‘A stupid man. Perhaps we could have saved his son.’
‘I’m afraid you’re fighting centuries of tradition, sir.’
‘Centuries of children being killed? That’s not a tradition; it’s murder.’ Danilov stabbed out the cigarette against the wall and immediately began rolling another. ‘I want you to do three things for me, Strachan.’
Before he could say any more, he was interrupted by the sound of chanting coming from the end of the street, accompanied by the querulous noise of a large crowd. He could almost make out the individual words as they were shouted above the cymbals and the drums. The sounds echoed off the surrounding buildings, dipping and swirling like a flock of white-eyes over the rice fields.
‘Firstly, have you booked an appointment to see your uncle yet?
‘Yes, sir. Nine o’clock tomorrow morning, I’ll pick you up from home.’
‘And when were you going to tell me?’
‘Now, sir, just before you spoke.’ Strachan coughed and looked down at his feet, finding a spot of something on the toe of his shoe. ‘Got something to ask you too.’
A frown creased the space between Danilov’s eyebrows. He lit the new cigarette and inhaled a lungful of warm, comforting smoke. One day he would cut back, just not today. ‘Dr Fang gave me this.’ He passed over an address. ‘Interview the sacked mortuary attendant. I’m curious to know why a man who worked for the doctor for such a long time would suddenly decide to sell pictures to the papers. He had plenty of opportunity before; why start now?’
‘I’ll do it this evening, sir.’
‘I thought you were meeting my daughter?’
‘Elina will understand, sir.’
‘Just shows she’s my daughter.’
The head of the demonstration came into sight down Tiendong Road. A group of students, ten abreast, were carrying a large white banner with Chinese characters daubed in red paint across the front. At either side, drummers and men playing Chinese flutes added to the noise. Behind the front line, more banners and more people, all joining in the chant, some carrying lit torches to illuminate the night and their message.
Danilov stared down the road. ‘Another anti-Japanese demonstration, Strachan?’
‘It is, sir.’
‘What does the banner say?’
‘Same as before, sir. “Death to the Japanese barbarian”. They are still chanting about the annexation of Manchuria.’
Behind the lead banner, another one was held aloft. This time, it was black with blood-like red letters.
Strachan’s face paled. ‘That banner says “Stop the Japanese murder of Chinese children”. I think it refers to our killings, sir.’
‘This demonstration is getting close to Hong Kew.’
‘The Japanese won’t be happy, sir.’
Behind the morgue, a large group of young Japanese men were lining the streets, each carrying a stave or a baseball bat. They arrayed themselves across the road with military precision, blocking the entrance to the Japanese area.
‘This could get nasty, Strachan.’
‘They’ll turn off and head back towards Garden Bridge.’ The sergeant pointed down the road. ‘See, the Rapid Action Force has parked a Red Maria across the street blocking their way.’
The demonstration reached the crossroads at Broadway. As Strachan had predicted, it turned right just before the Red Maria and headed back towards the main part of the International Settlement on the other side of Soochow Creek.
Danilov stubbed his cigarette out against the white granite. There were countless other black marks where he had performed exactly the same action. The wall bore witness to their discussions. ‘Lastly, I want you to find out who the intermediary was. If this man knew the kidnappers, then maybe we can find out their identity too.’
‘I’ll try, sir, but it won’t be easy.’
‘Mr Yeung found him. I wonder how.’
‘I’ll try, sir.’
‘And I’m sure you’ll succeed, Strachan.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Danilov began to walk away. Strachan coughed.
‘You should get that cough seen to, Strachan. We don’t want you to come down with flu during this investigation.’
‘No, sir.’
Danilov turned to leave again.
‘You’re going home, sir?’
‘Not yet, Strachan. I have some thinking to do. “I have the teeth, but there’s nothing to eat.”’
‘I know the feeling, sir.’
‘But for us, the idiom has a more metaphorical meaning. We have many clues, but we haven’t solved the problem.’
‘You have plenty to chew on, sir.’
Danilov pulled the collar of his old coat up around his neck, plunging his hands deep into his pockets. ‘Indeed, this case is food for thought even if it tastes rancid.’
Strachan glanced down at his feet and coughed again. ‘I was just wondering if… ’
He looked up, but Danilov was already walking away, disappearing into the smog, the city swallowing him up in its soup of coal smoke, traffic exhaust and gathering gloom.
A ghost vanishing into the night.
22
As Strachan watched the inspector disappear, he felt the sliver of paper in his hand. He peered at it, trying to read the characters in the dim light. Dr Fang’s neat script stared back at him. Instinctively he touched the scar over his Adam’s apple.
The address was in one of the shikumen just off Bubbling Well Road, near Jing An Temple. He would go there now; at least he could report back to the inspector in the morning. It was probably a wild goose chase. In Shanghai, everything and anything could be bought if there was enough money on the table. But he was sure twenty years of loyalty and hard work for Dr Fang didn’t come cheap.
He nestled into the front seat of the Buick. At least Danilov wasn’t next to him, holding onto the hanging strap for dear life and shouting if Strachan drove faster than thirty miles an hour. He put the car in gear and pulled away from the kerb, narrowly missing a donkey and cart. The driver brayed more loudly than his donkey.
