But it was the eyes Danilov couldn’t stop staring at. They were open and an opaque white, like those of cooked fish.
White eyes.
Unseeing eyes.
Dead eyes, where there had once been so much life.
He gathered himself. ‘Go upstairs and call Major Renard. Ask him to send a squad here.’
‘What should I say, sir?’
‘Tell him there’s been another murder, a Russian woman this time. Don’t mention who it is.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Strachan brushed past the inspector.
‘And Strachan, call Dr Fang, tell him he has another autopsy to perform.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Strachan ran off along the corridor.
Danilov turned back to the corpse of the Princess. A life had ended, cruelly and painfully. This had to be the last one.
No more.
81
Danilov sat with his head in his hands. A cigarette lay in the ashtray beside him, its smoke drifting lazily up to the ceiling of the detectives’ room. After dealing with the Princess’s body, the rants of Major Renard about lack of progress in the case, and organising the French fingerprint technicians, he had finally returned to the station, exhausted.
Strachan sat at his desk, tapping his fingers on top of the file. He knew it was better to wait for Danilov to speak. Other detectives were scattered around the room but they too seemed to recognise the need for silence.
‘What does he want, Strachan?’ Danilov said eventually, without lifting his head from his hands.
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Neither do I. And it’s important. He’s committed six murders, attempted to murder another woman, and we are no closer to understanding why he is doing it.’ Danilov picked up the cigarette and placed it between his lips, sucking in the cool smoke. He could feel it entering his lungs and the jolt of nicotine flooding through his body.
‘At least, we can read the messages he’s sending us.’
Danilov stubbed the remains of the cigarette out in the ashtray. ‘We can read them because he wants us to read them. He’s playing with us, Strachan, but why?’ The inspector buried his head in his hands again.
‘Again, I don’t know, sir.’
‘It was a rhetorical question, Strachan, it didn’t need an answer.’
‘Yes, sir; I mean, no, sir.’
The phone on Danilov’s desk rang.
‘Get it please, Strachan. If it’s another meeting with Chief Inspector Rock, tell him I’m out.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Strachan stood up and picked up the telephone in mid ring. Immediately, he held it away from his ear. ‘It’s Chief Inspector Rock, sir. We are needed in the Investigation Room immediately. He says it’s important.’
Danilov sighed, made sure he had his tobacco, and stood up. ‘Let’s go and see what they have to say to us, Strachan.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, he was insistent.’
‘Not your fault, Strachan. “The wolf howls, the sheep get nervous.”’
He strode down the corridor and knocked on the door of the Investigation Room. A sharp ‘enter’ came from inside.
Chief Inspector Rock was pointing at the blackboard with what looked like a thin walking stick. Inspector Meaker was speaking. He stopped as soon as Danilov entered. The Investigation Room had another easel added now, crowding the far corner. On it were written the details of the murder at the undertaker’s. Danilov could see they still thought the victim was C.J. Dawtry. Another blackboard had been screwed to the wall, already covered in writing. The map had an additional picture added to it.
Danilov stared at the map with the pictures of the victims placed at the location of the discovery of their bodies, plus the picture of Miss Cavendish placed at the Canidrome. Something about it troubled him. What was it?
‘Come in and sit down, Danilov and Strachan. The inspector was telling us about the autopsy on the body of the man we found at the undertaker’s.’
Danilov noticed Rock had avoided using their proper rank and titles. ‘I wasn’t invited to the autopsy, sir?’
‘Inspectors Meaker and Cartwright found the body, along with myself. They handled the autopsy. Carry on Meaker.’
Meaker waited till Danilov had made himself comfortable before he continued, scanning his notes until he found his place. ‘As I was saying, we still don’t know the identity of the victim, but we can presume he was C.J. Dawtry from the card in his hand.’
Danilov sighed. ‘His real name was Ivan Victorov. He was a petty criminal from Moscow who was the pimp of one of Allen’s previous victims.’
