The Killing Time

by The Killing Time (retail) (epub)

  ‘Of course, Father.’

  ‘You know the story?’ Without waiting for her answer, he began speaking. ‘She was a harlot and a great sinner, but St Phanourios’s love for his mother caused him to pray for her incessantly. At the time of his martyr’s death by stoning, he could not forget his mother, and with the boldness peculiar to saints he cried: “For the sake of these my sufferings, Lord, help all those who will pray to Thee for the salvation of Phanourios’s sinful mother.”’

  Danilov watched his wife’s face as she heard these words. Her head dropped and she closed her eyes.

  The priest carried on regardless. ‘He was a true saint, was Phanourios, thinking of his mother even as he lay dying. Come, let us distribute the bread to the poor.’

  Danilov’s wife lifted her head and drew back her shoulders. ‘Help me carry it, please. There are twelve loaves.’

  ‘One for each of the Apostles: how thoughtful, Mrs Danilova. Hurry along, help the lady, Dimitri, Mrs Danilova can’t carry the loaves on her own.’

  The priest’s assistant and a few of the mourners helped her carry the loaves from the apartment. She didn’t look back at Danilov standing all alone beside the table staring at the picture of his son.

  He felt a light tap on his shoulder. ‘We’re going out to eat. Do you want to join us?’ It was Elina, with Strachan standing beside her.

  He shook his head. ‘I’ll stay and tidy up.’

  ‘Leave it, I can do it when I come back.’

  He smiled. ‘You go off and feed the monster otherwise known as Strachan’s stomach. I don’t think he has eaten for at least five minutes.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. And Strachan, please contact the owner of the building site. Tell him I want to meet him tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Mr Gu? After I’ve eaten, I’ll go back to the station and make the arrangements.’

  ‘We need to finish checking those missing persons files.’

  ‘Just two left, sir.’

  ‘By “we”, you mean David,’ said Elina.

  ‘No. By “we”, I meant Detective Sergeant Strachan. A young boy has been murdered and I’m afraid he won’t be the last.’

  ‘And what will you be doing, Father?’

  Danilov looked at the picture of his son again.

  ‘What I do best. Thinking.’

  10

  Strachan and Elina settled into the fake leather banquette. The restaurant was one of their favourites; opened by a Russian émigré last year and serving the best borscht in Shanghai.

  ‘I’m starving,’ said Strachan, looking at the menu.

  ‘You’re always hungry, David. It’s one of your more endearing traits.’

  The waiter approached. A thin man dressed in a kitsch Cossack outfit, blue cap sitting prettily on his head. Elina knew that beneath the fake clothes was a captain of dragoons, decorated for bravery by the tsar himself. Now, the bravest thing he did was face the kitchen every night.

  ‘And what will madam be having?’ he asked her in an English so accented she could barely understand him.

  She responded in Russian, ordering the borscht and the pirogi.

  ‘Thank you. And sir?’ He spoke in English once again, as if he no longer wanted to use the language of his homeland.

  ‘The borscht too, plus the beef stroganoff and some more pirogi.’

  The waiter collected the menus. ‘Your soup will be served shortly.’ He snapped his heels as only a captain of dragoons could do and walked through the swing doors into the kitchen.

  ‘He always looks like he’s on parade,’ Elina said as she watched him, before turning back to Strachan and reaching for his hand. ‘Have you asked him yet?’

  ‘Asked him what?’

  She let go of the hand. ‘Oh David, you haven’t.’

  ‘There’s been no time. The murder of a child, I could never find the right moment.’

  ‘With my father, there will never be a right moment, don’t you realise?’

  ‘How’s your mother?’

  ‘Getting by.’

  ‘She still misses your brother?’

  ‘Every day. It’s as if she can’t let go of him. If she lets go, he’ll never come back.’

