Danilov watched for a moment as the sailors went about their duties efficiently. The large ship, a cruiser perhaps, was brought alongside the buoy, ropes thrown from the bow, a flume of brown water at the stern as it came to a rest exactly where it was supposed to be. Three more long whoop-whoops were its final signal to the city, saying, ‘I’ve arrived, I’m here. Look at me.’
As the night descended and the street lights grew brighter, Danilov pulled his tobacco out of his pouch and rolled another cigarette. Plenty of time before he had to face Earnshaw, the editor of the North China Daily News.
For a moment, he thought of a body he had once fished out of here, its stomach cut open, the entrails tumbling forth like snakes. That was another victim of the Character Killer, a young man called Henry Sellars. Danilov made a point of remembering the names of all the victims. They weren’t bodies or corpses to him but people whose lives had been tragically cut short.
He stared into the grey waves on top of the earth-dark water. Had the Character Killer, Thomas Allen, survived the shooting? Had he survived the fall into this river? Or was somebody impersonating him, using similar techniques and methods to kill?
And, as he asked himself these questions, others began to flood into his mind.
Why did the killer leave the pawn in the man’s hand? Was it a clue? Or a warning? Or was it just one more of a series of tests he had to pass?
Somehow these killings were all connected to him. He was sure of that. But how and, more importantly, why?
He looked downstream towards the War Memorial, misted behind the haze of coal smoke, petrol fumes, dust and human exhaust hanging over the city like a stained and unwashed blanket. This morning, two people had been cruelly placed at its base. They were meant to be discovered there. Why?
He flung the half-smoked cigarette into the water. There were too many questions in this case and not enough answers. The truth was out there, though, just out of his grasp. He could feel it, sitting there, taunting him to reach for it.
He strode across the street and climbed the steps of number seventeen. The offices of the North China Daily News, Shanghai’s leading and most powerful newspaper, were lit brightly, sending a message to the world that this newspaper was awake and vigilant. The News set the agenda for the Municipal Council, reported the gossip on the streets, published the latest sports and weather, but, above all, supported the British administration in its control of the city. It was one of the pillars on which that control was founded. It was conservative with a small ‘c’, but ever ready to criticise the police if it felt standards, of which it considered itself the guardian, had been compromised.
After negotiating the usual line-up of commissionaires and functionaries, Danilov’s warrant card quickly gained him entry to the office of the current upholder of those moral, religious and social standards: Robert Earnshaw.
‘Hello, Danilov, good to see you again. I wondered when you would be back.’ The man’s thick eyebrows marched like caterpillars across his pasty white forehead. His thick northern English accent, still present despite living in the East for over thirty years, sometimes made it difficult for Danilov to understand him.
He didn’t get up from behind his desk. Danilov sat facing him without being asked.
‘What can I do for you?’ The editor stared at Danilov across his expansive desk. ‘You’re not here for my sparkling repartee, so how can I help thee?’
‘Your recent editions have a notice published on page seven…’
‘We get lots of notices and even more ads. It’s what makes us a profitable newspaper. My publisher knows his business and I know mine.’
‘Your publisher?’
‘Mr Morriss. But he’s in England at the moment. Think he prefers the beer there. Can’t stand the place myself. I’m a Shanghailander, and proud of it.’
The broad northern accent and self-identification with a city in China struck Danilov as contradictory. But obviously Earnshaw couldn’t see it.
‘Why would I go back to bugger all in Blackburn when I’ve got everything here?’
‘Why indeed, Mr Earnshaw? So your publisher handles the commercial side of the business?’
‘Well, his assistant does when he’s in England.’
‘His assistant?’
‘Arthur Trainer. Earnshaw relit a cigar smouldering quietly in the ashtray. ‘Good man, Arthur,’ he said through clouds of fragrant smoke, the handiwork of some Cuban peasant.
‘Could I meet him?’
‘Already gone for the day. I’ll get him to ring you, if you want?’
