No answer.
He looked at his watch. ‘It’s past eight, sir. Nobody will be there.’
Danilov checked the clock on the wall. He had lost all track of time. How had that happened? ‘Why were you ringing them if nobody is there?’
‘I was checking, on the off chance… ’
Danilov sat in his chair heavily. ‘That child is being held somewhere in the settlement. I feel it in my water. We have to move quickly, before they kill him. We’ve already lost time. Before you go, call Tanaka and ask if they have received a parcel.’
This time, Strachan picked up the phone and dialled the operator, giving her the number. He put the receiver down and waited for her to ring back.
Danilov rolled a cigarette. Anything to keep his hands occupied while they waited for a response. He had only taken a single drag from his roll-up when the phone rattled on Strachan’s desk.
The detective sergeant snatched up the receiver and waited to be put through. ‘Am I speaking to Captain Tanaka?’
Danilov watched impatiently. The answer must have been in the affirmative, because Strachan spoke again.
‘Have you received any communication from the kidnappers?’
Strachan listened and then looked at Danilov, shaking his head.
‘Could you check to see if you have received a parcel?’
Danilov admired the neutral nature of Strachan’s question. Not leading Tanaka or giving him information that could be prejudicial. The questions were direct and factual. Perhaps his detective sergeant wouldn’t make a bad copper after all.
‘Nothing?’ Strachan said again, and listened to the other end of the line before replying. ‘We are making progress and following a significant lead. We will let you and Colonel Ihanaga know if there are major developments.’ He nodded his head. ‘Yes, yes, we are well aware of the consequences of failure.’ His eyes looked upwards. ‘And yes, we are aware that time is running out to find the boy. We are working as hard as we can to rescue him. Please understand we will inform you if we have more concrete information.’ He put the receiver back on the cradle before Tanaka could ask any more questions.
‘Well handled, Strachan.’
‘Thank you, sir. A compliment: I will mark this in my notebook.’ He reached inside his pocket.
‘Don’t let it go to your head. And police notebooks are for official business only, not compliments.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now, I must handle something myself.’
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘All roads may lead to Moscow, but mine leads to an office just down the corridor.’
57
The chair behind Miss Cavendish’s desk was empty. The desk itself had that peculiar air of being tided before departure: files were locked away, pencils and pens placed in a holder, desk diary closed, everything looking ordered and finished.
She may have gone for the day, but the light was still on in Chief Inspector Rock’s office. Danilov tapped lightly on the opaque glass with his boss’s name stencilled in thick black letters.
No response.
He knocked again, harder this time.
Still no answer, but from inside came a faint sound. Danilov turned the handle and pushed open the door.
Chief Inspector Rock was bent over his table, head resting on his folded arms, a quiet snore coming from his open mouth. Danilov was tempted to leave him alone and tiptoe quietly away, but his request was too important.
He approached the desk and reached out to touch the chief inspector’s arm. The man immediately jerked upright, a slightly glazed look in his eyes. ‘What? What’s happening? Is that Margery?’
‘No, sir, it’s Danilov.’
For a moment the information seemed to mean nothing to his superior, his eyes still glazed and heavy with sleep.
‘Inspector Danilov,’ he repeated.
Chief inspector’s Rock’s eyes swam into focus and he shook his head. ‘Danilov, is it? What can I do for you?’
‘You were asleep, sir.’
‘Sleep, who needs sleep? Work to be done, Danilov. Bad situation with the Japanese and the Chinese.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The man smoothed his hair, pulled down his jacket and adjusted his tie, sitting upright in his wooden chair. The usual Chief Inspector Rock was back. ‘How was the meeting with Colonel Ihanaga?’
‘Not good, sir. His twelve-year-old son has been kidnapped.’
The stiff-backed chief inspector seemed to collapse in front of Danilov’s eyes. He slumped forward, resting his head in his hands. ‘Just what I needed… ’
‘From the description of the kidnappers, it seems to be the same gang who killed the other children, sir.’
‘Chinese?’
‘Possibly, sir.’
‘They either are or they aren’t, Danilov,’ the chief inspector exploded.
‘The perpetrators are Chinese, sir, but I can’t understand their motivation. There’s no ransom demand, no communication, nothing until we find the children… dead. I thought the connection was that all the fathers were members of the committee organising the boycott of Japanese goods, but—’
‘A Japanese colonel would not be a member of that committee.’
At least Rock’s brain was awake, thought Danilov.
‘Do you think they will kill this child too?’ Rock asked softly.
Danilov nodded. ‘Unless we find them first, sir.’
Rock’s head sank lower. ‘The Japanese have sent an ultimatum to the Chinese mayor, telling him to apologise for the attack on the monks and close down all anti-Japanese activity in the Chinese part of the city.’
‘I know, sir.’
Rock sighed and brushed his fingers through his hair. ‘I’m surprised there has been no mention of this kidnapping from the Japanese.’
‘The colonel promised he would keep it quiet, sir. At least for one day more. He wants his son back, alive.’
‘And if he is killed like the others?’
Danilov could feel the bristles on his top lip where he hadn’t shaved properly that morning. His standards were slipping. ‘The colonel will take his revenge, sir.’
