by M J Lee
She stopped talking and stared off into the distance, back in the club in Harbin, with its lights and music and men. ‘I spent the night with him.’ She threw a roll of notes bound in a red band onto the table. ‘I couldn’t spend the money he gave me, even when I was starving. Couldn’t use it even to find you.’ Then she stopped speaking. Her chin and jaw were raised again. ‘So that’s the truth about your precious daughter.’
Danilov stayed silent. When he did speak, the words came out haltingly, as if he was searching for a way to say how he felt. ‘Lenchik, you will always be my precious daughter. I am so proud of you.’
He stood up and walked around to her side of the table. He bent down and wrapped his arms around her, whispering in her ear. ‘I am so proud of you. We do what we can to survive. That’s all. You survived. Without me, without your mother or brother. You survived on your own. You’re still my daughter and I will love you. Always.’
He didn’t know how long they stayed in the dark in the kitchen, whispering to each other of their memories of Minsk and her childhood and their family, until she fell asleep.
He didn’t know and he didn’t care.
DAY FOUR
Chapter 75
He didn’t like what he had to do today.
This wasn’t a moral judgement. There were no such morals in his profession. In fact, the absence of morals was the defining trait of people like him and he knew that.
It was just another job.
He had let himself down with the Lee murders. Compromised his professionalism. Allowed another person to compound that problem.
The detectives were getting closer now. Too close.
Not efficient.
Now, he would have to clean up the pieces.
Mr Zhang was a piece.
He liked Mr Zhang. Had always found him supportive and encouraging. Ready to praise him for a job well done. Briefed well and accurately, understanding that a good brief always led to a better job. He paid on time and to the exact amount.
Another professional.
But threats could not be allowed because the existence of the threat would always be there between the two of them. The shroud of suspicion. The nagging atom of doubt that maybe, just maybe, Mr Zhang would carry out his threat when the killer least expected it.
He had to act. He resented the fact that there was no client for this job. He hated working for nothing. It was unprofessional.
As he stood there waiting, he realised that was untrue. There was a client. He was the client.
He briefed himself once again.
Kill Mr Zhang.
It was a simple brief. One that he understood.
Mr Zhang had become a little predictable in his business. Dangerous. Predictability was always dangerous.
There he was, strolling down the street from where he had parked his car with not a care in the world.
Mr Zhang always parked his car in the same place every day when he drove in from his home on Bubbling Well Road.
Such predictability.
He had considered taking Mr Zhang one morning in his home. But there would be a wife and a maid and children. Two more children. Killing him at home would be messy.
He didn’t like messy.
It was a mistake to park the car in the same place every morning. Mr Zhang was getting soft. He had been working in the industry for too long. Life was too easy. He didn’t do the difficult jobs any more. He just briefed other people to do them.
To become soft was dangerous.
The killer moved slightly into the shadow of the building, still with Mr Zhang in view, walking down the street on his left.
A newspaper under his arm. Smoking a cigarette. Another businessman on his way to work in the office. There were thousands like him in Shanghai. Walking to work in the same way, every day.
Only one had been targeted by the killer, though.
Mr Zhang.
This morning, he had not worn his uniform but had dressed exactly the same as Mr Zhang. The same grey suit with a thin chalk stripe. The same grey fedora with a bland band around the crown. The same white shirt. The same black Oxford brogues, shined. He had got the tie wrong, though.
Nobody would notice the tie.
In the aftermath of the event, confusion about clothes was a useful red herring for the witnesses. He imagined the conversation with the cops.
‘Who died?’
‘A man in a grey suit with a grey fedora.’
‘Was there anybody else in the area?’
‘A man in a grey suit with a grey fedora.’
‘Do you mean the man who died?’
‘No, another man in a grey suit.’
‘Another man?’
Mr Zhang was getting closer.
Concentrate.
Focus.
The killer took a deep breath, held it in his stomach and exhaled slowly.
Mr Zhang sat down at his shoeshine stall.
Like he always did.
He sat with his back to the building.
Like he always did.
He said a few words to the shoeshine man.
Like he always did.
He opened his paper and began to read.
Like he always did.
Predictability was dangerous for men in our profession.
The killer stepped out of the shadows.
He had counted the steps to the shoeshine chair.
Seven.
Preparation. It was all about preparation.
He strode forward.
After three steps, he drew out his revolver.
Be careful to step over the edge of the lip of stone that lay between him and the chair.
Preparation.
Take two more steps.
Mr Zhang was beginning to turn.
One more step.
Fire.
The Smith & Wesson jerked upwards. There was less flash and smoke now. The bullets were better. Less powder. He didn’t need too much powder when operating so close.
The bullet went through Mr Zhang’s face, just above the zygomatic arch. He fell over away from the killer, still turning as he did so to land on his back on the grey pavement.
