City of Shadows

by M J Lee

  He was in uniform now. Nobody ever noticed people in uniform. They blended in with everything else on the street, part of the furniture. Some nosey person might remember there was a man in uniform, but they would never be able to describe his face. That was the beauty of a uniform: it guaranteed anonymity.

  He did a final check and then walked back towards the police station he had just left.

  Invisible again.

  Just another person going to see what had happened.

  Another uniform in the crowd.

  Chapter 15

  The clamour outside the window increased. Lightbulbs flashed. The shouts of the reporters above the noise. The lawyer’s voice, calm and collected.

  More shouts from the reporters. More flashes. Then a loud bang.

  Silence.

  Danilov and Strachan raced towards the door.

  Two more bangs.

  Screams and shouts of chaos. People running. More shouts, shriller now, desperation in the voices.

  The hurtled through the double doors. On the steps to the left of them, all was chaos. Men lay close to the ground desperately trying to crawl away. A woman searched for her glasses on her hands and knees. Cameras, notepads, and used bulbs lay strewn down the steps.

  At the bottom, two bodies lay next to each other joined by a steel chain. One was on its back, staring up at the sky, the other had rolled onto his side and was moaning loudly, like a bull that had just been gelded.

  A photographer was taking shots of the bodies, his flash blinding despite the sunlight.

  ‘Stop,’ Danilov shouted. Strachan rushed past him and hustled the protesting photographer away.

  Danilov stepped over a large brown shoe lying on its side. He walked down the step and knelt down next to Detective Constable Moore. The man was moaning loudly.

  He rolled him over and saw blood seeping into the man’s jacket from a wound on his shoulder.

  He heard Strachan run back to join him.

  ‘I confiscated the camera, sir. Might come in useful.’

  ‘Good. Those ambulance men,’ he pointed to two men dressed in white coats crouched down behind the rear of their vehicle, ‘get them up here to take Moore to the hospital. Quickly, man.’

  He stood up and stepped across Moore. The body of Kao lay stretched out on the steps, exactly where it had fallen, arms out wide like the pope blessing the multitudes in St Peter’s Square.

  Between the eyes, in the centre of the forehead, a small round hole with a blackened edge disturbed the smoothness of the skin. One eye was wide open, staring into space as if looking for something that wasn’t there. The other was still closed, the bruise around it puffy, yellow and purple.

  The face itself looked as though it was at peace, removed from the terrors of life. So different from the last time Danilov had seen it in the cells beneath the station, illuminated by the flickering flame of a lighter.

  Danilov knelt down. A small trail of dark liquid had trickled from the corner of the smiling mouth. A large patch of wet, wine-dark blood stained the front of his shirt.

  He reached out to touch the blood but stopped himself at the last moment. Dr Fang would want an untouched body, no need for him to become an amateur pathologist.

  Strachan had returned with the ambulance men and was lifting Moore’s body onto a stretcher, but the right arm was still attached to the body of Kao.

  ‘Where’s the key?’

  ‘Check the fob pocket of his waistcoat, Strachan, most coppers keep it there.’

  Strachan’s fumbling fingers searched in the pocket. His eyes remained fixed on the body of Kao lying next to Moore.

  ‘Look what you are doing, Strachan.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He forced his eyes away and delved deeper into the pocket. A small compact shape was buried deep in the fabric.

  ‘You were right, sir.’ He unlocked the handcuffs and helped the moaning Moore onto the stretcher. The ambulance men carried him down the steps, his moans increasing as they jolted his shoulder against the bare canvas.

  He beckoned for Strachan to kneel down beside him. The young detective stepped forward, his eyes never leaving the face of the dead man.

  ‘What do you make of it, Strachan?’

  ‘He’s dead, sir.’

  ‘A blind man with blinkers could have worked that out. What else?’

  Strachan stared at the dead man’s face. He twisted his head to the left like an artist sizing up a model for an insightful portrait. When he spoke, it was hesitating. ‘The expression on his face, sir, it doesn’t seem right.’

