The Killing Time

by The Killing Time (retail) (epub)

  The door swung back. His arms were losing strength. Above his head the connecting rod sparked blue and white. Behind him, a rush of air followed by the loud roar of another tram rushing past. He saw the look on the driver’s face as the door swung out even further.

  One hand slipped off the hinge.

  He felt a strong arm reach out and grab his shoulder, pulling him roughly inside the front carriage, where he landed on his knees.

  ‘Are you fuckin’ crazy or what?’ The voice was rough Shanghainese, the hands that held him even rougher. ‘You coulda topped yourself. Easier ways of gettin’ a seat.’

  Strachan took two deep breaths, then rose to his feet and pulled down his jacket. ‘Thanks for the help.’ He pulled out his badge and flashed it at his rescuer.

  The man stared at it, and then turned away. ‘If I’d known you was a copper, I woulda let you fall.’

  He could see the monk clearly at the front of the carriage. ‘Thanks anyway,’ he said to the man as he edged past him. ‘If I’d known you were an asshole, I would have jumped.’

  He walked slowly forward, gently moving the other passengers out of his way, keeping his eyes trained on his target. The monk was looking all around him, desperately searching for an escape route.

  Strachan smiled. The man wasn’t going anywhere; he was trapped.

  When the detective was only eight feet away, the man leapt up, prised open the door at the front of the tram with his fingers and squeezed through it, landing on the road and rolling over and over. The door slammed shut behind him.

  The startled driver shouted, ‘Bi yang!’ and slammed on the brakes. Strachan found himself being catapulted forward across the body of an old woman and her shopping. Another man landed on top of him as the tram shuddered to a stop.

  He pushed the man off him and dragged himself off the old woman. Her hat was squashed flat where Strachan had landed on it. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, and looked out the window.

  The man was up and running around the rear of the tram, down Range Road. They were right at the far boundary of the International Settlement now. If he crossed the border and vanished into Chapei, Strachan could do nothing. He would be in Chinese territory and safe.

  ‘Open the doors,’ he ordered the driver.

  The man fumbled for the lever.

  Strachan banged on the door. ‘Quickly, man.’

  The door opened and he jumped out.

  Where was the monk?

  There he was. About a hundred yards ahead on the right, running past the bright red lantern of a massage parlour, looking back over his shoulder.

  Up ahead, the red-brick tower of the fire station dominated everything. If the man turned left there along Woosung Road, he would almost be in Chinese territory.

  Strachan sprinted forward, just clearing the front of an onrushing tram going in the opposite direction. Two of my nine lives gone today, he thought. He ran down the road, avoiding the rickshaw drivers and the handcarts piled high with rolls of white cotton fabric.

  The monk was fast. Too fast. He was pulling away.

  Strachan ran faster, keeping to the centre of the road, away from the bikes and rickshaws. A taxi was coming straight for him. He kept going; the taxi swerved left, a loud blaring coming from its horn, followed by a shout of ‘Qi xi!’ from the driver.

  Strachan knew he was crazy; he didn’t have to be told.

  The monk was in front of the fire station now, still about a hundred yards ahead. He seemed to stop and look to both left and right, deciding which way to go. Strachan was gaining on him now.

  The monk looked over his shoulder.

  Strachan was only sixty yards away.

  Up ahead, a decision had been made. The monk looked to the left towards Chinese territory, and then ran right, down Woosung Road, back into Hong Kew and the settlement.

  Why was he going that way? He could have escaped.

  No matter.

  Strachan ran after him, turning down busy Woosung Road with its selection of shops selling trinkets, girls, Japanese food, hardware, sushi, tatami mats and more girls. The road was a relic of the old days, when any type of sex could be had, any type of girl, boy or animal bought or sold to satisfy even the most jaded sexual palate. For a payment, of course.

  The monk was running faster again, pulling away from Strachan as he tired. No more desserts with Elina. No more drinks with his colleagues, He would rejoin the fitness regime of Master Wu and relearn his martial arts.