His eyes were still open. His hands were fluttering like a bird whose wings had been clipped. His paper lay next to the chair, open at page four. Another actress had committed suicide.
Shame. The killer liked her films.
One more step.
Fire again.
The bullet went into Mr Zhang’s forehead.
Dead.
The shoeshine man was scrabbling off his chair, crawling to safety.
Two steps.
Fire.
He didn’t like killing the shoeshine man. But it was a necessity. Shame.
He walked up the street away from the shoeshine stall. Walk purposefully, don’t run. He strode past the building that Mr Zhang used to enter at 9.30 every morning.
A few people were crossing the street to see why the man in the grey suit was on the floor with the shoeshine man. Perhaps they had been fighting.
A woman screamed. She had seen the bodies and the blood.
The killer turned right onto Jinkee Road. It was just a short walk to the Bund now. The naval ships were tied to buoys in the centre of the river, their bulk standing out against the grey farmland and occasional factory chimney of Pootung on the other side. He turned left along the Bund, joining all the other men in suits going to work in the Insurance companies, banks, shipping firms and accountants.
He looked just like them.
A man going to work.
Still one more job to do and he would be finished for the day.
Chapter 76
‘You asked to see me, Danilov.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, sit down, man, I hope you’ve found our killer.’ Boyle pointed to the empty chair.
Danilov remained standing. ‘I have a problem, sir.’
‘So do I, Danilov. It’s the murder of a family in the
ir home, the shooting of a suspect and the killing of an Inspector in the Shanghai Police. And we don’t have any arrests. We don’t even have a bloody suspect.’
Danilov placed the photographs in front of Chief Inspector Boyle. ‘I received these last night, sir. I think they are an attempt to blackmail me.’
‘Sit down, man.’
Danilov pulled out the chair.
Boyle picked up the photographs and stared at them. ‘So what’s worrying you? I must admit there’s a faint resemblance to the man in this picture, but see here, the jawline is different, as is the nose. Of course, a serving officer in the Shanghai Police would never be seen in such a place as an opium den. Unless, that is, he was merely there to scope out its activities, prior to leading a raid on illegal activity. Do I make myself clear, Danilov?
‘Yes, sir. But…’
‘Inspector Danilov, for an intelligent man, you can sometimes be remarkably stupid. Pictures like these are worse than useless in proving anything. Unless, of course, a police officer admitted to me directly that they had been smoking opium, I would just ignore them. A crude attempt to discredit a fine Inspector. Do I make myself clear?’
Danilov’s shoulder slumped. ‘But…’
‘Let me tell you about a friend, Danilov, a close friend. He was a policeman in India, serving in Calcutta. It must have been in ’96 or thereabouts. He’d just come out from England three years previously and had fallen in love with the sights, sounds and smells of the East. Unfortunately, he had fallen a little too much in love with one particular place. An opium den run by a beautiful and bewitching woman by the name of Sapna Devi.’
Boyle’s eyes stared off into the distance. His mouth had a peculiar smile etched into the fleshy lips.
‘She was a beguiling creature and my friend fell for her in a bad way, just as he had fallen for the delights of opium.’ His eyes unglazed and focused back on Danilov. ‘Luckily, his boss at the time, an Inspector Dalgliesh I think his name was, saw what was happening. He took my friend aside and warned him of the consequences of his actions; a dishonourable discharge from the force and the shame of being sent home.’
‘What happened?’
‘At first, my friend refused to listen. He loved the woman and he loved the opium, but one day he found himself lying in a gutter on Park Street. You see, the woman had abandoned him to go with a richer, higher-ranking officer. When she left, all he had was the drug and that was an even more fickle mistress.’
‘What happened to your friend?’
‘Luckily, his Inspector found him, cleaned up him, straightened him out and sent him to a different city and a different post to build his life again.’
‘Your friend was a lucky man.’
‘He was, wasn’t he?’ Boyle began to tear the pictures into small squares, throwing them into a waste bin beside his desk.
‘You’re a good copper, Danilov. The best I have. We police always have one part of ourselves in the normal world and the other in the underworld. It’s what makes our job so difficult. It’s a hard balancing act but make sure you stay on the right side, won’t you?’
Danilov looked down at the torn-up pictures sitting in the bottom of the waste bin. ‘I…’
Boyle held up his finger. ‘The one thing, the only thing you have to do right now, is find out who killed the Lee family, our suspect and Inspector Cowan. Nothing else matters to me, or this force. Am I making myself clear?’
Danilov stood up. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘I have to meet the Council this afternoon. You have till then, Danilov. After that, I’m not sure I will be occupying this chair. What are you waiting for? Get a move on, man.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And Danilov, I wouldn’t go anywhere near these places again. Do I make myself clear?’
Chapter 77
‘Did you show all the albums to the maid?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing.’
‘She didn’t recognise anybody?’
