tracks. Rickshaw drivers trotted past, their vehicles piled high with cloth and other material, rather than passengers.
Strachan noticed Danilov’s eyes following the rickshaw drivers. ‘There are five cotton mills beside the upper reaches of the creek, sir.’
Danilov nodded. ‘And what’s that?’ He pointed to a large white concrete tower dwarfing the merchant houses lining the road. Danilov recognised the new Art Deco style immediately by the cleanliness of its lines and almost Egyptian look of the square motifs decorating the rounded sides and top.
‘It’s the new Water Tower, sir. It’s not open yet but will soon supply all the local area with fresh water.’
‘Or as fresh as water ever gets in Shanghai, Strachan.’
‘The water’s good here, sir, best in the city.’
Danilov grunted and began walking back towards Sinza Road. ‘If this is the way she came, Strachan, how long had she been running?’
‘The constables didn’t know, sir.’
They stopped at a T-junction. Opposite them, Sinza Road continued past the Water Tower. Myburgh Road swooped in from their left to form an open area in the centre. Cars, trams, rickshaws, carts and people danced around each other, somehow failing to make contact.
‘How did she run through this junction without anybody stopping her?’
‘I’ll ask at the rice merchant on the corner, sir. He may have seen something.’ Strachan ran off.
Danilov stood in the middle of the hustle and bustle of Shanghai, calmly rolling a cigarette. The people of the city went about their business, ignoring the man standing at the corner of the street. A few rickshaw drivers peddled slowly past him, hoping against hope he would raise his hand and ask to be taken somewhere. Factory chimneys over in Chapei belched out dark brown smoke which drifted across the city to join the clouds of coal dust, petrol fumes and oil vapours from a million woks.
Danilov added to the miasma with three rings of tobacco smoke, each ring slowly dissipating to mingle with the rest of the poisonous gas that was loosely called the air of Shanghai. He was just finishing his cigarette as Strachan returned.
‘The merchant saw a girl running through here yesterday evening, sir, around the same time as the police spotted her.’
‘Why didn’t he stop her?’
‘Thought she was from the refuge around the corner, sir. Nothing to do with him.’
‘Refuge?’
‘The Sinza Refuge. A home run by missionaries. It’s where the courts send women who have nowhere else to go, sir.’
‘Well, let’s take a look, shall we?’
13
They were met at the door of the refuge by a middle-aged Chinese woman dressed soberly in black. Her short hair was scraped back severely from her forehead and held in place by a sharp-toothed metal comb.
‘I’ll see if Mr Johnstone is available, but he doesn’t like to be disturbed in the mornings. It’s the time he writes his sermons.’
She walked away. Danilov and Strachan were left standing in the hallway, holding their hats.
‘It’s quiet, sir.’
Strachan was right. The only sound was the ticking of an ancient grandfather clock standing against the far wall. The place had that sour smell beloved of institutions everywhere; a mixture of boiled cabbage, disinfectant and sadness, unbearable sadness.
After a few moments, the woman returned, making no noise as she walked across the bare wooden floor. ‘The chairman will see you now.’
She led them to an antechamber off the main hallway. Mr Johnstone, a tall, elegant man with his few remaining strands of blond hair combed over the crest of his bald head, came out to greet them. ‘I’m afraid we normally don’t allow men into the refuge,’ he stated firmly.
Danilov pulled out his warrant card. Mr Johnstone studied it for a long time. ‘You’d better come to my office,’ he sniffed, finally.
His office was a large, comfortably furnished room next door to the antechamber. An oak desk stood in the corner, shielded by a large aspidistra. Finely woven carpets adorned the floor between a comfortable sofa and two armchairs. A stack of old China Inland Mission magazines lay on the coffee table in front of the armchairs. Mr Johnstone gestured for them to sit on the sofa while he took an armchair.
‘How can I help you, gentlemen?’
Danilov stared up at the portrait on the wall in front of him. A pale, rather self-satisfied European man wearing a starched Victorian collar stared back at him. ‘Yesterday, our police found a woman on the embankment of the Soochow Creek not far from here.’
‘I can’t see what that has to do with us.’
‘We were wondering if the woman could have come from your…’ He searched for the right word; English was such an understated language. ‘…Institution.’
‘Nobody has left our refuge recently.’
‘You seem so certain.’
A smug smile crossed Johnstone’s face as he stroked his moustache. ‘I am.’
‘How do you know?’
Johnstone smiled as if dealing with an idiot. ‘We check our residents every morning and every evening at a roll call.’
