No.
No.
No.
Lubyev, save me.
Lubyev, please save me.
And then it went dark.
The candles no longer flickered in their stained-glass holders.
Day Five
68
The premises of C.J. Dawtry lay in a row of five shophouses on Jessfield Road, in front of the junction with Kinnear Road. Through his binoculars, Chief Inspector Rock could see the undertaker’s occupied three of the shophouses in the centre with the two at either end still vacant.
‘No Chinese merchant would ever open a business close to a place where bodies were kept. Bad joss, sir.’ Cartwright was standing right beside him, with Meaker at his side.
‘Thank you for the information,’ Rock said quietly. ‘Are the men ready?’
‘Yes, sir. Fairbairn and his men will come in the back, with myself and Meaker going in the front.’
‘I will come with you, Cartwright. I must see these operations for myself.’
Cartwright realised it was useless arguing with the Chief Inspector. ‘As you wish, sir, but…’
‘No buts, Inspector.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It seems quiet. We’ll go in at 6.30.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Rock checked his watch again. Two minutes to go.
‘Like going over the top again, sir.’
‘I don’t know, Meaker, is it?’
‘You never went over top?’
Rock recognised the sneer in Meaker’s voice. ‘No, Military Police. I guarded the training camps at Étaples.’
Meaker looked across at Cartwright. ‘Where the mutiny was?’
‘There was no mutiny, Inspector Meaker. A few men had too much to drink and there was a spot of bother, that’s all.’
‘Not what I heard.’
Rock turned to Meaker angrily. ‘What did you hear, Inspector?’
‘Me? I only…’
Cartwright tapped his watch. ‘It’s 6.30, sir.’
‘We’ll talk about this later, Inspector Meaker.’ Rock drew his Webley, attached with a lanyard to his jacket.
Cartwright and Meaker drew their Colt specials.
‘Not standard issue, Inspector.’
‘But more reliable in a catfight, Chief Inspector, and begging your pardon, sir, but when my life is at stake, I don’t give a toss about standards,’ said Meaker.
‘Something else we need to discuss afterwards,’ Rock said as he crossed over the road.
A constable with a battering ram ran after him, followed by Meaker and Cartwright.
‘What the hell are you doing, Charlie?’ whispered Cartwright under his breath.
‘Just winding the little twat up, George; he’s beginning to get on my nerves.’
‘Have you been drinking?’
Meaker chuckled. ‘No more than usual.’
Rock stood in front of the door, banging on the glass with his fist. Etched into the glass were the words C.J. Dawtry, Undertakers in a flowing script. He knocked again, louder this time.
Cartwright pulled him to one side roughly, and pushed him against the wall. ‘The criminals of Shanghai have a habit of shooting through locked doors, sir.’ He reached out around the edge of the casement and banged on the door again, shouting, ‘Police, open up.’
Silence.
‘As dead as a graveyard,’ said Meaker, chuckling.
Cartwright nodded at the constable, who jumped up and swung the battering ram at the glass. It shattered into a thousand pieces. The constable swung it again, this time at the lock itself. The door sprung open and the constable jumped back.
Cartwright and Meaker rushed in, one going low and the other high. They were in a small room with a reception desk in front of the far wall and a display casket on the right. Behind the desk, a large sign in black block capitals announced proudly, C.J. DAWTRY, UNDERTAKERS.
A man was sleeping peacefully in the casket, hands crossed in front of him, holding rosary beads.
Meaker prodded the man with the barrel of his Colt.
No reaction.
He reached out and touched the skin. A cold, waxy sensation on the end of his fingers. Had he been embalmed?
Cartwright joined him. ‘It’s a dummy, stupid.’
Meaker brought the butt of his gun down on to the face. The nose cracked off, revealing a texture like semolina pudding beneath the skin.
Rock finally came in, Webley extended in front of him.
‘Can you smell it, Chief Inspector?’ said Cartwright.
Rock inhaled, his nostrils flaring. ‘Formaldehyde, a strong smell.’
