City of Shadows

by M J Lee

  He moved to the corner of the concrete bed and sat down. The man edged away from him, pressing his body into the far corner. A tall man, curling himself into a foetal ball.

  Danilov took out his tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette. Even in the dim light of the cell, his fingers knew exactly what to do. He brought the edge of the paper up to his mouth and licked it. ‘Would you like a cigarette? Only hand-rolled, I’m afraid. But the best Virginia from Jacobson’s.’

  A hand snaked out and took the cigarette. Danilov pulled a lighter from his pocket and flicked the wheel. Instantly, the cell was flooded with light, the glaze of its brown brick walls reflecting the flame of the lighter.

  The prisoner shrank back into the wall.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise how bright this was.’ Danilov closed the lid of the light and adjusted the wheel beneath the flame. He flicked the wheel and a smaller, less bright flame flickered. The cell was illuminated again, but less harshly. Danilov could see the back of the prisoner’s head now, his hair matted with sweat. For a second the man hesitated then put the cigarette in what was left of his lips and mouth.

  Danilov brought the flame up to the prisoner’s face. The white tube of the cigarette stood out like a long thin maggot against the red and purple of the lips. Blood oozed from the side of his head, dribbling down onto his chin and shirt. The mouth was a bloody mess, with a few gaps where teeth had once been.

  Danilov lit the end of the cigarette and the man inhaled, coughing and gasping as he did so. The rest of his face was in even worse condition. The nose was bent at an angle resting against the left cheek, while, beneath one eye, a vivid purple egg of a bruise looked like it would burst at any moment, showering blood everywhere. The other eye was closing, a thick black line like a calligraphy stroke the only indication of its existence.

  The man coughed once more, his chest rasping, trying to suck in air.

  ‘Lie down. You’ll feel better if you lie down.’

  The man shook his head, throwing a drizzle of blood-stained spittle onto Danilov’s jacket.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  The man tried to speak through his split lips. Danilov couldn’t understand a word.

  ‘I’m sorry, could you say that again?’

  The man collapsed in another round of coughing, blood splattering on the floor of the cell. Without looking up, he composed himself and though rasping breaths, he said, ‘Kao. Kao Ker Lien.’

  The rasping continued as Kao tried to breathe, sucking in air through his torn mouth.

  Then he spoke, the words unintelligible.

  Danilov leant forward. ‘What did you say?’

  The man paused and seemed to concentrate his whole body into the words that were coming out of his mouth. ‘Didn’t do anything,’ he enunciated slowly.

  The effort seemed to exhaust him. He fell forward, fighting to get some air into his lungs.

  Danilov caught him and cradled the man’s body, laying him gently on the hard concrete of the bed.

  ‘Didn’t do anything. Didn’t kill them. Didn’t do anything,’ Kao said over and over again as he lay there, the words coming out through bubbles of blood and spit.

  Danilov stood up and banged on the cell door. ‘Sergeant.’

  The duty sergeant appeared in a few seconds from his hiding place just around the corner.

  ‘Get this man to the hospital immediately.’

  ‘Can’t do that, sir. Not without Chief Inspector Boyle’s permission. He’s been charged. Can’t leave here.’

  ‘He’s going to die unless you do something.’

  The sergeant stared at the prisoner lying prostrate on the bed, mumbling over and over again through his broken mouth.

  ‘I need the Chief’s permission, sir. Regulations.’

  Danilov raced out of the cell and up the stairs at the end. ‘I’ll see about bloody regulations.’

  Chapter 6

  ‘You can’t go in, Inspector.’ Miss Cavendish looked up from painting her nails a bright scarlet to match her lipstick.

  ‘I’m sorry, I must.’

  She got up from behind her desk and stood in his way. Miss Cavendish was the gatekeeper to Boyle’s office, protecting the sanctum from trespass or unauthorised entry, both criminal offences in her eyes.

  ‘I need to see him immediately.’

  Miss Cavendish played with the string of pearls around her neck, thinking about his request. ‘He said he wasn’t to be disturbed. Manpower reports for upstairs. But as it’s you, Inspector, I’ll try.’

  She knocked gently on the frosted glass door. A grumpy ‘Yes’ came from within.

