Mustn’t let them get away.
He reloaded his Webley from the store of bullets in his pocket, carefully avoiding the hot barrel. He leant out of the window and fired three shots at the men running away.
They didn’t stop.
Two policemen were charging down the fire escape. Strachan joined them, taking the steps three at a time.
One of the kidnappers stopped at the end of the alley and looked back towards the police racing towards him, a prominent red scar livid beneath his right eye. Slowly he raised his Colt and took careful aim. The sharp crack of a shot and the policeman next to Strachan fell.
Strachan dived to the floor, firing one more shot.
The man with the scar turned and ran out of sight.
The other policeman stopped; it was Fairbairn. He knelt down next to the injured officer.
‘After him, man, dinnae let him get away.’
Strachan struggled to his feet and carried on running, slowing just before he turned the corner of the alley. A shot whistled past his head.
The man with the scar was on top of a wall, firing at him, the dwarf trying to climb up, his legs desperately searching for a ledge in the brickwork. His foot found leverage and he rose for a second, only to fall back to the ground as he failed to grab the top of the wall with his fingertips.
Strachan fired at the man sitting on the wall, reaching down to help the dwarf.
Once.
Twice.
Feeling the jolt of the Webley as it exploded in his hand.
He pressed the trigger again.
Another loud click.
The man stared at him and jumped over the wall, vanishing from view.
Strachan ducked back behind the corner of the alley, joined by Fairbairn and two other policemen. He reloaded his revolver, nodded once at Fairbairn, then both of them stepped out into the alley.
The dwarf was lying on the ground, his revolver pointing straight at them.
Strachan and Fairbairn fired at the same time, muzzles flashing, smoke drifting over their heads, caught by the breeze.
Bullets thudded into the dwarf’s body. He shook once, tried to rise, then fell back on the ground, the revolver dropping from his hand.
The two policemen advanced warily, their smoking pistols trained on the dwarf, watching for any movement from the still body.
Fairbairn bent down and looked at his face.
He shook his head.
Strachan jumped up to look over the wall. The street beyond was full of traffic: rickshaws with their passengers, lorries loaded to overflowing, hawkers peddling their wares. Shopkeepers and their customers haggling over prices.
Shanghai going about its business as if nothing had happened.
The man with the scar had vanished.
70
The floor of the room was covered in spent cartridge shells. Danilov had lost track of the number of bullets fired at him and the rest of the police. Looking down at the floor, he finally realised how many it was.
He walked out into the hallway. Two policemen were milling about, uncertain what to do, while three others had run back to the stairs to see to their injured colleague. Others, the braver or the more foolhardy, had gone down the fire escape after Strachan.
Straight ahead was the stairs, and to the right of that, the room Strachan had charged into. Another doorway led into the dojo.
Danilov strode though and entered a large, hall-like room with a vaulted ceiling and wooden floors. The former exercise and assembly area of the dojo. Along one wall, the precepts of the Lotus Sutra were inscribed in elaborately carved frames. Along the other was a row of upright flags, like those he had seen carried by the monks in Quinsan Gardens. On one of the flags he saw the symbol that had been written on the paper hidden beneath the young girl’s chin: a stylised form of an arch.
Another door led towards the back. He stepped through, checking either side of the doorway as he did so. He should have brought one of the policemen with him, or at least had the sense to take one of their revolvers.
The room beyond was another hallway leading to two doors.
He listened.
Nothing.
‘Ryuchi,’ he shouted.
No answer.
Then louder. ‘RYUCHI!’
Still nothing.
He opened the doorway on the left.
A store cupboard filled with mats, a vaulting horse, kettle bells and other exercise equipment.
He closed it and shuffled to the other door. A police constable appeared in the entrance opposite. Danilov signalled him to be quiet. Perhaps the third gang member was still here, guarding the rest of the dojo.
The policeman crouched, aiming his Webley at the door.
Danilov reached for the brass knob, turning it slowly, before wrenching the door open.
He peered around the corner.
A long corridor with another door open at the bottom, thin grey light coming from the room beyond.
Danilov motioned for the constable to follow him.
They crept down the corridor, keeping their backs to the wall. A damp fug enveloped everything. Gone were the clean white partitions and wooden floors of the dojo. Here, the walls were mouldy, the concrete floor covered in dirt and grime.
A wooden slat was leaning against the wall. It fitted into a notch on the door and on the wall. A simple but effective lock, barring the door against anybody trying to escape.
They stopped on either side of the doorway. Danilov nodded his head, counted to three on his fingers so the constable could see.
Then they both charged in.
71
Ryuchi was lying on the dirty floor, still wearing his thin T-shirt and school shorts, a knife sticking out of his chest.
Danilov knew immediately that he was too late to save the boy. He had seen enough death to know when the vital spark that animated all living things was missing.
The constable ran out of the cell and began to vomit in the corridor. Danilov ignored him, trudging slowly to the small, slight, lifeless body.
He knelt down next to it, reaching for a thin wrist to check the pulse.
Nothing.
