Danilov was still standing in front of him.
‘I’m not convinced, Inspector. Carry on with the assignment you were given this morning.’
He opened the file and began to read it.
‘I don’t think you realise the urgency of this case, Chief Inspector. If we don’t find Miss Cavendish soon, she will be murdered.’
‘And I don’t think you realise, Inspector, you have no evidence she has even gone missing, let alone been kidnapped.’
Danilov was still standing there.
‘You have your orders, Danilov. Do I need to repeat them?’
‘No, sir.’ Danilov turned on his heels. ‘Come on, Strachan, we have work to do.’
57
Her ear was hurting. The blood had trickled down her neck and beneath her collar. She could feel it had stopped flowing now and congealed into a dark, sticky mass.
But when it stopped, the pain began. A dull ache, like a toothache but behind her ear, throbbing.
She opened her eyes.
The clock ticked over to 12.20. Should she shout out now? Would anybody hear her? Her voice was already hoarse. She had shouted and shouted and shouted, but nobody came.
Nobody came.
The dogs were still watching her, their dark eyes red-rimmed and evil.
One of the rats had nearly gnawed through the wire of the cage. She could see its sharp teeth in the pink mouth, pulling and tugging at the wire, its black whiskers and brown nose pulled back in a snarl as it attacked the cage. The rest still writhed and shimmered, one mass of dirty brown hair, pink feet and sharp claws.
It was the sounds she noticed most. As if, by cutting her behind the ear, Allen had sharpened her hearing. The ticking of the clock, counting the seconds she had left to live. The panting of the dogs as they stood and stared at her through the wire mesh. The rustle of mud-soaked fur on fur as the rats rubbed against each other’s bodies. The sharp metallic scrape as one rat gnawed at the wire.
And the sound of her own fear. She could hear she was afraid. The little whimpers. The rasp of her breath. The slight trickle of the blood down her neck.
The hiss of a speaker. A voice speaking to her. Not Allen’s voice, a Chinese voice. ‘You have forty minutes to choose before I release them both. Which cage do you choose?’
Which do I choose?
She looked at the dogs and then at the rats.
Which do I choose?
A drop of sweat trickled down her forehead and stung her eye. She blinked.
Which do I choose?
And she screamed again, hoping against hope that someone, somewhere, could hear her.
58
Danilov slammed his fist down on the table. ‘Damn the stupidity.’
Detective Sergeant Strachan remained quiet, staring into the air above his desk.
‘The man can’t see what’s obvious even when the evidence is as plain as a Cossack’s horse.’
‘What are we going to do, sir?’
‘Do, Strachan? We are going to find Miss Cavendish.’
‘But the Chief Inspector…’
Danilov inhaled deeply and began to roll a cigarette, holding it between his index and middle fingers, enjoying the comfort of the white paper with its core of tobacco. ‘If the Chief Inspector had only an ounce of intuition, he would understand the importance of a multitude of clues coming together to form a pattern. Always look for the patterns, Strachan.’
‘You’ve said that before, sir.’
Danilov lit his roll-up and inhaled, feeling the warm smoke relax into his lungs and spark his brain into life. ‘It’s key, Strachan. What are the patterns here?’
‘Our killer…’
‘Let’s call him Thomas Allen, because it is him. I shot him on Garden Bridge but obviously didn’t kill him. Somehow he survived and has returned to get his revenge.’
‘Revenge?’
‘Can’t you see the pattern, Strachan? The victims are all linked to us. They have all helped us in the past.’
‘Except the American man, sir. We don’t know him.’
‘He is the exception, I admit. There must be a link; we just haven’t discovered what it is yet.’
‘But if that’s true, it means…’
‘We have to be cautious, Strachan. Extremely cautious…’ He inhaled another long draft of tobacco. ‘Read the poem in the newspaper again.’
Strachan picked up the paper and coughed once.
‘You’re not on the stage, Strachan; a simple read will do.’
Strachan coughed again and looked at Danilov sheepishly before reading:
‘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.’
‘It’s not well written, sir.’
‘Chief Inspector Rock said the same thing. Another poetry critic; you’ll be writing novels next.’
‘Tried that, sir. Wasn’t very good at it; prefer to read them instead.’
‘Good, at least the world won’t have to suffer your tortured prose. Anyway, this isn’t meant to be Pushkin; it’s a clue. Our killer wants her to be found.’
‘Why, sir? He killed the others.’
‘But he left clues for them too. Clues that would have led us to them if we had been quick enough.’
‘Yes, sir. But where is this one leading us?’
Danilov stubbed out the end of his roll-up in the ashtray. ‘I don’t know, Strachan.’ He glanced at the clock on the wall, which said 12.20.
For a moment a tingle went down his back. His intuition told him he had missed something important. What was it? Was the time significant?
‘Strachan, read the first poem again, will you?’
Strachan dug through the mound of newspapers on his desk. ‘Here it is, sir,’ he said, holding up the copy of the North China Daily News.’
‘Well, read it out man.’
Strachan cleared his throat.
‘A man, blond on blond,
Of music and life is fond,
From the floating world did leave,
A slice in time his life to grieve,
The beautiful country at six was born,
No traveller returns to mourn.’
