‘Why didn’t you say? We coulda scarpered already.’
The man’s knife came out of its sheath before the dwarf could move. ‘We finish the job, is that clear?’
‘All right, don’t get pissed off. It was only an idea.’
The man with the scar stared across the table, the knife still glinting in the light. ‘Yeah, well, we do what he says, when he says, and then we scarper, understood?’
‘I got it. I got it.’ The dwarf began sharpening his knife against the whetstone again. ‘What’s he like?’
‘What’s who like?’
‘The boss.’
‘You met him the day we snatched the colonel’s kid.’
‘Didn’t say anything to me. Just sat there, silent.’
‘Silent is best. When he talks, you listen.’
‘What did he tell ye?’
The man with the scar spent an age thinking before finally saying, ‘You don’t wanna know. He’s clever. Too clever by half. I wouldn’t cross him.’
‘You mean like the monk did?’
‘Yeah, he was stupid. Running like that. Only a matter of time before the cops found him.’
‘You did him proper, though, didn’t you?’
‘Sliced him up like the good butcher I am. Hiding me in the mob was the boss’s idea. Did the cutting in front of everybody and nobody knew it was planned.’
The dwarf remained silent, thinking. ‘Da Sor?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s to stop him from doing the same to us?’
‘You mean getting someone to knock us off after the job?’
The dwarf nodded.
The man with the scar tapped the side of his head. ‘I thought of that. It’s why I wanted the money last night. I’ve arranged a safe house for us near the railway station.’
‘In Chapei?’
‘And two days from now, once everything’s quietened down a bit, we’ve got tickets to Peking.’
‘Not home?’
‘Nah, not yet.
‘Never been to Peking before.’
The man with the scar stood up, the knife in his hand. ‘It’s time you went. And it’s time to do the kid.’
66
Strachan accelerated rapidly away from the kerb before the inspector had even closed the door.
A rickshaw driver jumped out of the way, and a tram, seeing that the Buick wasn’t going to stop at the crossroads, stopped sharply, sending the passengers falling forward towards the driver.
‘I would like to arrive there alive, Strachan.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The detective sergeant picked up the radio mouthpiece with his left hand, steering with his right. ‘Patch me through to the Rapid Action Force,’ he barked to the operator.
A hiss came down the radio.
Up ahead, a lorry loaded to the gunwales with an assortment of couches and chairs was creeping across the junction at Ningpo Road. Strachan swerved around it, narrowly missing a cartload of cabbages, before swinging right towards Garden Bridge.
The radio crackled. ‘Inspector Fairbairn speaking. How can I help you, Strachan?
‘We’re raiding a gang of suspected kidnappers at 273 Pingliang Road, sir.’
‘Not far from us at Wayside.’
‘I know, sir. Can you send backup immediately.’
‘On its way.’
‘The gang could be armed, sir.’
‘I’ll warn the men. Over and out.’
‘STRACHAN, WATCH OUT!’
A cart loaded with night soil was crossing the street in front of them. Strachan slammed on the brakes. The car squealed to a halt right in front of the horse. The animal slowly turned its head, still chewing its feed, and then carried on slowly across the road in front of the Buick. The driver raised his straw hat and flashed a toothless grin.
‘Strachan, slow down. We need to get there quickly, not in a coffin.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Strachan pointed ahead to the Garden Bridge. ‘I wonder if we can get there at all.’
In front of them, a large crowd of refugees was crossing the bridge, the soldiers now guarding it trying in vain to hold back the unstoppable wave of people.
Strachan edged the car into the crowd, stopping and starting, moving slowly forward.
‘This is impossible, Strachan, we’ll never get across this time. The crowd is far bigger than before.’
Outside, humanity flowed down both sides of the car, stumbling, jostling or shoving their way to safety.
A lieutenant from the Worcesters approached them, elbowing his way through the mass of people. ‘Oi, you, get this car out of the way.’
Strachan flashed his warrant card. ‘We need to get to Yangtsepoo. Urgent.’
‘There’s no way you’re getting through here, Sergeant. The crowd is backed up in front of the bridge. Thousands waiting to cross. The council declared a state of emergency an hour ago. There’s a new ultimatum from the Japanese.’ He took off his cap and wiped his forehead, sweat beading his brow despite the cold weather. ‘Half of China looks like it wants to come into the settlement.’
Strachan stared at the inspector. ‘What are we going to do, sir?’
Danilov looked outside. The crowd of people was getting bigger, becoming more dense.
‘Come on, Strachan, follow me.’
He pushed open the door, forcing it against the bodies jammed down the side of the car, and plunged into the sea of people, squeezing through the flow of the crowd. Strachan followed him as best he could, pushing aside anybody who stood in his way.
‘Oi, you can’t leave this here!’ the lieutenant shouted after them.
But Danilov and Strachan had already vanished into the crowd, swallowed up by the thousands of people desperate to cross the bridge.
‘This way, Strachan,’ Danilov shouted back towards his detective sergeant.
He pushed through the crowd, finally reaching the metal parapet at the side of the bridge. He hoisted himself up onto it and turned to grab Strachan’s arm.