  The monk was a hundred yards ahead again now and running smoothly. Strachan was breathing heavily, the muscles of his chest pressing against his lungs. Each step was getting harder now, his heart pounding in his chest.

  The monk reached the busy crossroads in front of Hong Kew market. On the right stood the imposing edifice of the Japanese Club, and next to it the building site where the boy’s body had been found.

  Was he heading to the murder scene or the Japanese Club?

  No. He was turning left, running along Boone Road between Hong Kew police station and the market.

  Why was he going that way?

  Strachan tried to shout to the Sikh policeman directing traffic in the centre of the crowd. ‘Stop him. Stop that man.’ But instead of a loud bellow, a startled squeak escaped his mouth.

  Suddenly he was crashing through a wall of rattan baskets, chairs, brushes, bags, waste-paper bins and laundry baskets. He hit something solid: a rickshaw driver. Both of them crashed to the ground, their fall cushioned by a row of rattan pandas.

  ‘Niang e bi!’ shouted the rickshaw man. What the fuck?

  Strachan looked up. The monk had vanished into the crowd coming out of the market.

  ‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.’ He threw one of the pandas across the road.

  The rickshaw man was still complaining when a black Buick accelerated to a stop right next to Strachan.

  ‘You’d better hop in,’ said Inspector Danilov.

  ‘You’re driving, sir.’

  ‘Well observed, Detective Sergeant Strachan.’

  ‘But where did you get the keys?’

  ‘I asked Miss Cavendish for a spare set. Just as well I did.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No time to waste. Get in.’

  Strachan picked himself up off the floor as the rickshaw driver continued to swear and complain.

  ‘I would pay the man for his trouble if I were you, Strachan.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Strachan gave the man a dollar, a day’s wages. Instantly the complaints stopped and the driver smiled broadly.

  The detective adjusted his jacket, picked up his hat and placed it back on his head. Mustering as much dignity as he could, he opened the Buick’s door and slid into the seat next to Danilov. ‘How did you find me, sir?’

  ‘It wasn’t difficult. I just followed the chaos.’

  Danilov put the car in gear and it jerked forward before the engine died.

  ‘Where are we going, sir?’ asked Strachan.

  ‘To see the parents of the murdered girl. Before we do, I suggest you use that thing.’ He pointed at the police radio. ‘Issue an APB giving a description of the man. Do not mention that he is a monk.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, sir, how was Mr Shen?’

  ‘Angry.’

  ‘Angry, sir?’

  ‘Angry like a man who’s just seen his seven-year-old son hanging from the crossbeam of an arch.’

  Strachan decided not to answer.

  Danilov put the car in gear again, and let out the clutch. The engine died once more.

  ‘Would you mind if I drove, sir?’

  ‘Not at all, Strachan. Then we might arrive in one piece. My driving skills are a little rusty.’

  ‘Rusty is not the word I would use to describe them, sir. Perhaps corroded would be better.’

  37

  They parked the Buick in the semicircular drive and walked to the front door of the mansion. It had taken Strachan nearly fifty minutes to drive out to Yuyuen
Road in the Western district, past the end of Bubbling Well Road and the scene of the kidnapping yesterday, taking a left at Jessfield Road into an area he had never been before.

  The contrast between the city, with its crowded tenements, shikumen and longkangs, and this area – a suburban oasis of large modern houses, surrounded by even larger gardens – was immediately apparent. Even the air smelt sweeter. There was still the distinctive tang of coal dust, but added to it here was the warmth of pine and freshly mown grass. And of course what was missing was the peculiar smell of mankind: a sort of sour smell, like milk on the point of curdling.

  Danilov knew the city was expanding towards the west, but he hadn’t realised until now how far it had gone. He had hoped to make his visit a surprise, but he was certain the guard of the gated community had phoned the house to announce his arrival.

  He knocked on the imposing door, like the entrance to a castle, studded with iron nails in an intricate pattern.

