Authors: M J Lee
Death In Shanghai (31 page)
A wave of sadness washed over him.
His family. If he failed, he would never see them again. He would never feel the warmth of their smiles or the tenderness of their hugs.
He quickly pulled himself together. He would have to succeed. Whatever happened, he would have to succeed.
He took another sip of tea. Strachan would be here soon. He had to brief him carefully, make sure he did what he was supposed to do. It all rested on him.
Strachan was going to make a good copper. Just had to be trained in the right way. He reminded him of an older version of his son. The same intensity. The same sense of purpose. The same desire to do it right. If he fell into the hands of the likes of Meaker, well, one could never be sure. The delights of an easy life with plenty of ‘extra’ money were tempting to any young policeman trying to make his way in the world.
That was life. One could make all the plans one liked, but in the end it all came down to trusting other people. He knew he wasn’t very good at that. Never had been. But if he got out of this alive, he would change. Or at least, he would try to change.
Then he realised that he had already changed. This morning, he was going to put his trust, and his life, in Strachan’s hands. It was a strange feeling but he knew it was the right thing to do.
The bell rang as the door to the cafe opened. Strachan stood in the doorway.
***
‘Thank you for coming, Detective Stra-chan. Nobody followed you?’
‘No, sir. I made certain…but I don’t understand, sir…’
Danilov held up his hand. ‘You will soon enough. Did you bring them?’
Strachan handed over the two telegrams. ‘They came this morning, sir. As you requested, I got in early before Miss Cavendish and took them from her desk.’
‘Good.’ Danilov checked both the envelopes had been unopened, then he ripped through the seals. Strachan watched as his eyes scanned the contents of the first telegram. He tried to read through the onion-skin paper but all he could make out was three lines of telegram pasted together.
Danilov grunted once then unfolded the second telegram, reading that one as quickly as the first. He placed both telegrams and envelopes in his coat pocket. ‘You have done well, Strachan. Now, go on back to the station before anybody misses you.’
‘Inspector Meaker is in charge of the investigation now, sir.’
‘Chief Inspector Boyle said he would appoint him.’
‘He’s going to arrest the fisherman. The man who came forward, sir.’
‘Him? The Giant? Don’t be stupid, man, he can’t even write.’
‘Inspector Meaker is pretty sure, sir. He’s going to bring him in for questioning. He’s confident he will admit everything.’
‘You would sell your own mother after a little “gentle” persuasion from Charles Meaker.’ Danilov shook his head in exasperation. ‘It means I’ll have to get on with this,’ he said softly.
‘Sorry, sir. What was that?’
‘Nothing, Stra-chan. Just go back to the station. When you are there, don’t forget to follow up on the fingerprint from the preacher’s body. Whatever Meaker tells you to do, make sure they check the fingerprint against all the files: criminals, police, government employees. The lot.’
‘Everyone, sir?’
‘Everyone, and do it quickly.’
‘Yes, sir, if you say so.’
‘I do. I most certainly do, Stra-chan.’
Danilov got up from the table and said goodbye to the Princess.
‘What are you going to do, sir?’
‘I’m going to feed the wolf.’
‘Sir, what should I do?’
‘Do what you think is right, Strachan. That’s all we can ask anybody.’
Strachan thought for a moment. ‘Inspector, that was the first time you have said my name correctly.’
‘Did I? How careless of me. I promise I won’t make a habit of it, Strachan.’ Danilov stubbed out his cigarette, put on his hat and went outside to wave down a taxi.
‘Another glass of tea, Detective?’ asked the Princess.
‘Thank you, Princess Ostrepova, that would be wonderful.’
‘And I have some piroshki for you. Inspector Danilov said you might be hungry.’ A steaming plate was placed in front of Strachan. He picked one up and began to eat.
What was he going to do?
The fisherman was obviously not the killer but Meaker seemed desperate to charge him. If he went back to the station, they would make sure he was involved. What was it Danilov had said? ‘Do what you think is right.’ What would his father have done?
He thought for a moment and realised he didn’t know. His father’s stories were always about arresting this or that criminal, or the things he had seen on the beat. There was nothing about going against his superior officer. Perhaps his father had just followed orders all his life.
He didn’t know.
He took another piroshki and bit into it. The sweet pork and its juices ran down his chin and dripped on his jacket. He mopped them up with the napkin. As he did so, he remembered something his father had said one night as they sat in front of the fire. He had been telling them about arresting a man for stabbing his sister that day, when he stopped talking and just stared into the fire. ‘My job is to clean up the mess left by others, David. Whatever you do, try not to leave a mess for people like me.’
Strachan put down the glass of tea and rose from the table.
The Princess was beside him immediately. ‘Leaving, Detective? You haven’t finished your piroshki.’
‘I’m sorry, Princess Ostrepova, I have a mess I need to clean up.’
The taxi was taking a long time. Danilov leant forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘Could you go faster?’
‘Busy, today. Students.’ He pointed through the split windscreen.
Outside, crowds had gathered on the streets. At their head, a group of young people were assembling under a white banner with large characters pasted on to it. They were shouting slogans, their fists thrusting into the air at the end of every line.