The hand was limp and white, the fingers hanging down as if reaching for the ground, fingers covered in dirty grey plaster. They were still slightly warm to his touch; the eternal cold of death had not seized hold of them yet.
He thought of his son, two years ago. Lying in his arms, dying.
An immense tiredness washed over him.
Too late. Always too late.
More footsteps in the corridor. A few hushed words. Strachan appeared at the door, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly, until a few words finally forced their way through his lips.
‘We killed one of them, sir. The other, the man with the scar, escaped. It seems there were only two people guarding him.’
Danilov nodded and looked back to the silent boy. The skin around his eyes was red and bruised. He checked the neck. No marks of strangulation. They must have heard the door crashing open downstairs and plunged the knife into his chest.
But why was there bruising around the eye?
With the boy dead, he would never know, and perhaps it didn’t matter.
It was then that he saw the words inscribed in Chinese above Ryuchi’s head. ‘What does it say, Strachan?’
The detective sergeant stepped forward, leaning down to see the marks more clearly. ‘It says “Save me” in Chinese.’
Why had a young Japanese boy written in Chinese?
Perhaps it hadn’t been written by him. Had one of the other victims scratched it into the plaster?
And then Danilov remembered the iron nail, and the plaster found under the fingernails of the first victim. Locard’s exchange principle in action. Everyone leaves a trace, sometimes infinitesimal, sometimes far more obvious.
He stared at the two deeply etched Chinese characters. ‘Save me.’ A plea? A demand? A prayer? A cry for help to escape the damp, mouldy walls of t
he cell?
Again, he would never know for certain.
He leant in closer. There was something else above the characters, more scratches, fainter, not as deep. Three letters in the plaster.
He looked at the boy’s hand again. The nails were broken and ingrained with plaster.
Had he left a message?
And then it hit him. He had been so slow, so careless in this case. How had he missed so many clues?
The boy had finally provided him with the answer he should have seen a long time ago.
‘Come on, Strachan, we have work to do.’ He stood up, took one last look at the boy’s body, and left the cell
‘Where are we going, sir?’ Strachan called after him.
The detective sergeant took a second to lean in closer to the scratches on the plaster. He could just make out three letters.
C. A. P.
72
‘Take your time, Strachan, there’s no need to rush. They’ll be waiting for us.’
Strachan took his foot off the accelerator. The Ford they had borrowed from Inspector Fairbairn was far more powerful than their usual Buick. ‘Who’ll be waiting, sir, and where are we going?’
Danilov didn’t answer, preferring to stare out of the window instead. Pingliang Road was unusually quiet. The factories had closed that morning and the markets, normally a hive of buzz and activity, only had a few desultory shoppers picking through the cabbages, slabs of fatty pork hanging on silver hooks, and rows of chickens in tiny cages waiting to have their necks broken.
By the time they reached the junction with Yangtsepoo Road, near the tramway car sheds, they understood why. A company of Japanese marines in their dark-blue uniforms, white helmets and white leggings blocked the road as they marched into town, rifles on their shoulders, bayonets fixed. Guarding them on either side were two Rolls-Royce armoured cars, their rounded turrets and threatening machine guns sweeping the road in front.
Strachan stopped the car, waiting for the marching men to pass. ‘Looks like they’ve just landed, sir.’
He pointed past the Nippon Yusen Kaisha wharf building to the dock. More men, stripped to the waist despite the cold of winter, were hauling a howitzer into position, attaching it to the rear of a truck. In the river, two Japanese warships, one a cruiser, were floating at anchor, their gun barrels uncapped, pointing directly towards the Chinese section of town.
A Japanese officer marched past, his sword slapping rhythmically against the outside of his thigh. He eyed Strachan aggressively, staring at the detective sergeant as if he were a mortal enemy.
‘This is not looking good, sir.’
‘Ihanaga is carrying out his threat,’ Danilov mumbled under his breath.
‘What was that, sir?’
‘Drive to the Japanese Naval Depot, Strachan. Take the back roads through the Jewish area; we don’t want to get stuck behind this lot.’
The end of the column marched past. Strachan pulled out into Yangtsepoo Road, then swung immediately right down Muirhead Road, behind the police quarters.
‘Used to live here when I was training, sir.’
No answer.
Strachan carried on driving, down Tungshan Road and Yalu Road, past the municipal abattoir. Danilov sat silent next to him. Staring out into the distance. How had he missed the clues? They had been so obvious. And because of his mistakes, a young boy lay dead, his father bent on exacting revenge on the population of Shanghai.
They drove past Hong Kew police station. Here, the Japanese marines were even more numerous, squatting by the road, smoking, chatting loudly or sharpening their bayonets. Two more armoured cars poked their dull metal bonnets from the side streets, waiting for orders.
They crossed into the extended settlement and turned right along Szechuan North Road. The change was obvious from their last visit, war materiel parked at the side of the road: marines, small howitzers, trucks, motorbikes and sidecars, more marines, ammo boxes, shell caissons, naval officers running here and there, marshalling men and stores.
The energy was palpable, the sense of anticipation like an electric current in the air.
Nobody paid any attention to the small Buick with two men in it as they drove past. There was far more important work to be done.