  The gardens on either side of the drive were immense, with an extensive lawn bordered by pines. The mansion itself was vaguely European. The sort of house a Chinese architect might imagine a European would live in: Tudor-style brickwork and chimneys, two crenellated towers, large bay windows, and a crest of arms over the door. However, the architect or the owner had not forgotten their Chinese origins. Intricate bai qua were set into the masonry above each window to ward off evil spirits and guarantee the prosperity of the inhabitants.

  And prosperous they certainly were. Danilov smelt money, lots of it, a stench that almost made him ill.

  He knocked again. This time the door was opened by a pretty young maid dressed in black and white with a dainty lace hat on her head. She showed them into a room off the hallway. Again, it was decorated in the European style, with comfortable armchairs and sofas, beautifully positioned standing lamps, shelves with books in English lining the walls and a calming palette of beige, green and brown.

  There was a cough behind him. Danilov turned and saw a young woman, her hair pulled back in a chignon, dressed all in black. Her pale skin contrasted with her dark hair to give the look of one of the movie stars his daughter used to read about in Modern Lady magazine. She was beautiful in an austere, other-worldly way.

  ‘Please sit down, Inspector.’ She spoke English with a high, sing-song accent, like the newsreaders on the radio. Her words were beautifully enunciated and precise, betraying no sort of emotion. A voice created by hours of costly tuition. She gestured to the sofa in a way that made Danilov’s heart melt. It was as if she was there, but not there.

  ‘Thank you, Miss… ?’

  ‘It’s Mrs… Chen.’

  Danilov could see the woman’s eyes were red-rimmed. The redness caused by tears had been hidden expertly by make-up, but it was still there. He sat down on the beige sofa, joined by his detective sergeant, who fumbled for his notebook and pencil. On the coffee table in front of him were an array of political pamphlets and a copy of yesterday’s Shanghai Herald, with the garish headline, CHILD MURDERED BY JAPS in bold black letters.

  ‘I am the second wife of Mr Chen, the mother of the twin girls.’

  ‘And the woman we met yesterday?’

  ‘Is Mr Chen’s first wife. She has remained in the city. My husband will be along shortly.’

  As if he had been called, Mr Chen bustled into the room.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Inspector.’

  Danilov spoke firmly, feeling the red-rimmed eyes of the woman on him. ‘I’m afraid we have some bad news.’

  The man held up his hand to stop him from speaking. ‘You’re too late. The reporters have already been here. My daughter is dead?’

  The woman took a deep breath and then swallowed, as if trying to restrain an emotion hidden deep inside her.

  ‘I’m afraid we found her body this morning. She has been murdered. Please accept the deep-felt commiserations of the Shanghai Police at this sad time.’ Danilov felt the inadequacy of the words even as they left his lips. He continued anyway. He had to continue. ‘But I’m sure you’ll understand we are doing everything in our power to bring your daughter’s killer to justice.’

  It was as if all the bones had been removed from the woman’s body. She suddenly slumped forward, almost falling onto the deep green carpet. Danilov leapt up and caught her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Chen, so sorry.’

  As he helped Mrs Chen back onto her chair, her husband stood watching them, not moving forward to help.

  ‘Perhaps you could bring some brandy for your wife.’

  The man seemed to wake up. He stepped forward and tugged a bell pull next to the fireplace. The door was immediately opened by the maid. ‘Bring some tea for your mistress.’

  The maid curtsied. ‘Yes, sir.’

  The door closed again. The man cleared his throat. ‘Thank you for coming all this way to inform us, Inspector. But as you can see, my wife is extremely distressed by the news. You can leave us now.’

  Danilov returned to his seat, leaving the woman staring into space. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Chen, but that will not be possible. We need to question your wife.’

  The woman spoke softly, interrupting both of them. ‘Did… did she suffer, Inspector?’

  This was the moment Danilov dreaded. He usually delegated the task of telling relatives their loved ones had died to somebody else. He wasn’t adept at dealing with the frailty of human emotions, finding it easier to tell the truth to the point of bluntness. He wasn’t proficient at dissembling, but for this woman he would try. ‘She didn’t suffer, Mrs Chen,’ he lied.