‘God, I hate undertakers. Can you imagine working with dead people all your life?’
Cartwright stared at Meaker. ‘Yes, I can, Charlie.’
‘The laying-out rooms are usually in the rear,’ said the Chief Inspector. He stepped around the reception desk.
Behind the wall with the sign for C.J. Dawtry was a wooden door. Rock called the constable with the battering ram to come forward. Cartwright waved him away. He took hold of the knob and turned it. The door swung open.
‘Nobody is going to lock an internal door, sir.’
Meaker joined Cartwright, pistol drawn and cocked. He kicked the door open with his foot and stormed into the room.
The room was pitch black except for a slight green glow off to the left. Rock switched on the light.
In the brightness of the bulb, the stench of formaldehyde seemed stronger, almost unbearable. Cartwright and Rock covered their mouths. ‘Open a window, for God’s sake,’ shouted Cartwright.
Coffins lay on trestles along the length of the back wall. Meaker looked in vain for a window to open.
‘Well, keep the bloody door open. And put the cork back in those jars.’
Two glass flagons of a clear spirit were open in the middle of the room. Each one had the maker’s name stencilled on it. The Dodge Company of Boston. Meaker rushed over and jammed the corks into the necks of the bottles.
Almost instantly, the strength of the stench eased. Rock took his hand away from his mouth. ‘Search the room.’
Meaker looked in all of the coffins, empty save for a cream silk lining. He noticed another door at the back of the room, behind an upright coffin.
Two constables came forward and lifted the coffin out of the way.
Rock turned the handle of the door. It swung open slowly. He looked into the room.
‘Oh my God.’
69
Cartwright and Meaker ran to join the Chief Inspector at the door.
The room they looked into was smaller than the one they were in. Against the far wall, not more than eight feet away, a naked man lay spreadeagled on a wooden frame. His hands and feet were tied at the four corners, while a rope band kept his head upright and staring at the intruders.
The eyes were open, staring out into a far-off distance. Flies buzzed around the gaping mouth, a purple tongue sticking out between bloodstained lips.
Chief Inspector Rock stood motionless, staring up into the eyes of the victim.
Cornflower-blue eyes.
Clear, condemning eyes.
A fly buzzed around his head. He tried to wave it away with his hand but the fly continued to circle, joined now by others. The noise of buzzing filled his ears. ‘Cut the man down,’ he shouted.
The two constables rushed forward.
‘But sir, only Dr Fang’s men should move the body,’ said Cartwright. ‘And only after we’ve taken photographs.’
Rock turned to stare at the inspector. ‘We are not leaving a human being like this. Cut him down.’
The two constables leapt forward. One of them reached up with his knife to hack at the rope holding the left hand. The rope snapped and the hand swung free, striking the constable on the head like a drunk man throwing a punch. The constable leapt backwards, brushing his head with his arms.
The body lurched forward, held in place by the rope circling the forehead.
To Rock,
it seemed as if the corpse was staring at him, the cornflower-blue eyes looking only at his face. ‘Cut the rope holding the head.’
The constable was reluctant to move.
‘Hurry, man,’ the Chief Inspector shouted.
The constable took a cautious step forward. He reached up with his knife and sawed away at the thin rope holding the forehead.
It gave way with a jerk. The body slumped forward, still bound to the frame with the right arm, twisting to the right. A stream of blood, guts and pus erupted from the mouth, drenching the constable. He jumped back in terror, trying to brush the liquid from his clothes but only succeeding in covering his hands in gore. He screamed as he looked at his hands. Lumps of congealed blood covered his fingers.
The body hung from the right arm, swaying gently. Blood was still pouring from the mouth as if a tap had been turned on and couldn’t be stopped.
‘Cut the rope holding the other arm, for God’s sake,’ shouted Rock.
The other constable reached up and cut the rope binding the right arm, keeping well away from the head and its stream of blood.
