The Killing Time

by The Killing Time (retail) (epub)

  It didn’t make sense.

  And the last kidnap, that of the colonel’s son. It was different, and yet it was similar. The same gang involved, and yet there was no way the colonel was connected to the committee; exactly the opposite, in fact.

  He turned left at Tibet Road, crossing over the street to the racecourse. It was strange, in a crowded city, that the most expensive land was occupied by a sport whose main attraction seemed to be the ability to lose vast amounts of money in a short time, watching four-legged beasts being ridden by two-legged animals.

  The English. He could spend a lifetime trying to understand them and still be none the wiser.

  Up ahead, the lights of the New World entertainment palace shone through the gloom. Here at least there were people still enjoying themselves, trying to squeeze the last minutes of fun out of life. A car raced past. Four young people, obviously the worse for drink, were shouting and laughing at the tops of their voices, horns blowing and long scarves trailing in the wind.

  Were they the same people as last time? Or different? He supposed it didn’t matter. At least some people were refusing to succumb to the sorrows of war.

  In this more cosmopolitan area, the streets were busier. Sailors from one of the newly arrived French ships sported their distinctive caps with the red pompoms. A hawker stirred his sweet potatoes, the aroma as rich and sticky as a toffee apple. A beggar, probably one of the king’s men, pulled himself along on a red handcart, his legs missing from the knee downwards. A handful of shoppers, looking for bargains in a time of trouble, stopped in front of the brightly lit windows of the few department stores still open.

  He hunched his shoulders and buried his face away from the bright lights. The car number was their only chance to stop the killer. Would Strachan be able to find it?

  A family huddled next to the railings of the racecourse, trying to cluster together for warmth, their sparse belongings nestled under their bodies, safe from thieves and con men. Obviously they had no friends or relatives in the settlement, but still they had come for its safety and security.

  He walked on past the New World Theatre, a few people standing outside its lobby, not the usual crowds, their voices subdued. The cinema was showing The Public Enemy, as if Shanghai had too few gangsters of its own and had to import some from Hollywood.

  What was the boy feeling right now? Was he still alive? Or had they already murdered him?

  For some reason, Danilov felt he was still living. Not for long, though. Where was he being kept? Other than the car number, they had no clues. There must be another way of finding him.

  He stopped for a second and closed his eyes. His son’s face appeared in his head, taunting him. ‘You, the great detective, you couldn’t protect me. You can’t protect any child.’ Danilov staggered, grabbing onto a railing for support. It was as if a weight was pressing down on his chest. He couldn’t breathe.

  He fell forward, still holding the railing with one hand. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he said to shut the voice up.

  But still it kept on, echoing around his head. ‘You couldn’t protect me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he groaned aloud.

  A young couple passed, her arm locked in his. ‘Terrible,’ she sneered. ‘To be drunk on a night like this. Shouldn’t be allowed.’

  Her fiancé hurried her along. ‘Ignore him, dear, just another drunk Russian.’

  Danilov hauled himself into a sitting position, his back resting against the railings. He tried to breathe but was unable to suck air into his lungs.

  Was he having a heart attack?

  Two years of grief poured out of him; his chest began to heave and tears filled his eyes. It was as if the dam holding back this pool of emotion had burst, the structure finally giving way.

  He sat there on the ground, tears pouring down his face, people walking past, staring at him.

  He had to save this child. Just this child. If he could save this one, perhaps his son would forgive him.

  There must be a way.

  61

  Ryuchi was awake.

  The faint sounds of movement outside his cell door had chased his nightmares away. He lay with his back to the door as it opened quietly. A loud shush and the sound of footsteps.

  A whispered voice in Chinese. ‘He is asleep.’

  ‘Replace the water and the food quickly, before he wakes up.’

  Footsteps across his cell. The smell of food. A shadow across his bed. An arm reaching to take the empty bowl next to his head.

  Should he act now?

