‘Thank you, Inspector.’
Danilov looked at her face, remembering a vivacious girl who complained of her tired feet and long hours. Now her body lay here on the slab in a mortuary, surrounded by other corpses. All that remained of the woman’s life and energy was blood and muscle and bone. He remembered something his mother used to tell him long ago. ‘A man is a flame, the woman a glow.’
There was no glow left here; the light that had shone from this woman was long gone.
‘Shall I carry on, Inspector?’ Dr Fang interrupted his reverie.
Danilov stopped staring at her face. He wanted to smoke but knew it wasn’t allowed in the morgue. ‘Please do, Doctor.’
‘Good, we have a name. Sally Chen. Age?’
Danilov shook his head.
‘Age unknown.’ The doctor placed his file beside the head of the dead woman. ‘There are similar cuts and marks to our victim from the Country Club, but this woman had far more. Two hundred and eighty-five as far as I can tell. Even with my attention to detail, I may have missed some of the finer incisions.’
‘What was the cause of death, Doctor?’
‘Sepsis, if I’m not mistaken. See the purple blotches on the skin. A classic symptom.’
‘Sepsis?’
The doctor sniffed and pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. ‘Septicaemia. First observed by Hippocrates in the fourth century, and then described as blood rot by Avicenna. You would more commonly refer to it as blood poisoning, Detective Sergeant. But that term is a misnomer as there is no poison involved.’
‘How did she get this sepsis, Doctor?’
‘I don’t know. Usually, the wounds become infected with an endotoxin, the blood stream transports the infection, the body goes into shock, liquid forms in the lungs and the organs began to shut down. Multiple organ failure ensues. In this woman, the kidneys probably failed first, followed by the heart.’
‘The hospital doctor thought she died of a heart attack.’
Dr Fang pushed his glasses back on to the bridge of his nose, where they slid down immediately into their usual position. ‘Hospital doctors often see the end result, rather than the root cause.’
‘Not a nice way to go.’
The doctor sniffed again.’No death is pleasant, Detective Sergeant.’
‘How did the wounds become infected, Doctor?’
‘A dirty knife or razor, perhaps, but that would be speculation, Inspector.’
‘Could the hospital have saved her?’ asked Strachan
‘That is an imprecise question, Detective Sergeant, and, as you are well aware, I’m not in the habit of dealing in suppositions or hypotheses.’
Strachan stared at the body of the young woman lying still on the stainless-steel table. ‘Just facts, nothing but facts.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Are the cuts the same or similar to our victim in the Country Club?’
‘I would say they are the same or similar, Inspector.’
‘So both crimes could possibly have been committed by the same man?’
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. ‘You could think that, Inspector. I couldn’t possibly say.’
‘One other question, Doctor. Given your professional experience and your acquaintance with these victims and with Elsie Everett, were the murders committed in the same manner?’
‘Thank you for your exact wording of the question, Inspector.’ Dr Fang looked at the corpse and across at the other body. ‘Given those parameters, I believe all three victims were killed in the same manner.’
‘But that can’t be. You shot Allen, sir, on Garden Bridge.’
Danilov sighed. ‘The good doctor has only stated that the murders were committed in the same manner, Strachan, not that they were committed by the same man.’
‘Exactly, Inspector.’
‘Is there anything else you discovered, Doctor?’
Dr Fang leant over and moved Sally Chen’s head to the right. Danilov could see two characters incised just below the ear.
‘The characters say America, sir’
‘The country?’
‘Yes, sir – literally “the beautiful country”.’
Danilov stared into the lifeless face of Sally Chen. He remembered her beauty and vivacity, her bobbed hair a symbol of the joy, gin and jazz that was Shanghai. But not any more. The eyes were lifeless. The skin pale and dull. And the playful smirk had vanished to be replaced by the rictus of death, the lips pulled back from the teeth. ‘Were the characters created by the same instrument as those on the Country Club victim?’
