by M J Lee
Danilov looked up from his notebook.
‘Why was Mr Kao’s face covered in bruises? And why was he being taken to a hospital? Something smells very rotten here. I’ll get to the bottom of it, whatever I have to do. That’s a promise, Inspector.’
Chapter 19
Elina Danilov put on her new coat. It was dark and drab, not like the fur she had worn in during her time in Harbin, but it would do. She checked herself in the mirror. A 17-year-old with eyes that had seen too much for one so young stared back at her. It didn’t matter. That was all finished now. She was safe here, safe at last.
She remembered when she met her father again. It was in Tsingtao at the awful Welfare Home for Young Women run by a missionary with eyes like holes in snow.
He had stood in front of her with his hand held out. Her own father greeting her with a handshake. She didn’t know what to do, so she reached out and took his hand in her own, feeling its cold skin against hers.
Before she knew it, he had picked up her bag and was ushering her off to the station. On the journey to Shanghai, he just asked her questions, interrogating her like a witness to a crime. Asking over and over again: What had she done? Where had she gone? What had happened next? Where was her mother? Always where was her mother?
She brushed a thread from the coat with the ends of her fingers. She didn’t tell him what she had done. She couldn’t tell him. Not now, not ever. So she had skipped over the details and invented others. But she knew he wasn’t convinced. Better to remain silent to say as little as possible. How could she trust him after what he had done, leaving her, her brother and his wife alone in Minsk? How could she trust any man after what happened? Better to rely on the one person she had in this world.
Herself.
She looked around the apartment before she left. God, she hated these white walls. There was no warmth, no life in them. The walls of a prison. She had done nothing to make the apartment more comfortable. There was no point, her father would never notice.
She checked that all the dishes had been done; washed and dried, and placed back in the cupboard above the sink. The living room had been swept clean with the cushions on the settee plumped up. She never went into her father’s bedroom, but she knew it would be as clean and as spartan as ever.
‘Everything in its place and a place for everything,’ her father had always said to her as a child, sharp green eyes staring down into her face. She had been a little scared of him then, especially when he wore his Imperial Police uniform with its shiny stars and brightly polished boots.
Luckily her mother had been the opposite; warm, friendly and with a laugh that would shake the world with its joy. How had two such different people ever fallen in love? She didn’t know then and still didn’t know now. But they had.
Perhaps it was odnoliub, that strange Russian word that described finding the person you were meant to spend the rest of your life with. The person that was going to be the only love in your life. She hoped it would happen to her one day, odnoliub, but she doubted it. For her to fall in love she would have to trust someone again.
Her mother and father loved each other with an abandon that she found difficult to understand. It was like the two sides of a penny; each completely different, yet when each joined with the other they made one whole.
And yet with her, he was indifferent, or even hateful. As if she reminded him of the wife he missed every day. Without her mother, he was a man lost in his own world, like an ancient church with the buttresses removed, ready to collapse at any moment.
She glanced at the old clock on the wall. She would have to hurry, the film would start soon. In the papers, Street Angel was showing at the Grand Theatre. She wasn’t that keen on the movies, but it passed the time. She had so much time on her hands in Shanghai.
She walked the streets. Or went to the movies. Or simply strolled around the shops looking at the merchandise from all over the world. She never bought anything, though. She didn’t know why. Her father gave her money. But after Harbin, all that stuff was so meaningless. She had enjoyed it all then, but now, there was just no point.
She picked up her keys from the table at the door and put them in her pocket, taking one last look at the apartment. She should be back before him tonight. When he was working on a case, he sometimes didn’t return till well past midnight.
Well, the apartment was just as neat and tidy as he liked it. How she hated these cold white walls so devoid of love and feeling. Just like her life.
She closed the door behind her, slamming it hard.
Chapter 20
It was a shame he had missed Cowan.
Well, not exactly missed. His gun had misfired.
As soon as he returned home, he checked it. The barrel and action were as well-oiled as ever. The hammer, sharp and hard.
He removed the bullet from the drum. There was a small mark on the casing of the bullet, but it hadn’t fired.
Either he had put too little powder in it or the gun itself hadn’t aligned correctly.
He struck the drum with his hand allowing it to rotate. Seemed to move smoothly. No problems with it.
Just one of those things. Luck had saved Cowan. It would not save him again.
Afterwards, he had searched for him all over the station, but the man had vanished.
For all his stupidity, Cowan was smart enough to hide.
Gone to earth like a fox rushing back to a safe place to escape the hounds chasing him.
He was the hound.
And there was no safe place.
He would find Cowan and kill him. It was only a matter of time.
And with the policeman dead, all links back to him would be erased.
An efficient execution. All witnesses removed and a ready-made suspect provided.
The police would fall over themselves to think it was an escape attempt gone wrong.
Only Cowan would know the truth. And when he was dead, only one other person would really know what had happened that night.
The client.
And they weren’t going to tell a soul.
He loved being good at what he did.
He loved being a professional.
Chapter 21
‘Inspector…Inspector?’ Sergeant Wolfe was shouting across the now empty reception room. ‘There’s somebody who would like to speak with you.’ He pointed to a tiny woman sitting in the corner, her head down and her hands gripping a black purse as if she were frightened a thief would appear at any moment and snatch it off her.