  The aroma of the food swam into his nose, making his mouth water. He was so hungry.

  But his father’s speech came to him. ‘Be a soldier for the emperor. Kill for the emperor. Your life, your body is worthless. You will be remembered, honoured for your sacrifice. The code of the warrior is simple. Die, if necessary, for the emperor.’

  He threw back the blanket and in one fluid movement stabbed upwards with the single chopstick gripped tightly in his fist.

  As if in slow motion, he saw the young thug’s face. The mouth opening wide, the eyes even wider, the bowl full of rice and eel tumbling from his hand.

  The chopstick juddered in his fist as it struck the soft jelly of the man’s eye and then rammed into the skull.

  A sharp cry of surprise, followed by a howl of pain. The young thug tumbled backwards, his legs kicking up into the air, the chopstick sticking out of his eye.

  Then the blows rained down on Ryuchi’s head. He covered himself, rolling into a compact ball, but the punches and kicks thudded into his body.

  At last they ceased, but still the fight continued, someone shouting, ‘Don’t kill him, not yet. We haven’t received orders yet.’

  Ryuchi peered through his fingers. The man with the scar was kneeling on his assailant, forcing him to the ground.

  ‘But he stabbed Ah Ta.’

  The young thug was still whimpering in the corner, his hand holding the chopstick sticking out of his eye.

  ‘Take him to the hospital.’

  ‘But the boy… ’

  ‘The boy is not to be killed until we get our orders.’ The man with the scar snarled into the dwarf’s face.

  Then he turned back to Ryuchi. ‘That was a stupid thing to do,’ he said.

  The studded sole of a boot was heading straight towards Ryuchi’s eyes. It landed square on the side of his temple.

  An immense surge of pain through his head, then blackness.

  Just blackness.

  62

  ‘I talked to our boy today.’

  Maria was sitting in front of the fire reading a book. She looked at him, and he saw that all the resentment, all the anger had vanished.

  ‘I was walking home, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t move, and he talked to me.’

  She made the sign of the cross.

  ‘He blamed me for not protecting him. Not saving him.’ He sank to his knees and the tears flowed from his eyes again. ‘I couldn’t protect him.’

  She knelt down beside him. The soft scent of her perfume wafted across his face. ‘You have to grieve. You have to mourn him. You can’t hold it all inside.’ She touched him on the chest. ‘One day, in here will explode and your heart will break. The holy father says he is in a better place, a happy place. I know you don’t believe any more… ’

  He tried to explain, but she quietened him with a soft hush.

  ‘I’m not sure I do either. But I do know the holy father helps me understand why he was taken from us. Why he isn’t here any more. Pretending it didn’t happen is worse. You can never move on, you can never forget your guilt.’

  He began weeping quietly.

  ‘You have to forgive yourself, Pyotr. Nobody can do it for you.’ She stood up and walked to the cabinet, reaching in for a photograph. She knelt down beside him again. ‘This is Ivan. This is your son. He is no longer with us, but every day I give thanks for the joy he brought me when he was here.’

  Da
nilov nodded. She put her arms around him, comforting him with the warmth of her body.

  They sat like that for a long time, holding each other, protecting each other against the cold night of Shanghai, as the embers in the fire slowly turned grey.

  28 January 1932

  The 347th Day of the Year of the Golden Goat

  63

  The first grey light of dawn was peeping through the curtain of the night when Strachan drove up to the head clerk’s shikumen in a street close to the Jing An Temple.

  It has taken him all night to get the chief accountant’s address, wake him up, find out who held the key to the personnel files of the Highways Department, wake him up, go down to the office in the government administration building, wake them up, search through the files and finally discover the address he needed.

  During this time, he had annoyed a myriad of bureaucrats, interrupted their sleep, shouted and threatened and cajoled, discovering the one thing the bureaucrats feared above all else.

  Sterling Fessenden. The head of the Shanghai Municipal Council.