  She pushed open the door and Danilov caught a glimpse of a large, portly man, sitting behind his desk.

  He caught the traces of a conversation.

  ‘Can’t he come back later?’

  ‘He says it’s important.’

  ‘Tell him to come back later.’

  ‘Chief Inspector, I’m sure Inspector Danilov wouldn’t bother you unless it were urgent.’

  Danilov heard a long, loud sigh followed by a grumpy, ‘Show him in then.’

  Miss Cavendish pushed open the door and stepped aside.

  ‘What is it, Danilov? Upstairs are demanding these reports from me yesterday.’

  Chief Inspector Boyle was sitting behind his desk, a half-smoked cigar burning in the ashtray, its smoke sending tendrils of petrol-blue up towards a tanned ceiling. Behind his head, a portrait of King George V dressed in a naval uniform looked down, a bland smile etched into the thin lips, surrounded by a manicured beard.

  ‘It’s the prisoner, Kao, he…’

  ‘Damn fine work by Cowan, arresting the culprit so quickly after the murders. And he’s confessed. Upstairs is very pleased.’ He pointed with his thumb towards the ceiling.

  ‘The prisoner is severely injured, sir. A punctured lung, maybe even worse.’

  ‘Severely injured, you say? I heard he resisted arrest. The men had to restrain him. Nothing unusual in that.’

  ‘This man has been severely beaten up, sir. To get his confession.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ Boyle picked up his cigar and sat back in his chair. ‘Won’t you sit down, Danilov?’

  ‘I prefer to stand, sir.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Boyle took a long drag on the cigar, blowing out a long stream of smoke that filled the room. ‘Look, a family, a decent working family, was shot down in their home without mercy. The man in the cells has confessed to the crime. End of story.’

  ‘He says he didn’t do it, sir.’

  ‘Well, he would say that now, wouldn’t he?’ Boyle leaned forward, opening the box in front of him. ‘Take a cigarette and sit down.’

  ‘I still prefer to stand, sir.’

  Boyle sighed, scratching his bald head as he did so. Danilov noticed three long red scores on his scalp. The skin had begun to flake at the edges of the marks, sending white motes of skin onto Boyle’s shoulders.

  ‘The prisoner could die from his injuries, sir. How would that look on the records?’ Now was the time to play his final card. ‘And worse, what would upstairs say?’ Danilov repeated the gesture of pointing upwards with his thumb.

  ‘Are you threatening me, Danilov?’

  ‘No, sir, merely pointing out the obvious. If the main suspect in such a high profile case dies in police custody, well…there are bound to be questions asked about the competence of the officer in charge. And I’m sure the press would be the first to ask.’

  Boyle sat and thought for a moment, the cigar burning uselessly between his fingers. Then he leant forward and stubbed it out in the ashtray. ‘Listen, Danilov, you’re a good copper. A brilliant copper. But sometimes, you have to realise it’s important to get a result. Quickly.’

  ‘Even when “the result” is wrong?’

  ‘So you’re the arbitrator of right and wrong these days?’

  ‘Isn’t that our job, sir? To find and punish criminals?’

  ‘When you ge
t to do my job, you’ll realise that it’s not as straightforward as that.’

  ‘For me, it is, sir.’

  ‘Then you’ll never be able to do my job.’

  ‘I know, sir. The idea gives me immense pleasure.’

  Boyle sat back in his chair and let out a long, audible sigh like the release of gas from a punctured balloon. His voice became softer, more cajoling. ‘You did well on the Character Killer case, but you didn’t make any friends in the force. Cartwright and Meaker were liked.’

  ‘A man may die unless we get him help. Do you think I care about making friends?’

  Boyle looked towards the door and coughed, clearing his throat. ‘Miss Cavendish…’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Miss Cavendish, I know you are there.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ a tiny voice squeaked.

  ‘Ask Inspector Cowan to join us, will you?’

  ‘Certainly, Chief Inspector. Now?’

  ‘Right away, Miss Cavendish.’

  They both heard the clatter of heels on the wooden floorboards as Miss Cavendish went to fetch Cowan.

