Death In Shanghai (26 page)

There were no plate and chopsticks for Strachan. His stomach rumbled. The perfumed aroma of garlic, chili and anchovies filled the air. It was one of Strachan’s favourite dishes, the crunch of the fried anchovies complementing the bite of the garlic and chili. The other dishes were no less tasty: crispy tofu, boiled peanuts, dainty little
xiao mai
still in their bamboo steaming basket, and freshly-pickled cucumber. His stomach rumbled again.

‘Please do not stand on ceremony, Inspector.’

The Inspector picked up the chopsticks, tapping them gently on the table as they became an extension of his fingers. He reached over and picked up a single boiled peanut from the plate. He put it in his mouth and a broad smile of pleasure lit up his face. ‘Your food is remarkable, Hong Lin, even a simple peanut becomes a taste of heaven.’

‘You are too generous, Inspector. These snacks are a poor imitation of food. I remember back in 1903, before the revolution, a meal in Peking that would put this poor offering to shame, a meal that was the manna of the gods.’

Strachan stood there as the two men occasionally dipped their chopsticks into the dishes, talking of meals they had eaten and meals they had not. Even where one could find the best peaches in China. From Wuxi, at the beginning of August, according to his uncle.

Strachan was beginning to become impatient. There was so much work to do. He was about to interrupt when his uncle placed his chopsticks down on the lotus-shaped rest and leant forward. Inspector Danilov immediately followed suit.

‘Have you eaten enough, Inspector, or shall we have some more?’ Strachan could see most of the dishes had plenty left on them.

‘No, Hong Lin, I’ve eaten my fill. I fear if I eat any more, your nephew will have to carry me out of here on his shoulders.’

‘It has been a pleasure talking to you, Inspector, but I’m sure you haven’t come to my home simply to exchange pleasantries and try a few poor snacks. How can I help you?’

‘Thank you for the
dian xin
, Mr Chang, they were worthy of your elegant home. However, we have come for something more than your excellent food. I presume your nephew has explained the purpose of our visit?’

‘Very poorly, I’m afraid, Inspector, he still has a lot to learn. You are investigating a murder I believe?’

‘Five murders to be exact.’

Mr Chang sucked in his breath and pulled on his white beard. ‘Somebody has been busy.’

‘And will continue to kill, we think.’

‘How can I help?’

‘Each victim has Chinese characters carved into their body. The first victim was a French magistrate, and he had the characters for “vengeance”.’ Danilov passed across the photo sent across by the French. Mr Chang looked at it without any emotion on his face. ‘The second was a Russian prostitute who had “damnation” carved on her body.’

‘All the characters so far have been of the same style, Inspector, quite precise with no indication of personality.’

‘That is interesting, Mr Chang. There are two other victims. The third was an androgyne…’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know this word, Inspector.’

‘A man who dressed as a woman.’

‘Ah, quite a common occurrence. As you know, all opera singers are male, even those playing female roles. I believe some of them continued to play their parts even when they left the stage. Mei Lan Fang at the moment is famous for his ability to mimic the mincing gait and gestures of a woman, though he is without doubt, a man. Such androgynes, as you call them, were highly prized by the emperors as entertainers and for their sexual services.’

The Inspector passed across the photograph of the dead Henry Sellars in the morgue. ‘This androgyne was young and American, Mr Chang.’

‘The characters for “justice”. Most unusual. Archaic even. Related to judgement in Chinese. Judge Bao and all the old writings.’

‘The fourth victim was an English actress. She had “retribution” carved on her body.’ Danilov spread all four pictures out on the table. ‘I’m afraid they are quite explicit.’

‘I have seen worse. In 1903, I spent two years as the assistant to a magistrate in Guizhou in southern China. Not a post I enjoyed. Far too many executions.’

‘The last murder occurred last night. The victim was butchered into five separate pieces. We are still waiting for the pictures to come back from the lab.’

‘The victim also had characters carved into his chest. The characters for “revenge”, Uncle.’

Uncle Chang picked up the pictures one by one and examined them closely, stroking his beard as he did so. ‘The characters are all interesting, Inspector, all legal in one way or another.’

‘Legal?’ asked Danilov.