  Strachan had used the name with profligacy as a threat, a promise, an inducement and a reward, even though he had never met the man nor had any connection with him. Hopefully, none of the bureaucrats would call his bluff and contact the man himself. Strachan was banking on their fear to protect him.

  He banged on the front door. After a few minutes, an old maid opened it a few inches. ‘Who’s knocking at this hour? You’ll wake the dead,’ she whispered in querulous Shanghainese.

  ‘Is your master awake?’

  She checked the clock. ‘Not at this hour. Not for another thirty minutes.’

  ‘Wake him,’ Strachan ordered.

  ‘And who might you be to give me orders?’

  Strachan flashed his warrant card.

  It didn’t impress her. ‘Wait outside. He’ll be awake soon enough.’ She tried to shut the door.

  Strachan stuck his foot in the gap between the door and the jamb. He tried a different approach, using a softer, warmer tone. ‘Please, auntie, it’s a matter of life and death. A young Japanese boy may die… ’

  ‘What do I care about the Japanese? Bastards killed my cousin. Won’t buy anything from them.’ She almost spat the words out.

  Strachan assumed his most hangdog expression. ‘Please, auntie, my boss will kill me if I don’t drive Mr Hu to the office. You know what these foreigners are like… ’ He could see the old woman’s face relax, and pushed home his advantage. ‘He’ll sack me, and I’ll lose my rice bowl… ’

  She frowned and the door swung open. ‘You’d better come in, but be quiet. The mistress sleeps in a separate bedroom. You don’t want to wake that dragon after she’s been playing mah-jong all night, particularly when she loses.’

  The maid vanished upstairs. Three minutes later, a dapper old man with wispy grey hair and liver spots across his face was standing in front of Strachan. ‘The maid said it was a matter of life and death.’

  Strachan explained what he wanted.

  ‘But it will take days. The original forms are just thrown into empty boxes at the end of the day. The boss wanted to get rid of them, but I suggested we hang onto them for a couple of years in case anybody higher up asked for them.’

  ‘Good job you did.’

  ‘It’ll still take days to go through them all.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll have help. Four constables from the police.’

  ‘But—’

  Strachan put his arm around the man’s shoulders. ‘We’d better get started.’

  ‘But I haven’t had my breakfast yet.’

  He ushered the clerk out of the door. ‘Breakfast can wait; a young boy can’t.’

  64

  ‘What are you doing here, Strachan?’

  Danilov had come into the station at 7.30. He hung his hat and coat on the rack.

  ‘The head clerk has marshalled all his assistants to go through the original certificates, sir. I asked four constables to help. I’m afraid progress is slow. It’s a question of matching the original form to the card in the file. By the time they have finished, only one form should be left.’

  ‘Our car owner.’

  ‘Correct, sir. The forms are written in Chinese and sometimes the handwriting is not the easiest to read. It wasn’t much use me being there, since my Chinese isn’t the best, so I thought I’d come back. Did you get anything, sir?’

  Danilov was too embarrassed to tell Strachan he had spent most of the night sitting with his back to the railings of the racecourse, thinking about his son. It wasn’t till he had gone home and showered that something important had struck him. ‘You showed the mug shots to the attendant’s daughter and the teacher?’

  Strachan nodded. ‘They didn’t recognise anybody.’

  ‘Not surprising. All our mug shots are of Chinese criminals we have already arrested.’

  ‘Of course, sir. I don’t see where you are going.’

  ‘What if one of the kidnappers wasn’t Chinese?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘What if he were Japanese?’

  Strachan thought for a moment. ‘And what if he were a monk?’ He scrabbled amongst the files cluttering up his desk.

  ‘One day, Strachan, you will have to be more organised.’

  The young detective found what he was looking for. ‘Here are the pictures taken by the photographer of the dead monk. I managed to get copies before they were sent to Inspector Nakamoto. It’s not a pretty sight, sir.’

