Authors: M J Lee
Death In Shanghai (15 page)
He knew he would make sense of it. It was just a question of time. But how long? And how many murders would occur before he could solve the puzzle?
He hoped Boyle would leave him alone. But he doubted that he would. People like Boyle measured their lives in the reactions of their superiors. The world was good if the boss was happy. The world was bad if the boss was unhappy. Danilov could see the advantages of such a black and white world view. But it wasn’t for him. Give him the uncertainty of an investigation. The purity of pitting his wits against a criminal mind.
He finished his tea. Time to go home to Medhurst Apartments. The idea did not appeal to him, but he needed to get some sleep. Perhaps a pipe or two would still his mind long enough for his eyes to close.
And then, maybe he would meet his family again in the dreams that came with the sweet-smelling smoke.
He got up and ambled down the road, past the storytellers recounting the legendary exploits of Zhuge Liang, past the young girls selling their bodies, past the night soil collectors doing their final rounds, and past a blind man with his hand held out, repeating ‘Xie Xie’, to everyone who passed.
Danilov kept his hat pulled down over his eyes and his hands in his pockets, looking, to everybody who passed him, like a man lost in his own solitary world.
Strachan was tired when he got home. His mother was waiting up for him as she always did, bringing him a bowl of pork rib soup before he had even taken off his shoes.
He knew she wanted to hear about his day. What had he done? Who had he met? He remembered she used to do exactly the same thing with his father. Listening attentively as he told her about the people he had met on his beat, the arrests he had made, the thieves he had put away.
As a young boy, Strachan had listened at the door to the parlour as his father recounted the day’s events. He thought they didn’t know he was standing there, but one day his father had said, ‘It must be a wee bit cold out there in the corridor.’
Strachan pretended he didn’t hear.
‘I said it must be a wee bit cold out there, you wearing naught but a shift and your bare feet.’ Then his dad had smiled at him. ‘Next time I come home, come in and have a wee drop of soup wi’ me. But ask your mother first, won’t ye?’
Strachan had asked his mother and was surprised when the answer was yes. Every night, until his father’s death, they sat up together, drinking soup and listening to his tales of the beat and the people of Shanghai.
It was a tradition himself and his mother continued to this day. Each time he came home, he was acutely conscious of his father’s absence from the seat by the fire. There was a photograph above the mantel, but it wasn’t the same. On it, his father stood in his blue uniform, looking neat and tidy against the chaos of the street market behind him. He didn’t know who had taken the photograph, just that his mother was proud of it.
When he joined the police, he had sat in front of the photograph just like his mother sat in front of her gods in the kitchen. He had asked his father to help him every day. The photograph had just stared back at him, a look of displeasure on its face. All through school and college, he always felt his father was somehow disappointed in him. He had tried his best, but he felt the unspoken disappointment strongly, as if he could never live up to his own, or his mother’s memories, of this man.
Perhaps, he never would.
He lifted the ceramic spoon to his mouth. Danilov had told him to think about the murder of Henry Sellars, or Harriet Sole as she was now known. Why had she left her clothes in her locker? Her dress was missing so she must have been wearing it on the streets. But why do that? The woman in the red dress had said she never wore her female clothes on the streets. It didn’t make sense.
Strachan took another long slurp of soup. It was warm and satisfying, the pork slipping off the ribs and dropping into the bowl with a splash.
His mother sat next to him. ‘Eat. Eat. It will warm your bones against the cold.’
He took a few more spoonfuls and a large chunk of warm pork.
‘How was today? Did you make your father proud?’
She always asked the same question every night. Strachan never knew how to answer her properly. And today, he didn’t know how to answer her at all.
***
The smoke of the opium flew through his lungs, folded its wings and nestled in the cavity of his chest. His body relaxed and his toes began to tingle.
He took a long draw on the ebony pipe. Again, the smoke rushed down his throat and into his chest.
His wife was crying. Not sobbing out loud, but he could see from her face, she was holding back her tears. The children thought it was a big adventure; choosing his ties, picking out the right shirts, laying everything topsy-turvy in the bottom of the leather suitcase.