Kao’s wife, Sergeant Wolfe mimed from his desk.
Danilov sighed. He hated speaking to the relatives of the victims. What could he say? And the whole idea of holding someone else’s hand was repulsive. Strachan was much better at this part of the job, understanding instinctively what needed to be done while he floundered, searching for the right words that never came.
He was tempted to tell Strachan to handle her, but decided that he should do it himself. She would be able to tell him more about Kao.
He strode over to the tiny woman. ‘Mrs Kao, my name is Inspector Danilov. This is Detective Sergeant Strachan, we are investigating the death of your husband.’
The woman looked up. He had expected to see red-rimmed eyes, smeared make-up, perhaps even a note of hysteria. But her voice when she spoke was firm and strong. ‘You killed my husband.’
***
‘Mrs Kao, tell us how your husband was arrested.’ Danilov felt Strachan’s hand on his shoulder.
‘Would you like some tea, Mrs Kao? Or something to eat?’ he said in Shanghainese.
She shook her head vigorously, gripping the handle of her bag even tighter, the knuckles of her tiny hands showing red through the parchment skin.
She was a petite woman, her hair scraped back from her forehead and tied up in a bun. But, despite her tiny size, there was a natural strength in the way she held her body and her head, with a straight back and chin that jutted out forcefully. It was her hands
that etched themselves into Danilov’s mind, though. Tight little fists of anger, gripping the handles of her bag.
Strachan had quickly ushered her into an empty interview room after her outburst in the reception area. At least here, they could keep her calm and collected.
Inspector Danilov repeated his question.
‘My husband was dragged out of bed, thrown down some stairs, beaten up by your thugs and now he’s been shot dead.’ Her voice was strong but her top lip trembled in rage as she said the last words. She looked down as if noticing the bag on her lap for the first time. ‘He was a good man, did nothing wrong.’
‘What happened this morning?’ asked Strachan in Shanghainese. Danilov sat back. It was time to let his young sergeant ask the questions.
Mrs Kao looked up again, swallowed and then spoke. ‘We were in bed. There was this loud bang at the door, and the room was filled with police and guns. They dragged me out of bed, and one of them held my arms behind my back. They were shouting all the time. “Where was the gun? Where was the gun?” But my husband didn’t understand. They started punching him and told him to get dressed. The one who grabbed me, a short fat one, was laughing and joking all the time.
‘Then they pushed my husband out of the door and threw him down the stairs. I could hear them kicking and punching him. I looked out of the window. I saw them smash his head once, twice, three times on the side of the red van.’ She demonstrated angry punches, with her small fists slamming into an imaginary head.
‘What happened next?’ Strachan asked gently.
She calmed down, visibly fighting to control her emotions. ‘They lifted him by the arms and legs and threw him into the back of the van. Then they drove off. I didn’t know where they were going, I…’
‘When did you go to the lawyer?’ asked Danilov.
A frown appeared on her forehead. ‘I didn’t go to any lawyer. Look at me, do you think I can afford the law?
‘I decided to find him. I walked to Gordon Road, then to Louza Station and finally came here.’
‘To Central?’
Her eyes began to fill with tears. ‘Yes, here, but it was…’
Strachan leaned over and gave her his handkerchief. She took it and began to dab her eyes, once more gaining control. ‘They told me he had been shot.’ She stared at Danilov. ‘Why did the police kill him?’
It was Strachan who answered. ‘They didn’t.’ He corrected himself. ‘We didn’t. He was being taken to the hospital. Somebody shot him on the steps of the police station.’
She glanced quickly towards the door. ‘But why? He had done nothing wrong. It was all that policeman’s fault.’
Danilov leant forward. ‘What policeman?’
‘The one who came to arrest Ker Lien this morning.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’d met the big policeman before. Didn’t know his name.’
‘Where?’
‘On Nanking Road. We sell newspapers.’
‘What happened?’
‘Ker Lien and he had a fight.’
‘Why?’
She glanced over at Strachan. He nodded his head, encouraging her to speak.
‘Over a girl. One of those that dances in the clubs.’
‘A taxi dancer?’
Mrs Kao nodded. ‘She was walking down the street. The big policeman was running after her. They were shouting at each other. She tried to run away, but he grabbed her, wouldn’t let go.’
‘You’re sure it was him?’
‘We were at our stall only ten feet away. They were shouting at each other. And then the man hit her. Ker Lien ran over and pulled them apart. The man tried to punch my husband, but he missed. He tried again so my husband hit him.’
‘When was this?’
‘Last week, Monday.’
‘You had witnesses?’
She nodded again. ‘Everybody on the street saw it. The woman ran away and the man just lay in the gutter.’
‘Did you know he was police?’
‘Not then. He was so drunk that he couldn’t get up. Just lay there, shouting and swearing.’
‘What did he say?’
‘I couldn’t understand most. Nobody could. I thought it was just the usual threats of a drunk. We closed the stall and went home. When we left him, he was still lying in the gutter, among all the rest of the rubbish.’
