Death In Shanghai (21 page)

They were running down a narrow alley, hemmed in on both sides by three-storey buildings housing tenants on every floor. Above Strachan’s head, the sky was dense with wet clothing hanging out to dry on long bamboo poles. On the right, a door was open to the street. Inside, an old man, sitting on a bamboo chair, slowly devoured a bowl of rice. As he ran past, the man lifted his head for a moment before returning to his bowl.

Strachan ran faster. The wind stung his face and his feet clattered heavily on the cobblestones. As he ran round the corner, his legs went from under him and he slid into a pile of stinking rubbish lying against a wall.

He picked himself up quickly and ran on, throwing away the remains of a steamed fish that had become stuck to his jacket.

The man ran through the stone exit of the
lilong
and straight across the street. Strachan was closer now, gaining on him. A loud screech as a car braked suddenly. The man jumped to avoid the thrusting bonnet, landing heavily on his side.

Strachan had him now. He increased his speed, racing under the stone gate and crossing the street.

The man picked himself up and limped heavily up the stairs of the Great World entertainment complex, knocking another young woman out of his way.

Strachan saw a gap in the traffic, darting in between the lorries and cars, sticking out his hand to stop a rickshaw driver. He scurried across Nanking Road after the limping man. He could hear swearing and the screech of brakes behind him.

The man was only fifteen yards ahead.

Strachan charged up the steps, following him through the entrance of Great World. A shot rang out and a bullet clanged against a brass bell to the right of his head. He ducked beneath a counter. Up above him, the bell still sang its song.

The man aimed again, his right arm coming up. Everything was slowing down now for Strachan. He had time to see the man was young, not more than twenty-five, with a round head and crew-cut hair. He was breathing heavily, his chest panting, grabbing for air, like a drunk grabbing a drink.

The pistol was up now, pointing directly at Strachan. A German Mauser, not terribly accurate, thought Strachan as the bullet ripped into the wall an inch from his head, spraying his cheeks and ear with shards of plaster and stone.

He threw himself back behind the counter. A torrent of candies, nuts, dried fruit and pineapple cakes tumbled down on top of him from a shelf above his head. All around him, the screams of the patrons of Great World as they ran for cover. The harsh squeals of the taxi dancers cutting through every other sound.

And then the pain hit him.

He reached up to the left side of his face. It was covered in blood. He touched the lobe of his ear and a stab of pain shot through his body. Vomit welled up in his throat, like he was going to throw up every meal he had ever eaten, and one more, just for luck. He swallowed the saliva that stuck to the roof of his mouth. Got to keep going, can’t let him get away. Can’t let this bastard get away.

He jerked himself away from the wall and peered around the corner of the counter. The kidnapper was running down the corridor, past the fan tan tables and slot machines.

Shoppers, patrons, taxi dancers, waiters and customers just out to enjoy the entertainment of Great World, scattered in front of the man, as if he were Moses parting the Red Sea. Others just cowered in the shop doorways, staring at the pistol gripped in his hand.

One young man, a waiter, stepped forward to stop the gunman running up the stairs. Another shot rang out and the waiter slumped forward, a large red stain already spreading across his white shirt.

Strachan reached up to the edge of the counter and jerked himself up. He stepped forward, pulling out his gun from the holster beneath his arm. It had a smear of blood on its black barrel.

He raised himself up and stood as still as he could, sighting down the barrel of the Webley. But the man had already disappeared up and around the corner of the stairs.

Strachan lurched on, scattering the people in front of him, shouting ‘Police, police.’ He ran past the young waiter lying in a pool of blood. Nothing could be done for him, he thought. Got to get the bastard who shot him.

He charged up the stairs. As he got to the first landing, he stopped, afraid he would be ambushed by the man again. He climbed slowly up until he could just see over the top of the stairs. The man was running down the corridor towards another staircase at the end.

A sing-song girl wearing the traditional high-collared gown of the courtesan, slit up the leg to the same level as her hip, got in his way. The man threw her to one side. As she fell, she hit her head on the edge of a slot machine.

