By the time the situation had calmed down, the rioters had returned to their beds and the factories in both the Japanese and Chinese areas were open again, both Danilov and Rock were exhausted.
‘I think we can go home now,’ the chief inspector said. ‘The situation seems to have stabilised.’
Danilov looked out of the window of Dixwell Road station. The sun was going down on another Shanghai day. Smoke was rising from a fire near the dock. Japanese flags hung from every balcony, identifying their allegiance. The streets were empty save for a few young men standing on the corners, lookouts to warn of impending trouble.
‘But for how long, Chief Inspector?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care. Just as long as I can get some sleep.’
Danilov felt the tiredness in his own bones. His body ached, his eyes stung, his head felt like it was going to explode. ‘Does that mean I can continue the investigation, sir?’
‘Give it a rest, man. Go home to your wife and daughter. Go to sleep.’
‘I will, sir, but first I need to check with Strachan.’
‘Detective Sergeant Strachan has been out in Western District on the borders with Chapei. He’s been lucky; it’s been quiet over there.’
‘I would still like to check with him.’
‘He’ll be in tomorrow. Look, there have been no more reports of kidnappings or the murder of children. I’m quite sure that even the killer does not want to operate in the city given the present state of affairs.’
‘But he’s still at large, sir.’
‘And he’ll still be at large tomorrow. Meanwhile, you will be refreshed and your mind will be clear.’ Rock’s voice dropped. ‘Listen, Danilov, you can’t keep pushing yourself till you collapse. You’re only one person, not a bloody army.’
‘But children have been killed, sir.’
‘Go home, Danilov. That is an order,’ he said. ‘Report for work first thing tomorrow morning. You can continue the investigation then and you will have my full support. Strachan will be back as well. I’ll ask Miss Cavendish to make sure he’s released from Western.’
Danilov was so tired. He nodded his head, putting on his hat at the same time.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, sir.’
‘If I’m awake by then.’
44
Danilov took a cab home.
Luckily the drive was quick through the quiet streets of the city. It was all strangely peaceful, the refugees camped in the parks the only manifestation that something was wrong. The roads were clear; traffic was light. Even the rickshaw drivers had decided this was a day of rest, tomorrow another day.
The taxi driver had the sense to remain quiet throughout the journey, not bothering to chat with his passenger.
When they arrived outside the apartment, Danilov paid the fare and dragged himself up the two flights of emerald-green stairs to the front door. He was about to put his key in the lock when the door flew open, his wife and daughter standing in the entrance.
They ushered him in, Elina taking his coat and hat while Maria guided him to the chair.
‘Are you hungry?’ his wife asked softly.
He shook his head.
‘What happened, Father? You haven’t been home for a week and you haven’t called us for two days. We were worried for you.’
Danilov was about to answer when Maria scolded his daughter. ‘Shush, Elina, Father will tell us when he’s rested. Can’t you see he’s exhausted? Help me to put him to bed.’
They both took hold of an arm and guided him to the bedroom. He sat down while Maria took off his shoes. Then she gently pushed him onto the bed.
‘I missed you,’ he whispered.
‘Shush, sleep now. We’ll talk later. I’ll put some tea on the table for when you wake up.’
He felt his legs being lifted onto the bed and a woollen cover placed across his body.
He wanted to tell her more. Tell her how much he’d missed both of them. How he was sorry for everything. How he had worried about them.
But he never had the chance. By the time his wife returned with the tea, his eyes were closing and he was drifting off to sleep.
As he did, the faces of the dead children began to appear in his dreams.
27 January 1932
The 346th Day of the Year of the Golden Goat
45
He was so excited. That morning he had woken up, quickly dressed himself – checking in the mirror that his neckerchief was exactly centred, otherwise Father would criticise him – and run to the breakfast room. But Father had already left. Only the creepy Tanaka remained, drinking green tea and slurping noodles.
‘My father?’
The man looked up from his bowl. ‘Already left for Headquarters. A lot to do at the moment.’
Ryuchi couldn’t hide his disappointment.
‘You are going to the parade?’
The young boy nodded, He had been chosen to carry the flag at this morning’s school assembly. A great honour, given because he had performed so well during the recent training.
‘Will my father be there?’
‘I doubt it. He has more important things to do. I’ll order the car to take you at seven ten.’ Tanaka rang the small bell on the table. Instantly an orderly appeared. ‘Tell Corporal Mamuchi to be ready to leave for the school.’ The orderly saluted. Before he had a chance to leave, Tanaka continued speaking. ‘But ask him to bring my car round first.’
The orderly saluted once more, and Tanaka returned to his bowl of noodles, wolfing them down as if they were his last meal on earth. ‘What are you waiting for, Ryuchi? You’d better finish packing; you don’t want to be late. Not this morning.’
The young boy looked at the time: 6.50. Damn. He ran to the bedroom and assembled his cadet’s uniform neatly on the bed: cap, jacket, starched shirt and pressed trousers. He checked his boots, giving them one more shine with the cloth so they gleamed. Then he packed it all into his school bag, taking care to make sure the uniform lay horizontal and uncreased.