Chief Inspector Rock slumped forward again. It was as if all the bones and muscles had been removed from his body, leaving only the skin. ‘You must find the child, Danilov. Whatever it takes.’
‘Yes, sir. It’s why I have come to see you.’
Rock sat up straighter. ‘Anything, Danilov, anything.’
‘We have the number of the car involved in the kidnapping… ’
‘But the Register of Vehicles is closed?’
‘Correct, sir.’
‘Miss Cavendish!’ The chief inspector shouted for his secretary.
‘She’s already gone home, sir.’
‘Damn the woman.’ Rock picked up the receiver of his phone and impatiently pressed the cradle. Finally he got through to a sleepy operator. ‘Get me the head of the transport department. Hurry, man. Ring him at home if you have to.’
The operator rang back almost instantly. Chief Inspector Rock snatched up the receiver and began speaking. ‘Henry, Rock here. I need something from you urgently. It’s a matter of life and death.’
58
‘What was the number again?’
The question was barked rather than asked. Henry Brooke was not a happy man. Thursday night was choir night at the cathedral with his wife. A tiring time, made even harder by the choirmaster’s insistence that they wear full evening dress even when they rehearsed.
‘The ladies must become accustomed to the tightening effect of stays across their chest. Inhibits the ability to breathe properly, don’t you know. Whilst the gentlemen must become used to the constricting effects of the hard collar on the Adam’s apple. Anyone can sing in everyday clothes; in full dress it becomes a whole different set of hymns. And we can’t let the bishop down, can we?’
The old fool didn’t bother to dress himself, of course. His excuse was that he w
asn’t singing.
Henry had just returned home and was enjoying the first stengah of the evening. The whisky had barely touched his lips when the phone rang. Like a fool, he had answered it. He should have let it ring. By now, he would be tucking into his lamb chops and enjoying his Chambolle-Musigny rather than being stuck in his office with two drably dressed detectives from Rock’s department. It wasn’t good enough. How dare they interrupt his evening? Couldn’t it wait till tomorrow?
The younger detective was fiddling in his pocket, looking for his notebook.
‘Come on, man, we haven’t all night.’
‘Mr Brooke, Detective Sergeant Strachan will give you the number shortly. Please be patient.’
It was the older detective who spoke. How dare he admonish him? There was a slight accent to his English. Another bloody foreigner. Why did they allow foreigners to join the police force? They would never maintain standards. Too bloody corrupt and stupid was Johnny Foreigner.
The younger detective finally found the page he was looking for. ‘SH 4657.’
‘Are you sure?’
The younger detective checked his notes. ‘That’s the number we were given.’
Henry Brooke grunted. ‘It will be in the third cabinet from the right. Registered two years ago. Not an official car or a taxi. A private owner.’ He shuffled across, checking the handwritten slips of paper on each drawer of the filing cabinet.
A clerk should be doing this, not him. This was way below his station. Not the sort of work the head of the department should be expected to do. He should have said no to Rock, but the man had been so insistent. It was his Chinese head clerk’s job to run the office, but the bloody man didn’t have a telephone. Brooke would make certain the clerk paid for a line to go to his house. ‘What was the number again?
‘SH 4657.’
Brooke flicked through the filing cards, one for each registration. At the top, in the neat handwriting of the clerks, was the registration number, followed by the model and make of the car. Beneath, in bright red ink, was the name and address of the owner. He let his fingers play across the top of the cards, checking the numbers. The head clerk had arranged them in numerical order. He reached SH 4651; only a few more to go, then he could pass the card to these dishevelled detectives and go home. His lamb chops would be cold, though, his evening spoilt.
SH 4655.
SH 4656.
SH 4658.
SH 4659.
Strange, there was no card for SH 4657. Perhaps he had missed it. He flicked back to SH 4653 and checked again.
Nothing.
‘This is most strange, gentlemen, there is no card for SH 4657,’ he said apologetically.
‘Could it have been misfiled?’ the older detective asked.
‘My office is efficient, Inspector. We don’t misfile.’
‘Was the registration ever issued?’
‘Of course it was. We issue them in order. If there is a SH 4568, there must have been an SH 4657.’
‘Then where is it?’ There was a glint in the inspector’s eye and an insolence in his voice. Brooke would report this man to Chief Inspector Rock tomorrow. How dare he talk to a head of department in such a way?
He closed the drawer firmly. ‘I don’t know, Inspector. But I do know it isn’t here. If you want, you can return to ask my head clerk tomorrow. He may have the answer, but… ’
‘But?’
‘If it isn’t here, it isn’t here.’
‘Is there any other way to discover who this car was registered to?’
Brooke thought for a moment. Should he tell this Russian? Better he find out this way than from anyone else. ‘Well, you could go through the original forms.’
‘Original forms?’
‘Completed by the car owners. I designed the system myself. The forms are submitted by the owners and then transcribed by the clerks onto these cards. This is to ensure legibility. Once the card is completed and filed, the owner returns to obtain his certificate of ownership.’
‘Wouldn’t it be easier to type the names on the card?’ the young Chinese detective asked.