  ‘But he is dead… ’

  Elina stared into mid-air. Around her, other diners were being placed at their tables, menus handed out, the clink of wine glasses. In the far corner, a pianist played a soft arpeggio, background music to the chatter of the crowd.

  She had tried to explain this so many times to David. Not being Russian, it was difficult for him to understand. ‘She believes if she keeps his memory alive, then he’ll always be with her.’

  ‘And your father?’

  The thin waiter danced around the tables as if still riding a charger. He placed two bowls of deep red borscht in front of them. Strachan began eating before Elina had answered.

  ‘He’s burying himself in work as usual, avoiding everything. Koschei the Deathless, hiding his soul inside a needle, which is in an egg, inside a duck, hidden in an old wooden chest, buried beneath an oak tree.’

  Strachan stopped drinking his borscht for a second, staring at Elina. ‘I don’t understand.’

  She laughed nervously. ‘A Russian folk tale. Nothing important.’

  ‘We have a murder at the moment. A young boy. We’re a bit stretched: most of the detectives have been seconded to the Volunteers.’

  ‘But that’s only recently. He’s been avoiding it for the last two years. Mother… ’

  Strachan reached out to touch her hand. ‘Go on.’

  ‘She wants him to mourn with her, but he won’t. She can’t seem to reach him any more. Koschei the Deathless.’

  A silence descended between them. ‘Drink your soup, it’s marvellous,’ Strachan finally said, returning to finish the last spoonfuls.

  Elina pushed her bowl away. ‘I’m not hungry any more.’

  He laid down his spoon and took her hand again. ‘You need to let them work it out between them. You’re the child, not the parent.’

  ‘I know, but… ’

  ‘But nothing. Drink your soup. Or else the captain of dragoons will be back to run you through with his cocktail stick.’

  She laughed. ‘You will talk to him soon, won’t you?’

  ‘The captain of dragoons? You want me to order more soup?’

  She laughed. ‘My father. Please talk to him.’

  ‘I promise.’

  11

  Danilov quickly rearranged the furniture, placing the new chairs, bought after the explosion, in their usual position. He thought about moving the makeshift altar, with its picture of their son, back to its original spot against the far wall, but decided to wait for his wife’s return.

  He remembered the day the photograph was taken as if it were yesterday. It had been one of his few rest days in 1919. The civil war was still raging, but on a hot summer’s day in Minsk, it seemed a long way off. They had gone to the park and laid the picnic out on the lawn beside the lake. Ivan was dressed in his sailor uniform and Elina had on her yellow dress.

  ‘I look like a princess, don’t I, Father?’ Her voice was high and laughing.

  His wife had prepared draniki, Thüringer sausages, herring rolls, kalduny and, for dessert, fresh fruit and raspberry tarts. She laid them out carefully on the blanket, adding glasses of iced lemon tea from a large jug.

  Ivan was running around them, his kite soaring into the sky, a rectangle of red against the eggshell blue.

  ‘I’m going to reach the moon,’ he had shouted before tripping and letting go of the string. A puff of wind had carried the kite away from his hand, rising higher and higher. How he had cried that day, floods of uncountable tears, only to be finally placated by one of his mother’s cakes, smothered in cinnamon cream.

  Danilov looked around the living room. The apartment had changed since his days alone. Now it looked lived in and homely. Pictures on the walls, a silk throw across the back of the chai
r, cushions to rest one’s back against, even a radio in the corner.

  Why did he always let them down? Why did he always disappoint them?

  He stared at the picture of his son, the young boy’s face smiling back at him, accusing him, knowing it was his fault.

  He picked up his damp hat and coat from the rack in the entrance. He couldn’t stay here any longer. Not alone, with his son staring at him, reminding him constantly by his presence of his absence.

  Only one pipe. Something to calm his mind.

  Tonight, the memories of Ivan were so strong, only the sweet peace of opium could control them.

  16 January 1932

  The 335th Day of the Year of the Golden Goat

  12

  The morning had the dreary smell of a brand-new Shanghai day. A mixture of coal smoke, steaming bao and damp mist that rose from the Whangpoo and swamped the International Settlement.

