‘It confused me for a while, but the lack of a connection is a connection in itself. It was the least of my worries.’
‘Ah, but now I am the first of them, am I not?’ He picked up the lever that released the trap.
Danilov tried to work his feet backwards as far as he could, to find the edge where the platform ended and the trapdoor began.
The clock ticked over to five minutes to twelve.
‘“But at my back I hear, time’s wing’d chariot hurrying near.” Your chariot is certainly approaching, isn’t it, Inspector Danilov?’
The bald-headed thug came back up the steps, pushing Danilov’s son in front of him.
‘Ivan, are you okay?’ Danilov said in Russian.
The young man nodded.
‘Have they hurt you?’
‘No, Father.’ He struggled to escape the grip of his gaoler, but the man held him close, in a bear hug.
‘See, Danilov, we look after your family better than you did.’ Allen raised his hand and made a sign to the bald-headed Chinese man. Danilov’s son was immediately seized in a headlock, his neck pushed forward against the thug’s forearm.
‘And now comes your second choice of the day, Danilov. Who is to die? Your son or yourself?’
Allen pulled the lever and the trapdoor opened at Danilov’s feet. For a moment he hovered on the edge before recovering his balance.
‘You can choose between staying where you are, or taking your own life by jumping through the trapdoor in the stage. If you choose the former, Han Kew will break your son’s neck.’
The big Chinese demonstrated his strength by forcing Ivan forward and down against his forearm. The young man struggled but was lifted off his feet.
‘What’s it to be, Danilov? Make the choice.’
Ivan was struggling against the big man, trying to kick with his feet, but his struggles became more and more feeble as his face lost colour.
‘Which is it to be, Danilov?’
‘Put him down, put him down. I’ll do it.’
Allen signalled for the boy to be released.
Ivan dropped him to the ground, coughing blood on to the floor.
‘You have to let my wife and son go. And you mustn’t touch my daughter.’
‘You’re in no position to negotiate, Danilov.’
‘If you want me to kill myself, they must be freed. Otherwise, there is no point in my death.’
‘Such a disgusting pastime, carrying on one’s line, passing on one’s traits to another generation of cretins.’
‘There speaks a man with no family.’
‘Oh, I do have a family. The world is my family and it is my job to protect them from wasters and scoundrels, Danilov. Once I have disposed of you, I will return to my higher calling; ridding the world of the evil, corruption and decay infesting it. Like a limb infected with gangrene, the sinners must be hacked from the innocent body. The righteous must be protected from the sinners who dwell among them. Yama has spoken to me.’
‘Isn’t it the job of the law and the police to protect the righteous?’
‘The law and the police? Wasters and scoundrels, all of them.’ He swept his arm wide as he spoke. ‘Yama is the only man who can save the world. I am his reincarnation on Earth.’
‘Another god in a man’s body?’
‘No, a god in a god’s body.’
‘A true god would not punish the innocent, only the guilty.’
‘So, you admit your guilt, Danilov?’
The inspector nodded his head, the rough fibres of the rope chafing against his neck.
The clock ticked over so that the hour hand was facing straight up.
Allen smiled. ‘Finally, we reach agreement, Danilov. He appeared to think for a moment. ‘Your wife and son will be released.’
‘And my daughter?’
Allen smiled again. ‘She will be taken care of.’
‘I have your word? The word of the Judge of Souls?’
‘After you kill yourself, they will be released.’
‘Father, don’t do it.’ Ivan struggled to get up, before collapsing back to the floor, coughing once again.
‘It’s for the best, Ivan. For everyone. I wasn’t much of a father to you anyway.’
‘Out of the lion’s mouth comes truth. See, Han Kew, they all see the light in the end.’
The thug said nothing.
‘Let’s get it over with. On the count of three, you will jump into the void, Danilov. I’m afraid it won’t be a pretty death, nor will it be a quick one, but it will be a necessary death. Your time is up, Danilov. Your chariot has arrived. Death stares you in the face. Make your peace with the gods.’
He reached out to the lever and pulled it towards himself.
The trapdoor fell away to leave a gaping hole in the middle of the platform. Danilov stood at the edge of the void. He could see the drop to the floor beneath the stage. Not a long drop, not enough to break his neck. He would die from strangulation.
‘Are you ready? I will count to three and then you will jump. If not, Han Kew will take immense pleasure in strangling your son until he can no longer breathe. One… two… three.’
Danilov jumped into the void.
94
Strachan pulled out into the middle of the road, driving on the wrong side, fist pounding the horn of his Dodge, clearing all other traffic out of the way.
Other horns blared back. Rickshaw drivers swore a thousand curses on his ancestors. Pedestrians sprinted to the other side of the road. A horse-drawn cart, turning right, crashed into a row of street stalls as the driver realised this madman wasn’t going to stop.
Strachan raced through the junction, mouth set and horn still shouting his determination to keep going.
Would he get there in time? Or was the inspector already dead? And what about Elina’s mother? Had Allen already murdered her too?