  ‘But if we show this to the teacher or the young girl, recognisable?’

  Strachan twisted his head, staring at the photo from a different angle. ‘I would think so.’

  ‘It will help us confirm that the monk was involved in the kidnappings. Let’s get going, Strachan.’

  ‘What about the Register of Vehicles, sir?’

  ‘We’ll inform Miss Cavendish. She can call us on the radio if anything comes through. She does seem fond of the device.’

  Danilov put on his coat and reached for his hat. As he did so, the telephone on his desk rattled, followed by a loud ring.

  Should he answer it?

  His first thought was to ignore it, focus on the investigation, do something, anything rather than sit in the office.

  But what if it were Du Yue Sheng?

  Still wearing his coat and hat, he strode back to his desk. Strachan’s phone began ringing at the same time.

  ‘Hello, Danilov.’

  ‘Moshi moshi, Inspector, Nakamoto here. I have found the information on the Nichiren sect.’

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘My secretary is extremely efficient. I will send the information across to you by tomorrow, once it has been translated.’

  Danilov could hear Strachan speaking Chinese on the other telephone.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. I look forward to receiving it. But I wonder, could you do me a favour?’

  ‘If I can… ’ The voice on the end of the phone was suspicious.

  ‘Could you look at the file and tell me the address of their headquarters in Shanghai?’

  Danilov heard a shuffling of papers down the line. Finally Nakamoto came back on the line. ‘It’s a dojo in Yangtsepoo on Pingliang Road, number 273.’

  ‘A dojo?’

  ‘A place for training. What you would call a gym.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector.’

  ‘But there’s nothing there any more. Since the incident, all monks have been sent back to Japan.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Danilov returned the earpiece to its cradle. Strachan was standing next to the desk, his body taut with excitement.

  ‘They’ve found the original form, sir. The car is registered to the Nichiren Buddhists. The address is… ’

  ‘A dojo on Pingliang Road in Yangtsepoo.’

  Strachan’s face fell. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘A little bird called Nakamoto told me. What are you waiting for, Strachan, let’s go.’
/>   ‘Shouldn’t we call the Rapid Action Force, sir?’

  ‘Do it from the radio. We have no time to lose.’

  65

  The man with the scar had just finished a phone call. ‘We got the orders,’ he growled.

  ‘’Bout fuckin’ time,’ said the dwarf, sitting opposite sharpening a knife on a whetstone. ‘The bastard did for Shao Ta. Gonna lose his eye. I wanna slice the kid up this time.’

  ‘The boss wants it done properly, not botched.’

  The little man jumped up off his stool. They were in a room just down from the cell, above the dojo. ‘Wha’ ye fuckin’ mean, Da Sor? Ye don’t think I can do the job?’

  The man with the scar stared at his brother. ‘Killing? Killing is easy. The boss wants it done differently from the others. He wants the kid’s eyes gouged out, after we strangle him.’

  ‘How ye gonna do it?’

  The man with the scar held up two hammerhead thumbs. ‘What do you think these are for?’

  The little man sat down again. It didn’t pay to question Da Sor too much. ‘How’s the hand?’

  The man touched the webbing between his thumb and index finger. ‘Better. The bitch had sharp teeth. I can still do the job, though.’

  ‘I want to slash his face. You said I could slash the next one’s face.’

  ‘You can do it?’

  The dwarf fingered the edge of his knife. ‘Nice straight cuts? Easy. When we gonna do him?’

  ‘The boss said right away, and we’re to dump the body in front of the offices of the Anti-Japanese Boycott Committee.’

  ‘How we gonna do that?’

  ‘Not to worry, the boss wants him thrown from the car onto the road. Afterwards, he said to get out and go back home to Anhui.’

  ‘We’re done? When we gonna get paid?’

  ‘Already here.’ The man with the scar produced a heavy pouch of silver dollars from the bag at his feet. ‘Gave me the money last night when I met him.’