On his way out, he bowed before the picture of the emperor standing in its small alcove in the hall. His father had put fresh flowers there this morning. How had he found fresh chrysanthemums in the middle of winter? They looked beautiful, the densely packed petals forming a perfect white ball in front of the portrait.
He checked the clock again. Running late.
He rushed to his father’s room, as neat and spartan as ever, with the bed already made. On one side lay a small altar with three candles lit and flickering.
His mother’s picture, in her finest kimono, was watching over the altar. She had been dead for three years now, dying slowly from the TB she had picked up in London. Once a week, he and his father would drive out to see her in her sanatorium in the mountains. Each time he visited, she became thinner and thinner, her continual coughing eating up her body.
A tear appeared in the corner of his eye. He missed his mother so much: her warmth, her smile, the way she brushed his hair away from his eyes with the tips of her fingers.
He heard a loud toot from a car horn. He pulled his shoulders back and stood up straight. He must remember he was a soldier of the emperor, sworn to serve him unto death. Not a weakling child, snivelling for his mother. He must make his father proud of him. Today he would hold the flag tall and strong, leading his classmates as they marched across the parade ground of the school.
Another impatient toot from the car. He saluted his mother and grabbed his bag. Outside in the driveway, Corporal Mamuchi was waiting for him behind the wheel of the Chevrolet, a small flag dangling from the front right fender.
‘Hurry, Ryu, we don’t want to be late, not this morning.’
He liked Corporal Mamuchi; the driver was his friend. They often talked about the army as they drove to school. Ryuchi would join up as soon as he was old enough. Become an officer like his father, lead men into battle, charging with his sword held high above his head.
He climbed into the back of
the Chevrolet. Immediately, the driver put the car in gear, racing down the driveway onto Rue Pichon.
He had often asked his father why they didn’t live with the other Japanese people in Hong Kew or Yangtsepoo. It would have been so much easier to go to school. But his father had explained he had to live in the French Concession for his job. It was here that the other important people lived. People who could help Japan.
Ryuchi understood. Sometimes you had to make sacrifices to get what you wanted. He had sacrificed so much to win the right to carry the flag at this morning’s parade. But that was what a soldier did. Sacrificed himself for the greater glory of the emperor.
‘Have you remembered everything?’ Corporal Mamuchi was looking at him in the rear-view mirror.
Ryuchi checked his bag. ‘I think so.’
‘Better check again. You don’t want to let your father down.’
Ryuchi searched through his pack. His shirt and trousers had been freshly pressed this morning by the best servant in the house, the number-one boy. His socks were clean and folded. His red necktie and clip rested on the shirt. His new cadet commander badge sat in exactly the right position in the centre of his cap. Everything was there. He would change at the school, inspecting his classmates and himself before the parade.
Today everything had to be perfect.
Today everything would be perfect.
The corporal checked his watch, and swung the car into the stream of traffic heading towards the river along Avenue Joffre.
The traffic was heavy, flowing down the road towards the Bund. Ryuchi stared out of the window, going through the commands and moves he would give his troop during the parade.
He mustn’t let his father down. A colonel must never be disappointed, and especially not in his only son.
Once more, he thought of his mother. Every day he missed her, every day he wanted her to hug him again. He knew his father did too, but he never talked about it, never mentioned his wife. The memorial in the bedroom was the only proof, apart from Ryuchi himself, that she had ever existed.
He didn’t see the black Ford as it pulled straight out of the alley, slamming into the side of their car with the crunch of metal on metal. The Chevrolet spun sideways across the road. His uniform tumbled from his backpack onto the floor.
It mustn’t get dirty.
Not today.
He watched Corporal Mamuchi’s head jerk forward and hit the wooden steering wheel, jerking back as if struck by lightning, then forward again.
He felt his own chest strike the seat in front. A stab of pain shot through his ribs. He flew sideways thought the air as the car slid across the road, crashing into the door, Shanghai a blur of faces, buildings, shops and plane trees through the windows.
The car slammed against a telegraph pole. He fell into the gap between the seats, resting on the floor.
Must get my uniform. Mustn’t be dirty. Not today.
He tried to push himself up, but his head felt so heavy, like a weight glued to the floor, his hair gripping the rubber mat.
The car had stopped spinning. There was a strange quiet. No noise. Only the stench of burning rubber: sharp, corrosive, bitter in his nostrils.
He lifted his head from the floor.
Where was his uniform? He must save his uniform.
A shadow appeared at the window, staring down at him.
You must help me. Save my uniform.
He saw the uniform on the floor between his legs. A crumpled mess of clothes.
The driver’s door opened.
Corporal Mamuchi must be awake now. He would be able to help him. They would have to iron the uniform again before the parade. He couldn’t face the headmaster and all his squad looking like a beggar.
A loud bang, and a spray of red liquid arched over the seat, splattering his uniform.
The back door opened and a pair of hands reached in to grab him, pulling him upwards and wrenching him out of the car.
He had to get his uniform. Didn’t they realise he had a parade to go to that morning?
