Danilov took two breaths and looked around the room. The walls were festooned with metal awards and photographs of the editor with famous people. He could see no picture of a young boy. At least seven people were clustered around the desk. All were now staring at the confrontation between the two men. A young woman with cropped hair was taking notes in a small notebook.
‘I didn’t get your name, Mr… ?’ said Danilov in a quiet voice.
For a second the man considered continuing to shout. Then his shoulders visibly relaxed. ‘It’s Shen, my surname is Shen.’
‘Mr Shen. I’m sorry your son has been kidnapped. But I need to find out the details. We have already issued an APB for the car used in the attack, but the witness described it only as being large and black. A description fitting ninety per cent of all cars in Shanghai.’
‘An APB?’ the woman asked, her pencil poised over her notebook.
‘All-points bulletin,’ answered Strachan.
She scribbled his answer down.
‘Now, we both agree that the health and welfare of your son is the most important issue at the moment.’
The editor nodded slowly.
‘We realise this is a difficult time, but I need to interview you quietly in a place where we are not surrounded by other people. And I need to do it quickly.’
The editor nodded again, waving his hand. ‘Leave us,’ he ordered his staff.
They all trooped out except for the young woman.
‘Mona, that includes you.’
She reluctantly looked up from her notebook, then followed her colleagues out of the door.
Danilov sat down on a chair in front of the desk and gestured for the editor to do the same. With the office now empty, he could admire its quiet art deco elegance: straight lines, Egyptian motifs, stainless-steel edges. An austere modernity that he found assuring.
The editor finally settled into his seat.
‘Now, Mr Shen, your full name, please,’ Danilov asked.
‘Shen Yang,’ the man answered bluntly.
‘Mr Shen, your amah, a Miss Hu, has been murdered and your son kidnapped. We interviewed a witness at the scene; he said your son was snatched off the street.’
‘He’d been at his martial arts class.’
‘He goes there every day?’
The editor shook his head. ‘Just every Tuesday. The amah takes him and brings him home. He loves Chang De Ching… ’
‘Do you have a recent picture of your son?’
He opened his wallet and pulled out a black-and-white shot of a young boy. ‘This was taken last month at a friend’s birthday. He’s only seven years old. Why did they do this? I’m not rich, just the editor of a newspaper.’
Danilov ignored his question. ‘Have you received any threats recently?’
‘Listen, Inspector, of course I receive threats, it’s part of the job. But nothing recently, and none telling me they were going to kidnap my son.’
‘Earlier this month, your newspaper published a column calling for the assassination of Emperor Hirohito—’
The editor jumped in before Danilov could finish. ‘The political stance of my newspaper is clear. We support the Chinese people in their desire to combat Japanese aggression. We support the boycott of Japanese goods and the return of Manchuria to its rightful owners.’ And then the penny dropped. ‘Inspector, are you suggesting the political position of my newspaper may have caused the kidnapping of my son?’
‘It’s an angle we are looking into, Mr Shen.’
Strachan stared at him. This was the first he had heard of it.
‘We are investigating all the possible motivations for these kidnappings. We believe the same gang has already kidnapped two children.’
‘The same gang?’ The editor stood up from his chair. ‘You mean the kidnapping of Mr Yeung’s child? But he was murdered… ’
‘You know Yeung Tong Chee?’
‘We are on the same committee, Inspector.’
‘And which committee is that?’
‘It’s part of the Anti-Japanese National Salvation Association. The committee is organising the boycott of Japanese goods in Shanghai.’
30
‘Where to now, sir? Back to Bubbling Well Road?’
‘No, the scene-of-crime people can handle it. We must go back to the office, Strachan. We need to find out more about the Japanese sect, and organise a raid on their office.’
‘Right, sir, but—’
‘You’re not going to try to stop me again, Strachan? It’s even more important now. We have two children we need to find.’
‘No, sir.’ Strachan ran his fingers through his brilliantined hair and coughed. ‘Back at the newspaper offices, you told the editor we were looking into a political dimension to the kidnappings. That was news to me, sir.’
Danilov let out a long sigh. Maybe it was time for a cigarette. ‘It has always worried me, Strachan, what the connection was between the kidnappings. They are not random: the kidnapper called out Annie Chen’s name before he took her. So why are they happening, and more importantly, why are they happening now?’
Strachan remained silent, gripping the wheel of the Buick.
‘I heard Yeung’s wife complaining about his political work. When we found out the latest kidnap victim was the son of the editor of Min Kuo, I put two and two together to make four.’
‘So who’s behind it, sir? Is it the Japanese attacking the members of the committee?’
‘Or is it somebody who wants to stir up trouble between the Chinese and Japanese in Shanghai?’
‘But who would gain, sir?’
‘That’s what we have to find out. Now, let’s get back to Central and do our job.’
31
The office was as quiet as Dr Fang’s morgue by the time Danilov and Strachan returned. Chief Inspector Rock had been called away to an emergency meeting of the Shanghai Municipal Council. Miss Cavendish had taken the opportunity to go home early to spend the evening playing bridge with her mother’s friends. And the rest of the detectives were either serving with the Volunteers or investigating their own cases.