Danilov checked his watch. Seven o’clock. ‘Is there anybody I can talk to on the commercial side?’
Earnshaw sat back in his chair, the eyebrows now raised almost to his hairline, or where the hairline would have been if the man had any hair. He took another long puff of the cigar. ‘What’s going on, Danilov?’ he said suspiciously. ‘Why are you suddenly interested in our commercial side?’
Danilov played with the hat in his hands. ‘I’m not at liberty to speak about it at this moment.’
Earnshaw stood up. ‘And I’m not at liberty to let you talk to our commercial people. Goodbye, Inspector.’
A large hairy hand was stuck in Danilov’s face. He ignored it. Earnshaw sat down again.
‘I could get a court order to see your records.’
‘So it’s the records you’re after? Why?’
‘They may have a relationship with a case we’re working on.’
The editor’s face was lost in thought for a moment. ‘Always happy to help our friends in the police. One day, I’m sure the aid will be reciprocated, won’t it, Danilov?’
The heavy hint lay between them like a turd at a dinner party.’
Earnshaw pressed a button on the intercom. ‘Get Lou in here, will you?’
‘Yes, Mr Earnshaw,’ came a tinny response from the new-fangled machine. Danilov wondered why Earnshaw didn’t just bellow; it would be more in keeping with his character. Modernity may have its advantages after all.
A few moments later, there was a tentative tap on the door and a bald-headed man wearing thick bottle-bottom lenses stepped into the room. He seemed nervous in the presence of the famous editor.
‘Lou, this is Inspector Danilov, from the Shanghai Municipal Police. He’d like to ask you a few questions.’
Danilov stood up to lead the man out of Earnshaw’s office.
‘Oh, no, you don’t, Danilov. You ask the questions here, in front of me.’
Danilov bit his tongue. ‘As you wish, Mr…?’
‘Cipher,’ the man replied quickly.’
‘Like the code, Danilov,’ laughed Earnshaw. ‘A proper enigma is our Mr Cipher.’
‘I sure you’ve never heard that joke before, Mr Cipher?’
The man remained silent.
Danilov continued. ‘In your recent editions, you have a notice on page seven…’
Earnshaw leant forward to hear everything.
‘I remember that. Strange, isn’t it? Somebody paying to put poetry in our paper,’ said the clerk in a quiet, whispering voice.
‘Poetry? There’s poetry in the paper?’ Earnshaw grabbed the day’s edition and opened it on page seven. ‘You’re bloody right, Danilov. Bloody poetry in my bloody paper.’
‘How did you get the copy for the notice?’
‘The usual way…’
‘Which is?’
‘Through the telephone. A man ordered this size and position. He was very specific: page seven, bottom left, quarter page.’
‘There were two poems on two consecutive days. Was it the same man?’
‘Yes, I believe so.’
‘What’s going on, Danilov?’
The inspector held up his hand and fixed his gaze on the nervous man in front of him. ‘Can you remember anything about the man? His voice, any accent?’
‘None I could hear. He was English, I’m sure, but not with an accent I recognised. A sort of bland voice, if you kno
w what I mean?’
‘I do, Mr Cipher. Anything else you can tell us?’
Cipher thought for a moment. ‘Not much. A man, aged about forty, I would guess. Not young, anyway, and not old. Extremely precise in his instructions. Knew exactly what he wanted. Some of our advertisers never know what they want. I was on the phone to a Mr Morgan this week…’
Danilov held up his hand again. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Cipher.’
The man understood the interview was finished. He walked to the door but, as he put his hand on it, his head came up and he said, ‘There is one other thing, Inspector.’
‘What’s that, Mr Cipher?’
‘He phoned through another message not half an hour ago. It’s for tomorrow’s paper.’
‘Please get it, Mr Cipher.’
The man rushed out of the room, returning thirty seconds later with a printed form in his hand. ‘Here it is; we haven’t put it in yet.’
Danilov stood up and took the form.