‘You knew this man as well, Danilov?’
‘Yes, sir, as I have been saying, all the victims are linked to me in one way or another.’
‘A pimp helped you?’ asked Meaker.
‘Reluctantly so, but he did.’
Chief Inspector Rock coughed. ‘Please carry on, Inspector.’
Again Meaker searched for his place. ‘Apparently, this Ivan Victorov drowned in his own blood, according to Dr Fang. He was bled until he was close to death and then drowned with the blood removed from his own body.’
Cartwright laughed. ‘Not a nice way to go.’
Meaker continued. ‘He was tied up on the frame and his lungs were filled with his blood.’
‘So, when we cut him down, it poured from his mouth.’ Chief Inspector Rock spoke slowly as if reliving every moment in the laying-out room of the undertaker’s.
‘It’s one of the methods of death described in the Eighteen Courts of Hell, usually reserved for a cheating clerk or disobedient slave.’ Strachan shrugged his shoulders. ‘My uncle told me.’
‘Them Chinese know how to kill a man. Have I told you about the time I…’
Rock coughed again. ‘I think we’ll save it for another time, Inspector Cartwright. Carry on, Meaker.’
‘Now, we come to the interesting bit. Dr Fang found more characters carved behind the victim’s ear.’
‘The characters were for Russia.’
‘How do you know, Danilov?’ said Meaker. ‘You been talking to Dr Fang behind my back?’
Danilov sighed. ‘We found another body an hour ago at the Cercle Sportif in the French Concession.’
Chief Inspector Rock’s stick crashed down on to the desk. ‘When were you going to tell us, Danilov? Were you going to keep it a secret, like all those other secrets you seem to have?’
‘The victim’s name was Princess Elena Ostrepova; she was approximately forty-five years old.
‘Another Russian,’ snorted Meaker.
‘And I suppose you knew her too?’ asked Rock.
‘She was a good friend. Ran a cafe in the French Concession.’ Danilov avoided mentioning the Princess’s less legal activities.
‘I suppose she helped you with your investigations too?’
‘The Princess was one of my best informants. She knew what was happening in the city.’
‘So, once again, the one link between the murderer and the victim is you, Danilov.’ Coming from Rock’s mouth, it sounded like an accusation.
‘What do you mean, Chief Inspector?’
‘I hadn’t given it much credence until now, but Inspector Cartwright has pointed out you seem to be involved with these murders up to your neck.’
‘That’s ridiculous…’
‘Where were you when the body was found?’
‘Inspector Danilov was with me, sir,’ said Strachan.
‘So you two found the body together?’ asked Cartwright.
‘Well, not exactly, sir. I found the body, Inspector Danilov came along later.
‘This is ridiculous, Chief Inspector Rock. You can’t think I was involved in the deaths?’
‘Is it ridiculous, Danilov? Tell him what else Dr Fang found, Inspector Meaker.’
The man reached into a briefcase at his feet and pulled out a bag. ‘He found this, a cigarette end, pushed into the man’s mouth. Apparently, it became lodged between his teeth and wasn’t released when
the man was untied.’
‘We’ve compared this cigarette with the ones in your ashtray, Danilov. And guess what? They are a match. An exact match.’ Cartwright sat back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest.
‘It must have been planted.’
‘Who by?’ asked the Chief Inspector. ‘I hope you are not suggesting it was either of these gentlemen.’ He pointed at Meaker and Cartwright.
Danilov gripped the desk in front of him, took two deep breaths and began speaking slowly. ‘I don’t know who placed the cigarette in the man’s mouth but I do know it wasn’t me.’
‘I’ve reached a decision, Danilov. You are removed from this case. You too, Strachan. Meaker and Cartwright will handle it from now on.’
‘But, Chief Inspector…’
‘I don’t think you were involved in these murders; at least, to my mind, it hasn’t been proven yet.’ He held his finger up. ‘But, you are far too close to these killings.’ He lowered his voice. ‘A detective has to be detached and dispassionate, Danilov, and in this case, you are neither.’