He stomped even harder on the accelerator, feeling the surge through the Buick. No mother was going to die today. Not today.
He turned sharply left along Carter Road. A big Jordan, driven by an old chauffeur, was coming straight towards him. The driver seemed not to see the danger, as if he was blind to anything and everything on the road. Strachan swung left, up on to the pavement. Pedestrians jumped out of the way, hawkers threw their goods up into the air and ran, and one frightened noodle seller stood still, too frightened to move.
Strachan swerved back on to the road, cutting across a pedestrian crossing, narrowly missing the noodle seller.
Up ahead, he could see the Sinza Water Tower looming over the district. He crashed through Sinza Road, turning sharply left, producing a screeching from his tires, echoed by a cacophony of car horns and shouts from irate drivers.
He raced past the refuge. Their visit seemed so long ago, but it had only been a few days. They should have checked the Water Tower when the girl had been found running through the streets, her clothes torn to shreds.
But they didn’t.
He hammered his fist into the horn of the car, forcing a rickshaw driver off the road into the gutter at the side.
He just hoped he wasn’t too late.
He accelerated to a stop outside the Water Tower, flung open the door and dived out.
The street was eerily quiet, empty except for one child playing with a hoop and stick. He pulled out his revolver and sprinted into the courtyard.
He couldn’t be too late. Not this time.
95
For a few seconds, Danilov felt like he was floating in mid-air. Then, the rope gripped his neck and the weight of his body pulled the noose tight.
A shock of pain shot through his Adam’s apple, his tongue desperate to escape his mouth.
He kicked with his legs, trying to get a hold on the edge of the stage, but he couldn’t reach. He fought for breath but there was nothing coming in. His brain began to boil, white flashes like lightning searing across his skull.
On the wall, the second hand of the clock ticked over from sev
enteen to eighteen.
He mustn’t black out
He mustn’t black out.
Allen was watching him, a smile pasted across his face, twirling the ring on his little finger, around and around and around.
Why was he playing with the ring?
He screamed, loud and long, his voice sharp and cutting, but no sound came out of his mouth. Why couldn’t they hear him?
He screamed again. The sound echoed around his brain, bouncing off the inside of his skull.
Allen still stared at him, a callous smile etched on his lips.
A warm numbness suffused his body. A strange numbness like being submerged in water the same temperature as his body. He knew he existed; he just couldn’t feel anything.
The second hand of the clock ticked over, moving from twenty-three to twenty-four. And stopped.
It was as if some great weight was pulling at his feet, forcing him down to the ground. But the harder it pulled, the longer he stayed where he was.
In his ears, a loud rattling sound was replaced by music. Tchaikovsky, the 1812 Overture, cannons blasting, bells pealing, Russia celebrating its release from the threats of a dictator.
The last chords echoed in his mind and were replaced by an image of his wife and son and daughter. Happy times, at an Easter picnic; his son searching for the hidden eggs, his wife preparing the food, placing it on the tablecloth, Elina pouring lemonade into a glass.
A wasp buzzing in his ear, getting louder now, louder.
The second hand ticking over from twenty-four to twenty-five and stopping once more.
And then the world went black.
96
The shards of broken glass crunched beneath his shoes as Strachan knelt down and took a deep breath. He stared through the empty space where a pane of glass had been smashed in the door.
Nothing.
He reached into the hole and slowly opened the door.
Still no sound came from inside.
He crouched low and jumped into the room, revolver held in front of him, ready for action.
Nothing.
A light in the corner. Another open door. He could hear a gagging sound. And then a voice; muffled, soft, gloating.
‘I’ve enjoyed this, Han Kew. Sometimes, the old methods are the best. I think the woman and her child should follow the inspector in his dance, don’t you? Please fetch her.’
A grunt in reply.
Strachan crept to the inner door. He could hear heavy footsteps coming towards him. It was now or never.
He kicked it open. A large bald-headed Chinese man stood in front of him, arm raised. Behind the man, in the middle of the room, a young boy lay stretched out on the floor.
The boy kicked out with his leg, striking the knee of the Chinese thug. He doubled over and Strachan fired.
Once.
Twice.
The thug went down like a sack of potatoes, sprawling across the young boy.
To the right, the body of Inspector Danilov, still dressed in his working suit, was hanging in mid-air, his tongue sticking out between his teeth.
Too late. He was too late.
A bullet smashed into the wall above his head. Instinctively, Strachan ducked down and was showered in fragments of plaster and brick.
Another bullet. This time beside his right shoulder. He jumped back into an alcove, hiding behind the wall.
The stench of cordite filled the air. The Chinese man groaned loudly and then was silent. The sound of running feet.
He slowly manoeuvred his head around the edge of the wall.
A door was open on the other side of the room, steps leading upwards. The young boy was violently pushing the thug away from him.
In the corner, the body of the inspector twisted slowly in some hidden breeze above a hastily assembled stage…
Over his head, the sound of footsteps running across a wooden floor. Should he chase after him?
A noise behind him. He turned, gun poised to shoot.
