The Murder Game

by The Murder Game (retail) (epub)

  Another smile from Rock. ‘Well done, Inspector. A good piece of follow-up detective work.’

  ‘But, of course, we don’t know these particular pieces were bought in Shanghai, so we dug a little deeper.’ Cartwright paused here for dramatic effect. ‘They are manufactured in Canton by the Morally Bright Games Company.’ He looked up for a second and smiled once more. ‘I don’t know where they get these names from, sir.’

  Rock laughed. ‘Quite, Inspector, quite…’

  ‘The names come from the Analects of Confucius. They usually refer to the correct way in which you should live your life,’ said Strachan.

  ‘That’s as may be; still sounds pretty daft in English.’

  ‘In Chinese, it has a poetic ring…’

  ‘More poetry, Strachan? I think we’ve had enough poetry for one day, don’t you?’ Rock stared at the detective sergeant. ‘Carry on, Inspector Cartwright.’

  He coughed and looked at his notes. ‘Anyway, we contacted them and they sold 1,472 chess sets of that design in the last three months. Apparently, they distribute all over China.’ He looked up again. ‘I didn’t know that many Chinese knew how to play chess.’

  Danilov could feel Strachan bristling with anger beside him. He placed his hand on the detective sergeant’s arm.

  Chief Inspector Rock carried on anyway. ‘Thank you, Cartwright, an excellent piece of work.’

  ‘I still think the chess piece is a vital clue, sir.’

  ‘Perhaps, Danilov, but we have neither the time nor the manpower to check up on all 1,472 purchasers of chess sets.’

  ‘And that’s only in the last three months, sir. Although the chess piece is new, it could have been bought long ago and kept under wraps until today.’

  ‘Quite, Inspector Meaker. No, Danilov, I think we’re barking up the wrong tree there.’ Again, a smug smile spread across Chief Inspector Rock’s face. ‘But, Inspectors Meaker and Cartwright have a couple of other things to interest us.’

  ‘We’ve managed to ID the victim at the Country Club. The fingerprint boys found a match with a Hank Chettle.’ Cartwright coughed. ‘An American sailor. We’ve had him in here a couple of times for drunk and disorderly, the usual stuff. Nothing else, though; no major convictions.’

  ‘What shall we do with a drunken sailor, Inspector Cartwright?’ Rock laughed at his little joke. Cartwright just carried on reading from his notes.

  ‘Went missing three days ago, apparently, early in the morning. Last seen by his mother. She reported him missing yesterday.’

  ‘An American – you were right, sir.’

  Danilov ignored Strachan; he had no interest in being proven correct. ‘Where was he going when he went out?’

  Cartwright checked his notes again. ‘Some club down in Blood Alley called the Four Sisters.’

  ‘Is that the link, sir?’

  ‘Look into it, Strachan. See if the club is connected to any of our past investigations.’

  ‘What link?’ asked Chief Inspector Rock.

  ‘One of the victims of Allen also went missing from a club,’ replied Danilov.

  ‘You’re still floggin’ that dead horse. Give it a rest, Danilov.’

  ‘Enough, gentlemen.’ Rock struck the desk with his wooden pointer. ‘Inspector Danilov. You shot this man Allen twice, did you not?’

  Danilov nodded.

  ‘Well, please tell me how a dead man can still be alive and committing our murders?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir, but…’

  Rock held his hand up, cutting Danilov off. ‘Tell them what else you discovered, Inspector Cartwright.’

  ‘It was the stones you found at the site of the first murder in the Country Club, Danilov, that set us thinking. The lab report came back with traces of embalming fluid on them.’

  ‘It did. Not much, but enough to be observable,’ said Danilov.

  ‘So we looked at Dr Fang’s report. He tested the clothes of both Lieutenant Deschamps and his floozy. And guess what?’

  ‘Dr Fang discovered they also tested positive for embalming fluid.’

  ‘Right you are, Danilov. Even better, the tests came back with exactly the same mixture of chemicals from the stones and the clothes of the victims.’

