He was tempted to run back to his buckets and scarper back to Ren’s yard. What was the point of getting involved? Nothing good would come of it.
But despite himself, he found his feet edging forward.
The black shape was hanging from its arms on the horizontal crossbeam of the arch. It was too small to be a grown man. Was it a monkey?
He moved closer, sliding his foot to make sure he had a firm foundation on the wet path in case he had to turn tail and run. The moon disappeared behind the clouds again, but the shape was still there. It wasn’t moving, just hanging from the beam.
He edged closer still. Was it wearing something? A blue uniform? Why would a ghost be wearing a uniform? And then he saw there was something else hanging beside it. Something smaller, thinner. What was it?
The moon slipped from behind its cloud. The rays spread across the paths, over the flower beds, past the pots of planted bonsai, to the arch.
Liu looked up into the faces of the things hanging down from the crossbeam and he screamed.
Again and again and again.
A scream to wake the dead.
34
‘They got here quickly, sir.’
‘Too quickly.’
Danilov pushed his way through the crowd of reporters held back by police, assaulted by questions at every step.
‘Who is killing children, Inspector?’
‘Is there a kidnap gang operating in the city?
‘We’ve heard a Japanese Buddhist group is responsible. Can you comment?’
The last question was shouted by a young reporter from the North China Daily News. Danilov stared right through him and carried on walking. He had received the call from Strachan at 6.30 a.m.: bodies had been found. The detective had picked him up fifteen minutes later and driven him straight to the crime scene.
He was still too late.
The young reporter followed Danilov. ‘Is the Nichiren sect involved, Inspector?’ he persisted.
Danilov carried on, ducking under a constable’s arm as the policeman and three of his uniformed colleagues held the reporters back from the murder scene. The police had already erected a bamboo screen around the ornamental arch where the bodies had been found.
He stopped for a moment, delaying his appointment with the victims. They could wait for a few seconds; they weren’t going anywhere.
At the corner of the garden, next to the tea house, a crowd of young demonstrators, many carrying hastily daubed banners, others with a variety of nationalist flags, were shouting something in unison, fists raised in the air. They were held back by another thin blue line of constables, marshalled expertly by a Chinese sergeant.
‘What are they shouting?’
Strachan listened closely. ‘It sounds like “Death to the Japanese murderers”, sir.’
On the opposite side of the garden, another crowd had gathered. This one was mostly young Japanese men, some carrying staves and cudgels, all looking menacing and ready for action. At one side, a group of Japanese monks were also arrayed behind their leader, their ranks and posture like a platoon of soldiers, each man equipped with a lethal-looking club.
‘I though the Buddha was a man of peace, Strachan.’
‘Apparently not in Japan, sir.’
‘I wonder if they are the Nichiren? The sect all our registers and directories tell us does not exist in Shanghai?’
The hawkers and their followers were just arriving, drawn by the prospect of a ready source of custom from the demonstrators, the onlookers and, of course, the police, whose need for food was as constant as the need for their services. Already the smell of roasting sweet potatoes scented the air.
Another Red Maria had arrived, disgorging more thin blue lines to hold back the crowds around the gardens.
‘Can’t postpone it any longer, Danilov,’ the inspector said out loud.
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘Nothing, Strachan, talking to myself.’
‘The first sign of madness.’
‘No, it’s the second. The first is joining the police.’
They walked towards the bamboo screen, past two large buckets of night soil with a bamboo pole resting against one of them. The air above the buckets was vibrating. Flies hovered and buzzed and flitted in and out, forming a dense living black carpet on the rims.
‘Get someone to move those; they are starting to stink.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Strachan beckoned two constables forward and whispered to them. Their faces fell as they realised what he was asking them to do.
Danilov walked on, pushing aside the bamboo curtain surrounding the ornamental arch and entering the inner sanctum. The bodies of the girl and the younger boy were hanging from the crossbeam, united in death.
He stared at the girl, on the left. Her face had been slashed five or six times but he could still see the resemblance to her sister. No wonder people had problems telling them apart.
The boy looked exactly like his photograph, slightly older perhaps, and also whiter, the blood having drained from his body, pooling at the base of one of the posts.
A photographer was already in position, his flash bulb exploding each time he shifted position to take another shot. Danilov watched as the flash lit up the children’s faces, revealing the wounds in all their naked horror.
He followed the trail of the girl’s hanging arms.
She had been inexpertly tied to the crossbar using a length of old frayed rope. Her hands hung down limply, their pale whiteness showing the lack of blood. They looked like the hands of a marble pietà, too white to be real, but somehow too real to be marble.
He heard Strachan’s feet come running up behind him, followed by the rustle of the bamboo screen being moved aside.
‘Have you questioned the man who found the bodies?’
‘It was a night-soil collector on his rounds, sir. A man called Liu.’
‘What time did he find them?’
‘He doesn’t own a watch, sir, but he was nearly at the end of his rounds, a few minutes before dawn. About five thirty by my reckoning.’