‘A lady, pearl adorned,
Her life always scorned,
In England, never a foot would set,
At one, her end be met,
Rats rotten to the core,
Let slip the dogs of war.’
‘Is this exactly what was dictated over the telephone, Mr Cipher?’
The clerk seemed affronted by the question. His large moustache bristled, ‘It is exact, Inspector. I took it down myself.’
Danilov read it through once again.
‘What’s going on, Danilov? Bloody tell me what’s going on.’
‘I wish I knew, Mr Earnshaw. But one thing I’m certain of: it’s not good news.’
45
Detective Sergeant Strachan sat on a rickety stool at his favourite street hawker’s stall. He realised he hadn’t yet eaten that day, a first for him. He ordered a plate of sheng jian gao and bowl of shansi leng mian.
He had done as Danilov asked and checked with the Black Cat Club where Sally Chen worked. There was no record of a Rossana Gurdieva. She could have used a dancing name, a wunu, as they called it, but the club would have had her real name as well. They were sure Sally hadn’t known any Russians. Said they didn’t hang around with those sorts of people. Apparently, there was a class structure even among the dancing girls, with the newly arrived Russians on the lowest step of the ladder. As one of the girls had said, ‘Those Russians give their bodies away to anybody for free. We’ve nothing to do with them.’
He had also checked Johnstone’s alibi with his girlfriend. She had confirmed he had spent last night with her, becoming quite angry as he questioned her.
‘And where was the bastard? We were supposed to shop for a new fur this morning and he didn’t meet me at the cafe. Has he been two-timing me?’
Strachan had to calm her down, giving her the address of Ward Street Gaol where she could visit Johnstone on Sunday.
She threw the address away.
The sheng jian bao arrived first, hot from the griddle. The buns were perfectly crispy on the bottom and soft and gooey on top. He picked one up with his chopsticks and bit into the dough. The mix of savoury pork and piping-hot broth squirted into his mouth and over his jacket. Never mind, the taste was wonderful.
He finished the plate of three quickly and took his handkerchief to wipe the rich, oily broth from his jacket. His mother would criticise him when he went home.
And then it hit him. She wasn’t waiting for him any more. She would never wait for him. There would be no more pork bone soup, no more xiao long bao, no more sweet bean soup. He always thought of his mother and food together. It was as if the two were inextricably linked. The warmth and comfort of his mother linked to the warmth and comfort of food. He couldn’t remember her ever hugging him or kissing him. Chinese mothers never displayed such forms of affection. There were no soft words of encouragement or support. Her words were always to tell him he hadn’t done well enough; that he must be better, work harder, study longer, be more like his father.
But she did love him, he knew that. She loved him with all her heart. She never said it, but showed it every day in the food she cooked for him.
Her food, her heart.
The laoban placed the bowl of shansi leng mian in front of him. The fine wheat noodles were swimming in a rich, sweet, gingery braising liquid flavoured with eels, one of his favourites.
But he looked at the dish and realised he wasn’t hungry any more. He called the laoban back and asked for the bill.
‘But you ain’t eaten your food. Summat wrong?’
‘No, they’re perfect.’
‘So, eat your food. Thousands starvin’ and you waste good food.’
The man sounded like his mother. He spotted a beggar, limping past, one foot missing and the other bare. ‘Give it to him. He needs it more than me.’
‘Wasting good food on beggars… what’s ‘e world comin’ to?’
But the laoban picked up the bowl anyway and gestured for the beggar to approach. The man was surprised and reluctant at first. But he saw the steaming bowl of noodles in the hawker’s hand and limped over.
The hawker pointed to a seat away from the others and gave him the bowl and a pair of chopsticks.
The beggar inhaled the aroma of the eel and soy and ginger. A look of joy came over his face, as if it were New Year and the God of Fortune had called to him and him alone. Carefully, he picked up a slice of eel covered in the soya braising liquid and placed it slowly between his lips.
Strachan paid the hawker.
