‘I’ll always remember him coming towards me with the knife, and the pain as he dug it into my neck…’ Her hand went up to the bandage.
Danilov changed the subject quickly. ‘Did you see the man?’
‘His face? No. But I know who it was. And I think you do too, Inspector.’
So she had worked it out. Miss Cavendish was far more intelligent than anyone gave her credit for.
Suddenly she reached forward and grabbed the inspector’s arm. ‘It was Mr Allen, Inspector, Mr Allen…’
Danilov put his arms gently on her shoulders and pushed her back into the comfort of the pillows. ‘Are you sure, Miss Cavendish?’
‘Absolutely. It was the smell of his breath. The smell of violets.’ She shuddered again. ‘He stood over me with the knife. He was wearing a mask, but every time he spoke I could smell his breath. It was him, I know it.’
‘I know it too, Miss Cavendish.’
‘But I thought you killed him, Inspector?’
‘It’s difficult to kill the devil.’ Danilov quickly changed the subject. ‘Anything else you remember?’
Miss Cavendish inhaled and closed her eyes once more. ‘I don’t know if this is important, but he wasn’t there after nine o’clock, said he had to be somewhere.’
‘Exactly what did he say, Miss Cavendish?’
She thought for a moment. ‘I think he said he had to go because he was meeting someone. Those were his words, Inspector. I didn’t think about it at the time.’
Strachan scribbled the words in his notebook.
Danilov used his thumb and index finger to grip his bottom lip. ‘What happened after he left?’
‘His other man, the Chinese one, spoke to me, urging me to make a choice.’
‘Make a choice?’ asked Strachan.
‘Between the rats and the dogs. They wanted me to choose how I died.’ Her hand, with the drip leading out of the vein, went to her face once more. ‘I chose the rats…’
‘A choice which probably saved your life, Miss Cavendish.’
‘I don’t know, Inspector. Why did I have to choose? Why didn’t he just kill me?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know the answers to any of these questions, yet. But I’m sure…’
A sharp knock on the door and Dr Kao entered immediately. ‘The patient needs to sleep, Inspector, she’s still weak.’
‘Of course, Doctor, we’re finished here.’
Miss Cavendish reached forward and took Danilov’s hand. ‘Thank you for saving me, Inspector.’
‘Thank Strachan; he’s the one who worked it out.’
She smiled weakly, ‘Thank you, Detective Sergeant.’
Strachan’s face began to go a bright red.
The doctor bustled forward, syringe in hand. ‘I’ll have to ask you to leave, gentlemen.’
As soon as they were out of the door, Danilov ran down the stairs with Strachan desperately trying to catch him up. ‘Why are we running, sir?’
‘We need to get back to Central, Strachan. We have to find out what happened on the raid this morning.’
71
‘You did what, Chief Inspector?’
Rock sniffed loudly. ‘I’ll thank you not to use such a tone with me, Inspector Danilov.’ Rock was standing in front of the blackboard, writing more notes. Meaker and Cartwright were nowhere to be seen.
‘You destroyed a crime scene. There could have been valuable evidence on the body, but now it’s been compromised.’
Rock raised his voice. ‘Do not use that tone with me, Danilov. I’m the Chief Inspector here, not you.’
Danilov inhaled deeply; the man was more stupid than he’d thought. ‘You were saying you found a body.’ His voice was quieter now; he was simply questioning a witness, not a superior officer.
‘The body of C.J. Dawtry.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘The calling card in his hand…’
‘Could have been placed there. Did we take fingerprints?’
Chief Inspector Rock stared at him.
‘I’ll check with the lab. Do we have photographs?’
‘Yes, they were taken after we cut the man down.’
‘No photographs before then?’
Rock shook his head. ‘It was the flies in the room, Danilov…’ His voice trailed off.
‘I understand. Has the body been sent to Dr Fang?’