Mr Chang stopped for a moment and stared into mid-air. ‘Of course, I have been a fool, old age is creeping up on me and with it the dulling of the wits.’ He turned to Danilov. ‘Please excuse me, Inspector.’

He got up, carefully arranged his long gown and left the room.

Danilov and Strachan glanced at each other. ‘Your uncle is an extremely well read man, Stra-chan.’

‘I know, sir. I always feel so stupid whenever I come to see him.’

‘Not a feeling you are unused to, it would seem.’

They both lapsed into silence. The clock ticked on the wall. Outside, they could hear the sounds of the Ah Yi brushing the path to the house with a reed brush, singing a soft lullaby to herself, trilling the ‘r’ in her Peking accent.

Strachan’s stomach rumbled once more. The food still smelt delicious, its aromas tempting him to reach out and try a morsel. But he knew his uncle would be ashamed if he did. He stood still, trying to think of anything but food, succeeding only in thinking of food.

The door opened once again, and his uncle appeared in the doorway, carrying a large, old scroll that had obviously seen better days. He walked over to the long painting table, moved some Yuan books to one side, and unrolled the scroll carefully, weighing down one end with a large carved rosewood frog.

‘I’m sorry, Inspector, I have been slow this morning. I should have recognised the characters immediately.’

‘You know where they come from?’

‘It’s so obvious once one sees it.’ He pointed to the scroll.

Strachan could see a hideous small painting of what appeared to be a red devil, surrounded by written characters.

‘It’s Di Yu and the eighteen courts of hell.’

The Inspector got up and walked over to the painting table. ‘I’m afraid it’s my turn to say I don’t understand.’

‘Di Yu is the name for our Chinese underworld. Many people think this idea of an underworld, with souls waiting for justice, originates from Buddhist scripture, but I believe it goes back much further and is much darker. In your Christian cosmology, it would be purgatory. A period of reflection and punishment where we can atone for the sins of our life and prepare for reincarnation.’

‘We have a similar idea in the Russian Orthodox church.’

‘But, in the West, this purgatory is individual. People simply have to endure it. In the Chinese underworld, there is a god called Yama who sits in judgement on all who come before him.’

‘So this Yama punishes people?’

‘Yama is the king of the underworld. He has created eighteen courts, the courts of hell, where sinners undergo judgement and punishment depending on their crimes.’

‘Crimes?’

Mr Chang pointed to a long list of Chinese characters, each with a small ink painting next to it. ‘There’s a whole list of crimes. Corruption. Theft. Prostitution. Being unfaithful to your wife.’ His finger followed the list down the page.

Strachan looked at the drawings. Men and women were suffering painfully as the devils and their assistants administered the punishments.

Mr Chang continued to translate. ‘Dishonesty. Lack of respect for your elders. Being unfaithful to your family. The list goes on and on, Inspector. Some sources seem to suggest there may be as many as 134 different crimes. It’s all policed by ten judges, with Yama being the most powerful. Each crime and each court has a particular punishment decreed as the correct retribution for the crime.’

‘You think our victims are being punished?’

‘See there, Inspector.’ He pointed to an ink wash drawing. ‘The Mountain of Knives.’ His finger followed the characters as he translated. ‘Sinners are made to shed blood by climbing a mountain with sharp knives sticking out.’

Strachan stared straight at Danilov. ‘It explains what happened to Elsie Everett.’

‘In the eighteen courts of hell, the sinners are subjected to a whole host of punishments, limited only by the capacity of the gods to inflict pain.’

‘Or, in our case, Mr Chang, by the capacity of our killer to inflict pain.’

Mr Chang returned to his book and once again his finger traced down a long list of characters. ‘Sawing, carving, slicing in half, grinding, crushing by rocks, boiling in oil, being set afire, tongue ripping, eye gouging, skinning, being frozen in ice, pierced by hooks. The list goes on in excruciating detail, Inspector. We Chinese have always been extremely punctilious about the different ways to kill another human being. It is one of our least pleasant characteristics as a race.’

‘Each crime has a particular punishment?’

‘Indeed.’ He returned to the scroll. ‘You said one of your victims was frozen?’

‘The French magistrate.’

Mr Chang gazed at the scroll, his eyes tracking the lines of characters as they ran down the page. ‘Here it is. Being frozen in ice is a punishment reserved for corrupt officials.’

‘The Russian prostitute was drowned in pig’s blood.’

