Next to the rats was a larger cage with three dogs in it. None of the dogs was moving, their dark eyes just staring at her, drops of slather dripping from their mouths. With a snarl, one of them shot forward, throwing himself at the cage door. Instinctively, she jerked her head back.
The man was high above her now. The legs stretched ever upwards like two immense skyscrapers, the voice distant, godlike. ‘This is your choice. The dogs or the rats?’
‘What… if… no choice?’ she said through cracked and parched lips.
‘What if you make no choice?’ he repeated. ‘I wouldn’t be so obtuse, Miss Cavendish, Not making a choice is a choice in itself, isn’t it? In that case, you would enjoy the attentions of both the rats and the dogs.’
She struggled to free herself. Her body moved slightly against the compacted earth and her head shook violently, but soon she was exhausted, panting.
‘You will be pleased to hear the rats come from Soochow Creek. They haven’t eaten for two days. If we don’t let them out soon, they will begin to eat each other. The dogs, on the other hand, have been specially bred to attack humans. They use Pavlov’s techniques, you know. A reward when they bite, and a beating if they do not. They soon get the message.’
As if knowing they were being discussed, all three dogs threw themselves at the cage door, scrambling, chewing and clawing at the wire to get at their prey.
She jerked her head back, but it could only move three inches.
‘You will also notice there is a clock above the cages.’
She hadn’t noticed.
She did now.
A large clock, like the type in the waiting room of a railway station. The time showed ten o’clock. She wasn’t certain whether it was morning or evening. A thick black wire ran from the clock, splitting into two above the cages, before attaching itself to the door mechanism.
‘You may be wondering why I have brought you here, Miss Cavendish.’
She stared at the cages, not answering.
‘Even if you are not wondering, I am going to tell you. It’s all about the war…’
‘I was in Shanghai during the war.’
‘I know that. Didn’t you have a suitor, a clerk at one of the Hongs? A man by the name of Turner, James Turner?’
She lifted her head to hear the voice more clearly. What was he saying? ‘I knew a James Turner, but he was killed in the war.’
‘Didn’t you send him a small wooden box with a white feather in it?’
How did he know? Nobody knew. It was my secret. My secret.
He was annoying you, wasn’t he? With his constant attentions and offers of marriage. You thought it was time to get rid of him. Shaming him into joining up worked a treat. A pity he died at Passchendaele. But a lot of good men died in the slime and mud, didn’t they? Were you glad when he died or simply relieved.’
‘It wasn’t me. James wanted to fight, wanted to join up. I didn’t force him.’
‘But you encouraged him, didn’t you? With your little gift being the final persuader.
Her head sunk on to her chest. How did he know after all these years?
‘I will be generous. You have until one o’clock to make your choice. If you don’t, the rats and the dogs will both be released. I hesitate to think what they will do to your face. I’m told rats prefer eating the eyes first. A delicacy for them, I suppose. The dogs prefer biting and gnawing at the nose and ears. To make your choice, simply shout. One of my associates will ensure only one door opens at the appointed time.’
She saw him turn back and check the clock with his own watch.
‘I’m afraid I will miss your choice. I have to greet another guest. Work before pleasure, don’t you know.’
The man walked towards her and she could see his Oxford brogues and the legs stretching upwards and away from her to the ceiling. He knelt and suddenly she felt the hard skin of the mask touching the top of her head, touching her hair.
He was trying to kiss her.
She jerked her head backwards and forwards, trying to escape from his cold touch. But he pressed down, through her hair on to the top of her head. ‘I always wanted to do that, Miss Cavendish. And now, unfortunately, it’s time to do this.’
Then she felt the sharp bite of pain below her ear.
He was cutting her.
The knife sliced into her neck, the blood oozed out. She could feel the drops sliding beneath her shirt.
How will I get the stains out of my silk shirt?
He wiped off the blood with a dirty rag. And she saw the sharp blade of the knife move towards her neck once more. She tried to move her head away, to escape the sharp point, but she couldn’t move.
There was no pain now. She couldn’t feel anything any more but she knew he was still cutting, still wiping away blood.
Then he stopped. ‘It’s well executed, even if I do say so myself. The blood has the added advantage of exciting our friends.’
Despite herself, Miss Cavendish focused on the rats and dogs in their cages. They had all stopped moving, their noses raised into the air, sniffing and snorting.
The mask came down and touched the top of her head again.
He was kissing her hair.
There was a smell, a sweet, cloying smell: French violets. She recognised it, knew it from before. But it couldn’t be: he was dead.
‘Inspector Allen,’ she said through her cracked lips.
The man shuffled away from her. She could still see the shoes and the knees as he leant over her.
‘You always were a clever one, Miss Cavendish. Now, you have less than three hours left to enjoy your cleverness. Make the right choice, won’t you?’
54
‘Sir?’
Inspector Danilov was sitting in his chair blowing smoke rings up at the ceiling. ‘I’m thinking, Strachan.’
‘Sorry, sir.’ Strachan watched as the smoke rings gradually dissipated into the already smoky air of the detectives’ room. ‘But why was there a bishop in the middle of the cold store?’