‘As a pathologist, I can only say the characters were created with a similar instrument. But as a student of Chinese, I would say it was written by the same hand. Or rather, it was carved by the same hand. See how neat the strokes are, almost as if they had been copied from a textbook.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. Anything else you can tell us?’ The smell of formaldehyde was beginning to irritate Danilov.
The doctor lifted up one of the girl’s lifeless arms. ‘See here, the marks of the rope. She was bound at one point. The wrists show deep bruising where she struggled against her restraints.’ He put the arm down. ‘There are also rope marks on her palms,’ he said, turning over the hands for Danilov to see, ‘the inside of her thighs and her ankles.’
Danilov could see the marks clearly on her legs. Livid, blue marks, lying along the inside of the thigh and along the inside of the ankles.
‘The marks don’t go around her thighs or legs. They are only found on the inside.’
‘Were they inflicted pre-or post-mortem?’
‘Pre-mortem, Inspector. See the bruising is livid, going from purple into blue.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. As ever, your examination has been precise and informed.’
The doctor smiled, pushing his glasses back on his nose. ‘It reminds me so much of the killings nearly two years ago. But there are differences; it’s not quite the same.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. Let us know if you find anything else.’
The doctor nodded and turned to lift the shroud covering another corpse, beginning to work on it immediately.
‘Let’s get out of here, Strachan. I need a cigarette.’
They left the mortuary and walked into the lobby of the morgue. Here, at least, the smell of formaldehyde wasn’t as strong.
‘I might join you, sir.’
‘You don’t smoke.’
‘I’m thinking of taking it up, sir. To help me think.’
They pushed through the large double doors on to the street. ‘Well, you can buy your own.’
A flash of light in their faces. The pop of a bulb exploding. The metallic ching of a shutter.
‘Has the Character Killer made a comeback, Inspector?’
‘Who did he murder?’
‘Who’s the girl?’
A pack of journalists surrounded them like braying hounds around an exhausted fox, circling for the kill.
‘No comment, gentlemen,’ Danilov shouted as he pushed through the pack of reporters.
How had they learnt of the murder?
36
It took them five minutes to fight their way through the reporters and get to the car. Gradually the response from Danilov had descended from being non-committal to a much more definite ‘Get out of my way. Nothing to say.’
Back in the detectives’ room, he sat behind his desk, rearranging everything on it so it was all aligned perfectly. Somebody had moved the lamp off its forty-five-degree angle by at least seventeen degrees. Most annoying. Didn’t they realise that, in order to think, everything had to be perfect? There must be no distractions. Nothing to annoy the mind, so it could focus on the problem at hand.
The other detectives pretended not to notice what he was doing, looking away or reading their newspapers. Only Meaker refused to hide his amusement, chuckling to himself behind his moustache.
Danilov ignored him. ‘Anything back from the lab on the stones or fingerpr
ints?’
‘Nothing yet, sir. I’ve only just sent them.’ He saw Danilov frowning. ‘I’ll chase them up.’
‘Do that. And while you’re at it, remind them no slip-ups on this one. I won’t tolerate shoddy work. “A fish is only good if it is on the hook”.’
‘I’ll avoid the Russian idiom, sir. They wouldn’t understand.’
Danilov reached for his tobacco. ‘Just get the results. Fast.’
There was a knock on the door of the detectives’ room and Miss Cavendish popped her head round. ‘I’ve found you, Inspector Danilov.’
‘And what can I do for you now you’ve found me?’
‘Chief Inspector Rock would like a word.’
‘You’re for it now, Danilov. Rock’s a stickler, he is,’ Meaker shouted from the back of the room.
Danilov ignored him again. ‘Tell him I’ll be along as soon as I can.’
‘He said right away, Inspector. In fact, he said, “Get bloody Danilov, right away.” You seem to have done something to annoy him.’
‘Told you, won’t put up with none of your shit, Danilov.’