The journey to the station was tense. The children were talking on about their friends and their schools and their drawings and their games. His wife was quiet. Eventually, he could bear it no longer. ‘I’ll be back soon, you’ll see. Won’t be away more than a couple of weeks.’
She didn’t answer.
Then the children were waving and he was leaning out of the carriage and she was still quiet. Finally, as the train had started moving and the children were running along beside it, she lifted her arm to wave goodbye. But it didn’t look like a wave, more a blessing, the sort the priests bestow on the dead.
He took another draw of the pipe. There wasn’t much life-giving smoke left, the opium was nearly done. He inhaled and held it deep, pushing it to the very corners of his lungs.
Once again, he enjoyed the familiar ease in every muscle of his body. But the images of death didn’t leave him. His wife lying in the street, her clothes dishevelled, her arm bent at a strange angle, pointing directly at him. His children dancing around her body, singing an old nursery rhyme, its words changed.
‘Brother Ivan! Hey!
Brother Ivan! Hey!
Are you asleep?
Are you asleep?
They ring the bell,
They ring the bell,
Dead-dead-dead,
Dead-dead-dead.’
Then, with the words of the children’s rhyme still ringing in his head, the image of a dead blonde on the ‘Beach of Dead Babies’ swam into view, its intestines waving in the waters of the creek.
‘Henry Sellars, Hey!
Henry Sellars! Hey!
She is dead,
She is dead,
Floating on the river,
Floating on the river,
Dead-dead-dead,
Dead-dead-dead.’
The voices became higher, shriller, taunting him the way children in a playground torment one of their victims.
‘Danilov, Danilov, the great detective,
Can’t even find his own family
Danilov, Danilov, the great detective,
Can’t even find his own family.’
He forced himself to raise his shoulders off the bed. I need more opium, he thought. He looked over at his pipe. Another little ball lay next to it. Quickly, he toasted the opium and placed it in his pipe. His hands were shaking, the lighter dropped from them onto the bed sheet. He searched around desperately for it. His fingers touched the hard metal. Here it is. Quickly, he brought the flame up to the bowl and inhaled.
The smoke coursed through his body and he relaxed once more. His family weren’t dead, he knew they were alive. His wife and children had escaped from Minsk. They had gone east. He knew it. They would see the advertisements he had placed in the newspapers. He would be reunited with them. They would be a family again.
As the opium coursed around his body, he lay back on the bed and all was beauty and peace and happiness as his family gathered round him for Sunday dinner.
‘All smiles.
All happy.
All here.’
February 24th 1928.
The 33rd day of the Year of the Earth Dragon.
The preacher was in full flow as Danilov and Strachan arrived at the church. They edged their way into the final pew, drawing some vicious stares from an old Chinese lady with jade-green earrings, and a look of disdain from a freckle-faced boy. It was the early morning service at 8 am but the church was as packed as a cake of tea.
The preacher noticed nothing, caught in the power of his voice. ‘Put to death, therefore, what is earthly on you; sexual morality, impurity, passion, evil desire and covetousness. Thus spake the Lord in Colossians, verse 3, chapter 5.’
The preacher raised his head from the bible, pausing for a moment as if remembering all the times he and the congregation had indulged in such sins.
Then his voice rang out in the rich tones of Ulster. ‘Put them to death. Murder them. Cast them out. Throw them from you as the Lord cast out his sins in the garden of Gethsemane.’
There were a few muted cries from the congregation, but he held up his hands to stop them. His eyes closed and his voice rang out again. ‘Lord hear us we beseech you. Look on the poor sinners of this city with pity. Do not turn your back on them. We do not fear them, Lord. Not when we have you by our side. For we know they will stand before you on the day of judgement, their sins held in their hands, standing like wanton sheep.’
A young Chinese man stood up at the back of the church. ‘They will be judged.’ He was joined by two older women, who swayed with their hands in the air, caught in a moment of rapture.
The preacher took the opportunity to pause, gain breath and slowly amble to his right. He stopped in mid-step before the plain altar, ordained with its bare table and single wooden cross, apparently struck by a new thought.