Rock looked bewildered. ‘I believe so…. I…’
‘I’ll get Strachan to follow up. Now, Miss Cavendish told us something interesting. She confirmed her assailant was Thomas Allen, the Character Killer.
‘That can’t be, Danilov. You said the man died. You shot him yourself.’
‘I know, sir. But he must have survived.’
‘And you base your belief on the statement of a secretary who was under stress and being threatened with murder. Not the most reliable witness. How does she know it was Allen?’
Danilov didn’t answer immediately.
‘Well?’
‘She smelt his breath.’
Chief Inspector Rock threw his arms up into the air. It was the most animated Danilov had ever seen him. ‘So we are to concentrate our enquiries on one man – a dead man, I might add – just because some secretary thinks she smelt his breath?’
‘There’s more to it, sir.’
‘The idea is preposterous, Danilov.’
‘Allen is a fanatic, and for fanatics the ends always justify the means. He sees himself as judge, jury and executioner.’
Rock slammed his fist down on the table. ‘I order you to continue searching for this killer. He is not, I repeat not, a dead man. Is that clear?’
Danilov raised his head slowly. ‘Very clear, sir.’
72
Three metal pipes stared directly into the Princess’s face. Her arms and legs were bound in an iron grip to a chair. She tried to rock the chair backwards and forwards but it wouldn’t move; the legs were fixed with metal plates to the floor.
Around her, bare brick walls, with patches of damp dripping on to the floor, confirmed a prison. A single bulb swung from a flex in the ceiling. It gave off a dull, greyish light like a candle beneath a shroud.
The open ends of the three pipes pointed directly at her.
She jerked her arms, fighting the grip of the ropes as they bit into her thin wrists. She would resist pain, any pain, to escape. She twisted her wrists back and forth. Blood began to ooze from beneath the rope, dripping down the side of her chair.
‘I wouldn’t waste my time if I were you.’ The voice boomed out from high on the wall. In the corner, a brown box was fastened – a loudspeaker.
‘Who are you? Let me out of here.’
‘That’s not going to happen, Princess.’
‘You bastard, I’ll kill you,’ she screamed at the top of her voice.
‘In your position, I would be slightly more conciliatory.’
He was mocking her, playing with her. ‘Po’shyol ‘na hui, mudak,’ she screamed.
‘Such an ugly language, Russian.’
She inhaled deeply three times, forcing herself to remain calm. She had managed to escape from one of Lenin’s prisons; she could do the same again. Think, woman, think. ‘What do you want with me?’
‘That’s better, Princess. See, we can have a civilised conversation without unpleasantness.’
‘What do you want?’
‘It’s more what I can give you, Princess.’
She sighed. ‘What can you give me?’
‘A choice. I always believe in giving people a choice. Free will and all that. In front of you, there are three pipes. One conveys water, another oil, the last one steam. Two of them will produce an excruciatingly painful death while one of them will simply get you wet. You have to choose, Princess. Which is it to be? The steam, the oil or the water. You are a cook, Princess, you love your food. How would you like your last meal – steamed, fried or simply soaked?’ The voice laughed. ‘I thought you would enjoy this choice
.’
Which of the three should she choose? Which was the water? Her mind raced through all the possibilities.
And then she stopped.
Why was she playing his game? She was a princess from a distinguished family that had ruled Rostov for centuries. She didn’t take orders from peasants; she gave commands.
Puffing out her chest, she sat up straight and stuck out her chin. ‘Kill me, and have done with it.’
‘No, Princess, you must choose.’
‘Kill me.’
‘If you don’t make a choice, it will be all three pipes at the same time.’
‘Kill me.’
‘You will come to your senses eventually.’ The voice sounded exasperated, almost hurt, that the Princess had not made a choice.
‘Kill me.’
‘You have one hour to make your choice, Princess.’
‘Kill me now.’
‘I would not be in such a hurry to die, if I were you.’
‘Kill me now,’ she shouted at the top of her lungs.
‘You have one hour to make your choice.’