Danilov leant over and stubbed the roll-up into the ashtray, where it joined a heap of the ends of his other cigarettes. ‘It was another clue, Strachan. I keep feeling that the chess pieces are the most important clues, but I haven’t worked out why yet.’
‘More important than the messages, sir?’
‘The messages are to pinpoint a particular crime; the chess clues are part of a bigger picture.’
‘What bigger picture, sir?’
Danilov began to roll yet another cigarette. ‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t be sitting here chatting with you, Strachan.’
‘No, I suppose not, sir. Just one more question…’
Danilov lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, allowing the tobacco to work its magic in his mind. ‘What is it, Strachan?’
‘Why didn’t you tell Chief Inspector Rock about the messages in the newspaper?’
‘Because we can’t be certain there is a link yet, Strachan. We haven’t proved anything.’
‘But it seems pretty obvious to me, sir.’
‘Perhaps, but let’s not jump to conclusions. He reached forward and picked up the sheet of paper where the poem had been printed out in Strachan’s juvenile hand.
‘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.’
‘This case has so many clues, so much evidence, and yet we’re no closer to finding the killer than we were two days ago.’
Strachan turned round to face his boss. ‘Aren’t we going to do what the Chief Inspector asked?’
Danilov sighed, a long, patient sigh. ‘Chief Inspector Rock is a good man who works hard and whose heart is in the right place. But there are times, Strachan, when contemplation, not action, is called for.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘One must arrange the facts in here, sort out what
is relevant and what is merely chaff that needs to be blown away.’
‘I quite liked writing everything down, Inspector; it clarified many things for me.’
‘It is sometimes a useful exercise, Strachan, but unfortunately the chaff gets mixed up with the wheat in those exercises. Too much information can lead to paralysis, an inability to see the trees for the wood, to use a rather surprising English idiom.’
‘Actually, it’s the other way round, sir. You can’t see the wood for the trees.’
‘But it makes no sense, Strachan. Anybody can see the wood; it’s the individual trees that are important. It’s knowing which matters and which does not…’
There was a soft knock at the door.
‘Miss Cavendish has come looking for us, sir.’
But a different head popped around the side of the door. A head with a moustache, a crew cut and a broad Geordie accent that went by the name of Sergeant Wolfe. ‘I’ve got an old lady out front, says she’s the mother of Miss Cavendish.’
Danilov took one look at the poem and jumped up. ‘Where is she?’
‘I’ve put her in one of the interview rooms, number five; it’s the cleanest.’
‘Come on, Strachan. We need to talk to Mrs Cavendish.’
Danilov rushed out of the detectives’ room, past the startled Sergeant Wolfe, who blurted, ‘She was complaining Miss Cavendish hadn’t been home.’
* * *
The old woman sitting opposite Danilov wore a gay orange dress, cut in a modern style. Her grey hair was brushed back from her forehead, rings glistened on her fingers, and the skin of her face was as flawless as a China doll, highlighted with bright-orange lipstick to match the dress.
Danilov couldn’t imagine a greater contrast to the conservative, almost dowdy, clothes of Miss Cavendish.
The old woman was smoking a cheroot in an ivory holder. ‘She always comes home, never stays out. Sometimes, I wished Betsy would, you know, enjoy life a little more.’
Betsy, so that was Miss Cavendish’s Christian name, thought Danilov. She had never told him and he had never asked.
Strachan passed the old lady an ashtray so she could flick the ash off the end of her cheroot.
‘So, she didn’t come home at all last night?’ asked Danilov.
The old woman rolled her eyes. ‘That’s what I’ve been telling you. Were you not listening? Your English is good, but I can hear a foreign twang.’
‘I’m Russian, madam.’
‘That explains it.’ She took another drag from the end of her ivory cigarette holder.
‘Please tell me exactly what happened last night?’
Another long sigh and roll of the eyes. ‘We were supposed to go to the Bridge Club. Tuesdays are my bridge night. Never miss a night of bridge; keeps the mind active, you know. And luckily the club only allows the best sort of people to enter.’ She sniffed, staring pointedly at Danilov.
‘What time were you supposed to go?’
‘We were due there at seven o’clock. The Aldersons are such sticklers for punctuality. Betsy had worked late the night before – a new Chief Inspector, she told me – so I warned her not to be late.’
Danilov turned to Strachan. ‘Check with Sergeant Wolfe what time Miss Cavendish left last night.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Please continue, madam.’
‘Well, come seven ‘o clock, there was no sign of Betsy. I rang her office but there was no answer. So I had to go alone. You should have heard the complaints from the Aldersons when I arrived late. I had to apologise, profusely. Me… apologising…’
‘And you didn’t see Miss Cavendish later?’
‘The Aldersons escorted me home in their Packard. I do like the Packard, such a comfortably American car.’
‘And?’
‘And I arrived home around ten. She still wasn’t there. I was so annoyed, thinking she had chosen to work late again rather than taking me to my bridge night.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘What was I to do? I went to bed. Slept like a log. But when I woke up and rang for my tea – Betsy always brings me tea in the morning before she goes to work – well, there was no answer.’ She sniffed and looked around for the ashtray. Inspector Danilov held it out for her. ‘I even had to get up and make it myself.’