  Boyle took a cigarette from his box, lit it, inhaled and blew a long stream of smoke up towards the ceiling. ‘I have to be honest with you, Danilov. Since the trouble with Cartwright and Meaker, a lot of people have been gunning for you.’

  ‘They obstructed my investigations, sir. Hiding witnesses and information.’

  ‘They did and were punished for it. But you have to understand this police force. We stick together. Most of the men you serve with also served in the trenches. You didn’t, did you?’

  ‘No, sir. The Imperial Police in Minsk were exempt from the Army.’

  ‘In the trenches, there was a sense of solidarity. All in this together. Against the mud, the slime, the Germans, even our own generals. You don’t understand what loyalty means to these men.’

  ‘No, I don’t, sir.

  Boyle took out a brown paper file from his desk drawer and opened it. A few faded typewritten sheets lay inside, the ink faded to light blue. ‘I checked your record with the chaps at Scotland Yard.’ His eyes scanned one of the sheets. ‘Two years exemplary service but a bit of a maverick was their judgement. Too smart for his own good.’

  ‘I enjoyed my time on secondment from Russia to London, sir, but we never did catch the anarchists we were looking for. A waste of my time.’

  ‘But you did get to live in England for two years. Anyone who is tired of London is tired of life. Somebody famous said that, can’t think who.’

  ‘Samuel Johnson, sir.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Compiler of the first English dictionary.’

  ‘See? They were right. You are too clever for your own good.’

  A knock rapped on the frosted glass door and Cowan stepped in.

  ‘You asked to see me, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector. Danilov tells me the prisoner you arrested for the Lee murders is in a bad way.’

  Cowan glanced across at Danilov. ‘Resisted arrest, sir. We had to subdue him. Attacked me when I was questioning him.’

  Boyle grunted. ’You seem to be remarkably free of any marks, Inspector.’

  ‘I was lucky, sir. Three other officers will back me up on what happened.’

  ‘I’m sure they will.’

  ‘The prisoner will be fine, sir. Just play-acting. You know how these people are…’

  ‘And if he dies?’ interjected Danilov.

  Cowan shrugged his shoulders. ‘I suppose the courts will have one less case to handle.’

  Boyle took another long drag on his cigarette.

  ‘You can’t let this prisoner die, sir. There’s a lot more going on here. It just doesn’t feel right. I feel that…’

  ‘We’re to run this station based on your feelings, Danilov?’ asked Boyle.

  ‘No, sir. But what if this prisoner died in custody? Shouldn’t he go on trial? It’s our duty to see him in court.’

  ‘Where he can be sentenced to death? Better to let him die now and save ourselves the trouble,’ sneered Cowan.

  Boyle’s fist slammed down on the table. ‘Enough. Send the doctor to see him. If the doctor agrees, then we send him to hospital.’

  ‘But it could take an hour for the doctor to arrive…’

  ‘Keep an eye on him until then. Make sure he’s comfortable. Let me know if his condition worsens.’

  ‘But, sir…’ stammmered Danilov.

  ‘That’s my decision, Danilov.’ He turned and faced Cowan. ‘We want this man to stand trial for his crimes, not die in our cells. An example for all. Do you understand me?’

  A glance from Cowan across to Danilov. This time, the malice in the look was obvious.

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘That will be all.’

  Cowan left the office, rattling the glass in its frame as he closed the door.

  ‘As for you, Danilov, this is Cowan’s case. Stay out of it. Is that clear?’

  Chapter 7

  Danilov could feel the tension in the detectives’ office as soon as he stepped through the door.

  He sat down at his desk. His pens, telephone, and desk pad were nowhere to be seen. The games had already started.

  The other detectives stood in the corner of the room, staring malevolently at him.

  Strachan leant across. ‘Shall I get some new stationery from Miss Cavendish, sir?’

  ‘Don’t bother, Strachan.’ Danilov took out his tobacco pouch and rolled another cigarette. God how he hated these games. Children all of them with not a brain cell between them.

  ‘Did you find out anything else about the case, Strachan?’

