As he reached the other side, a hawker offered him a place at his stall. Should he stop for some tea? His wife would be waiting for him at home. The meal would be on the table going cold. She would be sitting there looking coldly at the clock but not saying a word.
He sat down at the table. The hawker poured some tea and asked him, ‘Chi-le may?’
He answered ‘May. Du-zi bu er.’
The man stared at him uncomprehending, not understanding ‘I’m not hungry’ in Mandarin. Danilov said, ‘Che gu le’ in his bad Shanghainese. The man understood instantly, walking back to his wok, shaking his head.
Danilov sipped the tea. The smokiness reminded him of the tea from his favourite café, Svoi, in Minsk. An age and half a lifetime away.
How could he talk to his wife? Perhaps he should apologise to her for being late yesterday. It might get them talking, at least.
At the moment, a vast ocean of guilt and disappointment lay between them. For six years, they had been separated. In 1924, he had been away investigating a case in Moscow when the revolutionary authorities in Minsk clamped down on all officials who had worked for the tsar. As a policeman, he and his family were not exempt from the pogrom. In fact, he was doubly guilty.
Maria and the children had fled south. He had tried to find them, searching across Russia, always arriving too late. The great detective who couldn’t even find his own family.
Finally he had given up and come to Shanghai, leaving messages behind him, joining the police force as it was expanding. His experience with the Imperial Police and a personal recommendation from an assistant commissioner at Scotland Yard helped him secure the job. He had managed to find his daughter three years ago, and his wife and son a year later. Only for Ivan to be killed in an explosion caused by a madman. A madman who wanted Danilov dead but who only succeeded in killing his son.
His wife still hadn’t forgiven him. Would she ever?
He sipped his tea and began to roll a cigarette. He mustn’t think about it now. The case was what was important. Why had the boy been murdered? Why had his face been cut up? And what about the kidnapping of the girl; was there a connection between the two?
He lit the cigarette. Opposite him, a family was tucking into a large plate of long you ban mian, the mother feeding the child from her bowl, giving him whatever she had.
Was the killer targeting young children? Why? What had the innocent done wrong? If it was the same gang, what was the connection with the victims? Did they know them? Were they getting inside information? The kidnapper had called Annie Chen’s name. It wasn’t random; he was looking for her. Did he know the parents? And if he did, why should the children be punished for the sins of their elders?
The clock was ticking. He could hear the sound getting louder and louder. If he didn’t solve this case soon, the chief inspector would transfer the investigation to Nakamoto. Danilov had to stop that with all the strength he possessed. The children deserved nothing less, even if it meant he had lost his job and had to leave Shanghai.
Nothing mattered any more except finding out who had killed the children.
‘Enough,’ he said out loud.
He took a long drag at his cigarette, noticing that the lao ban and the other customers were staring at him. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair. The dark world was closing in on him, but he wasn’t going to surrender without a fight.
He stood up, throwing a dollar down on the table. It was far too much, but he didn’t care. At least the hawker and his family would be happy tonight.
He walked off into the night. It was time to escape from the case. And his wife. And his son. The opium den was around the corner. He knew that there he would find peace.
And maybe, in his dreams, he would find answers to some of his questions.
24
Maria was waiting for him when he arrived home, sitting in a chair in front of the fire.
He stood in the doorway, smelling the scent of opium circling his body like a forgotten dream. ‘I’m late.’
‘Your dinner is cold.’
Danilov took off his coat and hat. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘There was another ceremony tonight at the church. You didn’t come.’
He walked towards the bedroom, then stopped in the doorway and turned around. ‘I’m sorry, Maria.’
‘There is nothing to be sorry about,’ she said, her voice as cold as the Russian winter.
‘I didn’t know… ’
She remained silent.
‘I’m also sorry I was late yesterday… Work, a murder,’ he added limply.
She carried on staring into the embers of the fire burning in the grate.
‘I’m sorry.’
For the first time, she looked up at him. Or rather she looked through him. ‘There is always time for work; there was never time for our son. It was true in Minsk, it is true now. It’s always been true.’ Her voice was flat, stating a fact.
He walked over and knelt down beside her. ‘I’m sorry.’
She continued to stare into the fire, avoiding his face. ‘You can’t forget him. He was part of us. You can’t lose yourself in work and bury his memory. You can’t hide behind work all your life.’
Danilov nodded. ‘I know, but we can’t live in the land of the dead either.’
She turned away from him. ‘I am not living in the land of the dead. I am grieving for my dead son. A young boy who had so much to live for, so much life to enjoy.’ She turned back to him, the embers of the fire reflecting in her eyes. ‘Your work killed him. Don’t you understand, your work killed my son.’
She stared at him, daring him to contradict her.
He looked away and repeated the only words he seemed capable of saying at that moment. ‘I’m sorry, Maria.’
17 January 1932
The 336th Day of the Year of the Golden Goat
25
After a twenty-minute drive from Danilov’s home, they arrived in front of a dark, forbidding mansion constructed from stone blackened by age and the depredations of the air of Shanghai. The place looked deserted, but Danilov knew it had been occupied by Strachan’s uncle for many generations.