‘Young man, this system has worked for the last fifteen years, since I created it. I don’t see the need to change just because there are machines that can now type. All my clerks would have to learn new skills. The system has never failed… ’
‘Until now.’
The young lout. If he were ten years younger, he would beat the arrogance out of this man.
The older detective stopped the younger one from speaking. ‘I’m sure Detective Sergeant Strachan meant no disrespect, Mr Brooke. What do you do with the original forms?’
‘They are kept for three years and then destroyed. No point in hanging onto useless bits of paper, just clogs up the whole system.’
‘You said this registration was two years old?’
‘Yes, what of it?’
‘So you still have the original form.’
‘Of course—’
‘Could we look at the original form?’ the inspector interrupted.
This was becoming very tiresome. ‘You could, but they are not filed in any order, just placed in boxes and kept in the strongroom.’ Brooke pointed to a thick metal door in the rear of the registry that looked like the vault of a bank.
‘Not a problem. We will start right now.’
‘I’m afraid that’s impossible.’
‘Why?’
Damn the insolence of the man. ‘Because the only key is kept by my head clerk.’
‘You don’t keep a key to the strongroom yourself?’
Henry Brooke exploded. ‘I don’t like the tone of your questions, Inspector. Why should I keep a key to every door in my office?’
He could see the man’s eyes judging him. ‘Not a problem. I’ll send Strachan round to the clerk’s address to get the key.’
Brooke looked down. ‘I don’t know his address,’ he said quietly.
‘How long has he worked for you?’
‘I don’t know what you are getting at, Inspector. I can’t be expected to know the address of every single member of my staff.’
‘There is no way to find out where he lives?’
Brooke shook his head. Why did this man make him feel like this was his fault? He was the head of the department, not some accounts clerk.
The older detective put his battered hat on his head. Brooke wished the police force would at least dress its detectives better. How was it supposed to maintain its standing and reputation if its inspectors didn’t know how to dress properly?
‘Thank you for your time, Mr Brooke. Come on, Strachan, we need to get going.’
Brooke looked at the clock above the head clerk’s desk: 10.22 p.m. His lamb chops would certainly be cold by now. He would complain to Rock tomorrow.
59
‘We’ve got nothing, sir. The car number was our last chance.’
Danilov stood in the shadows, the red glow of the end of his cigarette the only clue that he was there. The streets were strangely quiet, as if people expected the onset of war any moment and had stayed indoors, safe and out of harm’s way.
He blew a long stream of smoke into the cold night air. At least the weather was fine, not the usual persistent drizzle soaking Shanghai at this time of year.
‘On the contrary, Strachan, we have no more clues, but we are not without options.’
‘I don’t understand, sir.’
‘We now know this is no ordinary gang. They have the ability and foresight to arrange for their car number to vanish from the records.’
‘How did they do it?’
‘Probably paid one of the clerks to remove it. Easy enough to do. But what is more interesting is that they thought to do it.’
‘So what’s next, sir?’
‘I want you to find out where the head clerk lives.’
Strachan frowned. ‘How am I going to do that, sir?’
‘Use your Chinese connections. The man must be paid. There must b
e a record in the accounts department somewhere. Find the chief accountant’s number and call him. Use Rock’s name, but we must find out who owns the car.’
‘Yes, sir. And what are you going to do?’
‘I’m going for a walk. This is a problem requiring the concentration of a walk. Only when your legs are working is your mind free.’
‘Another Russian proverb, sir?’
‘You could say that, Strachan. It came from a Russian. Me.’
With those last words, Danilov stubbed his cigarette out against the wall, placing it in his pocket, pulled his collar up against the night air and walked off down Foochow Road.
‘Be careful, sir,’ Strachan shouted after him.
There was no reply, merely a desultory wave of the hand.
Strachan stood there for a few moments, until the thin man had vanished into the smoke and smells of Shanghai.
How was he going to find the address?
60
Danilov walked down the empty streets.
This evening, the sing-song girls of Foochow Road seemed to have taken the night off. The red lanterns hanging outside the brothels and entertainment houses had been extinguished. The music of the night had disappeared. No Chinese opera or the strangled cat screams of the erhu disturbed the peace. The slap of mah-jong tiles on wooden tables was absent. The raucous cries of the hawkers shouting the charms of their sheng jian bao, cong yu bing or kuo tieh was missing.
This was the International Settlement, but this road was the centre of the Chinese entertainment area. Usually one of the busiest thoroughfares in the city at this time, now nothing moved. The whole length of the street was quiet, empty, deserted by entertainers and those seeking entertainment.
Even one of his favourite opium dens, just around the corner from Central Police Station, was closed. The addicts, his companions in dreams, had taken the night off too. It was as if a giant hand had come and scooped up all the people, leaving the shell of a city, the empty husk of a metropolis.
Danilov walked on, his mind twisting and turning like one of the acrobats in the Moscow Circus. Why kidnap the children? Why take a trophy and send it to their parents? Why murder them with no ransom demanded or no communication? The only connection the membership of the committee to boycott Japanese goods.
The Killing Time Page 21