  Strachan looked over at the group of detectives surrounding Cowan as he rang for the doctor. ‘Not much, sir. Four murders; a man, his wife and two children, all from the same family, killed in their home last night. I managed to talk to one of the photographers.’ He handed over a brown envelope. ‘These are from the crime scene, sir. Apparently, the call came in at 9.47 pm. Moore took it.’ He indicated another policeman standing off to one side, not a member of Cowan’s group. ‘They took half an hour to find Cowan. Moore wanted to call you, but Cowan said no. He decided to investigate the case himself.’

  ‘When did they arrest Kao?’

  ‘This morning, sir. Cowan received a tip-off from an informant.’

  Danilov lit the roll-up, watching the end flare in the flame of the lighter. ‘He moved quickly. Not like Cowan at all.’

  ‘Hear the noise, sir?’ Strachan gestured towards the window. ‘The gentlemen of the press. All waiting for Kao.’

  Danilov sucked in the sweet smoke of his cigarette. Immediately his body relaxed and he felt a mild tingle, tremor through his bones. Even after years of smoking, he never tired of this moment when, for a brief second, the terrors of the day were forgotten.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Who, sir?’

  ‘The prisoner, Kao.’

  ‘He’s sleeping. One of the constables is sitting with him in a cell. And a lawyer has turned up.’

  ‘Really? Kao didn’t strike me as a man who knew any lawyers. Who called him?’

  ‘That’s the point. They think you did, sir.’ Once again, Strachan indicated the group of detectives who were still staring at them, anger etched into every line on their faces.

  The clamour from the reporters outside the window grew louder.

  ‘Get your coat, Strachan.’

  ‘We’re going out, sir?’

  Danilov took the brown envelope off his desk. ‘Kao is being looked after, the best way we can help him is to find out more about these murders.’

  ‘But I thought it was Inspector’s Cowan’s case?’

  ‘Not any more. Get a move on.’ Danilov was already going out of the door. Strachan grabbed his hat and coat off the stand and rushed after him.

  ‘This case smells higher than a troop of Cossacks. I’m not going to let a man die just to keep Cowan happy. Not today. Not any day.’


  ‘Do you want me to drive, sir?’

  ‘No, I’ve asked an elephant to do it. Don’t ask stupid questions, Strachan.’

  ‘No, sir. Not today, sir.’

  Chapter 8

  The Lee family home was in a new estate just off Hankow Road. Inspector Danilov rolled a cigarette while he waited for Strachan to park the car. Around him, the Chinese residents bustled in and out of the lane, glancing surreptitiously at this strange foreigner standing in front of their homes. The guard sitting in his little shed ignored him, preferring to shovel his rice from his bowl into his mouth.

  Danilov looked up at the Chinese characters above the doorway with their English translation clumsily painted beneath: ‘Prosperous Peace Lane’. Well, it certainly wasn’t peaceful for the Lees, he thought.

  The address of the house was officially known as 349, Lane 7, Hankow Road. He much preferred the efficiency and order of this address, so far from the aspirational dreams of the middle class where ‘Morally Righteous Estate’ was next door to ‘Filial Piety Lane’. ‘Eternal Rectitude Alley’ was found in ‘Eternal Haven Estate’. And his favourite: ‘Bright Future Street’ lurked in ‘Forever Past Estate’.

  He was sure they meant something profound in Chinese, but their English translations came across as faintly ridiculous.

  ‘Prosperous Peace Lane’ was a home for this new class, people who had made some money but still weren’t part of the elite yet; three-storey houses built in the new Art Deco style with white concrete exteriors, porthole windows and the simple straight lines that promised sophisticated elegance without the stuffy clutter that he remembered from the Russia of his youth.

  Strachan came running up. ‘Sorry, took me a while to find a place, sir.’

  Danilov didn’t reply, he just walked through the gate.

  The guard raised his head from his bowl for a second before lowering it once again, continuing to remorselessly shovel the rice from his bowl to his mouth, before either mysteriously vanished into thin air.

  A long lane stretched in front of the detectives, with branches off to the side every thirty metres. ‘It’s number 349. It should be on the left.’

  They walked along looking at the numbers. The first row on their left held 101 to 126. They looked down the alley. A long tier of terraced, three-storey houses, all facing South, stretched to another alley at the end. Each door led to a small internal courtyard, then onto the main entrance to the house. There was a mirror image of the alley on the right-hand side of the lane.