  ‘Very strange, isn’t it? Like he was smiling at his killer as he was shot. Look at the hands.’

  Strachan stood up again and stared down at the body. ‘He’s got his hands raised, sir. Like he was surrendering.’

  ‘Yes, maybe. The shot was good. Professional.’

  ‘A kill shot, sir.’

  ‘Nobody gets up and walks away from those. It looks the same as the one that killed Mr Lee.’ He stood up and took a last lingering look at the body. ‘Get it down to Dr Fang at the morgue. Let’s see what he can tell us.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Danilov breathed in a deep lungful of Shanghai air.

  His nose wrinkled as he scanned the watching faces of the crowd. ‘Sweet potatoes. It’s strange, but there’s always the smell of sweet potatoes at every death I investigate.’

  Strachan tapped him on the arm and pointed to a hawker stirring the charcoal beneath a large iron wok. The man lifted the lid. The overpowering sweetness of the aroma of roasting drifted across the crime scene.

  For a moment, Danilov was back in the Minsk of his youth, hearing the chants of the priests, seeing the bright flash of the chains of the incense burner, smelling the sweet aroma, seeing the dead body of his father lying in the casket, arms crossed in front of him.

  He rubbed the scars on the back of his hands. He mustn’t let himself be distracted. Not now, now he needed to concentrate.

  Then he was back in the present, surrounded by a crowd of people that had gathered to see what was happening, all staring at him and the body lying on the pavement.

  ‘Round up all the coppers you can and clear the area. Make sure these reporters are taken into the station. We need to question them.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Move these people back, they’re getting in the way of the crime scene.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Do it now.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And get the body over to Dr Fang. We need the autopsy as soon as possible.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And make sure we get pictures of the body before Dr Fang’s men move it.’

  Strachan held up the camera he had confiscated from the press photographer.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there looking pleased with yourself. Get a move on.’

  ‘Right away, sir.’

  Danilov looked down once more on the serene face of Kao. Shame such peace had to come with death. The once white shirt, soiled with blood, sweat and the dirt of the cell walls, clung to his body. Around his right wrist, a set of handcuffs was still fastened, slightly different in size and colour from the set that had been attached to Moore. Shinier, almost new, with thicker steel links and a heavy lock.

  Kao must have been handcuffed to two policemen as he was being led away. Moore and one other. Who could the other man have been?

  He looked up and saw Strachan organising the uniforms to herd the reporters and photographers into the station. The lawyer was protesting loudly, arguing as Strachan gently backed him towards the open double doors at the top of the steps.

  He looked down at the body lying sprawled at his feet, an open pair of handcuffs still attached to one arm.

  Danilov picked up the handcuffs. A small key fell from the lock and tumbled to the steps, landing with a metallic clink on the hard concrete.

  He looked around the scene once more and then it struck him. ‘Where was Cowan?�
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  Chapter 16

  Danilov sat alone in the empty detectives’ room. The others were out helping Strachan with the gentlemen of the press.

  He laughed to himself. Such an English description, ‘gentlemen of the press’. The press he knew were rabid dogs rather than gentlemen, willing to sacrifice everyone and everything in pursuit of a byline.

  He could hear them outside in the reception area shouting and complaining, baying together.

  Above the noise, Boyle was bellowing, trying to control the mob, followed by the higher register of the interpreter, repeating the orders in Mandarin and Shanghainese.

  He rolled another cigarette.

  But what was the story here? A family had been murdered in cold blood and now their killer had been shot on the steps of the police station. Why?

  Was it an escape attempt gone wrong? Probably not. Kao had been shot between the eyes and in the chest. Not caught in crossfire.

  So why kill an innocent man? And why not let the man go on trial to prove his innocence? If he were found guilty, he would be turned over to the Chinese authorities and executed. End of story.

  Why kill him here? On the steps of a police station? To shut him up? Stop him talking? Or was he just a fall guy, a patsy to take the rap for somebody else?