Twenty minutes and three near-accidents later – with a tram, a rickshaw and a bus – he parked the car in front of the stone arch to Heavenly Peace Shikumen. Not one of the newest or most modern of Shanghai’s estates, but not the worst either. At least here the water was drinkable after boiling and the alleys were kept relatively clean. He waved at a guard as he passed under the arch. The man looked up for a second before returning to his fatty pork cooked in black vinegar.
Strachan’s stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten since lunch, which was an eternity for his stomach. After interviewing the man, he would sample some of the shao lung bao from the shop on the corner. He’d heard on the grapevine that this place made a fine dough, almost translucent, just thick enough to keep the meat and its juices in the dumpling.
His stomach rumbled again. He would make this interview as quick as he could. He checked the address. The man’s house was in the middle on the left. A neat yard, spotlessly clean, with a child’s bike leaning against the wall. He knocked on the door.
No answer.
He knocked again.
A quiet, almost whispered voice asked, ‘Who is it?’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Strachan, looking for a Mr Tang Hsien.’
‘Nobody here by that name. Go away.’
Strachan stepped back from the door and checked the number on the wall of the alley. It was the same as on the paper. Dr Fang would not get it wrong.
He marched back and banged on the door.
‘GO AWAY.’
‘You have a choice. You open the door now and speak to me, or I return with three constables and arrest you for obstruction. It’s your call, no skin off my nose either way.’
He stepped back and looked up at the second floor. A young girl was standing in front of the window staring down at him.
He was about to bang on the door again when it opened a sliver and a pair of eyes appeared in
the crack. The wonderful smell of fried guo tieh came from inside the house. ‘How do I know you are who you say you are?’
Strachan reached into his inside pocket, pulled out his warrant card and shoved it under the nose below the pair of eyes.
They spent a long time reading it before the door opened a little wider, though not much. ‘I’ve seen your face before. You come to the mortuary with the waiguoren wearing the old coat. The one Dr Fang likes working with.’
‘Inspector Danilov?’
‘That’s him. ’Spector Danlo. He always speaks well of him, does the doctor.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘Why?’
‘I want to have a chat with you.’
‘Why?’
This was going nowhere again. ‘Look, we can talk in your house with a cup of tea and a few fried dumplings, or we can chat down the station with a thug of a sergeant and a few black eyes. Again, it’s your choice. But you won’t enjoy the black eyes half as much as I will enjoy the dumplings.’
The man’s eyes opened wide and the door opened wider.
‘Thank you. Now, where’s the tea and dumplings?’
They both sat down at an old wooden table. The man’s wife placed bowls and chopsticks in front of Strachan and her husband, followed by two small cups of fragrant tea and a plate of freshly fried dumplings, one side perfectly charred and the other soft and doughy.
The man was well-mannered. He waited until Strachan had eaten three of the dumplings, complimented his wife on her cooking and drunk two cups of tea before he asked the question. ‘Why have you come here?’
As Strachan was about to answer him, the young girl from upstairs appeared silently in the doorway.
‘You worked for Dr Fang for nearly twenty years, correct?’
‘Never missed a day. Not a bad job. The doctor was a fair boss and I had no problems with the dead people. They didn’t seem to have any problems with me.’
‘So why did you sell the pictures to the papers.’
The man thought for a moment. ‘Money.’
‘How much?’
He seemed to think for a long time before he finally answered. ‘Ten dollar.’
A crease appeared between Strachan’s eyes. ‘Only ten dollars?’
The man nodded unconvincingly.
‘The newspaper gave you a camera?’
He nodded again, more slowly now, wary of a trap.
‘Strange, they don’t often do that. Usually they want their own photographer to take the pictures. Means they get better quality.’ Before the man could answer, Strachan followed up with another question. It was a technique he had been taught by Inspector Danilov. ‘Which newspaper?’
‘What do you mean?’
Strachan thought the man was playing for time, pretending not to understand a simple question. ‘Which newspaper gave you the camera?’
‘I’m not going to answer.’
‘Look, it will take me five minutes to find out. I’ll ring a friend and he’ll tell me which paper is syndicating the pictures.’
The man stayed silent.
Strachan looked around the house. It was neatly if sparsely furnished. On the wall, three school certificates for outstanding academic achievement were proudly displayed.
The man noticed where Strachan was looking. ‘My daughter, Ai Lien, doing well at school.’
At the mention of her name, the young girl stepped into the kitchen.
‘What’s your favourite subject?’ asked Strachan.
‘Maths.’
‘I hated maths at school. Preferred English and history.’
‘Is that why you became a policeman?’
Strachan thought back to his father’s portrait hanging above the mantelpiece. The young girl was right: it was about history. Family history. His father had been a policeman and so he had joined the force too. ‘Probably. I loved history at school.’
‘Like I love maths.’
‘Well, Ai Lien, answer me this as a mathematician. Would you sell your soul for ten dollars?’
The girl’s face fell and she didn’t answer. Instead, she moved to stand beside her father.