Danilov stared at the young girl. Too young. Too young to die. Who had done this to her? A few spots of her blood had dripped onto her shirt. A few more had landed on the hard concrete ground beneath her feet. Were they from her or from the man who had killed her? Danilov looked around for shoe imprints, but there were none on the concrete.
The boy on the crossbeam next to her, their hands nearly touching, was smaller, frailer. A lot more blood had pooled at his feet, as if it were fresher than hers.
‘It’s them.’
‘The kidnapped children?’
Danilov nodded. ‘How did he find them?’
‘Saw something and came to look. He started screaming and the local people called the police. Lucky they did, sir. This lot are about ready to kill each other.’
A fly buzzed around the girl’s head and landed on one of the open wounds, rubbing its front legs together before starting to feed.
The shouting and chanting from the Chinese students had become louder as more and more people joined the mob. Through the screen Danilov could see that the police were having trouble holding everybody back, the Chinese sergeant physically throwing a young man back into the group after he had broken through.
‘We’d better get Dr Fang’s men in to remove the bodies and take them back to the morgue.’
‘I already called them, sir, just after I called you. They are waiting over there.’ Strachan pointed to four men standing next to a black van, smoking and joking with each other.
‘Dust the arch for fingerprints. They must have touched it to tie them up.’
‘They?’
‘There must have been at least two people, Strachan. One to hold the body while the other tied the knots around the arms. Has he finished yet?’
The photographer was still taking photographs. He adjusted his position so that he was now below the girl, shooting upwards past her feet. The flash bulb exploded,
and for a second Danilov saw something white on the underside of her chin.
‘Get me the ladder.’
Strachan ran to fetch the bamboo ladder placed next to the screen by Dr Fang’s men.
Danilov helped him rest it on the crossbeam. Slowly he climbed the rungs, getting closer to the girl with each step.
The shouting of the protesters seemed louder now, more strident.
He stared straight into her face. The eyes were dead, looking out into nothingness. So young, so full of life, so innocent. Her life, her future snatched from her.
Nothing left now.
Nothing.
A swarm of flies were gathered around the edges of her wounds. Danilov waved his hand and they rose as one, only to settle again a second later and begin feeding.
He took out his handkerchief, placed in his pocket that morning by his wife, and reached up to lift the girl’s chin. As he did so, a piece of yellow paper fluttered to the ground past his hand.
The mob behind him was even louder now, shouting and chanting, pumping their fists to the sky with each syllable.
As he came down the ladder, he shouted to Strachan: ‘Tell Dr Fang’s men to get a move on. The sooner we remove the bodies, the better.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Strachan stepped forward and picked up the paper, turning it over.
A stylised drawing of a Chinese arch in a flattened circle was etched in red on the yellow paper. It was a slightly different symbol from the one at the building site, but the colours and style were exactly the same.
Danilov snatched the paper from Strachan’s hands. ‘I’ve just seen this symbol. Come with me.’
35
They rushed away from the arch, thrusting the bamboo curtain aside.
Danilov scanned the crowd on his right. More Japanese men were formed up in military fashion, each one carrying a stave or baseball bat. The monks had arrayed themselves further on the right.
‘There, see it?’
Strachan followed the inspector’s pointing arm to a bald man in the orange costume of a monk at the centre of the crowd. Above his head, tied to his back, was a large yellow banner, fluttering in the breeze. At the top of the banner, red Japanese kanji characters were pasted. In the centre was the round circle with its stylised image of an arch.
‘It’s time we asked this man some questions.’
They marched towards the group of monks. The man shouted something to his compatriots before handing the banner to another person wearing a bright red cap and slipping away from the main group.
A scream on the left. The editor of Min Kuo, Mr Shen, was being restrained by two burly constables. He was struggling to break free, the crowd behind pushing him forward.
‘DANILOV! DANILOV!’ The man fought against the grip of the constables. ‘DANILOV! DANI… ’ The shout died in his throat and he slumped forward, held up by the two officers.
Danilov looked back toward the bamboo curtain. The breeze had blown down a section, revealing the bodies of the boy and girl hanging from the crossbeam.
‘Find the monk, Strachan, don’t let him get away.’
‘What about—’
‘Just do it, after him.’
36
The front ranks of the monks formed two straight lines across the top of the gardens facing the protesters. They stood shoulder to shoulder, their feet firmly planted, holding their cudgels.
Strachan darted down the left-hand diagonal path to cut off his quarry.
The man glanced over his shoulder and picked up his pace, expertly weaving through the crowd that had formed to watch the possibility of a fight between the two groups.
A young policeman held up his hand to stop Strachan. ‘I’m police, you bloody fool,’ Strachan yelled in Chinese. The constable grabbed hold of his arm and attempted to put him in a headlock. Strachan slipped out of his grasp easily. Years of practice with Master Wu had made the manoeuvre second nature. The constable tried to grab him again. Strachan dispatched him with a swift kick to the knee. The man collapsed to the ground, screaming in pain.
‘Sorry,’ shouted Strachan over his shoulder.