Inwardly, she smiled. She had one hour to escape.
73
‘Dr Fang is performing the autopsy as we speak, sir. He’ll call when he’s finished.’
‘As efficient as always. Did you call the papers, Strachan?’
‘Yes, sir. No new poems have been sent to them this morning. At least it means no more deaths, sir.’
‘Does it, Strachan? There was no poem for the death at the undertaker’s, remember? I worry our killer has stopped giving clues since we managed to save Miss Cavendish.’
In his hands, he held the white bishop from the cold store in a clear bag, ‘Has the lab report come back on this?’
‘Yes, sir – there were fingerprints on it. They belonged to Lieutenant Deschamps and Rossana Gurdieva. No blood, though.’
‘No, with the cold there would be no blood.’ He lit his roll-up. Even the cigarette tasted bitter. ‘What about the evidence from the road this morning?’
‘Fingerprints and blood on the business card, sir. The fingerprints were those of the victim, Chief Inspector Rock and Inspector Cartwright.’
Danilov inhaled the bitterness of his cigarette. Idiots, tainting evidence; when would they ever learn? He leant forward and stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. He would have to buy some fresh tobacco. This bag tasted old and stale and bitter. Or maybe the tobacco was fine, and it was his mood that had infected the taste?
‘I should warn you, Strachan, Chief Inspector Rock does not believe the killer is Thomas Allen.’
‘But you do, sir?’
‘All the evidence points to him, however unbelievable it is. Somehow, he managed to survive the bullets.’
Danilov watched as Strachan ran his fingers through his black hair. ‘Well, we’d better catch him before he kills again, sir.’
Danilov took a deep drag on his cigarette to hide his discomfort behind a veil of smoke. What had he done to earn such loyalty?
‘What are we going to do, sir?’
‘The only thing we can do, Strachan. Look at the evidence and draw our conclusions from it.’
The chess pieces collected from the crime scenes lay in clear bags on his desk. What did they have to do with the murders? Why was Allen leaving one behind at each crime scene?
He lined them up on the edge of his desk in the order they had been found: a pawn, a queen, another queen, and finally a bishop.
Then he rearranged them in the probable order of the murders: a pawn, a queen, a bishop, another queen.
What was he missing? It was like a word on the tip of his tongue. A memory that was there and not there at the same time. He had played chess with Allen many times, always winning. Was Allen reminding him of those games, telling him he would lose this time.
But how could he lose? He moved the order of the chess pieces on his desk again. What did they mean?
The inspector suddenly sat back in his chair. ‘Enough, Strachan.’
‘What, sir?’
‘When a solution doesn’t come, there’s no point forcing it. Time to let the mind work on the problem in peace.’ He stood up and reached for his coat.
Strachan shook his head. ‘I don’t understand, sir.’
‘It’s always pointless forcing the answer to a question.’
Strachan stared at him.
‘Haven’t you ever had a eureka moment, Strachan?’
‘You mean, like suddenly remembering where you left your keys?’
‘Exactly. What’s happened is you’ve asked the mind to work on the problem while you get on with your life. The mind does its job and “eureka”, the solution appears.’
‘I know what you mean, sir, but what’s it to do with the case?’
‘Everything, Detective Sergeant Strachan, everything. What are you waiting for?’
Strachan looked puzzled again. ‘A eureka moment, sir?’
‘Yes. And until it happens, let’s go to look at the undertaker’s. I want to see the crime scene for myself.’
74
‘It appears our friends wanted to make a statement.’ The glass pane of the door had been boarded up where the window had been smashed.
Strachan tried the door of C.J. Dawtry, Undertakers. ‘A new lock, sir. Probably installed by the forensic people.’
‘You’ll have to break in, won’t you?’
‘If you say so, sir.’ Strachan flexed his shoulders, grabbed the door handle, leant backwards, then jerked forward with the point of his shoulder driving into the door around the lock.