  ‘Twenty-two per cent formaldehyde, forty-three per cent methanol and eight per cent glutaraldehyde, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘That’s right, Danilov. Not a common mixture, especially the eight per cent glut… ara… dehyde.’ Cartwright stumbled over the last chemical. ‘However it’s pronounced. The rest is water and a few oils.’

  ‘So we know embalming fluid was present on or near the bodies of the victims,’ said Danilov, more to himself than anybody in the room.

  ‘We know more, Inspector. The company Dr Fang uses, a C.J. Dawtry, Undertakers, keep a bottle of their embalming fluid at the morgue.’

  Again, Cartwright paused for dramatic effect. Danilov expected him to pull a rabbit out of a hat at any minute.

  ‘We tested it and… guess what?’

  ‘The embalming fluid is a mixture of twenty-two per cent formaldehyde, forty-three per cent methanol and eight per cent glutaraldehyde…’

  ‘You’re quick learner, Danilov. And, there’s more… only one company uses this formulation, The Dodge Company of Boston.’

  Another rabbit, thought Danilov.

  ‘C.J. Dawtry, Undertakers, was only appointed three months ago after a new tender. We’ve checked and there seems to be no record of their business before that date. They won the tender because they offered by far the cheapest price.’ Cartwright smiled again. The smile of a hyena who’s just seen a goat tied to a stake. ‘The bottle kept by them at Dr Fang’s morgue was manufactured by…’

  ‘…the Dodge Company of Boston.’ Danilov finished the sentence.’You have been busy, Inspector.’

  ‘We’re not all sitting on our arses smoking all day, Danilov.’

  Chief Inspector Rock smiled benignly. ‘There was one final clue, and you provided it, Danilov.’

  ‘I did, sir?’

  ‘You did, Inspector. You said the blind beggar told you he heard the sound of an engine that wasn’t a lorry or a car?’

  Danilov nodded.

  ‘Well, I must say I discounted the evidence at the time. But as I thought about it, what better way to move bodies around than in a hearse? And what engine sounds stronger than a car but weaker than a lorry?’

  ‘A hearse.’ Cartwright answered the rhetorical question, smiling all the time at Danilov.

  Chief Inspector Rock clapped his hands. ‘Well done, Cartwright and Meaker. I’ve ordered a raid by the Rapid Action Force on the premises of C.J. Dawtry in Jessfield Road tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Good, sir, what time?’ asked Danilov

  ‘Oh, we won’t be needing you, or Strachan. I’ll lead the raid and, of course, Inspectors Meaker and Cartwright will accompany me as they cracked the case.’ He closed the file, laying it on the desk. ‘It’s getting late, gentlemen. I suggest we get a good night’s sleep; we have to be back here at five tomorrow morning.’

  ‘But I need to be involved in…’

  ‘You don’t need to be involved in anything, Danilov. Cartwright and Meaker cracked the case with a smart piece of work. They will have the pleasure of the final collar.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Enough, Danilov. You’ve had a trying day. Good work on rescuing Miss Cavendish.’ He tucked the file under his arm. ‘It’s been a good day all round, gentlemen. I look forward to a satisfactory end to this case tomorrow morning.’

  With the conclusion of the meeting, he marched out of the Investigation Room.

  When he had gone, Cartwright stood up. ‘See, Danilov, there are other detectives in this bloody station too. Some of us actually know how to do our job. We don’t go off spouting about patterns and dead men coming to life and Locard’s bloody transference theory. We just do our bloody job as coppers.’

  ‘Your whole case relies on Monsieur Locard’s the
ories, Inspector Cartwright.’

  Cartwright stared at him without understanding.

  ‘Every contact leaves a trace, as Monsieur Locard put it. You are relying on the fact that the killer touched the bodies and touched embalming fluid at the same time.’

  ‘I don’t know, and I don’t bloody care, Danilov. We’re going to snatch this killer tomorrow morning. Then we’ll pass him on to the tender questioning of Charlie Meaker here. Good at getting confessions is Charlie.’

  ‘The best, even if I do say so myself.’