He struggled to go back, but the hands held him tight, dragging him further and further away. He saw Corporal Mamuchi sitting in his usual place behind the steering wheel, his eyes open and his head resting on the back of the seat. There was a small red hole in the corporal’s forehead, a trickle of blood running down his nose. The back of his head was missing, just a mass of white bone, grey matter and red blood. Lots of red blood.
Why had they killed Corporal Mamuchi?
He saw the vague outline of a man sitting in the back of the car that had crashed into them. A man wearing a cap that covered half his face.
Did he know the man?
And then he felt the sickening thud of the cosh against his head.
46
It was precisely eight o’clock when Danilov finally returned to the detectives’ room in Central Police Station.
He walked through the reception area. The place was full of the usual miscreants: a pair of trishaw drivers arrested for fighting. A shopkeeper accused of fraud. Two sailors, tattoos covering their arms, who had wrecked a bar in Blood Alley. A transvestite prostitute and her client caught in one of the parks. And the rest of the hangers-on, relatives, ne’er-do-wells, thieves, pimps and whores of Shanghai, all shouting, screaming and demanding attention from the ever-patient Sergeant Wolff.
The only difference this morning was a group of looters placed on the left and guarded by a muscular Sikh, caught with the stolen goods in their possession. A separate desk, manned by an officer of the Rapid Action Force, was slowly processing them before they were taken down to the cells.
Danilov weaved his way through the crowd, waved a silent hello to the sergeant and passed through into the inner sanctum. Strachan was already at his desk waiting for him.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Is it, Strachan?’
‘Well, at least we’re back at work.’
‘We’ve lost a week in the investigation. The trail will be cold by now. We need to get back on it as quickly as we can.’
He took off his hat and coat and placed them on the rack. The other desks were empty, but the smell of stale detective suffused everything.
‘Where are the others?’
‘Still at their posts around the settlement, sir.’
Danilov looked at the disorder on his desk. In his absence, somebody had sat there, moved his blotter, lamp, pencils, calendar, pencil sharpener and ashtray, leaving them out of alignment. There was even a stain of something purple on the edge of the desk. To Danilov’s experienced eye it looked like blackcurrant jam.
He quickly tidied up, arranging everything so that it was in the proper place and position. How was he expected to think if his mind was constantly disturbed by sloppiness and a lack of equilibrium? He could never understand people like Strachan, whose desks were messy and misaligned. How could they think in the face of such disorder?
When he had finished, he sat back and decided he deserved the quieting influence of a cigarette. ‘Where did you get up to, Strachan? I looked out for you.’
‘Not a lot, sir. I was on the border, in Western District, near Jessfield Park. Nothing really happened all the time I was there, but I could see the Chinese troops arriving in Chapei. I tried to speak to them a couple of times but couldn’t understand a word they were saying. Cantonese, you know.’
‘Not one of your dialects?’
The younger detective was proud of the number of Chinese dialects he either understood or spoke. ‘Unfortunately not, sir. I can understand a bit of it, but don’t like speaking the language. A bit rough, if you know what I mean.’
Danilov lit his cigarette, enjoying the way the tobacco eased his weary mind. ‘I don’t, actually,’ he said, blowing out a long stream of off-white smoke and adding quickly, ‘Please don’t bother to explain.’
Strachan stopped, his mouth open. He had been about to tell the inspector about the nine tones of Cantonese, its relation to the Chines
e spoken in the Sung Dynasty and the wonderful variety of swear words it used. Instead, he decided to ask him where he had been.
‘Most of the time in Dixwell Road, organising the placement of the Rapid Action Force and their dispatch to trouble spots. I do like working with Inspector Fairbairn, but his propensity for violence is worrying. Also, I find his Scottish accent difficult to follow.’
‘Reminds me of my father, sir. It’s a wonderful accent for a cold night.’ Strachan fell silent.
‘We were hard pressed. Touch or go whether we were going to keep the warring factions apart.’
‘I drove along the Bund this morning, sir. There seem to be more troops arriving by the hour. Companies of Japanese marines marching from the wharves to the camps near their HQ.’
Danilov sighed. ‘I fear this is the quiet before the storm, Strachan. Like a pause in a play before the action begins.’
‘I hope not, sir.’
Danilov adjusted the desk lamp once again; it still wasn’t at the right angle. ‘Our only concern now is to get back to work. We have the kidnapping and murder of three children to solve.’
‘It’s like you said, sir, we may have lost the trail.’
‘Well, Strachan, we have to pick it up again. What happened with the attendant’s daughter? Did she recognise the man who threatened her?’
Strachan shook his head. ‘She didn’t finger anybody, sir.’
‘I do dislike these Americanisms, Strachan.’ Danilov had the love of the English language that only somebody who had learnt it from reading Shakespeare could acquire. ‘I thought she wouldn’t. I have an idea, which we should try out on her, the teacher and the other twin.’
‘What’s that, sir?’
Before Danilov could answer, the door to the detectives’ room burst open and a tired-looking Chief Inspector Rock stood in the doorway. ‘Thank heavens you’re here, Danilov. I’ve just had the commissioner on the phone. You are to report to Colonel Ihanaga at Japanese headquarters immediately.’
The Killing Time Page 17