  A sharp tap on the glass of the door and it opened. A postman popped his head around the corner, saw Danilov sitting alone at his desk and held up a sheaf of letters.

  ‘Miss Cavendish. Down at the end of the corridor.’

  The postman nodded, smiled and closed the door.

  Danilov lit his cigarette, taking a long, cooling drag and feeling the mellow smoke fill his lungs. He exhaled three perfectly formed smoke rings and watched them drift up to the beige ceiling.

  But if Kao was innocent, as he had claimed, who had killed the Lee family? And where was Cowan? Why had he run away after the killing of his prisoner?

  Boyle was shouting even louder now, desperate to make himself heard. He should go out and help, if only to stop the infernal noise.

  He stood up and stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette, adjusting the black pen one more time until it was exactly horizontal.

  Too many questions. Always too many questions.

  Chapter 17

  Danilov pushed through the door leading to the reception room.

  Immediately, the noise in the room tripled. The press were surrounding the Chief Inspector and Sergeant Wolfe, shouting and waving their arms.

  Flashbulbs exploded. Young reporters jostled old hands. Elbows and voices were raised.

  A tall, well-dressed Chinese man bent over a much shorter photographer to shout in Shanghainese, ‘We want to get out, now.’

  Above it all, but part of it, Chief Inspector Boyle was trying to maintain order. ‘One at a time, one at a time,’ he shouted over and over again in English. ‘You all need to be interviewed and then you can go.’

  For a moment, the crowd of reporters quietened down as the interpreter repeated what he had said in Mandarin and Shanghainese. Before he had finished speaking, the shouting began again, but louder, more insistent.

  Danilov walked over to the Sikh Sergeant. ‘Where’s the usual crowd?’

  ‘Scared off by the shooting, sir. They believe the ghost of the dead man is still around here somewhere, waiting to take human form, so they won’t be anywhere near the station today. They’ll be back tomorrow, you mark my words. What are we going to do with this lot?’

  ‘Start by herding them into the interview rooms.’

  ‘Easier to herd cats.’

  Boyle was shouting again, standing on top of the desk, flapping his arms like a flightless bird trying to take off.

  ‘Listen to me,’ he shouted. ‘A man has been murdered on the steps of Central. You are all potential witnesses.’ He turned and pointed at Danilov. ‘This inspector is in charge of the investigation. He will interview you as quickly as possible and then you will be free to go.’

  As the interpreter was translating his words into Mandarin and Shanghainese, Boyle stepped down from his platform.

  He walked over to Danilov, leaning in to whisper in his ear. ‘Solve it quickly, Danilov.’

  ‘I’ll start right away. Interview the reporters. Somebody may have seen something.’

  ‘I doubt if they’ll tell you anything.’

  ‘How did they get here so quickly?’

  ’Beats me. Even the bloody walls have ears. Sometimes, the press finds out I’ve scratched my arse before I do.’

  Boyle walked past Danilov, heading back to the safety and security of his office.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘For what? Just solve it quickly, Danilov.’ He was about to escape from the madness in the reception area when he turned and pointed his finger at the inspector. ‘Don’t go anywhere near the Lee murders. That’s an order. Cowan can finish the paperwork when he comes back.’

  ‘But Chief Inspector…’

  ‘But me no buts, Inspector. Find Kao’s killer.’ He walked back to Danilov, speaking through clenched teeth, his anger like a black cloud above his head. ‘Do you realise how embarrassing this is for the Shanghai Police? A man, a suspect, shot dead on the steps of the station. Scandalous.’ The Chief Inspector raised his voice. ‘My bloody head is on the chopping block. And I don’t like being bloody Anne Boleyn.’

  The reporters, photographers and assorted hangers-on had fallen silent, all staring at the Chief Inspector. Then the shouting and mayhem began again.

  Boyle leant in and whispered harshly in Danilov’s ear. ’Just find the killer. Quickly.’