Once again, Mr Chang’s eyes danced down the page as he stroked his beard. ‘A punishment doled out to those who sell their bodies.’

‘The others were almost severed in two, cut on the Mountain of Knives, and last night, we discovered Dr Renfrew had his body dismembered.’

Uncle Chang scanned through the scroll, his finger tracing the characters downwards. ‘Being severed in two is a punishment for the crime of…unnaturalness. The Mountain of Knives is reserved for those who have lied and killed. The final one, having the body dismembered, is the punishment for perversity.’

‘So it seems our killer is acting as Yama, the god of the underworld, punishing people for crimes they were supposed to have committed here on Earth,’ said Danilov.

‘Oh, Yama is much more, Inspector. He not only punishes people, he is judge, jury and executioner. He decides who is to be punished and for how long.’

‘Crime and punishment. We Russians are familiar with this idea.’

‘I believe there is a precedent in the Christian world too.’

Inspector Danilov raised his eyebrows.

‘Didn’t your Christian God punish Sodom and Gomorrah for its sins?’

Chapter 28

Strachan shifted the gear of the Buick. There was a loud screech as the engine refused to engage.

‘Sounds like a herd of strangled cats, Stra-chan.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Your uncle’s information was vital, Stra-chan. It’s the first real break we’ve seen in this case. Up until now, we’ve had lots of information, quite a few clues, but nothing has coalesced into a cohesive pattern. At least we now know the motivation of our killer. He sees himself as a judge, sitting in a court, trying the miscreants of Shanghai.’

‘He’s going to be busy here, sir.’

‘That’s the point, Stra-chan. There were time gaps between the first three murders, but now he has started to kill every day.’

‘It’s almost as if he feels he’s running out of time, sir.’

‘I wonder. You could be right, Stra-chan. We’re getting close now.’

‘Are we, sir?’ Strachan scratched his head.

‘What did you find out this morning?’

‘I met the old man. He described someone he had seen at the tea dance.’ Strachan reached into his pocket and passed his notebook to Danilov. The Inspector read it carefully.

‘This is good, Stra-chan. But it presumes this man is our killer.’

‘He’s a suspect, sir. We should check the chits to find out who he was.’

‘Perhaps.’ Danilov thought for a moment and decided not to tell Strachan about his meetings with Victorov and the American. If his hunch was correct, it was better that he didn’t know.

Strachan changed gear once again. ‘I didn’t realise you had a family, sir.’

Danilov’s face went pale. ‘My family has nothing to do with you or this investigation, Stra-chan. Is that clear?’

Strachan bit his lip, concentrating on avoiding the dense traffic. ‘Yes, sir.’

Danilov turned back to look out of the window. They were crossing Garden Bridge, close to the morgue. As usual, it was dense with rickshaws, wheelbarrows and hawkers pushing their carts. He was sorry he had snapped at Strachan. It was a perfectly reasonable observation, but not one he wanted to deal with right now.

They accelerated to a stop outside the morgue.

Dr Fang was waiting for them at the entrance. ‘At last, you’re here. I’ve got a piece of liver waiting for me.’ He ushered them through the door.

‘Is it fried or steamed?’ said Strachan.

‘It’s stabbed, young man, with a five-inch blade. The liver is a highly sensitive organ which has to be examined quickly if one is to get the best out of it.’

‘Sorry, sir, I just thought…’

‘Thinking is bad for you, Detective. Let me do the thinking while you do the detecting.’ He pushed open the door of the mortuary.

Strachan bit his lip once again.

As he entered behind the doctor, Danilov couldn’t help but feel an immense sadness. Perhaps it was the white walls or the astringent cleanliness of the place, or even the sharp tang of formaldehyde that produced this reaction in him. When Dr Fang pulled back the white sheet covering the body, Danilov knew what it was that upset him. It was death that inhabited this room. The white-faced solitude of death. All the bodies lying here on their marble slabs, covered by their starched white sheets, would never know the warmth of human contact again. For them, all that remained was the cold embrace of death.

Imagine working in a place like this, day after day, he thought. He glanced at Dr Fang as he bustled about the corpse, arranging his knives and forceps close to the head. What sort of man would spend his life surrounded by the solitude of death? What sort of man would choose to be in the business of death?