  At Miss Frodsham’s School for Girls, the children were enjoying themselves on the square of tarmac that surprisingly carried the name of a playground.

  A group of infants were unsuccessfully playing hide-and-seek in a playground where there was nowhere to hide. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, though.

  Three girls from Year 2 were practising their skipping skills, singing a song in the rhythm of the rope as it scraped the tarmac. Evelyn Turner thought she knew the melody, but the words in Mandarin had a strange lilt to them. She would ask them later what they meant.

  Next to her, two girls were all alone. The Chen twins stood together in the centre of the playground, holding hands and staring at the other children through the fringes of their pageboy hair. They were too close, those two, always together, as if they could never be separated.

  Miss Turner looked at her watch: 7.50 a.m. Just ten more minutes to go and she would ring the heavy brass bell that called the children to form orderly lines before they marched into school.

  She thought of last night with Tom, a lieutenant in the Worcesters. The latest trouble between the Japanese and the Chinese had played merry hell with their love life, but he had somehow managed to get time off from his regiment. They’d gone to their usual haunt: the nightclub at the top of the Cathay Hotel, overlooking the Bund.

  Of course, she had seen Victor Sassoon at his accustomed place in the corner. For a moment she had been tempted to go over with Tom and introduce them to each other. Her way of saying she had a new man in her life. But there was no point. Sassoon was surrounded by a bevy of girls fresh off the boat, just as she had been six months ago, drinking champagne as if it was their last day on earth.

  God, she had enjoyed that life; a shame it had ended. But she was a teacher now, and her charges were the children of the wealthy Chinese nobility of Shanghai. Miss Frodsham’s School for Girls prided itself on raising well-trained young women who would provide all the support a successful husband could ever need. If they received an education at the same time, all well and good. An education could be a great asset to a husband.

  Miss Turner checked her watch again: 7.55. The cars were still arriving at the entrance to the school. The bodyguard with the obvious bulge of a pistol beneath his jacket jumped down first, before the back door opened disgorging another young lady accompanied by an amah in the traditional outfit. The amahs were not allowed past the school gates, so they sent their charges in alone with a quick pat on the back and a gentle wave. The bodyguard returned to his position on the running board, and the car sped off. This short performance was repeated again and again as each successive car delivered its child.

  Evelyn Turner heard a cry from behind her. One of the girls had fallen over and grazed her leg.

  She rushed over, helping the child to her feet. ‘Maisie Zeng, how many times have I told you to be careful in the playground? A young lady does not run; she strides purposefully. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Turner.’

  ‘Go and see the nurse and get your knee cleaned up.’

  Maisie Zeng limped off, her arm resting across the shoulders of a friend. She would have to watch those two; make sure they returned to class on time and didn’t play truant for the rest of the morning.

  God, she sounded like her prep school teacher. How had she become another Miss Nightingale so quickly?

  And then the memory of Tom’s body next to hers, the softness of the sheets in the Cathay, the warmth of his mouth all came back to her in a flash. A frisson of pleasure ran through her body once more. She could feel her neck reddening and the warmth spreading down to her chest and up to her face.

  She looked around quickly to check if any of the girls had noticed. Luckily they were all preoccupied with their various games. Only the twins were staring at her, their beady eyes boring into her through the hedge of their fringes.

  Her watch said 7.59. Never mind, she would be early for once. She raised the heavy brass bell and let it fall. The tone rang out across the playground. The girls instantly stopped playing; they were well trained. The last remaining amahs hurried their charges through the gates as Mr Wang, the old nightwatchman, moved slowly to shut them.

  She lifted the bell again, ringing it continuously now. All the girls ran to form lines in front of the school, the class monitor at the head and the rest lining up behind her. From the left, each rank slightly taller, showing the different years of each class.