Where was the monk?
Strachan ran into the crowd, shoving aside anybody who stood in his way. He heard a chorus of swearing in his wake as he ploughed through the mass of people with all the grace of a tramp steamer.
A lamp post on his left. He jumped up and stood on the concrete stanchion, trying to get a better view over the heads of the crowd.
There he was.
The monk was already running down Quinsan Garden Road, pulling off his habit to reveal a white singlet and blue trousers.
Why was a monk wearing normal clothes beneath his habit?
Strachan realised the question was pointless unless he managed to catch the man. He jumped down from his perch and raced through the crowd, bumping into an elderly grandmother as she stepped in front of him, intent on going to the market in search of fresh vegetables.
He bounced off her, apologising profusely. She ignored him, inching her way forward with all the momentum, if not the speed, of a runaway train.
Still shouting his apologies, he ran across the road to follow the monk. The man was not far in front, dodging through the hawkers who lined the street, and their attendant shoppers.
A group of white-and-blue-garbed nurses were coming out of their association. Strachan slipped through them as the man turned right at the end of the street. He doubled his efforts.
Have to catch up with him.
For a moment, the memory of another chase came back to him. The man who had killed his mother, running through the streets of the French concession. That time Strachan had chased his quarry down. He would do the same with this man.
But the monk had other ideas. At the next junction, he jumped on board the front of a double tram as it moved away from the stop, the electricity catchers crackling on the overhead wires.
Strachan reached the end of the road and bent double, his hands on his knees, catching his breath.
The man smiled back at him and casually waved in his direction.
Bastard, he wasn’t getting away.
Strachan broke into a sprint, chasing after the second carriage of the tram, the platform at the rear jammed with passengers. He reached for the iron barrier, felt the cold metal touch the end of his fingers before edging away as the tram accelerated. He ran faster, this time holding onto the bar and jumping up onto the platform, shoving aside two passengers to make room.
More swearing, this time in Shanghainese.
He could see the monk, now in his white T-shirt, staring back at him from the front carriage.
Got you now.
He began to edge his way through the packed tram, shouting, ‘Bu hao i-si!’ as he elbowed men, women and grandparents aside. The passengers leant out of his way, cursing him under their breath.
The monk could see him through the glass at the rear of the front carriage. His eyes darted left and right. He was no longer laughing.
Strachan shoved his way to the gap between the two carriages. He opened the door and stared down at the rough road surface racing beneath the tram. The door to the front carriage was closed. He glanced down again at the blur of the road.
There was only one thing to do.
He leapt across the gap, landing on a narrow ledge running all the way round the tram, his fingers scrabbling for something to hold onto.
He felt his body fall away from the front carriage towards the road below; heard the loud sparks of the catchers on the live wires above.
Then his fingers caught hold of something: the edge of a hinge.
Hold on, don’t let go.
His fingers gripped the hinge, hooking onto a large screw standing out from the top, and he levered himself upwards to lie flat against the outside of the carriage door.
A young boy was inside the carriage, tugging his mother’s hand and pointing to the man with his face pressed to the glass. The other passengers stared
at him, wondering who this madman was and why he couldn’t stay in the rear carriage.
From the front of the carriage the monk stared at Strachan, praying he would fall and be crushed by the iron wheels of the tram.
Strachan held onto the hinge. The door was designed to open outwards. How was he going to get inside? He realised he should probably have thought this through before he leapt across, but it was too late for recriminations now. He wouldn’t let Elina know, though. He’d never hear the last of it.
He edged his right shoulder around, still holding onto the hinge. With his left arm he grabbed hold of the door handle and pulled it down. The door swung open with him hanging onto it, trapped between the two carriages, with the road rushing beneath him and the wind whistling past.
Up ahead, between the tram tracks, was a concrete stanchion holding the overhead electricity wires. Strachan was racing towards it, the tram picking up speed as it surged down North Szechuan Road.
He closed his eyes, waiting for the impact, his legs swinging wildly in the air.
The concrete stanchion was closer now.
Closer still.
He opened his eyes. And as the tram sped up, everything else seemed to slow down.
He could see the letters stencilled on the stanchion in light blue: the number 23, and beneath it the two characters for electricity. Dian ying.
He could hear the wind whistling through his hair, the soft touch on the skin of his face. He could see the boy looking at him through the window of the tram, about to tug his mother’s arm again. He could feel his fingers losing their grip on the top of the door.
And then the door swung against the limit of the hinge, bouncing back to close again.
He felt rather than saw the concrete stanchion rushing past behind him.
Still the tram hurtled on.
Hadn’t the driver seen him? Wouldn’t he stop soon?
As the door swung closed again, he threw his left leg around it, trying to find purchase on the wooden step.
He missed.
The door swung out again. His left leg was dangling down. The coupling between the two carriages snapped together like the jaws of a crocodile, his leg just above the metal teeth. He scrambled to get a better grip, but the metal of the hinge was biting into his fingers. He could feel them slipping off as they lost strength.
The Killing Time Page 13