Strachan came back into the room. ‘She left the station at 6.30 last night, sir.’
‘Then you came here?’
‘I wanted to give her a piece of my mind. How dare she stay out all night, leaving me alone. Who knows what could have happened…’
Danilov stood up. ‘You should go home now, Mrs Cavendish, in case your daughter returns. One of our drivers will take you back.’
He helped the old lady up out of her chair. ‘Who’s going to look after me, Inspector?’
‘We’ll get a constable to sit with you, Mrs Cavendish.’
‘Make sure he has a moustache. I do like moustaches.’
‘As you wish.’ Danilov nodded at Strachan and the detective sergeant took the old woman’s arm. ‘Join me in the Chief Inspector’s office as soon as you have made the arrangements, Strachan.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The inspector knew at that moment, with piercing clarity, that he had a problem.
55
Miss Cavendish was exhausted. Sweat dripped down her face, smudging her mascara and stunning her eyes. Her body ached. She could feel the rope cutting into her wrists and ankles.
Cutting deep.
She had struggled for the last two hours against the earth and the tightness of the bindings without loosening either.
The clock above the cages ticked on.
She let her chin rest on the ground in front of her head. Fifteen yards away the rats were still gnawing at the wire of the cage in order to escape, fighting and biting each other in their desire to get to her. Their noses raised to the air, sniffing her fear. With each waft of scent, becoming ever more excited, forming a wriggling mass of brown fur.
The dogs were quiet, watching her, slather still dripping from their mouths on to the ground. They had stopped gnawing at the bars of their cage and stared at her instead. Dark, satanic eyes glowering at her.
The clock above the cages ticked on.
A million thoughts had raced through her mind since Allen had left. How had he survived? Why was he still alive? Why was he doing this to her? They had always been such good friends in the past, sharing gossip and the occasional chocolate from the box on her desk. Why was he doing this to her?
Both hands were pointing upwards now.
Noon.
Only one hour to go.
Which way should she choose? The rats or the dogs?
She shut her eyes.
Don’t think about it. It’s just a bad dream, a nightmare. You’ll wake up soon. Chief Inspector Rock has been working you too hard, that’s all, and you shouldn’t have eaten the cheese before you went to bed. You know how it gives you indigestion. Mother is always warning you against it.
Mother.
She had forgotten about Mother. She hadn’t taken her to the bridge game last night. Mother would be angry with her. Furious. But what could she do?
She opened her eyes.
The dogs were still staring at her, slather dripping on the floor.
The rats wriggled and jostled, biting each other as their bodies pressed against the wire of the cage. One of them was bleeding and the others were biting into the brown fur. Sharp, pointed teeth ripping and tearing into the flesh.
She screamed and screamed and screamed.
Nobody came. Nobody was ever going to come.
She screamed again.
The rats stopped ripping the flesh of the dead body for a moment, noses and whiskers sniffing the air.
The dogs just stared.
The clock above the cage ticked on.
Miss Cavendish screamed again.
56
‘But, sir, I’m sure he’s taken Miss Cavendish.’
>
‘Why, Inspector Danilov? Based on some poem printed in the newspaper?’
Chief Inspector Rock was sitting behind his desk, his arms folded and resting on his chest. A new clock was mounted on the wall above the policeman’s head. Its ticking a loud distraction.
Danilov was standing in front of him, counting off on his fingers. ‘First, Chief Inspector, Miss Cavendish never misses work. Second, her mother has reported her missing. Third, she was last seen leaving the station at 6.30 last night…’
‘She could have gone away, Inspector. Women do that all the time.’ He shook his head. ‘No, it’s too early to identify Miss Cavendish as the next victim. We don’t have enough evidence.’ His eyes darted towards his in-tray. A stack of files was waiting for review. Above his head, the loud ticking reminded him he was wasting time.
‘And there are also the characters inscribed on the body of Rossana Gurdieva.’
‘You told me it was two characters. The characters for England, apparently.’
‘Again, he’s letting us know the nationality of the next victim.’
Rock smiled. ‘I don’t have to remind you…’ He reached forward and opened a book on his desk, his finger tracing a column of numbers. ‘There are 16,458 British nationals residing in Shanghai at the moment. If you are right, and I stress if, any one of those people could be the victim. Have we checked missing persons recently?’
Danilov’s eyes looked up to the ceiling. Why was the man so slow? Why couldn’t he see what was in front of him? Why couldn’t he see the obvious?
The clock ticked over.
12.15.
Danilov scratched his head. Try once more. Help him to see. ‘It was the poem that was the final clue, sir.’
‘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.’
‘I’m not an expert but not good poetry, is it?’
‘But it can only refer to Miss Cavendish, sir.’
Chief Inspector Rock reached to his left and pulled out a file from his in-tray. He read the title: Holiday Provisions for Overseas Sergeants and Other Ranks. He needed to sort this out and quickly. Far too much time was being lost travelling to and from the United Kingdom. There must be a more satisfactory method of arranging people’s leave.
The Murder Game Page 17