‘David, it’s me.’ Elina stepped into the room, her hands held above her shoulders.
‘How… how?’ Strachan stammered, lowering his revolver.
She rushed past him into the room. Danilov still twisted slowly on the end of his rope.
He ran after her, jumping on to the stage.
The inspector was hanging by his neck over a trapdoor, his face a pale shade of blue, his tongue just visible between his teeth.
Another noise above his head. A door being slammed against a wall. Another shot.
A shout from beneath his feet. There must be more people down there.
The young man had struggled from beneath the thug and was kicking the dead body. He could hear the shouts from the cellar more clearly now. A woman’s voice, speaking a language he didn’t understand.
Elina had taken hold of the inspector’s body and was trying to move it on to the stage. Strachan pushed her away and grabbed the body. The weight was light, surprisingly light.
He laid it down on the wooden floorboards of the platform.
Outside, he could hear sirens. The Rapid Action Force.
More shouts from the basement, louder, more insistent now. He looked down at the face of the inspector. Pale and unbreathing. He seemed younger, the lines etched into his face, softened and erased.
A man at rest. The most restful he had ever seen this face. It was as if all the worries of the world had been removed and all that remained was peace.
Pure, unadulterated peace.
What had he learnt at police school?
Strachan began pounding on the man’s chest, counting as he did so. ‘Elina, blow into his mouth, inflate the lungs.’
Elina knelt down next to her father and began to blow into his mouth.
There was no reaction from Danilov.
She stopped and lifted up her father’s eyelids. Inside, the whites of the eyes were streaked with lines of red.
Strachan stopped pounding on the inspector’s chest, placing his ear over the heart.
Still nothing.
He pressed down even harder, using his body weight and counting as he did so.
‘One-two-three…’
Elina blew into her father’s mouth, holding his nose.
He stopped pressing down on the sternum. She placed her head on her father’s chest, listening for a sound, any sound. She looked at Strachan and shook her head.
Nothing.
He began to press and count again. ‘Three-four-five-six-seven…’
Slamming car doors. Footsteps outside in the courtyard. Deep voices shouting.
‘In here, quickly,’ Strachan shouted.
Danilov’s shirt was open, the white skin stretched tight across the rippled wave of the ribs. Elina stopped blowing into Danilov’s mouth. They both listened.
Nothing.
He pressed down again on the chest with both hands. ‘Eight-nine-ten-eleven-twelve-thirteen…’
‘You’re gonna break my ribs,’ a voice croaked.
He jerked backwards. The inspector’s eyes were open. Glazed red eyes, staring into the distance.
Danilov coughed and coughed again, spitting blood from between his lips. Strachan and Elina pulled him forward so he sat upright, the blood dripping from his mouth on to his open shirt.
Chief Inspector Fairbairn ran into the room, followed by three constables.
Danilov coughed again. ‘Go after Allen, Strachan… can’t escape again.’
Strachan jumped down from the platform. ‘This way,’ he shouted over his shoulder at Fairbairn and the constables.
He charged through the door and up the stairs. A mezzanine floor with another open door in the corner. The steps led upwards, vanishing as they spiralled around the inside of the tower.
Strachan sprinted to the door and up the stairs. He could hear footsteps above him. ‘He’s up here,’ he shouted, and climbed upwards.
The heavy tread of the constables echoed behind him as his own feet clattered on the wooden risers
.
Up and up he went, always turning left as he followed the spiralling stairs.
A door banged above him; a shaft of light illuminated the motes of dust floating in the air.
His chest heaved, fighting for air, but still he climbed higher and higher.
He could see the top now. An open door.
He stopped.
Fairbairn and the constables clattered into his back. He could hear their panting as they desperately sucked air into their lungs. Or was the sound his own lungs scrabbling for air?
Calm yourself, Strachan.
He took three deep breaths and peered around the corner of the blue door.
A man was standing at the edge of the parapet, facing towards them, revolver in his hand. He seemed to be talking to someone, but the roof was empty.
‘I failed you, Yama. Again, I failed you.’
The man then lifted his head into the wind as if listening to an answer.
All Strachan could hear was the wind whistling around the concrete parapet.
Strachan jerked his head behind the door. He signalled to Fairbairn, who took up position on the other side of the entrance.
‘Give yourself up. There’s nowhere to go,’ Strachan shouted.
The man laughed. ‘There’s always somewhere to go. It’s time for this body who once was Thomas Allen to join me.’
The voice had a strange tone, deep, foreign.
‘He failed me. He knows what to do.’
Strachan put his head around the door.
The man was standing on the parapet, the revolver still in his left hand. Slowly, he brought the gun up and placed it against his temple.
‘Noooooooo,’ Strachan shouted and rushed on to the top of the tower.
The man fired. A single shot.
He remained standing on the parapet for a second, smiling at Strachan, before his knees began to give way and the body toppled slowly over the edge.
Strachan raced to the parapet and looked over. The body was falling, a smile still etched on the face and a single red dot smeared on the temple.
The Murder Game Page 27