Strachan had picked Danilov up from his apartment that morning, telling his superior the girl’s story from last night. But there had been no congratulations, no whoops of joy and certainly no pats on the back.
Instead, just one word had been spoken. ‘Good.’ Afterwards, the inspector lapsed back into silence until they pulled up in front of the house.
‘Did you find out the name of the go-between, Strachan?’
‘Not yet, sir’
Danilov frowned. ‘Not good.’
They both sat in silence while the inspector stared out through the windscreen at the house.
Eventually, Strachan exited the car, strode up through the drive and knocked on the door. It was immediately answered by an ancient amah dressed in the traditional costume of white shirt, baggy black trousers and soft felt slippers.
She nodded a welcome to Strachan but said nothing. As they stepped inside, Strachan’s uncle came out to greet them.
‘It’s been far too long, Inspector.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Chang, I should have come before to pay you a visit.’
The uncle smiled. ‘I understand. The pressures of work.’
Danilov shrugged his shoulders. ‘The one thing Shanghai is never short of is criminals and crime.’
‘And without them, there would be no need for policemen.’
‘So true, Mr Chang. We rely on each other for our existence. It’s a sad state of affairs.’
‘Please come into the receiving room, Inspector, and have some tea.’
He pointed towards the room on the left. Danilov entered whilst Strachan hung back, waiting for his uncle to go in ahead of him. The room was large, decorated with an ornate wallpaper as expensive as it was fussy. In the centre of the room, a row of hard blackwood chairs faced each other with a table in between. At the head
of the table a larger, intricately carved chair sat slightly higher than the others. On the walls hung a series of hand-written epigrams in a cursive, flowing script.
Mr Chang waited for the inspector to sit before taking his seat at the head of the table. Strachan remained standing.
‘Would you like some tea, Inspector? I have just taken delivery of a parcel of oolong from the mountains around Sanlinsen in Taiwan. It’s not the best, but I’m sure it will fortify you for a long day ahead with the criminal fraternity of Shanghai.’
Danilov had forgotten the eloquence of Mr Chang’s speech. It was so different from the vulgarity and simplicity of the criminals and police of Shanghai. They had worked together on a particularly gruesome series of crimes three years ago, meeting again at the funeral of Strachan’s mother. How time flew by. It was as if there was a race they didn’t know they were running, with a finish line equally unknown.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector, you seem distracted. Would you like some tea or would you prefer something stronger?’
Danilov focused quickly. ‘Thank you, Mr Chang, I would love some oolong. And in your household, I’m sure it is as refreshing and astringent as its host.’
Mr Chang nodded his head at the compliment and rang a small bell on the table. The old amah immediately entered, bringing with her a tray laden with two cups, a pot of hot water, a large bowl, a sand timer, an earthenware teapot and a small wooden caddy. As Mr Chang rinsed the teapot with hot water to warm it up, pouring it into the bowl, he continued the conversation.
‘I do hope my nephew has not been totally worthless in his chosen profession, Inspector Danilov.’
Strachan began to blush. It was as if he wasn’t there.
Mr Chang measured out a small scoop of tea, placing it in the pot and filling it to the brim with hot water.
‘On the contrary, Detective Sergeant Strachan has become an indispensable member of my team.’
Strachan blushed even more. Danilov had never complimented him so lavishly before.
Mr Chang poured the tea into the bowl, discarding it. ‘The first brew is always too harsh, Inspector, the leaves too bitter. It is pleasant to hear that my nephew has mellowed with time and experience, like this tea. Perhaps even the most worthless pupil can learn something from an excellent teacher… ’
Danilov nodded his head at the return of the compliment. Mr Chang had been one of the unlucky scholars at the imperial examinations, finally passing after years of study in 1910, only to have the emperor deposed and a republic declared in 1911. Since then, he had devoted himself to his books, occasionally offering advice when the government required a solution to a particularly difficult problem. For two years he had even served as vice governor in Kunming, responsible for the security of the region. He still had many contacts in the Chinese government. But more importantly for Danilov, he had an immense knowledge of Asian customs and lore.
‘… In twenty years, he might be able to earn his own living.’
Before Danilov could respond or Strachan grow even redder, the door opened and a younger maid bustled in with a tray bearing snacks.
‘One day my servant will learn the art of entering graciously, Inspector,’ Chang admonished the maid.
She knelt down, placing the snacks on the table between Danilov and Mr Chang.
‘A few titbits to amuse your taste buds: some seaweed and bean curd; a few sliced cucumbers; wood ear mushrooms sprinkled with chillis; sweet prawns, and radish cake. Not the best, I’m afraid, my cook is still learning his trade.’
Danilov picked up one of the tender prawns with his ivory chopsticks. It was so small and dainty, a slight tinge of orange emanating from the almost translucent white flesh. He popped it into his mouth, trying not to chew. The prawn lay there giving off hints of pepper, salt, sesame oil and something else he had never tasted before: a gentle sweetness tingling the tip of his tongue.
‘I think it could do with a touch more salt, don’t you agree?’
Danilov swallowed. The prawn slipped down his throat, leaving a slight salty aftertaste. ‘I think it was the most delicious prawn I have ever eaten.’
