26
They both waited for the men from the mortuary to arrive and take the woman away. As they did, the doctor spent a long time justifying the woman’s death using long medical words and even longer sentences.
Danilov decided to cut his explanation off. ‘It doesn’t really matter now, does it, Doctor? The woman is dead; she won’t be able to tell us anything any more.’
‘But you don’t realise… I did my best. The wounds, her body couldn’t…’
‘Let’s go, Strachan.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Danilov strode away down the corridor. He needed some fresh air and a cigarette to help him think.
Outside the hospital, the road was overflowing with people and activity. Luckily there were no reporters.
Danilov rolled a cigarette, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs to rid them of the stale, disinfected air of the hospital.’
‘What now, sir?’
Danilov let out a long blast of smoke from his nostrils. ‘I’m going home; nothing more we can do this evening. Elina is cooking something; I don’t know what it is and I suspect neither does she. But I’m sure I will eat it all, whatever it is.’ He placed his hat back on his head. ‘You need to transcribe the notes from your interviews with the servants at the Country Club. And make sure the files are up to date. I have a feeling Chief Inspector Rock is a stickler for bureaucracy.’
‘Yes, sir, I’ll go back to Central and finish them before I leave.’
Danilov began to descend the stairs and then stopped. He turned back as if he had forgotten to say something. ‘Don’t stay too late. You need to pick me up before we interview Li Min tomorrow morning. After that, we will go back to the Country Club. I want to revisit the crime scene once more.’
‘I’ll pick you up at 6.30, sir.’
Danilov threw the end of his cigarette into the gutter. ‘Good. Now all I have to do is survive my daughter’s cooking this evening.’
‘We all have our cross to bear, sir.’
Danilov thought about inviting Strachan to join him to eat Elina’s food, but rejected the idea with a shake of his head. Nobody deserved such a punishment, certainly not Strachan. ‘Good night,’ he finally said.
‘Good night, sir.’
Danilov turned away to walk home.
‘Oh, sir,’
‘What is it, Strachan?’
‘You will crack this case, you always do, sir.’
‘Will I, Strachan? I’m not sure about this one.’
He thrust his hands into the pockets of his old coat, buried his head between the lapels and walked off into the Shanghai night.
27
‘I said I was going to give you a choice, Lieutenant Deschamps. This is it.’ The voice came from a tinny speaker set high up in the wall, reverberating off the bare metal walls.
Rossana was sitting next to him on the floor. He could see her breath forming a white mist that crystallised as a skin over her chin.
She was alive, still alive.
He shifted his shoulder slightly to allow her to nestle into him. She muttered something in Russian as she moved her head.
The metal walls imprisoning him were painted white, with a texture like the softest snow. A warm red light glowed above a solid metal door. A door with a strange lock on the inside; a lock that looked like a lever.
It was cold. Freezing cold.
‘Your choice is simple. There is a box in the corner…’
For the first time, Deschamps noticed the box hiding in the farthest corner away from the light.
‘In the box is a coat. A warm coat that will protect the wearer from the cold of this icebox. There are two of you. Who will wear it? A simple choice. One you will enjoy making.’
Deschamps tried to get up and immediately felt his head float as if it was bobbing up and down in the sea.
‘I wouldn’t move too quickly, if I were you. The drugs will take some time to wear off. An added complication, shall we say. Enjoy the choice.’
The slight buzzing from the speaker stopped and all was quiet, save for the gentle hum of a generator far off in the distance.
The lieutenant took three deep breaths, feeling the icy cold air slip down into the depths of his lungs. Propping Rossana against the wall, he scrambled on to his hands and knees.
Stop!
His head felt like it was going to explode. He closed his eyes and the room began to swirl around him.
What was happening?
He opened them again and concentrated on the box in the corner. He reached out to touch the wall on his left. His fingers recoiled as if they had been electrocuted.
The wall was icy cold. He pulled the sleeve of his uniform down past his hand and touched the wall again.
Better.
Deschamps felt his way along the wall to the cardboard box. A few times he stopped to allow his eyes to refocus and his mind to take control of his body. He could see his breath every time he stopped, becoming a thicker, richer mist.
The box was in front of him. He pulled open the flaps and reached in. A thick, warm coat with a collar of the softest fur lay inside.
Slowly, he retraced his route back to Rossana, the warm coat tucked under his arm. His head was slightly clearer now, the fog beginning to leave his mind.
Rosanna was where he had left her, lying on the floor, her back propped against the wall. Her teeth had begun to chatter. A sharp staccato, like the heels of a flamenco dancer. He noticed the hairs on her bare arms were erect, with the pimples of goosebumps prominent against the skin.
‘Too cold, too cold…’ she muttered through chapped lips, white steam flowing from her mouth, speaking English now.
He didn’t know she could speak English. Where had she learnt to speak the language?
He held the coat in his hands, feeling its woolly warmth and stroking the softness of the fur.
Rossana muttered something again. He draped the coat over her shoulders and nestled in beside her.