‘Once again, the clues fit our victim. A man from the beautiful country, America, killed by knife cuts to his body.
‘And the floating world?’
‘A Japanese phrase, isn’t it? Referring to the world of prostitutes and courtesans. Perhaps our man spent time in that world.’ Danilov lit another roll-up. The clock ticked on to 12.23. What was he missing about the time? Why was the time important? ‘Read the second poem, Strachan.’
The detective searched through his desk again.
‘Two lovers, money joined,
Pleasure taken, pleasure purloined.
From France, a soldier came,
From the steppes, his lover tame,
At two, they did live once so jolly,
Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.’
Danilov suddenly sat up. ‘Strachan what time was the man found?’
Strachan opened his notebook. ‘At 12.30 in the Country Club, sir.’
‘And the bodies of our French lieutenant and his mistress?’
‘Found at approximately 6.30, sir.’
Danilov glanced at the clock. ‘But what time did they die, I wonder?’
Strachan checked his notes once more. ‘Dr Fang couldn’t state a time of death. The freezing of the bodies made it impossible.’
‘But it could have been at two o’ clock?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Danilov slumped back in his chair. ‘Miss Cavendish will die at one o’clock, Strachan. We have just forty minutes to discover where she is.’
‘Actually, it’s thirty-seven minutes, sir.’
59
‘Please…’ It was all she could think to
say.
Her screams had been unanswered. Her threats ignored.
There was a hiss from the loudspeaker and a pause before she heard the Chinese voice again. ‘The time is now 12.30. You must make your choice now. Or at one o’clock both will be released.’
Miss Cavendish stared first at the dogs, thenn moved her gaze across to the rats.
Which would be better? Perhaps she could spit and hiss at the rats, frightening them away. She couldn’t do that with the dogs. Their red-rimmed eyes, the power of the muscles beneath the brindled fur, and the size of the teeth in those crushing jaws frightened her.
But, if I’m going to die, the dogs would be quicker. She wouldn’t last long when in the embrace of those terrifying jaws.
She looked again at the rats. One of them was still gnawing at the wire, its sharp, pointed front teeth yellow as weathered gravestones. Small teeth. Sharp teeth. Her nose, ears and lips a target.
But they would go for her eyes. She would feel the small, sharp teeth biting into her eyes.
‘Please… I can’t choose…’ she sobbed.
‘As you are unable to make a decision, both will be released at one o’clock.’
‘Noooooooooo…’ she wailed.
The only answer was the sound of the speaker being switched off.
Silence.
Except for the pants of the dogs.
Except for the excited squeaks of the rats.
Except for the noise of her fear.
60
Danilov watched as the minute hand ticked over to touch the six.
12.30.
Unless he solved it, Miss Cavendish would die. They were still sitting in the detectives’ room. He took another drag from his cigarette. Even the tobacco didn’t seem to be working today.
Strachan interrupted his thoughts. ‘I don’t know if this is any help, sir. But I remember something from school…’
‘I don’t want to hear about your schooldays, Strachan.’
‘Yes, sir, but it’s still nagging at me.’
Danilov leant forward and crushed the roll-up into the ashtray. It joined a host of its comrades there. A graveyard of cigarette butts. ‘What is it, Strachan?’
‘It’s just… I seem to remember this line here. ‘With this knife, I’ll help it presently.’ You see, we did Hamlet as the school play. John Alliss was Hamlet and I played Claudius…’
‘Yes, yes, yes, Strachan. Haven’t you worked that out yet? But I can’t imagine you as the scheming uncle.’
‘I wasn’t very good, sir. Acting is not one of my strong points.’
Danilov lit another roll-up. He adjusted the pen on his desk so that it was exactly four inches from the top-right-hand corner of the blotter. That felt better.
He turned back to Strachan. ‘All of the poems in the newspaper contain one line of Shakespeare. The “undiscovered country” comes from Hamlet. The “cold wisdom” line comes from All’s Well that Ends Well, and “Let slip the dogs of war” comes from Henry V.’
‘You know your Shakespeare, sir.’
‘He was popular at my school, at least with the teachers. We had to read him, in Russian translation, of course. When I came to London in 1911, I studied him to help me with my English. I even made a pilgrimage to Stratford.’
He thought of his wife, the day he had given her the collected plays, bought on that trip to Warwickshire. She couldn’t read English but she loved the book, keeping it on the bookshelf in the parlour as one of her prized possessions.
He took another long drag of the cigarette, releasing three perfect circles into the air above his head. ‘It seems such a long time ago now.’
‘Why I brought it up, sir, well… it occurred to me that maybe the lines from Shakespeare are a clue, sir.’
Danilov sat up. ‘Go on, Strachan.’
‘Well, sir, “cold wisdom” could refer to the cold store where the lieutenant and his mistress were killed. And the country line could refer to the Shanghai Country Club. But I can’t work out what the “Let slip the dogs of war” line refers to.’
Danilov glanced at the clock on the wall. 12.40. He stood up and grabbed his hat and coat. ‘God, I’ve been stupid, Strachan.’
Danilov looked at the clock again. The minute hand ticked on.