Mr Chang smiled. ‘You are too kind, Inspector.’
Danilov watched Strachan leaning over to take a closer look at the food. He picked up another prawn and examined it on the end of his chopsticks, finally popping it into his mouth. He heard a loud rumble in his left ear. He would have loved his detective sergeant to join in the feast, but he was not the host. Mr Chang seemed oblivious to Strachan’s discomfort.
They both ate in silence for the next ten minutes, the only sound the occasional growl from Strachan’s stomach as he watched the food slowly vanishing from the tiny plates. Finally Mr Chang laid down his chopsticks, took a sip of his tea and said, ‘How can I help you, Inspector?’
Danilov took out the copy of the symbol and placed it in the middle of the table. Mr Chang picked it up and examined it closely, frowning all the time.
‘We discovered this next to the body of a kidnapped child, drawn in his blood. Do you recognise it?’
Mr Chang put it down on the table, removed the lid from his cup of tea and quietly took a sip. ‘Of course,’ he said finally.
‘I apologise for my ignorance, Mr Chang, but could you explain?’
Chang stared into mid-air before finally speaking. ‘I think it was 1924… yes, I’m sure it was. In March, just before the festival of the cherry blossoms: Sakura, as it is called in Japan. I was asked to go there by the rector of Jiao Tung University. A great man, an even better scholar, but one greatly troubled by China’s perennial weakness. He believed this weakness had led to our loss of sovereignty to the Western powers. Over the last eighty years, we have suffered innumerable wars, all ending with the same conclusion: the loss of our territory and control of our country.’
He took another sip of his tea, lifting the drooping sleeves of his Mandarin coat. Danilov found the gesture strangely elegant, in the same way the hands of a ballerina said more about her feelings than any dance step.
Mr Chang continued. ‘And yet, over the same time period, Japan has not suffered in the same way. On the contrary, the country has prospered and become more unified despite having started from a less elevated position than our own.’ He smiled for a second as if thinking of a memory long forgotten. ‘The Japanese have never been held in much regard by my countrymen. We call them the short-legged bandits, thinking them little better than pirates.’
‘But I don’t understand, what has this to do with the murder of the children?’
Danilov held up his hand to stop Strachan asking any more questions.
Mr Chang glanced at his nephew. ‘Hong Yi, to be a useful detective, you must learn to listen and be patient, particularly with older people. We will get there in the end; we just like to give full explanations.’
‘Sorry, Uncle.’
‘Please carry on, Mr Chang.’
‘Where was I? Oh yes, I was sent to Japan as part of a delegation to examine their political and social institutions, to see if China could learn anything from them. My particular area of expertise was religion. In the past, Japan has always had a structured religious establishment, indivisible from whoever was in power. But in recent years, Buddhism in the country has taken on a much more aggressive, nationalistic tone.’
‘Surely that would be at odds with the teachings of Buddha?’
‘One would think so, Inspector, but people have always been able to justify their cruelty to others. It is one of the more unpleasant aspects of human nature.’ He paused for another sip of tea. ‘The Japanese took this a step further, using religion to justify their aggression and expansion. They formed peculiarly nationalistic Buddhist sects whose one aim was to validate the expansion of the Japanese empire.’ He picked up the copy of the symbol Strachan had drawn. ‘This symbol belongs to one of those sects, the Nichiren; or more exactly, a section called the Kokuchukai.’
‘Are you sure, Mr Chang?’
‘Definite
ly, Inspector. The only puzzle is why it was found next to the body of a dead child.’
‘My job is to find that out. One more question if I may?’
‘Go ahead, Inspector.’
‘If I wanted a go-between during a kidnapping, who would I contact in Shanghai?’
Strachan’s uncle thought for a moment, his long fingers stroking his beard. ‘There are many people who would pretend to be able to fulfil the role in order to extort money from an anxious family, but only one man who can negotiate effectively.’
‘And who is that?’
‘Du Yue Sheng.’
‘The Green Gang boss?’
‘The man who controls the opium, the prostitution, the gambling and all of man’s other vices in this dark city.’
‘Could you arrange for me to meet him?’
Again Chang stroked his beard. ‘I thought you had met him already.’
‘Just once. It wasn’t a cordial encounter.’
‘He’s not an easy man to like. When would you like to talk with him?’
‘Now.’
Chang’s eyebrows rose slightly, but he quickly regained control. ‘I will make the telephone call. If you’ll excuse me.’
He stood up in a flurry of circling sleeves, rustling silk and the gentle aroma of gardenia and stepped out of the living room.
As he closed the door, Strachan leant forward. ‘You’re going to see Du Yue Sheng again. I remember the last time… ’
‘It is unfortunately necessary, Strachan. The only lead we have in this case is the symbol drawn near the boy’s body. We need more. We need to discover who these kidnappers are before another child is stolen and killed.’
After a few minutes, the door opened and Strachan’s uncle stood in the entrance.
‘It has been arranged, Inspector Danilov. Du Yue Sheng is waiting for you.’
26
The boy was running ahead as usual, full of energy despite the exertions of an hour with the kung fu master at the Chinese Women’s Club.
The Killing Time Page 10