‘You’ve lost your job now,’ Strachan said.
‘We’ll survive.’
‘Ten dollars won’t last long.’
‘I’ll get another job.’
Strachan sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Look, I don’t understand. You knew that when Dr Fang found out, you would be sacked. You have a daughter who’s still at school and probably wants to go to university, yet you give it all up for ten dollars? It doesn’t make sense.’
Ai Lien nudged her father. ‘Tell him, Papa.’
The man shook his head.
‘Tell me what?’
The girl looked at her father than slowly turned towards Strachan. ‘Three men took me as I was walking home from school. They threatened to kill me unless my father did what they wanted.’
The man hugged her tight to his body. ‘Shush, Bao-bei, it’s all over now.’
‘We need to tell him,’ she whispered into his hair. ‘So I can understand why they did this to me.’ She rolled up the sleeve of her jumper. On her arm, three long slashes were still wet and raw. ‘They said it would be my face next time.’
‘What did the men look like?’
‘Don’t say a word, Ai Lien, not another word.’
The girl stroked her father’s hair. ‘I would recognise them again. The leader was bald and had a gold tooth, just here.’ She touched her front left incisor. ‘But he never spoke.’
‘How do you know he was the leader?’
‘The others looked to him before they did anything.’
Strachan nodded his head. She was observant, this girl, she would go far. ‘And the others?’
‘One was small, like a dwarf in the circus, only bigger.’
‘About your height?’
‘Slightly taller, so pretty small.’
‘You said there was one other?’
‘This one did all the talking. He also did these.’ She pointed to the slashes on her arm.
‘He spoke Chinese to you?’
‘What else would he speak? English?’
Strachan smiled. Ask a stupid question and you get your head bitten off. The girl reminded him of Danilov.
She continued. ‘He had a scar under his right eye and a thug’s face.’
‘What does a thug’s face look like?’
‘The sort you see down the docks. He was smiling when he cut me, like he was enjoying it.’
‘Would you recognise these men again?’
Before the girl could answer, her father interrupted. ‘She won’t testify against anybody. I won’t allow it, and you need my permission to question her.’
He was right. Without his permission, they would not get far. Strachan knew that if he pushed now, the man would simply forbid his daughter to speak and they would lose this witness.
‘I understand: you’re frightened they will come back. We won’t ask her to testify, but what if she looks at some mug shots? There’s no harm in that. I’ll even bring the books here so she won’t have to come to the station.’
‘Papa, those men hurt me. I won’t let them hurt anyone else. The least I can do is help the police.’
The man ummed and aahed, weighing up the possibilities.
‘I want to help, Papa.’
Finally he seemed to give in. ‘You can come tomorrow, after school. But don’t let anybody see you at the door.’
‘Thank you, Mr Tang.’ For the first time, Strachan felt they were making progress in the case. These men matched the descriptions given by the teacher. At last he would have something positive to tell the inspector.
23
As Strachan was interviewing the girl and her father, Inspector Danilov was walking slowly home from the morgue. He could have taken a taxi, or even asked Strachan to drop him off, but this was his personal time. A time when the simple act of putting one foot in fr
ont of the other seemed to free his mind to think and ask questions.
He walked along the path beside Soochow Creek. The boats tied up three deep were creaking with the ebb and flow of the tide, the water lapping ceaselessly against their wooden hulls. The evening was cold, so there were few other pedestrians. Danilov walked with his collar turned up, his head nestled in the folds of his overcoat and his hands buried deep in his pockets.
That was when he wasn’t smoking. When he was, the cigarette was held inward towards the palm, its glowing embers warming the hand. Not that it helped much: the cold air of Shanghai seeped everywhere.
He turned left along Szechuan Road, leaving the tall tower and the bright lights of the post office behind him. Here, the street was busy with people rushing home from work, or going out for a meal or a night at the opera. Along both sides of the streets, hawkers had set up stalls selling snacks from the four corners of China: Shandong dumplings, Cantonese bao, Szechuan guo kui and, of course, you dunzi from Shanghai.
He crossed the road between two of the stalls and the brakes of a car squealed to a halt. He found himself bent over the body of a low-slung car, staring though the windscreen at a young white man.
The car honked loudly, then the man stuck his head out of the driver’s side and shouted, ‘Watch where you’re going, bloody idiot.’ This was followed by giggles from a gaggle of young girls jammed in the back.
The man and his companion on the front seat were both wearing evening dress, a bottle of champagne carelessly held out of the passenger window. Danilov could see they were young and wealthy, out to enjoy their youth and their money on a cold Shanghai night. The sons and daughters of the leaders of the city, perhaps. The offspring of his employers. He could arrest the driver for something, careless driving or even having too many passengers, but what was the point? Why deprive the young of their fun?
He jumped out of the way. The car revved up and roared away with a squeal of burning tyres and the sound of laughter. Enjoy yourselves, he thought; we never know what tomorrow will bring.
He crossed the road, being more careful now, dodging the carts, rickshaws, donkeys, old ponies, cars and lorries. It wouldn’t do to get himself run over, not in the middle of a case.
The Killing Time Page 9