‘Did you see him again?’
‘No. Not till this morning.’
‘You know your husband was the suspect in a murder case?’
‘Impossible. My husband wouldn’t kill anyone.’
‘He was accused of murdering a family of four in their home last night. A man, his wife, and two children killed in cold blood.’
‘My husband would never do that. Could never do that.’ Her voice rose and her tiny body lifted off the seat. Strachan took her arm and helped her to sit down again.
‘Madam Kao, your husband confessed.’
She stared at Inspector Danilov defiantly, reaching forward slowly to touch his arm. Danilov wanted to snatch it back before he felt the touch of her fingers, but he didn’t.
As the long fingers with their red-painted nails wrapped around his wrist, she said, ‘He couldn’t have murdered that family. He was with me last night. All night.
Chapter 22
Danilov adjusted his pens at the top of his desk blotter. The red was at the top, then the black and finally the blue. That feels much better, he thought. He rubbed his eyes and his temples. A weariness stretched from the top of his head, down past his ears and lodged itself in the joint of his shoulders. Interviewing reporters, photographers, lawyers and wives was exhausting.
‘What next, sir?’
Danilov rolled one of his handmade cigarettes, laying a few tendrils of tobacco on the white paper, a quick lick of the glue, a twirl of the fingers, and he had a tight cylinder of pleasure, all ready to light. ‘We had fifteen witnesses to the murder. All reporters and photographers, plus the lawyer. None of them saw anything. None of them could even describe the shooter.’
‘The best description was from one of the photographers.’ Strachan checked in his notebook again. ‘A Chinese male, about average height, wearing a blue Mandarin coat and a hat.’
‘No age? No features? Nothing?’
Strachan shook his head.
‘Have we found the coat or the hat?’
‘No, sir.’
‘The population of Shanghai is four million people, give or take a few thousand. That leaves a suspect list of two million.’
‘He could be from outside the city, sir.’
‘I think not. He knew exactly how to escape after the killing, vanishing into the lanes and back alleys around the station. He didn’t run or panic. He knew what he was doing and where he was going.’
‘He’s local, sir?’
‘This man knew the city well.’
Danilov placed the rolled cigarette in his mouth and looked around for his lighter. It should have been to the left of the blotter, next to the green table lamp. Where was it?
Strachan produced a Zippo from his pocket, leaning forward to light the cigarette. He didn’t smoke himself but kept a lighter just for Danilov. ‘It’s surprising nobody saw anything, sir. I would have thought at least one person would have lifted their head to look.’
The Inspector took a long, pleasurable drag and inhaled the sweet tobacco. The smoke filled his head and chest, before winding its merry way through the rest of his body. The weariness eased for the moment. A small tendril of tobacco caught between his teeth, and he pulled it out with his fingers. ‘It’s not surprising, Strachan. As soon as shooting starts, the instinct for self-preservation kicks in. People look to their own lives, not at a man with a gun.’
‘The only man we haven’t seen is Moore. I rang the hospital, he’s out of surgery but sedated.’
‘We’ll see him tomorrow. You confiscated all the film from the press photographers?’
‘Yes, sir. They weren
’t happy, though. Complaining about press freedom and the right to publish their photographs.’
‘The police photographer is developing them?’
‘As we speak, sir. Should be ready tomorrow.’
‘Good. You never know, we may get a nice sharp picture of the killer. But I’m not holding my breath, as we say in Minsk.’
‘We say the same in English, sir.’
‘At last, some sense from the English.’
‘So what next, sir?’
‘I’m thinking, Strachan.’ The young detective was standing next to him, leaning on the edge of his desk, disturbing its harmony. He waved his hand, shooing Strachan from his perch. He wished people wouldn’t touch his desk. ‘Kao confessed to the murder, yet his wife swears he was with her all evening.’
‘Not surprising, sir, she’s his wife.’
‘But I believe her, Strachan, she has no reason to lie. And there were none of the tell-tale signs of lying; rubbing her nose, looking away, repeating the lie using exactly the same words. She simply told us the truth.’
‘Why did Kao confess then, sir?’
‘Men will say anything under pressure, Strachan. And Inspector Cowan was an expert at applying pressure. I saw Kao in the cells, he was a broken man.’
‘If he was innocent, why was he shot, sir?’
He took another long drag on his cigarette. The tobacco left a slightly sweet taste in his mouth like the tannins of a fine wine. ‘Aye, that is the question. And where is Inspector Cowan? Why hasn’t he returned to the station?’
Strachan thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps he’s scared, sir. As you said, the instinct for self-preservation always triumphs.’
There was a soft knock on the door and Miss Cavendish appeared in the doorway. ‘I think you’ll want to see this, Inspector.’
She held up a copy of the North China Daily News. Three pictures were splashed across the front of the paper, beneath a headline in big, bold, black letters:
MAN GUNNED DOWN IN FRONT OF POLICE STATION
OUR REPORTER WITNESSES TRAGEDY
‘The Chief Inspector would like to see you, Mr Danilov.’
‘Thank you, Miss Cavendish, I’ll be there in a moment.’