Beneath them, a sea of humanity flowed slowly past. Above them, the double metal arches of the old bridge curved gracefully over to the other side of the creek, sixty yards away.
‘Don’t look down.’
Of course, Strachan looked down.
Soochow Creek flowed thick and muddy thirty feet below his feet, the water studded with the flotsam and jetsam from the interior of China: dead pigs, tree branches, old clothes, clumps of oil, all mixed in with the sewage of ten million people.
A bumboat, rowed by a young boy, made its weary way upstream. The boy waved to Strachan standing high above his head on the bridge.
Strachan didn’t wave back.
‘Come on, we’ll commandeer a car on the other side.’
Danilov put both his arms out, like a Russian Blondin on a metal tightrope, and began walking along the narrow parapet, carefully placing his feet in between the rivets sticking out of the metal.
Strachan followed him, putting his feet in exactly the same place as the inspector, mirroring his every move.
Danilov moved forward, wavering slightly in the breeze funnelling through the buildings on either side of the creek. For a moment he lost his balance, wobbling as the heel of his shoe caught one of the rivets. Then he regained equilibrium and hurried on, praying that momentum would take him to the other side before he fell.
Strachan was more circumspect, following slowly, occasionally glancing down at the eddies of muddy water swirling beneath him.
Two minutes later, three falls averted and out of breath, Danilov reached for the stanchion on the other side of the creek, where the top half of the bridge began its arc. Strachan joined him a minute later, holding onto the green metal as if it were a long-lost lover.
At their feet, a group of British soldiers stared up at them, sheltered by their wall of sandbags and protected from the crowd by the threatening presence of a Lewis machine gun and a row of Lee–Enfields, bayonets fixed.
Around the s
andbags, the never-ending stream of refugees was stagnant, not moving backwards or forwards, the weight of numbers just too much for the narrow bridge.
‘Where to now, sir?’
Danilov stared out over the heads of the refugees desperately funnelling into the narrow approaches. If anything, more people had joined the crowd, carrying more of their possessions.
He pointed to a narrow pathway leading under the bridge ten feet below. ‘That leads to the Russian Embassy.’
‘But it’s ten feet down, sir.’
‘Probably more like twelve, Strachan.’
He jumped, arms flung wide.
Strachan hesitated for a moment, then followed, keeping his body loose and rolling when he landed, as he had been taught at police training school. He heard a loud rip as his jacket caught on a metal pipe sticking out from the stanchion, but his weight carried him down. He felt the wind being knocked out of him by his knees hitting his chest, and rolled forward, banging his head on the rough grit of the path, coming to rest in the middle of a dirty pool of water.
The inspector was standing next to him when he looked up, brushing mud off his trousers. ‘Come on, Strachan, don’t just lie there. We have work to do.’
67
Why hadn’t they killed him? He had stabbed the young thug in the eye and they had let him live.
Why?
Ryuchi could still feel the bruises on his face where he had been beaten by the dwarf.
What had the other one said, the one with the scar? ‘Don’t kill him, not yet. We haven’t received orders yet.’
Who was the boss?
He shook his head, trying to think clearly. He was cold again, and thirsty and hungry. They had taken away everything after the attack. The water. The food, Even his bucket to piss in.
He should have done better. He should have attacked the others too. Why hadn’t he?
He remembered the soft thud as the sharpened chopstick had buried itself in the eye of the young thug. The judder that had run up his arm as it hit the eye socket. The blood and soft jelly of the eye spurting across his face. The screams of the man as the shock subsided and the pain struck home.
He had stopped then, frightened by the screams. He should have used the other chopstick to attack the dwarf. But he had paused. Not acted.
The dwarf had hit him again and again with his fists until the man with the scar ordered him to stop.
A deep wave of disappointment washed over him.
He had let his father down.
He had let the emperor down.
And now he knew for certain they were never going to let him go. They were going to kill him here in this cell.
He didn’t want to die.
He began scratching on the wall with his thumbnail. He must let them know. Then he stopped. He couldn’t use Japanese, they wouldn’t understand; he must use English.
He frantically tried to remember the word in English he had learnt when he lived there with his father.
What was it?
And then it came to him. He started to scratch, hoping that someone, anyone, would understand. He felt the plaster coming away beneath the pressure of his thumbnail. The first letter done.
C.
The door rattled. The click of a key in the lock, turning.
He scratched faster, using his other fingers, making the marks as visible as he could in the damp, mouldy plaster.
A.
The door began to open.
He was running out of time. He wouldn’t finish. Why hadn’t he started earlier? Why hadn’t he realised earlier what they were going to do?
He had let his father down. Again.
Time had run out.
Ryuchi stopped scratching the wall. He shifted across, leaning his back against the marks, covering them with his body.
Would they understand?
A loud noise from below. Was somebody there?
The man with the scar stood in the open doorway, a knife glinting in his hand.
Ryuchi screamed.
68
Danilov and Strachan reached the crossroads of Pingliang Road and Hingguo Road as quickly as they could. The Rapid Action Force was already there, blocking either end of the street.
‘You arrived quickly, Inspector Fairbairn.’