‘I much prefer this place empty, sir,’ said Strachan through mouthfuls of fried rice he’d picked up on the way back.
‘When you’ve finished feeding the monster, start going through the files.’
‘It could be difficult with Miss Cavendish already gone. She locks them up before she leaves.’
‘You’ll find the key underneath the plant pot on her desk.’
‘When did she tell you that, sir?’
‘She didn’t, but every time she leaves at night, the plant pot is in a different position. And a word of warning to you, Strachan: never hide anything under a lamp on your desk. It is the first place any experienced thief would look.’
Strachan glanced surreptitiously at the base of the lamp next to him.
‘I would move the key to your drawer if I were you.’
‘I will, sir.’ Strachan placed the half-eaten fried rice on his desk. ‘I’ll get the files now, will I?’
‘It would be useful, Strachan. The sooner we find out where the Nichiren sect is located, the sooner we can raid the office.’
Strachan walked to the door, taking one last look at his bowl of fried rice before leaving.
Danilov rolled a cigarette. They were so close now; he could feel it in his water. The Buddhist sect was key. If they could find the monks, they would at least understand why the symbol had been painted next to the boy’s body. Was it a sign of ownership? We have done this and we are proud? Or was it something more aggressive? A statement of intent? This is the first of many kidnappings?
He lit the cigarette and inhaled a long, comforting lungful of smoke. Of course, there would be fallout from the Japanese when they made the raid. Strictly speaking, he needed Chief Inspector Rock’s permission before proceeding, but he wasn’t going to ask for it. Experience told him it was better to apologise after the fact than be refused before.
<
br /> He would have to handle the repercussions, but there was one thing that would ensure Rock forgave him.
Success.
Catch the kidnapper and murderer of the children and he would be forgiven… eventually. Until the pardon happened, he would keep his head down and work hard. It would not endear him to his boss, but he never had any desire to be loved.
Except by his family, and that was not possible at the moment.
Strachan breezed in through the door. ‘I’ve found the Register of Clubs and Societies in Shanghai, the Register of the Martial Art Associations of Shanghai, and the Register of Businesses. It should be in one of these, sir.’
‘Give me the one in English and you handle the two in Chinese. I’ll telephone Inspector Fairbairn at the Rapid Action Force to let him know we’ll need him tomorrow.’
Strachan handed over all four volumes of the Register of Clubs and Societies.
‘Do you have any friends in the Japanese section?’
‘I did train with one of the Japanese, sir. He was born and brought up in Shanghai, Tommy Sugiyama. I could ask him.’
‘Do that, Strachan. But before you call him, I suggest you finish your dinner. It looks like we have a long night ahead of us.’
‘You’re not eating, sir?’
Danilov pointed to the cigarette burning between his fingertips.
Strachan laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘In Cantonese, the Chinese translation of smoking is literally “to eat smoke”.’
‘It’s a dinner I’m used to having, Strachan.’
* * *
It was two a.m. before they finally gave up. They had been through every file, register, book, compendium and directory in Central Station. There was no mention of any Nichiren Buddhist sect in any of them.
They had asked Sergeant Wolff before he went off duty. The fount of knowledge in the police had never heard of them. His suggestion was to ask the Japanese inspector, Nakamoto.
Strachan had even found time to call Tommy Sugiyama to ask him. The answer had been curt: ‘Never heard of them.’
‘It’s like they don’t exist, sir.’
‘But their symbol was painted on the wall, Strachan. They must be in Shanghai somewhere.’
‘We’ll have to ask Nakamoto, sir,’ Strachan said after they had spent another fruitless hour searching.
Danilov ran his fingers through his hair. He was going bald and he felt tired. In his youth, he could work forty-eight hours without rest and without any diminishment in his intellectual capacity. Now he could barely manage a day.
He thought of the young girl and boy hidden somewhere in the city. Were they safe? Or would the kidnappers follow the same pattern of sending a body part to the anxious families?
But why remove an ear at all if the purpose of the crime was political? It didn’t make sense. Either ask for a reward or kill the children as a punishment for their parents’ political activities. But not a mixture of the two.
This case had far too many questions and far too few answers. Every time they made a breakthrough, another challenge rose up and obstructed them. It was almost as if it was deliberate.
He stubbed the cigarette out in the full ashtray. Had he eaten so much smoke this evening? ‘You’re right, Strachan. I will ask Nakamoto tomorrow. Please call the Rapid Action Force and ask them to stand down. There will be no raid in the morning.’
Strachan picked up the phone.
‘And once you’re done, go home, Strachan. We can do nothing more tonight.’
‘Do you want a lift, sir?’
Danilov thought for a moment. Should he walk home, perhaps indulge in a pipe of sweet opium to help him relax?
He shook his head. For some reason, he had no desire to lose himself in dreams any more. He would prefer to see Maria.
Strachan was speaking to the Rapid Action Force. When he had finished, Danilov quietly announced, ‘I will take a lift, Strachan. It’s time I slept.’