What devil had done this? He was only a minor functionary in the police force of the French Concession. He had done nothing wrong, simply doing his job to the best of his ability. True, there were the little gifts from people occasionally. People who wanted better relationships with the police. But that was normal, was it not? A policeman’s salary could never cover the costs of living in Shanghai. And especially not the costs of a mistress with a desire to make her apartment comfortable. It was expected he would take a few gifts. And it was customary for Chinese businessmen to offer them. Who was he to break a tradition that had existed for millenia?
The cold was beginning to worm its way beneath his uniform. He curled his hands, trying to shelter them in the sleeves. His teeth were chattering like those awful clockwork toys given as gifts in fairgrounds, while his body shivered uncontrollably. He wrapped his arms around himself to add another layer of warmth, but it did little to help.
He shook his head, trying to clear it, but he only seemed to stir the drugs to even greater activity. He had to stay alive until they wore off. He had to start moving, jumping up and down, anything and everything to survive.
He looked down at Rossana lying next to him, the coat draped over her shoulders. Her bare feet turning a dirty grey with the cold, the nails white and solid against the skin.
He reached out and touched the soft fur collar of the coat as it lay draped across her.
Soft fur, warm fur.
The light above the door flickered and went out.
28
Danilov pulled his thin coat around his body. The cold wind of a Shanghai night in November slithered through the fabric and into his bones. It was nothing like a winter in Minsk, though. Here, he could at least reach home without having to plough through drifts of snow.
He walked home every night from the station, absorbing the life and energy of the city. Even at this hour, a few minutes past ten, the streets were still buzzing. The trams clanked down the wide avenues between the plane trees, their power coll
ectors rattling on the overhead lines. Children played, beggars begged and hawkers hawked. But it was the smells he enjoyed most: frying bread, steaming dumplings, roasting chestnuts, sizzling buns, bubbling tea. The smells of Shanghai were a melange of spices and pork, fish and bread, sugar and earth, shit and coal.
Not forgetting the smell of people; one could never miss the smell of the people.
He stepped over a bundle of rags lying in the street. The man, for it was a man, muttered a few words and held out the stump of an arm, the flesh red and livid where the hand no longer was. Danilov dug into his pocket and dropped a few coins into the man’s biscuit tin. They would stave off starvation for a few hours.
Up ahead, the lights of the Wing On Department Store blazed their welcome to all those with money and the desire to be parted from it. A crowd were hanging around outside as usual. Either waiting for someone, or just enjoying the sight of people with money to spend and things to buy.
The vicarious enjoyment of consumption. In Shanghai, one didn’t window-shop, or at least not much. Instead one watched others shop with open mouths and envious eyes. But the envy was not of those who had nothing versus those who had it all. Rather it was envy at not being in the same position. Not being able to buy, not being allowed to consume.
Danilov stopped for a moment to roll a cigarette, watching the watchers. They didn’t move from where they stood. Each new departure from the store was greeted with hungry eyes, all asking: ‘What have they bought?’ Peering at the wrapped-up gifts, attempting to guess what was inside. This was consumption as a spectator sport. Danilov was sure the same people came every night for the spectacle. Perhaps whole families came.
He lit the cigarette and walked on. This would have to be his last cigarette of the evening. His daughter had imposed a strict rule against smoking in the house. One of her many rules. But he didn’t mind. He was happy to be with her. To have her around and near him. Her face, her happiness, her joy swelled his chest with pride.
One day he would find her mother and brother. He had been searching for nearly six years now, since they had been separated after fleeing Russia.
He remembered Cartwright’s criticism of him: ‘the supposedly smart detective who can’t even find his own wife’. But what hurt even more was the truth behind the words. He was supposed to be a great detective. He was supposed to be able to solve any crime. But here he was, after nearly six years, still unable to track down his wife and son.
He took a long drag of the cigarette and walked on. One day he would find them. He knew they were somewhere in Siberia, but where? And why hadn’t his wife contacted him or his daughter? Why had she vanished?
He had tried the usual channels – adverts in newspapers, contacting religious and refugee groups – but still nothing. The only answer was to go there and find her himself. After this killer was stopped, he would ask Rock for time off. Surely the man couldn’t refuse his request?
This case had too many questions and too few answers. Who had committed the murders and why had they copied Allen? Was Li Min behind it all, pulling the strings from his prison cell? Who was Johnstone and why had he fled? Who was the girl? Why was she shouting his name? Who was the man in the Shanghai Country Club?
So many questions, no answers. But Danilov was certain this killer would strike again. This man had a taste for blood and a love of pain and cruelty that was only going to be satiated by more murders and more deaths.
He threw his cigarette in the gutter and began to roll another one. A few yards on, at the corner of the street, an old man sat with his hand held up and the stumps of his legs sticking out in front of him. On impulse, Danilov placed the freshly rolled cigarette in the dirt-creased palm of the man’s hand.
The beggar looked at the thin white tube for a moment, quickly pulled off his hat, popped the cigarette inside, and placed the hat back on his lice-infested head.
‘Xie, xie,’ he finally said and smiled, the red, raw gums shining silver wet between the pale lips.