Strachan ran up the stairs and knelt beside her, feeling for a pulse. There was none, just a small trickle of blood running from her ear. Another shot rang out from the floor above. He lay the girl’s head down on the parquet floor, and ran after the thug, determined that he was not going to escape.

He took the stairs two at a time, not caring any more if the man was lying in wait. On the next floor, a stuffed whale hung from the ceiling, its once blue skin now a tired and dusty grey. Ahead, the shadow of the gunman passed across a row of mirrors, suddenly becoming four men as the reflections rebounded on each other.

Strachan raised his Webley but the shadow didn’t appear again.

Cautiously, he inched forward. A young girl, no more than sixteen, with a gown that was slit up to the armpits, displaying her black lingerie, put her fingers to her lips and pointed upwards.

Strachan nodded to thank her and ran up the next flight. He reached the top of the stairs. The kidnapper was already running down the corridor.

As he neared the end, the man took a quick look over his shoulder. Again, he turned and fired. Quicker this time, without taking aim.

The shot passed over Strachan’s head thudding into the ceiling above him.

More screams from the bystanders. They had come for an exciting day at Shanghai’s most famous amusement centre, but this was far more than they had bargained for.

A crowd of people rushed past Strachan, desperate to get down the stairs and away from the noise of the gun. Strachan was thrown to the side against the wall. His ear was aching now, a deep throb.

The man ran up the stairs at the opposite end, two at a time. Strachan got up and charged after him. Nothing was going to stop him. That bastard was going to pay for what he had done.

Outside, the noise of the sirens of the Red Marias, doors being slammed, commands shouted.

Get a bloody move on, Strachan thought as he ran after the gunman.

‘Police. Police,’ he shouted at the scared people hiding in the shops and doorways.

He ran up the stairs, and around the landing. Another shot crunched into the plaster wall, just to the left of his eye this time. He stumbled forward and fell, landing heavily.

The steps of the kidnapper echoed on the wooden floor ahead of him. More screams from the patrons as they dived out of his way.

Can’t let him go. Must keep going.

He saw an open window and leant out to shout at the Red Marias below. ‘Police. Up here. UP HERE.’

The gunman vanished at the top of the next stairs. Suddenly, the shouts of the patrons of Great World were louder now, on the fifth floor, more intense.

Strachan charged after him, not caring any more about the gun. Only wanting to bring the man down and beat him unconscious.

The man ran through the nightclub, bursting between dancing couples. The band stopped playing. The singer stood in front of her microphone. The taxi dancers ceased hustling for business.

Then they saw the gun and all hell broke loose.

People knocked each other over, desperate to get out of the kidnapper’s way, caring only to save their own lives. Three women lay sprawled on the floor, their tight
chi paos
shredded above the knee.

Strachan followed him through the carnage of knocked-over tables and cowering dancers. He ran out of the nightclub and up to the next floor. The gunman was charging through a door at the end out onto the open-air cafe on the roof of Great World.

Strachan could feel his heart beating and his chest heaving. There was no pain any more from his ear but he didn’t know whether that was good or bad. He stumbled after the man, pushing open the door at the end.

The gunman had knocked over two tables, spilling tea and cakes all over the wooden floor.

Strachan ducked down behind an advertising sign. ‘Tsingtao’ it read. He could certainly do with a beer right now.

The man had run to the edge of the roof. Waitresses were screaming, the customers were running towards the door like lemmings.

The gunman reached the edge of the roof and peered over.

Strachan got up and walked slowly towards him, his Webley extended in front him. The man was starting to panic, running left and right, his chest heaving and his large eyes frantic with fear.

‘There’s nowhere to go,’ shouted Strachan in Shanghainese, ‘just give yourself up.’

The man peered quickly over the parapet once more.

‘Go ahead and jump if you want. I will enjoy scraping your brains off Nanking Road.’

Strachan was just twenty feet away now. The man still had his gun. ‘Put the gun down.’

The man glanced at the gun as if suddenly realising he was still carrying it. Then he raised it quickly and pointed it straight at the detective, pulling the trigger.