‘This stuff’s wasted on him. He would’ve been happy with a few scraps.’
‘Tell him it’s from my mother.’ Strachan walked away. It was time to meet Danilov at the morgue. He couldn’t be late or else he would face the scowl of Dr Fang and a withering look from the inspector. A look to make him want to jump into the deepest and dirtiest reaches of the Whampoa.
The beggar slurped a long strand of noodles loudly. And, for the first time since his mother died, Strachan felt strangely happy.
46
She was strolling down the street in the peculiar way she always did; a proud walk, her handbag sitting in the crook of her right arm and her left swinging in time like a soldier.
He knew Miss Cavendish would take this way home. She always took this way. Walking for five minutes to the stop outside Lester Hospital, and taking the tram to Chekiang Road. A short walk down the plane tree-lined street and she was home, waiting to be greeted by her mother, gin and tonic in hand.
Every day the same way. So predictable. So English.
He popped a sweet in his mouth. French violets. How he loved the way the delicacy melted on his tongue without his having to bite into it. He had developed a taste for them during the war, waiting in the trenches, time and the innumerable possibilities for death stretching before him.
The taste flooded his mouth, reminding him of the war, and the sweet possibility of death.
He had survived; thousands hadn’t. Even more, he had survived with a mission; to rid the world of those who had transgressed the rules of the gods.
It was out there, in no man’s land, that the gods had first spoken to him, whispered in his ear, preparing him for his mission. Here in Shanghai, their voices had become stronger, more compelling, more urgent. The time was now, they told him; there were so many transgressors here, so many ready to be punished. Here was Sodom and Gomorrah and he was to cleanse the city of its evil.
He had begun his work, begun his mission to exorcise this world, removing those who transgressed against the laws of Yama, against the laws of the gods.
But then Danilov had stepped in and stopped him. Just when he was getting stronger. Just when people were beginning to take notice. Just when the gods were seeing the righteousness of his cause. Just when justice was being served on those who had escaped justice.
But he was ready now. All he had to do was remove Danilov and he could begin again. The inspector represented everything that was evil in Shanghai; a man
who had abandoned his family.
Such men must be punished.
He focused on the present once more. Must keep in the present. She was closer now.
But today she wouldn’t reach her home. Her mother would wait in vain for her, the ice melting in the glass. She would have to ask the boy to make a fresh one. Oh, the waste, she would think.
She was passing him now, head held high, arm swinging.
He gave the signal.
His men, his dogs of war, leapt out and grabbed her from behind, swiftly placing the formaldehyde pad over her mouth. They were good at their work, his men, trained by the Green Gang since they were young. He paid them well now, too well. They would soon be demanding more money. He would have to get rid of them and hire more. Thugs were two a penny in Shanghai.
Her limp body was placed in the back of the van. He told them to be gentle with her. They shouldn’t damage the goods before he was ready.
The doors opened and his men slid into the back seat.
He had a special treat, a special choice waiting for this one. A choice given to him, the Judge of Souls, by Yama himself.
A prayer from his youth popped into his head. ‘Forgive us this day, our daily bread. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those that trespass against us.’
Weakness.
There will be no forgiveness. Not for the Sodom and Gomorrah of the East.
They must all be punished. But Danilov must be removed first. He had set the plan and the trap. Danilov was about to put his head in the noose. He didn’t know it yet, but he was.
The idea excited him, sending a forbidden thrill down his spine.
But first he must bait the trap.
Miss Cavendish had a choice to make. One she wouldn’t enjoy at all.
47
‘We’ll start with the lieutenant, shall we?’
Dr Fang lifted the shroud covering Deschamps’s body with his customary theatrical flick of the wrist.
‘You must understand these are preliminary findings only. I have completed these two autopsies as quickly as I could as a courtesy to the French authorities, but I reserve the right to change my opinions should fresh evidence appear at a later date.’ His speech over, the doctor pushed his spectacles back on to the non-existent bridge of his nose.
The Murder Game Page 14