‘Aye, our depot is not far. You look like you been through the wars already.’
Danilov checked his suit. The blue jacket and trousers were covered in dust and dirt from the jump. Both knees were torn and the jacket pocket ripped.
‘And it looks like young Strachan has fared no better.’
Strachan, if anything, had fared worse. His face was cut and bruised from where he had struck the path.
They had commandeered a taxi outside the Astor House Hotel, telling the driver to take them to this corner. Despite threats and the waving of a warrant card in his face, he had refused to move until they promised to pay him, Strachan delving deep into his wallet to find ten dollars. The taxi driver hadn’t returned his change.
‘We’re going in.’ Danilov announced.
‘Ye canna, we’ve no done a recon yet.’ Fairbairn’s Scottish accent became more pronounced when he was under stress. ‘Ye have to wait till we check it out.’
‘There’s a young boy in there who could be murdered at any moment. We’re going in.’
Fairbairn snatched at his arm, but Danilov shook him off. He strode forward, looking up at the windows of the second floor to see if there was any movement. He could hear Strachan’s footsteps behind him.
Fairbairn swore under his breath, waving his men forward to follow the madman.
Danilov reached the front door, flattening himself against the white concrete wall. He flashed back to 1911. Cato Street. A raid in London when he was on secondment to Scotland Yard. Shots ringing out from an upstairs window.
He pressed himself further into the wall, reaching for the brass doorknob.
Locked.
Strachan and the Rapid Action Force were behind him, arrayed along the wall.
The detective sergeant pushed Danilov back. A policeman with a battering ram ran to the door, raised the heavy metal tube, crashing it against the lock.
The door sprung open and Strachan rushed in, his pistol pointed in front of him.
A stream of Rapid Action police ran past Danilov into the building. They fanned out through the ground floor, shouting ‘All clear’ as they went through the rooms.
Strachan waited on the stairs, his eyes staring upwards.
Danilov joined him. ‘Anything?’
Strachan shook his head.
Then they heard a scream from above.
A high, piercing scream.
A young boy’s scream.
69
Danilov charged up the stairs, followed by Strachan and the men from the Rapid Action Force.
A shot rang out. The plaster above Danilov’s head exploded, showering him with fragments of dust. He ducked down below the banister.
Another shot. This time from one of the Rapid Action Force. Danilov peered over the banister. A dwarf was standing in the doorway twenty yards away.
He fired again. Danilov ducked. Another thud in the wall above his head.
Strachan stood up, firing twice with his police-issue Webley, the revolver jerking in his hand.
The hallway was filling with the acrid smell of gunfire. More bullets thudded into the wall. Dust and old plaster rained down on Danilov’s head.
The Rapid Action Force were firing now. Muzzle flashes illuminating the smoke. Irregular shots as each man stood up above the parapet and fired.
More shots from the dwarf. Then another gun started firing. A different sound. Sharp, more like a crack then the loud bark of the Webleys.
There was a loud groan. One of the police fell back, blood spurting from his neck. Others rushed to help him, one clamping a hand over the wound, blood gushing through his fingers.
Fairbairn appeared by Danilov’s side.
‘How many?
’
It was Strachan who answered. ‘Only two, I think, sir. There’s a door on the left. If I can make it there, we’ll have them in a crossfire.’
‘Do it, Strachan,’ ordered Fairbairn. ‘We’ll cover you.’
He signalled to his men. As one they rose and began firing. The noise was deafening. Strachan took his chance. Keeping low, he ran for the room on the left, diving through the open doorway.
It was empty. A kitchen of sorts. A table, sink, two cups on the table.
He jumped to his feet and peered around the jamb of the door.
The police were still firing, though less regularly now, as more were reloading their Webleys. Danilov and Fairbairn were still crouched on the stairs. He could see the whites of their eyes through the smoke.
He leant further out, looking towards the doorway where the dwarf had been standing.
Nothing.
No shape.
No muzzle flashes.
No shots.
Perhaps he was reloading, or they had escaped through a back exit. Nothing from the other shooter either.
This was his chance.
He ran towards the doorway, shooting at the place where the dwarf had been standing.
He heard Danilov shout, ‘No!’
But he carried on, firing all the time, the Webley jerking in his hand as the muzzle exploded.
He pulled the trigger again. A loud click. No muzzle flash.
Footsteps behind him. The Rapid Action Force were rushing up the stairs and across the hallway.
He reached the doorway, still pulling the trigger of his empty Webley, still hearing the loud click as the hammer slammed down on the barrel.
Nothing.
He felt his feet go out from under him. Brass cartridges on the floor. He landed with a loud thud on the side of his hip.
A shot above his head, exploding into the woodwork where he had been standing just a second previously.
More police, standing over him, firing shot after shot, advancing past him into the room.
A shout from one of them. ‘They’ve gone down the fire exit.’
Danilov pulling him up. ‘You go after them. I’ll look for the boy.’
Strachan raced to the window. The dwarf and another man were running down the alley at the back of the dojo, the dwarf’s little legs moving as fast as they could to keep up with the man in front.
The Killing Time Page 23