  Cartwright took a step forward, pushing his finger into Danilov’s chest. ‘So, fuck you and your fucking theories. After tomorrow, we’ll be so far up Rock’s arse, we’ll be brushing his teeth from the inside. We’ll be his little blue-eyed boys and you’ll be arresting dog-eaters and beggars in Hongkew.’

  Danilov moved Cartwright’s finger away from his chest. ‘ I know you’re wrong about the undertakers, Cartwright. And I’m going to prove it.’

  Cartwright laughed. ‘ You’re fucked, Danilov. I’ve got you this time.’

  66

  Both Danilov and Strachan stood outside Central Police Station. At the bottom of the steps, a hawker was frying noodles, the wok flaring as he added soy sauce and sesame oil. The smell was entrancing. Strachan was waiting for the inspector to go before sitting on a seat and buying himself a bowl.

  The inspector was smoking as usual, finishing another of his roll-ups, enjoying the bitterness of the smoke against his tongue.

  ‘Looks like they’ve solved the case, sir.’

  ‘Have they, Strachan?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Cartwright and Meaker have found him.’

  ‘I wonder, Strachan, I wonder.’ Danilov stubbed the end of his roll-up against the wall, placing the dimp in his pocket. Since his encounter with the beggar, he no longer threw them on the pavement.

  The sight of another human being scrambling after the remains of a cigarette had been distressing for him. Nobody should ever be reduced to such depths.

  Nobody.

  He began to roll another one. Time to get one last cigarette in before returning to the non-smoking prison his daughter had imposed. He loved her but he wished he could smoke first thing in the morning. There was nothing like the first cough to wake a body.

  ‘It all seems sewn up, sir.’

  ‘Perhaps too sewn up.’

  Strachan scratched his head. ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘It all seems too pat. The Character Killer is so careful about the clues he leaves behind. Nobody ever sees him. His fingerprints are nowhere to be found, and yet he leaves trace elements of embalming fluid on a stone and on clothes. He must have known we would test everything. Remember, Thomas Allen knows the way we work, and the way we think.’

  ‘You still think Allen is the killer, sir?’

  Danilov took another drag of the roll-up and blew the smoke out through his lips to join the oil-drenched aromas from the noodles. ‘I’m certain it’s him. They may find Allen at the undertakers’ tomorrow, but I doubt it. The clues are just too obvious for such a killer.’

  ‘The Chief Inspector is convinced, sir.’

  ‘He is, Strachan. He wants a quick arrest, proof his new Scotland Yard methods work. Writing it all on sheets of paper. It’s in here that matters.’ He tapped the side of his head and took another drag on his cigarette.

  He would have to leave soon; Elina was expecting him home. She was cooking ‘dinner’ again. Then he had an idea. ‘What about you, Strachan?’

  ‘What about me, sir?’

  ‘Why don’t you join me for dinner? Elina is cooking.’

  Strachan scratched his head. Another flare of flame from the hawker’s wok lit up the sky. ‘I’d love to, sir, but I wouldn’t want to impose.’

  ‘You wouldn’t. Elina always cooks more than necessary. The recipe books give portions for six people. She hasn’t worked out how to cut down the amounts yet.’

  The hawker scraped the contents of his wok into a bowl. The smells of eel, shaoxing wine and chilli drifted over their heads.

  ‘I know she’d like to see you.’

  Strachan smiled. ‘In that case, I’d be happy to accept.’

  Danilov leant in and whispered, ‘But let’s get some of those delicious noodles, in case she burns the draniki. With my daughter’s cooking, it’s always best to be prepared.’

  ‘Perhaps we should have a bowl before we leave, sir; fortify ourselves for the journey home.’

  Danilov threw his cigarette away. ‘Not a bad idea, Strachan. It could help protect our stomachs against her food too. Just in case. Always be prepared.’

  ‘Like boy scouts, sir.’

  ‘You’re learning fast, Detective Sergeant.’

  67

  Every evening, Princess Ostrepova locked up the cafe carefully; one could never be too careful. First the Yale lock at the top, afterwards the mortice, and finally the cast-iron Wilka she had imported specially from Germany.