32
The apartment was silent when he opened the door. He half expected, half hoped his wife would be sitting beside the fire waiting for him.
But the room was quiet, the fire a dying orange glow dusted with white ash.
He took off his shoes and crept past Elina’s bedroom, listening for a second at the door. He could hear her gentle breathing coming from within. It was exactly the same when they were in Russia. He would arrive home late, she would be asleep. He would listen to her breathing, watching from the end of her bed as she snuffled in her sleep and snuggled deeper into her blanket.
Now she was a grown woman and he could no longer stand at the end of her bed, but he could listen at the door.
After a while, he tiptoed to his own bedroom. His wife was sleeping too. A hazy moon infiltrated its way around the curtains, revealing the time on the alarm clock beside her bed to be 2.45.
He took off his clothes, folded them over the chair and slipped beneath the covers, trying desperately not to wake her.
‘You’re back,’ she said sleepily. ‘Have you found the murderer yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You will.’ And her arm came to rest across his body, her head nestling into his shoulder.
He hugged her closer, feeling the warmth of her body for the first time since the death of their son.
It had been a long, long time.
Before he fell asleep, the faces of the two kidnapped children crept into his mind. Were they safe? Were they still alive?
He hoped to God they were.
18 January 1932
The 337th Day of the Year of the Golden Goat
33
At five a.m., the night was dark and the rays of the sun waited a little longer before trying to fight their way through the coal haze hanging over Shanghai.
Liu placed his two buckets down on the ground, stretched his aching back and walked into the public toilet. For him, Quinsan Gardens was always the best spot on his rounds. You had a better class of shit in the Japanese district. For a start, the toilets were cleaner. The bandy-legged ones were well trained, he would give the little bastards that. He didn’t know why. Perhaps it was because they lived so close together.
He lifted the metal cover of the toilet and reached in to remove the bucket. It felt heavy. It had obviously been a busy day at the Gardens. Perhaps one of those marches had been past.
He hoisted the bucket out from under the ground. There was no smell, at least none that he noticed. Years of doing his job had removed any squeamishness from Liu. And it had also removed his sense of smell.
He poured the night soil into the larger of his two buckets. Nearly full now. He’d be able to go off to Mr Ren to sell the collection soon. There was always money in night soil; the market gardeners were crying out for it. A dollop of the stuff helped the vegetables come on a treat. And the one thing Shanghai would never run short of was shit. The city was built on it.
He placed the bucket back under the toilet after giving it a wipe with his cloth. Had to keep it clean, otherwise the Japanese would start to complain and he would lose his rice bowl. He didn’t fancy returning to the streets again.
The thought of his previous life sent a shudder down his spine. Unless he was willing to chop off one of his hands or blind himself, the pickings were always meagre. Those who had mutilated themselves always got the best money and the best spots on the street; the King of the Beggars made sure of it. Had to pay him for it too. Otherwise you’d suddenly find your spot was taken by somebody else, with a kicking in prospect if you tried to take it back.
No, sir, he preferred the life collecting shit. The hours weren’t bad and he didn’t mind getting up early in the morning to do his rounds. He preferred it in summer, though. When the birds were singing, the plane trees were in leaf and people were still snoring in their beds. Then he could hurry round collecting his night soil before the heat made the shit sing.
He knew he was lucky to land this job. Nobody ever starved
as a night-soil collector, least of all that fat bastard Ren. Liu had heard the man was taking a second wife. A young girl from his home village in Chekiang. How could he afford that? Must be doing well. Mind you, he did have more than ten collectors working for him, plus each one paid a little tea money for his right to collect. Not a bad earner.
Liu balanced his buckets on the bamboo pole, bent his back and stood up. The pole slotted neatly into the well-worn groove on his shoulder. He ambled across to the other side of the garden to the final stop on his round: the toilet of the small tea house on the corner. He walked like a drunken sailor on shore leave, the bounce in his step helping to balance the two buckets.
As he passed the ornate Chinese arch in the centre of the garden, the moon poked its nosy head through the night sky, illuminating the scene like the lights they used in Chinese opera.
There was something hanging from the arch, between the two support posts entwined with carved dragons. What was it? Was somebody there?
At this time in the early morning, he rarely met anybody. Occasionally he would find a drunken Japanese man passed out on one of the benches, but he ignored them. Such a strange race: they could be violent if woken suddenly, so he left them alone. Let the police do it; it was their job.
He was close to the arch now. He put his buckets down, careful not to spill a drop of his precious cargo. The moon crept behind the clouds and whatever he thought he’d seen vanished from view. He peered into the blackness. Perhaps there was nothing after all. His old eyes playing tricks, tired after a long morning on his rounds.
He was about to pick his buckets up again when the moon reappeared from behind its blanket of cloud.
There was something on the arch.
He edged closer, his left shoulder facing whatever it was, ready to run if it turned out to be something dangerous. He had heard about the ghosts roaming the areas where the Japanese lived. He had never seen them before today, but his friend knew all about it. Said the ghosts were fed with live children by the Japanese geishas to keep themselves young and beautiful.
The Killing Time Page 12