The door sprung open and the detective sergeant followed it, landing on the red carpet of the reception area.
Danilov stepped into the room. ‘You really will have to learn how to do that properly, Strachan. It’s effective, but inelegant.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll practise being more elegant, sir.’
The inspector wiped his finger along the edge of the reception table. It was covered in a fine white dust. ‘At least the fingerprint boys seem to have done a thorough job.’
Strachan was examining the wax skeleton in the coffin. ‘Looks lifelike, sir. Gives me the willies.’
‘Another one of your American phrases, Strachan?’
The detective sergeant nodded. ‘I think so, sir.’
‘Picked up in your American penny dreadfuls?’
‘Actually, they’re ten cents, sir.’
‘A waste of your hard-earned money, Strachan.’ He walked through to the laying-out room in the rear. The door to the back room was wide open. ‘That must be where the body was found hanging. Do we have any pictures from the report?’
Strachan rifled through the pages in the folder. Meaker must have worked hours to get all this done. He found the crime scene pictures and handed them to Danilov.
‘Good, the photographers have done their job too.’ He held up one of the pictures against what remained of the frame against the wall. ‘There were no pictures taken with the body in situ?’
‘None, sir. Chief Inspector Rock moved the body before the photographers arrived.’
‘Hmm,’ was Danilov’s only response. ‘Do you have pictures of the victim?’
Strachan dug into the file, bringing out another set and handing them to the inspector. Danilov held one up to the light. A crease formed between his eyebrows and he moved closer to the light in order to see better. ‘I know this man, Strachan.’
‘It’s C.J. Dawtry, sir, the undertaker.’
‘No, it isn’t. It’s a Russian thug called Victorov. He was the boyfriend of one of Allen’s first victims.’ He frowned again. ‘Allen is killing everybody he knows helped with his capture. It’s his revenge.’
‘But I thought you said the American had nothing to do with the investigation, sir?’
‘He didn’t, Strachan. And perhaps that’s what is important about him. Why he had to die.’
‘I don’t understand, sir.’
Danilov sighed
. ‘Allen knows I look for patterns in the crimes I investigate. Perhaps he wanted to disrupt me, play a game, force me to discount a pattern because it didn’t fit one crime.’
‘Playing with your mind, sir.’
‘Another appalling Americanism, Strachan. Accurate but appalling.’
Danilov handed the photographs back to Strachan. The inspector began to walk around the room, examining the empty coffins. ‘At last, it is becoming a little clearer, Strachan.’
‘It is, sir?’
‘It is, Strachan. We’re close now. But what worries me is we haven’t had a message from Allen recently.’
‘Nobody has gone missing, sir.’
He stopped. ‘Not true, Strachan. We are not aware anybody is missing. But nonetheless, he could have taken someone.’ He started walking around the room again, touching the wooden coffins with his hands and examining the lids.
‘Are you looking for something, sir?’
‘Something is missing, Strachan. A message from the killer. It should be here.’
Strachan began to search the coffins too. They seemed to be perfectly normal; a variety of woods and shapes, all lined with silk.
Strachan ripped away the silk from inside one of the coffins. Bare wood stared back at him.
The inspector suddenly stopped. ‘Strachan, tell me, what was the first thing the Chief Inspector, Meaker and Cartwright did when they came in here?’
Strachan checked the case notes once again. They were extremely detailed. ‘They came through the door over there, sir. It was closed and the room was dark. They switched on the light straight away.’
‘That’s it. Strachan, can you turn off the light?’
Strachan flicked the switch. The room instantly went grey, the only light coming in through the open door.
‘Close the door too.’
The door shut with a loud click. The room was pitch black. Danilov could hear his own breathing. Soft, shallow breaths, controlled and unhurried.
A soft green glow was coming from the lid of one of the coffins. Danilov walked over and looked at the green words written in fluorescent paint on top of the lid.
‘A Princess from the Ice did roam,
A new city to find a home,
The Murder Game Page 22