‘Sounds more like a prison than a refuge,’ said Strachan.
The man stroked his moustache again. ‘These women have been placed here by the courts, Detective Ser
geant…’
‘Strachan.’
The man smiled again as if finding something funny in the Scottish name and obviously Chinese face looking at him. He steepled his hands as if in prayer before launching into a long sermon. ‘They have been found guilty of prostitution, selling their bodies. Or they have been thrown out of their homes by their families. Or rejected by their husbands, a not uncommon occurrence in Shanghai. They have been placed here for their own safety. We ensure they work hard, reintroduce discipline into their lives and prepare them for life in the outside world by training them as domestics or cleaners. They even learn the rudiments of the English language through knowledge of the scriptures, of course.’
‘And their children?’ asked Danilov.
‘The children have been placed elsewhere.’ Johnstone sniffed, the smile replaced by a frown. ‘We don’t allow children in this institution. The women will be reunited with them once they have been rehabilitated.’
‘So you are sure the woman we found on the embankment of Soochow Creek wasn’t one of your residents?’
‘Inspector, at roll call we write their names in a log. I can assure you our numbers have remained constant for the last week.’
‘Could I see the log?’
Johnstone shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not; it’s confidential. We endeavour to protect our residents from the evils of the world outside.’ He pointed all around him. ‘To help them, we ensure they are kept busy while they are here and we know their whereabouts at all times. I’m sure you understand I can’t reveal the details of the log to you. Or anybody. I’m sorry.’ Again, he ended his speech with a smug smile.
Danilov could see Johnstone wasn’t sorry at all. Strachan moved uneasily beside him. Danilov put his hand on the young sergeant’s arm.
‘Seeing the log won’t be necessary. All your residents have been accounted for?’
‘We had seventy-eight women here yesterday evening and there were still seventy-eight women here this morning.’
Danilov stood up. ‘Thank you, Mr Johnstone. I think we’ve learnt enough for now.’
Johnstone stopped Danilov and Strachan leaving with a small gesture of the hand. ‘Can I know, what’s so important about this woman, Inspector?’
Danilov smiled. ‘I’m afraid the case is confidential. I’m sure you understand we endeavour to protect the victims of crime. We can’t reveal the details of our investigation to just anybody. I’m sorry.’ Danilov ended his speech with a smile and placed the trilby back on his head.
Johnstone frowned. ‘I should warn you I have many friends in the Shanghai council, Inspector.’
Danilov smiled once more. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Johnstone. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again.’
14
Back on the street in front of Central Police Station, Danilov was enjoying the restorative properties of a roll-up. Strachan was next to him eating a bowl of dumplings. Next to Strachan was the ever-smiling hawker waiting for the return of his bowl and chopsticks.
‘Strachan, I can never understand your constant desire to eat.’
‘Neither can I, sir. I put it down to having a Chinese stomach. A love of food helps too.’ For a moment, his mind flashed back to the steaming bowls of soup, cooked by his mother, waiting for him every night when he returned home. She would ask him about his day and he would tell her exactly what had happened, only leaving out the more gory details of an autopsy or killing. A tidal wave of sadness passed through his body. He would never see his mother again. Not in this world anyway. He banished the thought from his mind and concentrated on finishing the dumplings.
‘Well, when you have finally done feeding the wolf…’
‘A Russian idiom, sir?’ he said through mouthfuls of pork and chives.
‘It’s from the Caucasus, I think. Anyway, when you’ve finished eating, I want you to check out the Sinza Refuge. Find out everything you can about it and this Mr Johnstone. What’s his background? Where did he come from? You know the drill.’
‘Why, sir?’
‘He looks vaguely familiar. But I just can’t put my finger on where I’ve seen him before.’
‘Yes, sir,’ mumbled Strachan through a mouthful of dumpling.
‘Any response from the Chinese authorities about Allen’s accomplice?’
‘Li Min? Nothing so far, sir. I’ll follow up right away.’
‘Hurry them along, we can’t wait until the next millennium.’
‘You think he might be responsible, sir?’
‘Somebody is, and that somebody knew enough about Allen’s murders to attack the woman in the same way.’
‘Could be a copycat, sir?’
Danilov took a final drag on his roll-up, throwing the white paper dimp into the gutter. ‘Maybe, but there were differences from before. The main one being the victim is still alive.’ He turned back to Strachan. ‘I see you’ve finished feeding the bottomless pit you call a stomach. Come on, we have work to do.’