There was a loud click and for a second, they just stared at each other.

Then the man threw his pistol at Strachan. He ducked, but the heavy gun hit him on the side of the head, right next to his damaged ear.

Again, waves of pain rolled over his body. A long stream of blood ran down his face, dripping off his shirt and onto the roof.

He was hit in the chest by something large. The breath exploded from his body. The man was on top of him, raining blows down on his head. Strachan lifted his right arm to protect himself. The man grabbed the gun, trying to wrestle the pistol free from his hands. Strachan fought back, arching his back and pushing off with his legs to topple the man to the side.

They wrestled with the gun, rolling over and over. Their joined hands, with the pistol between them, hit the edge of a table. The pistol slithered along the roof.

Strachan punched the man as hard as he could with his free right hand, connecting just above the temple. The man grunted and fell to the right.

Strachan scrambled to his feet, rushing over to grab the pistol. His feet suddenly went out from under him as the man grabbed his legs. He fell heavily to the floor; pain shot up through his left shoulder.

The man was on top of him, knocking his head against the wooden floor. Banging it again and again. He started to lose consciousness, hearing the crunch of his head against wood echoing in his skull.

For a moment, he thought of his mother. What would she think now? Her precious son, rolling around on the roof of Great World, his head being smacked again and again against the wooden floor.

He kicked up with his legs, feeling them crash into the back of the man.

The weight was off him now. He tried to lift his head, shake the fuzziness out; why was he moving so slowly?

Strachan tried to get up but a blow hit him on the head next to the damaged ear. He grabbed the leg, but a jolt of pain shot through his head and he released his grip.

The man stood up and kicked out again, his boot landing flush on Strachan’s chest.

You’re not going to get away, Strachan thought, launching himself upwards, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and the throb of his ear.

He dived forward, grabbing hold of the man’s leg. His shoulder hit the ground, and a stabbing pain lanced into the joint. Another kick thundered into the top of his head but he hung onto the man’s leg, he wasn’t ever going to let go.

The man toppled over him, landing heavily.

Strachan flung his body on top of the sprawling man, thrusting his shoulder into the man’s chest, forcing the air to shoot out of his lungs in one sharp gasp.

He brought his right elbow up to connect with the man’s nose, hearing a soft thud as it struck home. The gunman’s head flew back, and he kicked out, trying to dislodge Strachan again.

But the detective pressed down harder, using his left arm to pin the man’s body. Another stab of pain through the shoulder but Strachan ignored the pain. He lifted his right elbow and slammed it into the face that stared up at him.

The man’s eyes rolled upwards until all that Strachan should see were the whites.

Strachan hit him again with his elbow, this time slashing down vertically. Blood began to fly from the gunman’s nose, spurting all over the detective.

Strachan levered himself over the man’s body, bending his back as far as it would go and then slamming forward, putting all his weight on the point of his elbow, smashing with all the strength he possessed into the gunman’s mouth.

The body beneath him went limp. Strachan could see the man’s mouth was a mass of blood, slashed lips and broken teeth.

He lifted himself slowly off the broken body and gingerly got to his feet.

This is not getting any easier, he thought, giving the man a sharp kick in the ribs for good luck. Strachan’s luck, not that of the man lying stretched out on the roof of Great World.

‘Get your hands up,’ shouted a voice from behind him.

Strachan turned slowly. Two constables were waving pistols in his face.

‘I said get your hands up or I fire.’

He tried to put his arms up in the air, but the pain shot through his shoulder. ‘Police. Detective Constable Strachan,’ he gasped, ‘my warrant card is inside my jacket.’

One of the constables kept his pistol and eyes trained on Strachan as he had been taught to do in the Training School. The other reached into Strachan’s jacket and pulled out a thin wallet.

He checked the warrant card inside and nodded, finally dropping the pistol to his side. ‘It’s Stra-chan, is it?’

‘The name is pronounced Straaan.’

The gunman groaned and began to sit up. Strachan walked over and punched him on the top of the head. ‘Enjoy the nap.’