Strachan reached the barrier in front of the naval depot. A sentry, rifle and bayonet far taller than himself, came out from his post and waved them through the barrier.
‘Do you mind telling me what’s going on, sir? What are we doing here?’
Danilov pulled at his bottom lip with his index finger and thumb. ‘We are meeting the killer of the children, Strachan.’
73
They parked in the same place as last time. As they left the Buick, an officer rushed down the stairs to meet them, shouting in Japanese. He saw Strachan and Danilov in the car and switched to Chinese.
‘He’s asking what we are doing here.’
‘Tell him we have an appointment with Colonel Ihanaga; that he’s expecting us.’
‘Do we, sir?’
‘We do.’
Strachan spoke to the officer. ‘We are to wait here, sir.’
Danilov began to roll a cigarette. It was time for the consoling comfort of a good smoke. ‘You don’t have to come in with me, Strachan.’
The detective sergeant looked up at the rounded dome soaring above his head. Soldiers, sailors, marines and Japanese civilians were rushing in and out of the oak doors, intent on some task of extreme urgency.
‘I want to come in with you this time, sir.’
‘It’s not necessary, Strachan.’
‘I’ll rephrase that, sir. I need to come in with you.’
Danilov lit his cigarette and took one long, deep lungful. It was a bright, clear Shanghai day. For some reason, the cloud of coal smoke normally hanging over the city had avoided this area. ‘You wanted to ask me something, David?’
‘That’s the first time you’ve used my Christian name, sir.’
‘Is it? I won’t make a habit of it. Ask away.’
Strachan coughed into his hand. ‘I—’
The Japanese officer rushed down the stairs, bowed slightly from the hips and said in English, ‘Colonel Ihanaga will see you now.’
Danilov threw away the half-smoked cigarette. ‘Too late, Strachan. We’re always too late.’
They followed the officer up the stairs, through the oak doors into the domed lobby. The hustle and bustle inside was intense, magnified by the echo of boots on the marble floor. As before, they took the long corridor off the lobby. The officer waited at the door before tapping twice on the wood.
A single muffled word, ‘Enter,’ spoken in English, came from inside.
Danilov seized Strachan’s arm. ‘Whatever you do, don’t say a word. Just follow my lead. This is a matter of life and death, Strachan, do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir, of course.’
The door opened and they stepped inside.
74
Colonel Ihanaga had his back to them, bent over a map spread out on his desk. ‘Come in, Danilov. I wasn’t expecting to see you, even though the orderly tells me we have an appointment.’ He finally left his map and turned to them.
‘A white lie, I’m afraid, Colonel.’
Ihanaga’s face was rigid, austere, his voice icily formal. ‘If you have come to tell me that my son is dead, I have already been informed.’ He pointed to his left. Inspector Nakamoto was sitting in the same armchair as last time, drinking tea, his flat cap resting on his knees. ‘I’m sure Ryuchi died with dignity, a loyal subject of the emperor.’ The voice finally cracked and a hand went out to steady himself against the table.
Beneath the stiffness of the colonel’s pose, Danilov detected a fragility he hadn’t seen before. The man was deeply affected by his son’s death. Only years of self-control was helping him to disguise his emotions.
‘Your son died bravely, Colonel Ihanaga.’
Before Ihanaga could respond, there were two more taps on the do
or and Tanaka entered. ‘Colonel, the troops are—’ He stopped as soon as he saw Danilov.
‘If you could give me a few minutes, Tanaka, the inspector will be leaving soon.’
‘Of course, sir.’ Tanaka began to back out of the room.
‘Perhaps the captain could stay, Colonel. I’m sure he would like to hear what I have to say too.’
Ihanaga nodded at Tanaka, who closed the door, standing just in front of it.
‘Please be brief, Inspector. You may or may not have heard that Mayor Wu has apologised to Japan for the murder of the monk and promised to crack down on the anti-Japanese elements residing in Chinese territory. However, my superior, Admiral Shiozawa, does not believe the Chinese are sincere in their efforts.’ The military officer was back in control now. The father forgotten. ‘Accordingly, this evening we will aid the Chinese government in capturing and expelling these criminals from the Chinese area of Chapei.’
‘But that means invading China, attacking the Chinese army,’ blurted out Strachan.
‘Your Chinese assistant understands the consequences of these actions only too well, Inspector.’ Colonel Ihanaga licked his thin lips. ‘On a more personal note, we have received information that the perpetrator of the murder of my son and the kidnapping and murder of the other children, a man with the nickname Da Sor, is hiding out near the railway station in Chapei. I will make it my mission to capture and punish this man.’
‘Without due process of law, Colonel?’
‘In war, there is no law, Inspector. Only justice.’
‘And what if you kill the wrong man?’
Ihanaga glanced at Nakamoto, still sitting in the armchair. ‘Our information was clear, Inspector. This man was responsible for all the killings, including the murder of my son. He and the people who harboured and encouraged him will be punished.’
‘He may have committed the murders, but he didn’t order them. That was the responsibility of a much more devious mind.’
The Killing Time Page 24