Strachan put down the bowl reluctantly. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a grey-haired woman dressed in black, the back of her head just visible behind a metal sign advertising Shanghai beer.
He knew that hair. It can’t be her.
He turned around and stood up to get a better view. The woman was no longer there, vanished like the smoke from a wok.
‘Are you okay, Strachan?’
The young detective nodded slowly.
‘Come on, we have work to do.’
Strachan put his bowl down on the table. The hawker bowed to them both as they left his stall, continuing to bob up and down like a pigeon wooing a lady.
Strachan looked over his shoulder at the place where the woman had been as he walked up the steps to the station.
There was nobody there.
15
Inside the station, there was the usual cacophony of noise.
Some people were shouting, some fighting each other, some waving papers over their heads, others simply standing there morosely, waiting for their names to be called.
At the centre of the action, behind a tall mahogany desk, was Sergeant Wolfe, the duty officer.
‘Oi, you there, yes I’m talking to you. Bie nayang zuo,’ he shouted in bad Chinese over the noise of the crowd.
Danilov caught his eye and waved. Wolfe shrugged his shoulders as if to say, what can I do?
Danilov pushed through the crowd and was greeted at the guardrail by a Sikh constable wearing a blue turban. The man opened the half-door, letting them both through into the inner sanctum of the station. They walked along the corridor towards the detective’s room.
‘Inspector Danilov, Inspector Danilov!’ The clatter of heels echoed down the corridor as Miss Cavendish ran after them. ‘Oh, what a relief, I’ve managed to find you.’
‘I don’t believe I was ever lost, Miss Cavendish.’
The middle-aged woman smiled and played with a rope of pearls twisted about her neck. She had come to Shanghai over twenty years ago in the company of her mother on one of the fishing expeditions so beloved of English middle-class women. Fishing not for the denizens of the deep, but for more humble prey: a husband. Unfortunately, she had not been successful in her quest, but had instead discovered marriage to a career as secretary to the Head of Detectives of the station.
‘You are a card, Inspector Danilov. But the meeting is about to start and I was sent to see if you had returned.’
‘What meeting?’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘Miss Cavendish, if I knew, I wouldn’t be asking, would I?’
Miss Cavendish enjoyed these moments when she had a secret or gossip to impart. For Danilov, she was a fountain of knowledge about the happenings in the station, whether these involved the Western, Russian, Chinese or Japanese sections of the police force.
‘Well, Miss Cavendish?’
She leaned in and almost whispered, ‘The new Chief Inspector is here.’
‘Mr Boyle’s replacemen
t? I thought he wasn’t coming till next week.’
‘So did we all, Inspector. But he’s here now and he’s giving a speech. We’d better hurry.’ She took Danilov’s arm. ‘You too, Detective Sergeant Strachan. You can’t escape either.’
‘But, I have work to do… an attempted murder,’ protested Danilov.
‘No exceptions, no absentees. That was the instruction from the new Chief Inspector. He was adamant. Not the same as Chief Inspector Boyle at all.’
She pushed them along the corridor, back the way they had come, turning right instead of going straight on to the lobby. She stopped at a glass-fronted door and knocked. A sharp ‘Enter’ came from inside.
She stepped back and opened the door for Danilov and Strachan.
The full detective complement of Central was gathered in the room. Some were sitting on chairs, others stood in the corner, a few more leant against the wall. At the front was a dapper man, dressed in a pinstriped three-piece suit. The cut was immaculate, with the trousers just breaking over the Oxford brogues. The tie was beautifully proportionate and knotted right in the centre of the throat.
Danilov admired the perfection of it. An obsession with the rituals of clothing was not one of his eccentricities, but he understood the motivation behind it. The appearance of perfection in a chaotic world. How he looked was the one way a man could control his world. And this man controlled himself with an attention to detail Danilov admired.
The man spoke to them. ‘Ah, come on in. You two are…?’
‘Inspector Danilov and Detective Sergeant Strachan, sir.’ It was Miss Cavendish who answered from behind them.
‘Do come in and make yourself comfortable.’ The voice was patrician and educated. A voice at ease with itself. Danilov noticed the head above the clothes was as well manicured as the rest of the man. The hair cut short in regulation fashion, with a sharp white line to indicate the parting. The eyes blue, against the grey of the salt and pepper hair. A pencil moustache, beginning to show flecks of grey, sitting like a trimmed centipede above the lip.
The Murder Game Page 4