  ‘Quiet, children, form ranks quietly,’ Miss Turner shouted.

  The pushing and shoving amongst the girls stopped and they resolved themselves into neat lines. It always amused Evelyn how order could be created from apparent chaos by the simple act of ringing a bell.

  ‘Now, everybody knows the drill. When you are all quiet, we will march directly into school, with Year Six leading off.’

  A few girls were still chattering away to their next-door neighbours.

  ‘Iris Koo, do you want to spend this evening in detention?’

  ‘No, Miss Turner.’

  ‘Then stop talking when I am talking. You do know better, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Turner.’

  ‘On the count of three, we will begin. One… two… ’

  Before she could get to three, she was interrupted by the sound of shouting behind her. Three men, dressed in dark suits and matching hats, had opened the gates and were pushing past old Mr Wang. He tried to stop them, but they ignored him as if he didn’t exist.

  Evelyn Turner stepped forward. ‘Excuse me, you can’t come—’

  The leading man raised his fist and struck her across the jaw. She dropped to the hard tarmac, watching herself fall in slow motion.

  Why had he hit her?

  Her body felt like it belonged to somebody else, her limbs not responding to the command to move. For a moment she struggled to remember who and where she was, until the sun burst through her fog-shrouded mind and she shook her head, lifting it off the ground.

  The man was in the middle of the girls, pulling one of them away. Evelyn tried to shout out, but no words came from her mouth. It was one of the twins. The man was carrying one of the twins away. The other twin was struggling with him, gripping her sister’s arm, but the man shoved her away roughly and hoisted the girl over his shoulder.

  Evelyn sat up, trying to grab his leg as he passed, but she missed, merely lunging at empty air.

  One of the other men, a scar red and livid below his right eye, dressed in the same dark suit, kicked her in the stomach, shouting, ‘Chau bi!’

  She threw up the champagne from last night, and most of her breakfast from that morning, all over the black mass of the playground.

  The last image she remembered was the eyes of the twin staring down at her from the shoulder of the man. Eyes that held all the fear in the world.

  They carried on staring at her as the man strode through the gates, accompanied by his gang in dark suits, into a waiting car.

  And then her world went black.

  13

  Danilov took off his hat and coat, hanging them on the empty rac
k. The detectives’ room was silent, empty. It was one of the reasons he always came in early, arriving at eight a.m. on the dot. He enjoyed the peace and quiet before the mob of detectives arrived with their inane chatter and boyish obsession with sports.

  The missing persons files were sitting on the centre of his desk. Attached to the front with a paper clip was a short note from Strachan.

  None of the people are the age or height of our victim. Shall I broaden the search?

  ‘How broad do you want to make it, Strachan? China? The world?’ he said out loud.

  Strachan came from behind the filing cabinet. ‘I was thinking of contacting the French, sir. Major Renard… ’

  Danilov grunted. ‘I didn’t see you there. How long have you been in?’

  ‘Since seven, sir. I thought I’d start checking with schools to see if any of their children had been absent the last few days.’

  ‘I hope you arranged the meeting with the owner of the site where the boy was found.’

  ‘We’re meeting him at one, sir.’

  Danilov grunted again. ‘The clothes?’

  ‘From the victim, sir?’

  ‘Who else, Strachan?’

  The detective sergeant pointed to a brown paper bag on the floor beside Danilov’s desk. ‘Dr Fang had them. He says there are no distinguishing marks. They’re a common-or-garden pair of black shorts and white shirt, bought from Wing On, according to the labels.’

  ‘You’re almost becoming efficient, Strachan.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  ‘When you ring the schools, I would ask what their uniform colours are. It might save you time.’

  Strachan held up an orange file. ‘From the education department, sir. The uniforms of all public and private schools in Shanghai.’

  Danilov grunted for the third time that morning. ‘Anything on recent kidnappings?’

  ‘Nothing yet, sir. Criminal Intelligence is always a bit slow.’