He followed Miss Cavendish out of the room and down the hall to Rock’s office. She was right. The Chief Inspector was not in a good mood. He didn’t invite Danilov to sit.
‘Look at this. Who told them?’ He threw a newspaper on the table.
From where he was standing Danilov could see the lurid headline.’I don’t know, sir. They were waiting outside the morgue.’
The Chief Inspector cleared his throat. ‘Never mind. I’ll handle them. I had good relations with the press back in London before I left. They can be useful, if you handle them correctly.’
‘That has not been my experience, sir.’
‘No? You need to hold their hand, that’s all.’
‘I’ll leave it to you, sir.’
‘The best course of action, I think.’
‘Can I go now? The investigation…’
‘Two other things. I read the notes on the case. Well written.’
‘Thank you, sir. Detective Sergeant Strachan is usually detailed.’
‘Tell him to keep up the good work. I always like to congratulate junior officers when they have done exactly as I asked.’
‘I will, sir. You said there was something else?’
‘I did, didn’t I? We’ve had a message from Major Renard, the head of the French Police. He wants you to meet him at the War Memorial immediately.’
‘That’s all, sir. No reason why?’
‘None. But listen to me, Danilov. There are plans and protocols for any interaction with the French Concession police. You need to follow them to the letter.’
‘I will, sir.’
‘But the major was most insistent it should be you and only you this time.’
‘And no reason was given?’
‘None. He was being deliberately French on the phone.’
‘I hardly think it’s deliberate, sir. He is French, after all.’
‘Don’t be obtuse, Danilov, you know what I mean. That peculiar way the French have of making a drama out of a crisis, with much waving of hands and spluttering of jaw. Anyway, he insisted it was urgent, so in the interests of international co-operation, you’d better swan off over there before his liver erupts.’
‘What about the briefing on the Country Club murder? You wanted me to let you know the results of the autopsy.’
‘I did, didn’t I?’ He opened his desk diary. Danilov saw each hour of the day was drawn into neat, fifteen-minute segments, with printed appointments in pencil and ink written in each box. ‘Looks like I have an opening at five this evening. I’ll pencil you in.’ He took a freshly sharpened HB pencil and neatly printed Danilov’s name.
‘Major Renard may keep me longer, sir.’
‘Well, you’ll have to make your excuses and come back. You’re in the book now, Danilov; an appointment is an appointment.’ He closed the book, placing it precisely to the left of his blotter.
‘Yes, sir, see you at five.’
‘Don’t be late, Danilov.’ He returned to a long list of names and numbers typed on the page.
Danilov closed the door quietly behind him. It wouldn’t do to disturb a man and his numbers.
37
The site of the War Memorial had been one of the few things the French and English had been able to agree on in the years after the war. It was built at the junction between the French Concession and the International Settlement, at the point on the Whampoa where the Bund met the Quai de France.
Major Renard was waiting for him in front of the memorial, next to the old French signalling station. Danilov was surprised to see it was covered all around at the base with a pale-cream fabric, like a wind guard at the beach, watched over by Annamese constables.
The major was pacing up and down when Danilov and Strachan arrived, his immaculately shined boots taking on layers of dust from the pavement. The inspector had met Renard once before; eighteen months ago when he had been called to a similar urgent meeting. This time, out of his luxurious office, the major looked small and inconsequential. A precisely dressed mannequin rather than a working police officer.
‘L’Inspecteur Danilov, I wish we could meet under better circumstances.’
‘I received your message, Major, but I have no idea under what circumstances we are meeting.’
‘Come this way, I will show you.’
Danilov followed the major. One of the constables saluted their superior while another held the flap of canvas open. They both stepped through the narrow entrance. Inside was stifling and stuffy, the air as still as Tutankhamun’s tomb. Two more Frenchmen were hovering around waiting for Major Renard to speak. He said nothing, simply stepping aside.