  Chapter 18

  ‘Good morning, Mr Thomas.’

  ‘I demand to be released, this is an intolerable treatment of the press. Imprisoning me in this station when I have a deadline to keep.’ The reporter’s already florid face became redder as he smashed his fist down on the table.

  ‘You are helping us with our inquiries, Mr Thomas. I’m sure the press are always happy to do their civic duty,’ answered Danilov as patiently as he could. Dealing with the press had become tiring, they had such an inflated sense of themselves. This was his tenth interview and he wished it were his last. So far, none of the reporters had seen anything. None of the cameramen had taken any photographs of the killer.

  ‘Not when there’s a deadline, we aren’t. I’ve missed the afternoon edition already, and your bloody sergeant won’t let me use the phone.’

  ‘Ty Russkiy?’

  ‘I was born in Russia, but I left long ago, Inspector, unlike yourself. And I would prefer to speak English. Such a more sophisticated language, don’t you think?’

  ’No, I don’t. Your family name?’

  ‘Turgachev. My father anglicised it to Thomas. He liked the sound.’ The smug, rather handsome face relaxed into a smile.

  ‘My name is Danilov, Pyotr Alexandrevich. Unlike you, I am proud of my Russian heritage. Where did your family come from?’

  ‘Moscow. But enough of the happy families, Inspector. Can I go now?’

  Danilov wiped his face with the clean handkerchief his daughter had placed in his pocket that morning. ‘Do I have to remind you that a man was shot dead, and another lies injured in hospital?’

  The reporter sat back and folded his arms across his chest.

  ‘Can you tell me what happened this morning?’

  ‘A shooting took place outside a police station and you’re asking me what happened? Typical.’

  ‘Just describe to me what you observed.’

  The reporter sighed loudly. ‘I didn’t see much. Kao came out of the station handcuffed to the policemen. His lawyer was with him.

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘I couldn’t see anything. There was so much jostling. All the photographers were looking for their shots, reporters were shouting. I think the lawyer tried to say something, but I couldn’t hear what it was.’

  ‘And then...?’

  ‘The police pushed us out of the way. I fell
backwards and then I heard a shot.’

  ‘Just one shot?’

  ‘I don’t know, it was chaos. People running away, desperate to get out of there.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I dropped down to the floor. Safest place in a gunfight.’

  ‘So you didn’t see anything?’

  ‘No, I was more interested in saving my life. You don’t think about anything else.’

  ‘Did you see the shooter?’

  Alexander Thomas closed his eyes, reliving the scene in his mind. ‘No, there were too many people in the way.’ He opened them again and looked down at the cup of tea sitting on the table in the interview room. ‘I had my face buried into the steps. Tried to hide from the shots. I crawled away from the noise.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  He looked up and his voice became stronger. ‘I was on the floor, trying to get away. There was shouting and screaming. But then, above all of it, I heard two more shots and a loud click.’

  ‘A loud click?’

  ‘A gun misfiring. Inspector, did you ever fight in the war?’

  ‘No, I was in the Imperial Police in Minsk. We weren’t called up.’

  ‘Imperial Police?’

  ‘The Tsar’s police. Before he was shot.’

  The reporter smiled. ‘Interesting. A career copper. You must find the Shanghai Police difficult to work in, being a professional.’

  ‘What’s the point you are trying to make, Mr Thomas?’

  ‘The point is, Inspector, when bullets start flying, there are no more heroes. You take care of number one. None of that knight in shining armour crap. That’s just so much bollocks. You get down and stay down till it’s all over, and the birds start singing again, glad you’re still alive.’

  ‘One person wasn’t alive.’

  Thomas finished his tea and grimaced at the sour taste in his mouth. ‘Your prisoner. He’s probably lying on a slab at this very moment with Dr Fang hovering over him like a leech on warm flesh.’ The reporter picked up his cigarettes from the table and put them in his pocket. ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘If you think of anything else, please let us know.’

  ‘There is one thing, Inspector.’