  He refused to look at Strachan.

  The woman sobbed. ‘I’m happy to hear it, Inspector. She was such a gentle child.’

  ‘Inspector, my wife has suffered enough. I’d like you to leave now.’

  Danilov ignored him, turning to the woman again. ‘How old was your daughter, Mrs Chen?’

  The woman was quiet for a long time before she finally answered. ‘Eleven years old. She was the elder child.’

  ‘Elder? I thought they were twins?’

  The woman looked up at him. For a moment, Danilov was stunned by the beautiful sadness of her eyes. ‘Annie was born first, Inspector. Three minutes before Annabelle. She was always the more mature, the more sensible of the two.’

  ‘You drove her every day from here to the school?’

  ‘No. My husband has another house in town; his first wife also lives there. We stay there during the week and come here at weekends. The twins love to play here in the gardens… ’ Her voice trailed away, as if remembering something that had happened long ago. ‘I went with them to school every morning. It was the time I enjoyed best. Just the twins and me in the back of the car chatting about school and… ’ Her voice cracked.

  Danilov pressed on. ‘Did you take them to school that morning?’

  She nodded

  ‘Did you notice anything strange? Anything unusual?’

  The woman’s eyes shifted upwards and to the left, trying to remembering yesterday, a day that seemed an age and half a lifetime away. Then she shook her head. ‘I didn’t notice anything. It was just another day, but… ’

  ‘But what, Mrs Chen?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘When we were in the car, Annie told me she had seen a man watching them when they were in the playground. It was strange, because she was used to being stared at; people don’t see many twin sisters… ’ Her voice caught. ‘I should have listened to her.’ She was silent for a long time. Then the dam of self-control holding back her tears collapsed and she began sobbing.

  ‘Inspector, I really must insist you stop questioning my wife.’

  Danilov looked down at the hat in his hand. He noticed that his hair oil had stained the inside of the band and begun to seep into the fabric of the brim.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Chen, I didn’t mean to… ’ He didn’t know what to do. Comfort her? Sit there until she stopped sobbing? Offer soothing words?

  He was a
cutely aware of the clock ticking on the mantelpiece. A loud, interfering noise, ticking off the minutes and seconds of all their lives.

  Once more, he wished somebody else could do this job. He decided to take out his handkerchief, freshly laundered by his wife that morning, and gave it to Mrs Chen.

  She took it and wiped the tears from her eyes, ‘Inspector, when can I bring Annie home?’

  Danilov was caught out for a moment. Didn’t she realise her daughter was dead? Then it struck him she meant her body. When could she get the body back. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Chen. These things take time. As soon as we have completed our investigations, your daughter will be released to you. The autopsy is being performed, so it shouldn’t be too long.’

  ‘An autopsy?’

  ‘It’s standard procedure in all cases like this.’ As he said the words, he felt like the mouthpiece of the police department.

  He noticed that her eyes were now bright red, the make-up she had so carefully applied before he arrived washed away by her tears. ‘I want my daughter back.’

  ‘I’ll make sure it happens as quickly as possible, Mrs Chen. It won’t be long, I’m certain.’

  She stopped sobbing and handed back the handkerchief. ‘Thank you, Inspector… ?’

  ‘Danilov. Inspector Pyotr Danilov.’ He didn’t know why he said his first name; he never told people his first name.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector Danilov.’

  He stood up, feeling the oil on the inside of the rim of his hat. ‘I must be going, Mr and Mrs Chen. I’ll call you when I know more.’

  ‘Thank you, once again,’ she said. The husband nodded curtly.

  She stood up to show them both to the door as the maid arrived with the tea. Had the interview been so short? It felt like a lifetime to Danilov.

  He stopped at the door. ‘One last question, Mrs Chen.’ The woman looked up, her brown eyes liquid pools of light. Danilov pointed to the coffee table. ‘The newspaper and the pamphlets… ’