The body slumped forward on to the floor with a loud thud, still tied by the ankles to the frame. On its back a deep cut had been made on either side of the spine.
‘What the fuck?’ shouted Meaker. ‘His fucking backbone has been cut away.’
Rock turned and fled back to the coffin room. In the corner, he vomited the contents of his breakfast – a fried egg and two rashers of fried bacon – into a wastepaper bin. Wiping his mouth, he took a deep breath and forced himself to walk slowly back into the room.
Cartwright and Meaker were still standing over the body. The constable who had been drenched in blood and gore had fled outside. The other constable was standing in the corner, as far away from the body as he could.
A constant loud banging came from the other side of the wall.
Rock looked at Cartwright, who looked at Meaker. ‘Me? Why does it always have to be me?’ the inspector whined.
The banging stopped.
Two seconds later a door collapsed on the floor, sending up a cloud of dust. Chief Inspector Fairbairn stood in the entrance, a large battering ram in his hand. ‘It seems I’m a wee bit late to the party.’
Cartwright ignored him, kneeling down to force open the right hand of the corpse. There was a loud crack as the middle finger broke. Cartwright carried on forcing open the other fingers anyway.
Inside was a square of card, folded in half. He opened and read it. ‘I think we’ve found the man we were looking for, sir.’
He handed the card to Chief Inspector Rock. On it, in solid black letters, in a suitably dignified script, were the words ‘C.J. Dawtry, Undertaker.’
70
‘Have you heard anything, Strachan?’
‘About what, sir?’
‘About the raid, what else, man?’
Strachan yawned. They were standing in front of Lester Hospital and Danilov wasn’t smoking for once.
He had stayed late at the inspector’s apartment last night. As the inspector had predicted, the food cooked by Elina was barely edible – the pancake was undercooked and the meat was overcooked – a grey, slimy stew of food. They had eaten the noodles and sent out for more. Elina didn’t seem to mind her failure.
After her father had gone to his room to fetch a book, Elina had leant over and said, ‘I’m glad you could come this evening, Detective Sergeant Strachan.’
‘So am I, Elina, but please call me David.’
‘But you call my father ‘sir’ even when we are here at home.’
‘Do I?’
She nodded.
‘Force of habit. And he is my superior. The Confucian ethic dies hard.’
‘Treating elders with respect?’
‘More than that. Respecting them for the wisdom they have gained in life and are taking the trouble to pass on to those younger than themselves.’
‘It sounds formal.’
‘It is, and it isn’t. One day, I’ll explain it all to you.’
Inspector Danilov came back with the book. The Poisoner’s Handbook. ‘You should read this, Strachan; it’ll help you recognise the symptoms and effects of a wide range of poisons.’
Strachan leant forward and whispered to Elina, ‘I think he’s trying to tell me something.’
‘Father, has this anything to do with my cooking?’
‘Not at all, Lenchik; something to help with Detective Strachan’s education.’
Strachan opened the book at one of the first pages: arsenic.
She looked at him. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’
‘Look forward to what?’ asked Danilov.
‘David wants to teach me about Confucian ethics.’
‘And who is David?’
Strachan put his hand up slowly.
‘I didn’t know you had a first name, Strachan.’
‘I don’t, sir, normally.’
‘Good, let’s keep it that way.’
Ellen leant over and whispered, ‘Could I borrow the book? I’m looking for some new recipes for my father’s breakfast.’
‘I don’t think you’ll find…’ Strachan was halfway through the sentence before he realised Elina was smiling at him. He started to laugh too.
‘What’s so funny? Has someone told a joke.’ Inspector Danilov looked at both of them and they burst out laughing again.’
‘When you’ve wiped the stupid smirk off your face, Strachan, I’ll ask you again, did you hear anything about the raid?’
Strachan shook his head, suddenly back outside the hospital. ‘Sorry, sir, nothing.’
Danilov looked at his watch. 8.30. ‘Strange. We should have heard by now. Come on, Miss Cavendish will be waiting.’