Danilov hurried on. His daughter would be waiting, her arms folded across her chest in a pose women had adopted for centuries to chastise itinerant men.
He reached the gates of their apartment block and stumbled up the brown-tiled stairs to the second floor apartment.
He turned the lock in the door and she was there, waiting for him
‘You’re late. You should have telephoned.’
He took off his hat and coat, hanging them on the stand in the hall, and mimicked her voice. ‘Good evening, Father. Nice to see you, Father. How was your day, Father?’
‘I said all of that stuff an hour ago. You missed it.’ She stood up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Good evening, Father.’
‘Ah, now I feel welcomed.’
He followed her into the living room. She had begun to impose her taste for comfort on him. He wasn’t complaining. Living alone, he had developed a peculiar attraction for austerity, having few items of furniture and no paintings to colour the white plaster walls. She had added colour, a few inexpensive prints from some art gallery, a little too modern for his taste. A new couch and armchairs, the old ones dispatched to the knacker’s yard where they belonged. Three colourful cushions, each one displaying a variation on the Art Deco zig-zags that were all the rage. And on the floor, a deep maroon rug.
The place looked different.
Better.
‘I’m afraid the piroshki aren’t as good as they were an hour ago.’
He smiled at her. ‘Were they edible then?’
‘Not really.’
‘I suppose they are edible now?’
‘Not really. So I went out to get some dumplings from the stall on the corner. I hope you don’t mind. You are late, after all.’
Danilov’s stomach did a hop, skip and jump of delight. He put on a sad face. ‘I was looking forward to some home-cooked food this evening.’
‘I can heat up the piroshki if you like,’ she said brightly.
‘No, no. The dumplings will be fine,’ he said quickly, hoping she wouldn’t notice how quickly.
She did, of course. ‘Don’t worry, you can avoid my cooking this evening. But tomorrow you must come home early, I’m making your favourite.’
‘Draniki?’
‘Of course. I know they won’t be as good as Mother’s but I can try. The dumplings are on the table.’
He sat opposite her and took two dumplings from the steaming mound lying in front of him. She took four. He had never been a great eater, unlike Strachan, never understanding the obsession with food. But recently, he had begun looking forward to the evening with her, sitting across from each other, talking about the cases he was investigating. She had a fine mind, if a little raw and untutored.
The food played its part, he knew. Either stifling conversation if she had cooked. Or enhancing it if she had gone out to buy. Either way, it did not matter. To be with her, to be close to her, was all that mattered.
‘How was your day?’
‘Busy. A murder at the Shanghai Country Club.’
She whistled. ‘An expensive place to die…’
‘Or be killed. The body was in the grounds.’
‘How did it get there?’
‘We don’t know. Yet.’
‘How is Strachan?’
He watched her face. This was a new interest in his detective sergeant. ‘Bearing up. He’s gone back to the station.’
She sat back in her chair. ‘Oh Father, how could you? The man has just lost his mother and you have him working all hours.’
‘It’s for the best. Once burnt by milk, a man will blow on cold water.’
‘The world can’t be explained in Russian sayings.’
‘For me, it can.’ He took another three dumplings; the mixture of pork and chives in a soft pillow of dough was wonderful. He realised how hungry he was. She had stopped eating.
‘The man should be at home, mourning his loss and rebuilding his life.’
‘The be
st way to mourn his loss is to dig himself deeply into work.’
‘Like you did.’
He remembered those years without Elina. ‘Like I did.’
‘Work isn’t the cure for everything, Father.’
‘That may be true, Lenchik, but it is the cure for Strachan.’ He finished the dumplings in his bowl. ‘Save the rest for breakfast?’
She nodded.
‘Shall we finish our game?’
She nodded again. ‘I’ve been looking at the board and I’m sure I can beat you this time.’
‘It’s my move, isn’t it?’
She nodded for the third time.
‘Knight to king’s bishop three.’
She threw her hands up in the air. ‘You can’t do that, Father.’
‘Do what?’
‘Make a move without looking at the board.’
He tapped the side of his head. ‘But it’s all up here, Lenchik. It’s always up here.’
29
Strachan stayed at the station until well past midnight, compiling his notes and making sure the file on the case was up to date. The photographs of the victim at the Country Club were still not back from the photographers so he would have to add them tomorrow. He put a note into the file to remind himself. Perhaps there was something that could help them later.
Reluctantly, he placed the file and his notes on Miss Cavendish’s desk ready for Chief Inspector Rock when he arrived in the morning. He checked them twice, added a few more notes, even retyped them once more when he noticed a few errors in spelling.
But even he realised he could stay at the station no longer; there was nothing left to do that night.
He drove slowly back to his house, trying to postpone the time of his arrival for as long as he could. A few times he debated with himself whether it would be better to check into a hotel for the evening, but common sense won out. One day he would have to go home. If he postponed it now, he would never go back.
He had grown up in this house, ridden his first bicycle here, played on the steps, walked to school from here. His whole life was bound up with this house, tied tightly with ribbons of memory.
The Murder Game Page 8