  She hated carrying all these keys, hated locking up. In the old days, Lubyev, her father’s butler, would do it all for the family, his nightly ritual going round the palace.

  As a young girl she remembered following him around one evening. He had two immensely polished bunches of keys; each sparkled in the candlelight as he took them out of his pocket.

  ‘This bunch is for the house, Little Princess.’

  The keys were big and battered and worn. They rang against each other as he searched through them, looking for the right one. Such a wonderful sound, like the music her piano teacher insisted she play.

  Lubyev always treated her with kindness. Even when he was busy preparing for the arrival of guests or the Easter feast, he always had time to explain what he was doing and ask her opinion.

  ‘See, Little Princess, it’s this one.’ He held out a long silver key with a cross at one end and inserted it in the lock. With two turns and a push, the door swung open, creaking on its hinges. ‘I never oil this door, Little Princess, in case anyone breaks in. I can always hear it being opened.’

  A soft glow issued from the room, wavering in the breeze from the door.

  ‘You must never come in here, Little Princess, it’s not a good place for little girls.’

  He pushed her away gently, forcing her back across the threshold, closing the door behind him.

  Of course, his words were like finding a painted egg at Easter for her: a challenge not to be ignored. One day, when he was serving tea to her mother and Princess Orlov on the lawn, she stole the keys from his desk. They were heavy, so heavy.

  She found the one she wanted, the long silver one with the cross at the end, and inserted it in the lock. She tried to turn it but it wouldn’t move.

  It was the right key. She was sure it was the right key.

  She twisted harder, forcing it with all her might.

  With a loud click, it turned once and stopped. She massaged her fingers and took hold of the cross again, twisting it once more. For a second it stuck at the top, before clicking over into place.

  She pushed against the door. It opened with a loud squeal from the hinges.

  The same flickering light as before glowed inside the room. She took one step across the threshold, leaning forward, craning her neck.

  It was dark and brown inside. The room smelt of burnt candles, thousands of burnt candles whose wax had dripped and flowed for years.

  As her eyes adjusted to the flickering brown light, she saw the room was small, not more than twelve feet square. Covering all of the walls were icons of Mary and Jesus and the lamb. In front of each icon, a small stained-glass bowl held the flickering light.

  She took a step inside. Opposite the door, a large table covered in a white cloth and three more candles in gold holders dominated one wall. But these candles were new and unlit and unloved.

  Above the table were three panels of a picture. In the centre, Christ on his cross, ribs leeching out of his chest, blood pouring from the wound in his side,
the Crown of Thorns stabbing into his forehead. And then she saw the face. She had never seen such pain on a face before. The pain of every sin in the world etched into every line and every pore.

  A face of suffering and agony.

  Hands gripped her shoulders.

  ‘I told you never to come in here, Princess.’ She was spun round to see the angry eyes of Lubyev staring at her. Lubyev, who had always been so kind, so friendly. ‘Now get out, before I tell your mother.’

  He shoved her out of the room. How dare he treat her like a common servant? The door slammed behind her, trembling on its hinges.

  A few moments later, Lubyev came out, locking the door behind him. ‘You must never go in there again, Little Princess.’ His voice was softer now. ‘Promise me?’

  She nodded.

  Of course, she broke her promise many times. The Icon Room became her place of refuge, away from the madding crowds of her relatives and the maddening demands of her mother.

  Lubyev was killed in the Revolution, of course. She heard he died defending the Icon Room when a mob of her father’s peasants broke in to smash the pictures on the walls.

  Stupid Lubyev. They were only pictures.

  And stupid her. Because rather than luxuriating in the balls and glitter and gold of Russia, she was here in a city on the other side of the world, running her cafe, looking after her girls, selling her opium, making her money.

  How the gods played jokes on mere mortals.

  A hand appeared on her shoulder. For a moment she thought it was Lubyev, about to scold her again for going into the Icon Room.

  Instead, she heard a voice speaking English, such an ugly language.

  ‘It’s your time, Princess.’

  Lubyev didn’t speak those words. He would never be so cruel. She snapped out of her dream, turning to face the person who had spoken. But another hand encircled her mouth. This hand had a wet pad on it.