The voice of Ulster rang out again. ‘We, the people of Shanghai, reject the temptations of Sodom and the fornication of Gomorrah. We reject the god of Mammon. We reject the lies of the moneychangers in the temple. We reject the false gods of their temples and shrines and heathen images.’ He raised himself up to his fullest height and brought his fist down on an imaginary table in front of him. ‘We reject all the devil’s works. For we know, it is all a shadow. Colossians puts it in a way no man is able. “Which are a shadow of things to come; but the body is of Christ”.’
He paused once again, his body seemingly exhausted by the effort of conveying the words. His voice now became a whisper. ‘We know they will be punished.’
He pointed at the congregation. ‘As the Lord said, “You will be brought down to Hades. For the mighty works done in you had been done in Sodom, it would have remained until this day.” But, I tell you, it will be more tolerable on the day of judgement for the land of Sodom than for you.’ His eyes and stabbing finger pointed at the members of his congregation, picking out individuals like choosing ripe mangoes on a market stall.
He moved slowly back to his original position in front of the pulpit, his eyes afire with passion. ‘The day of judgement is here.’ He repeated even louder, ‘The day of judgement is here.’ His hands rose to the roof of the church, ‘The day of judgement is here.’
The congregation, both Chinese and Western, began to take up the cry, ‘The day of judgement is here.’ Slowly at first, then more forcefully as they lost their inhibitions. ‘THE DAY OF JUDGEMENT IS HERE.’
From the back of the church, Danilov could hear and feel the rising passion of the congregation. As the shouts rang out to the rafters of the church, a collection box passed in front of him. He passed it on without adding any money to the plate. His neighbour, the old Chinese woman with jade-green earrings, glared at him. She took the plate in her left hand, adding five dollars before passing it on. She stared at the Inspector as she did so. Danilov just looked straight ahead, seeing the audience with their raised hands standing in front of the preacher like soldiers in front of a drill instructor.
On his right, an organ played the opening chords of ‘Onward Christian soldiers, onward as to war’. The preacher began to sing loudly, leading his flock deftly from the chants of judgement to the anthem of struggle.
Strachan was singing quietly along with the song, clearly knowing the lyrics. Danilov nudged his arm and indicated they should leave the church.
The old Chinese woman again glared at him as he slid past her on the way out.
Once outside, Danilov immediately began to roll a cigarette. ‘You know the words?’
‘Can’t ever forget them, sir. I was sent to Saint Ignatius school and then St John’s University here in Shanghai. Both run by missionaries, one Catholic, the other Protestant. My mother thought I should receive the best education, whatever the religion.’
‘A pragmatic woman.’ Danilov pointed at the church with his cigarette. ‘Not a lot of love in there.’
‘More brimstone and damnation than love. The preacher was splendid though. Fired them up.’
Danilov thought about his own youth in Minsk, attending the Orthodox church with his mother. There, it was the mystery of God that mattered. The delight that came alive with incense and ritual, lifting the senses and elevating the spirit. He did not understand this God of hate and judgement.
The congregation began to stream out of the chapel, past the two detectives. The preacher stood at the door, collecting plate in his hand, encouraging his flock to give a little more. A few dug deeper in their pockets. The old Chinese woman gave another five dollars, glaring at Danilov once more as she did so.
After most of the congregation had gone, the two detectives approached the preacher. He was counting the money collected on the plates, a pile of notes and coins lay on the table in front of him.
‘A good collection?’ asked Danilov.
The preacher looked up from his counting. ‘Not bad, the people have only to look round to see Sodom and Gomorrah are everywhere. They understood the message.’
‘And what message is that?’
The preacher blinked once. A slow blink, like that of a reptile. ‘I didn’t get your name?’
‘I’m Inspector Danilov and this is Detective Constable Strachan. You are Mr Renfrew, I presume?’
‘It’s Dr Renfrew. How can I help you?’
Danilov produced the photograph of Henry Sellars from his inside pocket. ‘Do you know this man?’