‘But Chief Inspector, we are so close…’
The stick crashed on to the table once more. ‘You’re off this case, Inspector. That is an order.’
Danilov stood up. ‘You’re making a mistake, Chief Inspector.’
Rock turned away and began writing on the blackboard.
Meaker sniggered behind his hand. Cartwright had a smug smile plastered all over his face.
Danilov turned away and walked towards the door. As he did so, he saw the map with its pictures of the victims pasted on it. In his mind, he added a picture of the Princess at the Cercle Sportif. What was he missing? Why was this irritating him?
‘Please carry on, Inspector Meaker,’ were the last words he heard as he closed the door.
82
‘What are we going to do, Inspector?’
Danilov blew out a long stream of smoke. He looked at the clock on the wall. It slowly ticked over to 9.25. Elina would be waiting for him at home with another one of her ‘creations’ occupying the oven and reluctant to come out to see the light of night. ‘We are going to do as we have been ordered, Strachan, and go home. There is little to be served by staying here all night.’
‘But we’ve been taken off the case, sir?’
‘Have we? I understood the Chief Inspector to mean we weren’t to investigate the murder in the undertaker’s, didn’t you? That was your understanding, wasn’t it?’
Strachan perked up. ‘Yes, sir, that’s exactly how I understood it.’
‘Good. We will continue to investigate the other murders, except that of the undertaker, until ordered differently by the Chief Inspector.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Danilov blew out another long stream of smoke towards the clock. The second hand carried on moving. ‘I remember one of my father’s favourite sayings, “You cannot break through a wall with your forehead.”’
‘It hasn’t stopped us trying in the past, sir.’
Danilov ignored the remark. ‘I need to think. You can do two things for me before you go home tonight, Strachan.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Strachan looked far too eager to stay in the office. Avoiding the silence of home, and the ghost of his mother. Danilov knew all about such avoidance. Before the arrival of Elina, the white walls of his apartment shouted accusations of his guilt every evening. He had buried himself in work and opium to escape. He could feel the sweet, bitter taste of the opium smoke in his mouth right now. The smoking den was only round the corner from Central Police Station. Perhaps a quick pipe before he went home, just for the memory of it. Something to clear his mind of the Princess, a sweet something.
His dreams of opium were interrupted by the jangle of a telephone, ringing and rattling on Strachan’s desk.’
‘Hello, Detective Sergeant Strachan speaking.’ The young man nodded his head, reached for his notebook and said, ‘Go ahead.’ He began to write furiously on the notepad in front of him, finally stopping, throwing down his pen, and slowly replacing the receiver on to its cradle.
‘I think we have another victim, sir.’
83
‘From the newspaper? Mr Cipher?’
‘No, sir. He’s not there. Somebody else. A Mr Arthur Trainer, said he was head of the commercial division. There’s been another poem.’
Danilov sat forward. ‘Well, read it out, man.’
Strachan coughed.’The message reads:
‘Have you worked it out,
The game we’re playing,
What’s it all about?
I hear you saying,
The choice is one life,
Yours or your wife?’
Danilov’s face fell as if he had been struck across the mouth by a gloved fist. ‘It can’t be,’ he whispered.
Strachan looked at his notes once more. ‘That’s what the man at the newspaper office said, sir. Those exact words. But I can’t see a location in it, nor a Shakespeare quote.’ He scratched his head. ‘It’s like it was addressed to somebody, a note, or a threat maybe. Quite different from the others.’
‘It is addressed to somebody, Strachan.’
Strachan looked up. ‘Who, sir?’
‘Me.’
84
‘The Character Killer has my wife.’
‘I don’t understand, sir. Your wife is lost. You’ve been looking for her for nearly six years now…’
Danilov’s fist came down hard against his desk. The pens fell out of their holder and were strewn haphazardly over the wooden surface and the pristine white blotter.