‘Oh, she remembered one person.’
‘Good.’
‘Not so good. Said she saw him working at the market last week. He sold fish.’
‘Not our man.’
‘No. I sent one of the sergeants to check him out. He’s on the wanted list.’
‘Doesn’t help us.’ The Inspector rolled another cigarette, setting it alight with a lighter his daughter had given him. He stared into the orange heat of the flame and, for a second, saw the face of his wife, buried deep within. The flame went out and she vanished.
He put the lighter down on his desk next to the blotter and in line with its top edge. The neatness of it comforted him. Everything had a place and there was a place for everything. Blotter in the centre. Phone to the left. Pens aligned and centred one inch above the blotter. Ashtray on the right in line with the telephone. Green-shaded lamp at an angle of 45 degrees above the table.
He exhaled three smoke rings, one after the other. They drifted off into the stuffy air of the detectives’ room, gradually disappearing to join all the other hidden smells of sweat, old cologne, and anxiety that sheltered in the dark corners.
‘I keep getting the feeling that she’s still hiding something.’
‘One of your hunches, sir?’
‘It is, Strachan. This one has been nagging away at me for a few days. How is she settling down at your mother’s?’
‘Getting on like two peas in a pod. I tried a new dish of pork rib soup last night. Delicious it was too.’
‘So you’re their culinary guinea pig?’
‘You could say that. More pig than guinea, though.’
‘It always amazed me how much food you can put away.’
‘I’ve got a Chinese stomach. I get ill if I don’t eat.’
‘And I get ill if I do.’
‘But you’re looking better than yesterday, happier.’
Danilov thought about the conversation last night. His daughter had been through so much because of him. One day, he would make it up to her.
‘Thank you for that observation, Strachan. Let’s get back to work, shall we? My personal happiness has nothing to do with our case.’
Strachan looked down and played with a pen on his desk, wishing he had kept his mouth shut.
The Inspector blew three more smoke rings. They joined the others, vanishing into the stale air of the detectives’ room.
Strachan smiled. ‘I’ve been following up on a few matters, sir.’
‘What have you found, Strachan, don’t keep us all waiting?’
‘I rang the Chinese authorities in Peking. The man mentioned in the young girl’s letter is a senior policeman, sir. He’s the Chinese equivalent of a superintendent.’
Danilov blew a long trail of smoke up to the ceiling.
‘I spoke to him, sir, told him about the letter and the death of the Lee family.’
‘What was his reaction?’
‘Shock. It seems they were quite close, sir. He was the wife’s brother.’
‘Interesting that such a senior policeman had links with an accountant of the Three Friends.’
‘I suppose so, sir. I did ask him where he was on the evening of the 6th November.’
‘And did he answer?’
‘He did, sir. Apparently, he was at a reception for the British ambassador. Five hundred other people were there too.’ Danilov sat up, stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray.
‘I can check with them if you want, sir.’
‘Don’t bother, Strachan, he would never have been able to get from Peking to Shanghai so quickly.’
‘He did seem genuinely shocked, sir. Distressed, if you know what I mean.’
Danilov sat back in his chair. ‘I do know, Strachan, I do know. Not a bad alibi. But somebody paid to have the Lees killed. It was a professional job. Our Mr Kao was the fall guy, the stooge who was going to be blamed for it all.’
‘I guess it doesn’t let him off the hook, sir.’
‘But who, sir?’
‘Ockham’s razor, Strachan. Ockham’s razor.’
‘I don’t understand, sir.’
‘I will explain, Strachan, just as soon as I am certain.’
‘And when will that be, sir?’
‘When we have talked to our maid again. I’m sure she’s not telling us everything.
Chapter 78
‘Please sit down, Ah Ching, we have some more photos for you to examine.’ The Inspector gestured to one of the seats opposite him. ‘Please translate my words exactly, Strachan.’
The Detective Sergeant spoke a long sentence in dialect. The interview was being held in one of the small rooms off the main reception area of Central Police Station. The plain eau-de-nil walls gave the room the feeling of the inside of a frog’s stomach. Not a place that the Inspector wanted to spend a long time.
‘But I’ve already seen a lot of books. All those foreigners look the same to me.’
‘Just one or two more, then you’ll be finished.’ He passed over one of the books she had seen before. She opened it at the first picture. A mug shot of a man arrested for dealing in fake furs.
She looked at it and turned the page.
Inspector Danilov lit a cigarette as she looked through the photographs, watching her go through each one of them slowly.
She closed the book and pushed it away from her, complaining loudly as she did so. ‘She didn’t recognise anybody, sir.’
Danilov decided to try his hunch. He passed over another book to her. One he had taken from behind the desk of Miss Cavendish.
She looked at the first picture. Chief Inspector Boyle stared out from the pages, looking uncomfortably at the camera, the light catching a gleam on his bald forehead.