The hospital was large and built in a neo-classical style the architect had thought would inspire the patients to get better. Instead, it simply made them feel small and insignificant. Danilov and Strachan climbed the marble stairs and entered the vast white lobby.
In the circular atrium, nurses and their patients sat around on old leather Chesterfields and even more battered armchairs. Some were reading. Others were staring at the figures of Greek myth etched into the stucco of the ceiling. Still more were chatting to each other. So different from the hustle and bustle of Shanghai General.
One of the doctors was waiting for them in front of the reception desk. ‘Inspector Danilov?’
‘Dr Kao?’
‘I’ll show you to the patient’s room. It’s this way; she’s in 213.’
‘How is she?’
‘Physically, as good as can be expected given the trauma she endured, but anxious and suffering from shock; dehydrated too. With care and rest, she should be fine in a couple of weeks. The rat bites on her face were fairly superficial and are healing well. The cuts on her neck were much deeper, of course, but they will heal in time. She’ll be scarred, but a good foundation will cover the marks. Mentally, however, I’m not so sure.’ He shrugged his shoulders.
They climbed more marble stairs up to the second floor. Away from the bustle of the lobby, the hospital was quiet, more like a hotel, with red carpets and paintings on the wall. At the top, they turned left to walk along a wide corridor with doors leading off it on both sides.
‘What were the characters, Doctor?’ asked Danilov.
‘Most extraordinary; the man had carved the Chinese characters for Russia into her neck.’
Strachan looked at Danilov. ‘Are you sure, Doctor?’ he asked.
‘I can read Chinese, Detective Sergeant, probably better than you.’
They stopped outside one of the doors with the number 213 in bold letters stencilled on it.
Danilov put out his hand. ‘Thank you, Doctor, for your time. It will better if we interview Miss Cavendish alone.’
‘As you wish, Inspector. Call me if you need me.’
Danilov tapped gently on the door of the room. After a few moments, a quiet voice answered, ‘Come in.’
‘Good morning, Miss Cavendish.’ Danilov popped his head around the door in time to catch Miss Cavendish brushing her hair. She was sitting up in bed, her faced covered in pieces of sticking plaster and her neck wrapped in a bandage.
‘Good morning, Inspector,’ she croaked, ‘and you, too, Detective Sergeant Strachan. Sorry about the voice.’
‘Good morning, Miss Cavendish,’ said Strachan brightly.
‘I look a sight…’ she said, smoothing her hair and covering up her face.
Danilov pulled up a chair, sat by the bed and took her hand. ‘Miss Cavendish, what you have endured is the stuff of nightmares, but you are safe now.’
He watched as her eyes flicked up and to the right, reliving her time at the Canidrome.
‘I’m afraid I have to ask you some questions that may bring it back for you.’
She took away her hand and refolded the top of the sheets. ‘Don’t worry, Inspector, I’m ready now. But first, how is my mother?’
‘She’s fine, Miss Cavendish; concerned for you, of course.’
Strachan darted a look at the inspector.
Danilov ignored him. ‘Chief Inspector Rock assigned a constable to look after her. She’s teaching him bridge, I believe.’
‘Just like mother.’
‘Miss Cavendish, I want you to think back to when you were kidnapped.’
She went silent and closed the eyes. ‘It all happened so quickly. One moment I was thinking how to get my mother to her bridge night; the next, arms came around me, and I was unconscious.’
You say arms came around you. There was more than one person?’
She closed her eyes again, reliving the time. ‘I think so. No, I’m sure there was more than one person.’
Strachan scribbled in his notebook.
‘And when you regained consciousness?’
‘I was buried up to my neck in the earth, with those rats and dogs in their cages…’ She shivered and raised her hand to touch the sticking plaster on her face. ‘The doctor says I won’t be scarred, Inspector. I hope I’m not scarred.’
‘The wounds look like they are healing well, Miss Cavendish. I wouldn’t worry if I were you.’
The Murder Game Page 21