‘Come on, man, we have to get there before one o’clock.’
61
They raced into the foyer of Central Police Station. As usual it was crowded with beggars, hawkers, prostitutes, gamblers, gawkers, thieves, card sharks, opium addicts and thugs. Just a small cross section of the citizens of Shanghai.
At its centre, Sergeant Wolfe was still trying to maintain order in the hubbub of a hundred competing voices and as many different dialects.
‘Strachan, get the car.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Strachan raced through the crowd.
Danilov waved his arm forcefully at the policeman behind his desk. ‘Sergeant Wolfe, call Major Renard and tell him to go to the Canidrome, now.’
Sergeant Wolfe put his hand to his ear and shook his head.
Danilov shouted again, even louder. Suddenly, all the noise stopped in the foyer. People turned to watch this strange foreigner shouting at the top of his voice.
‘Sergeant Wolfe, can you call Major Renard for me? Tell him to meet me with his constables at the Canidrome.’
‘What reason shall I give, sir?’
‘Tell him it’s a matter of life or death.’
Certainly, Inspector Danilov.’ Sergeant Wolfe picked up the telephone on his desk. As he did, the crowd erupted into even louder shouting, emulating the strange foreigner with the old hat.
Danilov hurried away, out through the double doors and down the steps. Strachan was waiting in the Buick at the bottom, the engine running.
Danilov raced round and jumped in the front. Before he had even closed the door, Strachan had stamped hard on the accelerator and the Buick surged into the traffic. Danilov was thrown back in his seat.
Strachan kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, weaving in and out of the traffic on Foochow Road, narrowly avoiding the trotting rickshaw drivers and their cargos of people and boxes and clothes.
‘Why the Canidrome and not Luna Park, sir? Both are dog tracks.’
Danilov held the seat with one arm and pushed back from the dashboard with the other. A rickshaw driver was crossing the street at right angles, the Buick heading directly towards him.
Danilov closed his eyes.
At the last second, Strachan veered to the right, just clipping the edge of the rickshaw, sending it spinning anti-clockwise, the rickshaw boy trapped between the two shafts of his vehicle. He swung around, narrowly missing a donkey and cart parked in front of a Cantonese restaurant.
The shops, hotels, singing clubs, brothels and restaurants of Foochow raced past in a blur. Danilov opened his eyes again. Strachan was looking at him, not the road.
‘Why the Canidrome, sir?’
‘Eyes on the road, Strachan.’
A tram was turning from Thibet Road on to Foochow Road in front of the racecourse, the electric catchers attached to its roof rattling and dancing as the rails curved around the corner.
Strachan jammed his foot hard on the brakes. The Buick fishtailed and swerved to a stop inches away from the side of the tram.
It carried on as if nothing had happened. Only a few Chinese passengers stared out of the window, wondering why the black car was so close.
Strachan put the car in gear again as the end of the tram rattled past the driver’s window. As soon as he was clear, he turned left on to Thibet Road and accelerated.
Danilov wiped his brow. ‘I don’t know, Strachan.’
‘You don’t know what, sir?’
‘Why the Canidrome and not Luna Park?’ Danilov looked at his watch. The minute hand was past the eleven on the dial. ‘Intuition, perhaps,’ he said finally. ‘Something tells me she is there.’
So we might be going to the wrong place, sir?’
‘We mig
ht, Strachan.’
The silence between them meant Strachan understood the implications of Danilov’s choice. If he was wrong, Miss Cavendish would die.
Strachan stamped even harder on the accelerator. The Buick surged forward, past a startled Sikh constable on traffic duty. He swung the car right without stopping. A loud blare from the horn of a lorry blasted in their rear. Danilov looked in the mirror on his side. The front of the lorry was getting closer and closer. He could read the script on the chrome surrounding the engine: Bedford. Wasn’t that a place outside London?
Strachan pressed even harder on the accelerator. Gradually, the lorry moved backwards, becoming smaller and smaller in the mirror.
‘It’s in French Town, sir. We have no jurisdiction.’
‘Major Renard will meet us there.’
‘I’ll stay on Edward VII as long as we can, sir. The road’s wide and we can make good time.’ Strachan banged the horn in the centre of the wheel with the palm of his hand, forcing all the traffic to give way.
Danilov looked at his watch. 12.56. ‘Hurry, Strachan.’
On the other side of the road, a long traffic jam was bumper to bumper with vehicles heading into the city.
The detective sergeant stared at the oncoming traffic, chose his moment, and swung the car left into the wall of cars. He braked sharply and began to edge forward, the nose of the Buick pushing through the stream of traffic like a beagle searching for the scent of a fox.
One van refused to stop.
Strachan kept going, eyeballing the van driver, daring him to keep going.
The van, painted white, with a sign shouting ‘Lam’s Furs’ in large black letters on the side, inched across him and kept moving.
Strachan stared at the driver of the white van, edging the Buick forward with the slightest pressure on the accelerator.
Realisation finally dawned on the van driver that he was dealing with a maniac, a man who wasn’t going to stop his car. The driver stamped on his brake and turned his steering wheel sharply right to avoid a collision.
The Murder Game Page 18