At the base of the War Memorial, two people sat as if resting after a long day’s work, their backs leaning against the wall of pale stone. One was dressed in the uniform of a French policeman, the other was a woman wearing nothing but a light silk dress. Both were looking straight ahead through glassy eyes, their heads upright.
Danilov couldn’t help but notice the woman’s bare feet, the soles and nails an ugly dark swollen grey.
Above their heads, the statue of the Angel of Peace soared, wings outstretched on a plinth as tall as the Cenotaph in London. On the side, the words Ad mortuorum gloria were carved into a bronze plaque commemorating the more than two hundred residents of Shanghai who had died in the Great War. The Chinese who died in the same conflict on the Western Front were not mentioned, of course.
To the glorious dead. Was there a message here? Danilov stepped forward to take a closer look. As he did so, the face of the man came into full view. An officer with white hair and a pale, blotchy skin.
‘Lieutenant Deschamps was found this morning.’
‘How did he die?’
‘Frozen to death.’ The answer was as blunt as the death. The little major sniffed and twisted the end of his moustache.
A French detective stepped forward and touched the head of the lieutenant. For a moment, the body rocked before returning to the same position.
‘Still frozen, as you see. What sort of madman would do this?’
Danilov ignored the question and asked one of his own. ‘Who discovered the body?’
‘A street cleaner. He asked them to move; they didn’t, so he went to help them up. When he touched them, they were cold, an unnatural cold.’
‘What time was this?’
‘After sunrise, around seven.’
‘And they still haven’t been examined?’
The major seemed offended to think there might be any criticism of his actions. ‘The War Memorial is international territory, is it not? We were waiting for your arrival.’
‘I’m sorry, Major, no criticism was meant. We need to send the bodies to Dr Fang for examination as soon as possible. I presume you have no objection.’ Danilov crossed his fingers behind his back. Deschamps was a French citizen. If the major objected, Danilov would ha
ve to work with another pathologist. A prospect he didn’t look forward to.
The major waved his white-gloved hand in front of his face.
Danilov took that as meaning he had no objection. He turned to Strachan. His detective sergeant was staring at the face of Lieutenant Deschamps.
‘Strachan, let Dr Fang know he will have two new customers arriving today.’
Strachan snapped out his reverie. ‘Yes, sir.’ His eyes drifted back to the two dead people. ‘They look like waxworks, sir.’
‘You would too, Strachan, if you had been frozen. Get a move on, man.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Strachan ran out of the tent to find a police call box.
Danilov took a step closer to the bodies, examining the woman. ‘Who is she?’
‘His mistress, Rossana Gurdieva. She lives in an apartment on the rue du Consulat. Neighbours report a few noises in the apartment yesterday evening, but nothing out of the ordinary. She was Russian,’ he added as an afterthought.
Danilov looked closely at the face. The lips were frozen and chapped, cut with deep white creases, but she was beautiful, quite beautiful, with the cat-like eyes of women from the Caucasus.
‘Nobody saw them being taken out of the apartment?’
‘A neighbour reports Deschamps arriving with a bunch of flowers in his arms around seven o’clock. Nobody saw anything else. Hear no evil. See no evil. Speak no evil. That’s Shanghai; nobody ever wants to get involved.’
Danilov looked into her face. The eyelids were still open despite her being upright. She had the most amazing cornflower-blue eyes.
Strachan came bustling into the tent. ‘All arranged, sir.’
Danilov nodded. ‘I will keep you aware of all developments, Major.’
‘Make sure you do, Inspector Danilov; the honour of France has been blackened. We cannot allow that to happen.’ He slapped his swagger stick against the outside of his cavalry boots. ‘Find out who it is. That is an order.’
Danilov thought the major was more used to giving orders than discovering killers. He stared up at the Angel of Peace looming over him. A shiver of fear shook his whole body. ‘There will be more killings…’ he said out loud to the two cold corpses sitting at the base of the War Memorial.
The Murder Game Page 11