Danilov ignored them. ‘It’s the only answer, Strachan. The message was meant for me.’
‘But where is she, sir? There was nothing in the message to hint at where she was.’
‘Give it to me.’
Strachan passed over the message he had been given by the newspaper. Danilov read it through once, then again. ‘Are you sure these are the exact words, Strachan?’
‘That’s what he said, sir.’
Danilov held the paper up and began reading aloud.
‘Have you worked it out,
The game we’re playing,
What’s it all about?
I hear you saying,
The choice is one life,
Yours or your wife?’
‘He’s taunting us, sir.’
‘He is, Strachan.’ Danilov looked at the words again. ‘Taunting me. Asking me if I’ve worked it out yet.’
‘Worked what out, sir?’
‘Worked out what he’s doing, Strachan.’
‘And he’s taken your wife, sir?’
Danilov brushed his hands through his hair. ‘He’s holding her, Strachan, but where?’
‘She could be anywhere in the city, sir.’
‘That’s not helpful, Strachan,’ snapped Danilov
The young detective sergeant shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir, it’s like he’s playing a game with us. Dropping clues here and there. Giving us a chance to rescue some of his victims while others are murdered. But we’re always a move behind. Always a little too late. It’s like one of those chess games, when you are playing an opponent who’s much better than you. You know, he has his moves worked out five steps ahead and you’re just trying to counter his attack right now.’
Danilov’s head jerked up. ‘What did you say, Strachan?’
‘Me, sir? I don’t know. I was rambling like I do…’
‘No, you said something about having his moves worked out five steps ahead of us…’
‘That’s how it feels, sir. He has it all planned out and we’re defending, waiting for the next line of attack.’
The inspector jumped up. ‘That’s it.’
‘Is this one of those “eureka” moments, sir?’
‘It is, Strachan, it most definitely is.’
85
Danilov wrenched the door of the detectives’ room open and sprinted down the corridor, narrowly avoi
ding a Sikh sergeant.
Strachan followed as quickly as he could. By the time he caught up, Danilov was already in the Investigation Room standing in front of the map with a pen in his hand. The place was empty except for the discarded papers on the floor, the reams of notes on the blackboards and the details of the murders pasted on to the easels.
Chief Inspector Rock and Inspectors Meaker and Cartwright were long gone.
The inspector reached up and traced lines on the map with his finger. He touched the pictures of the victims and looked beneath each one, checking the location, writing a number next to each picture. Then he took a step away from the map. ‘Scholar’s Mate?’ he whispered to himself. ‘But why repeat the final move?’
Danilov closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the wall. It had been staring him in the face all this time, why hadn’t he seen it earlier?’
He repeated the Mate because we found Miss Cavendish. He wanted a perfect game.
‘So Chief Inspector Rock’s map was useful after all, sir?’
Danilov turned towards him. ‘More than useful, Strachan – vital.’
‘He will be pleased, sir.’
Danilov walked across and stood in front of Strachan, placing his hands on his shoulders. ‘You must do me a favour.’
‘You know you don’t need to ask, sir.’
‘Please go to my home. Look after Elina. Protect her, whatever happens, Strachan. Protect her.’
The young detective heard the urgency in Danilov’s voice. ‘I will, sir, but where are you going?’
‘Back to where the game began. Promise me, you will protect Elina?’
‘Of course, sir. Anything you say, but what are you going to do?’
The hands came down and Danilov strode to the door. ‘What I should have done six years ago. Find my wife.’
86
Inspector Danilov pulled his coat around him as the wind whistled through the night streets and buried his head deep into the fabric. The people of Shanghai were still active despite the lateness of the hour. A bicycle workshop on his left still hammered away at a piece of metal. Trishaw drivers haggled with passengers. Drunken sailors, off some British warship, looked for drink, sex or a fight, but not necessarily in that order. The flames of a thousand woks still seared towards the night sky, feeding the multitude of late-night revellers.
The Murder Game Page 24