Danilov sat back in the leather seats. Life goes on, despite everything. If this didn’t go well, he would miss Shanghai. Its life, its teeming streets, its sheer passion for getting on and doing. There were none of the obsessions or abstract reflection of his homeland here. Just keep moving on because nobody knows what tomorrow will bring.
He laughed to himself. That was exactly what he was doing. Moving forward towards a future which he didn’t know.
The taxi accelerated in between two rickshaws, just barely missing both.
The driver edged through the crowds that lined the streets. Some were there to watch the march, others simply to do their shopping. A few more to take advantage of both.
He smelt the fragrance of roasting sweet potatoes once more. The man gets around. Then Danilov laughed to himself. There must be more than one of them. Nobody could be that agile, could they?
Up above, the sky was a bright, bright blue. A colour that he had only ever seen on winter days in Shanghai when a breeze had come in from the sea to blow away the smoke that normally shrouded the city.
On a day like this, it was good to be alive. To smell the roasting sweet potatoes, to hear the chatter of the people, to see the colours of the sky. He almost reached forward to tap the driver on his shoulder and tell him to go back to Medhurst Apartments.
But he didn’t.
His course was set now. There was no going back.
The taxi stopped again. They were at a junction. People flowed in front of the car: tall ones, short ones, men dressed in Mandarin coats, women in their tight
chi paos
.
They didn’t know there was a man out there who wanted to kill them all.
The lights changed colour and the taxi accelerated forward again, only to stop after fifty yards. Up ahead a funeral procession had taken advantage of the gap in the traffic to come out from a side street.
The family of the deceased were dressed in white from head to toe, all looking like refugees from a Ku Klux Klan meeting in America’s Deep South. They walked behind the hearse, two drums beating a rhythmic tattoo in counterpoint to the squeals of a herd of trumpets. In front of the hearse, the paid mourners cried and tore their hair out, lamenting the departure of the deceased.
This must have been a rich man, thought Danilov, to have such a procession. Who would mourn him?
Nobody.
His family were missing, he was all alone in this world. Perhaps, in stopping the killer, his life would have some meaning, a final atonement for what he had done.
The driver spat out thorough the open window and said a soft ‘
Ta ma de
’ under his breath. He jerked the wheel to the right and accelerated past the grieving family, past the squealing trumpets, past the horse-drawn hearse, and past the wailing mourners.
The road was clear in front of them now, just a few pedestrians taking their life into their hands by darting across the road.
Danilov eased himself back into the leather seat. Don’t think any more. Don’t worry. The course has been set. The die cast.
It was time to feed the wolf.
***
‘
Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.
’
He had spoken out loud and Li Min had glanced up from his ropes. The view through the window had surprised him for a moment. Danilov was getting out from a taxi outside the Rowing Club.
How had he got so close?
He had underestimated Danilov it seemed. Well, he wouldn
’
t do that any more. He had intended to leave him to be punished until later but such an opportunity would not present itself again. The gods were helping him in their unique way.
Danilov was standing there alone. Such a tempting target. He must have decided to continue the investigation despite being suspended.
Fool.
Nobody in the Shanghai Police cared for justice. They just wanted an easy life with a fat pension and a comfortable retirement in Margate at the end of it.
Danilov was different. Now it was time for him to go. Perhaps they would begin to understand the necessity of his work after he got rid of the Inspector. Striking at the heart of the police force would make them all realise they couldn
’
t hide any more. If they had done wrong, they would be punished.
It was that simple. Whether you were a prostitute, or one of Shanghai
’
s elite, he would bring you down.
‘
Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly,
’
he said out loud again.
Well, here was the fly and it was time for the spider to act.
Danilov should have been later but no matter. His time had come. He had committed a crime and would be punished like all the rest.
‘
Come, Li Min, we have work to do.
’
***
The taxi driver pulled up beside the Shanghai Rowing Club. ‘You want me wait?’
‘No, thank you. I’ll look after myself.’
‘Taxis not many round here.’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Tree dollar fifty.’
Danilov gave him five dollars. The taxi driver pretended to search for change. But Danilov was already out of the taxi, staring up at the mock-Tudor facade of the building. He barely noticed the taxi pulling away in a cloud of blue exhaust.
The streets were quiet despite being in the centre of the busiest city on Earth. Not a person, not a policeman, could be seen. They must all be at the demonstration, he thought.
No matter.
He walked to the entrance of the club. It was locked. He leant forward to look through the dirt-encrusted windows. His own reflection stared back in the glass. Was that really him?
He shielded his eyes and stared into the club. It seemed deserted.
He stepped back and examined the upper storeys. There were no signs of life. Should he wait or go in? He checked his watch. Can’t stay here not doing anything. He had to move, had to get it over with.
On the left was a rusty half-door set into a wall. He pushed it and was surprised when it opened without a noise.
The courtyard of the Shanghai Rowing Club stood in front of him. He walked through the door and past a large potted plant, guarding the entrance. He was dimly aware of a movement on his left, just out of the periphery of his vision. A blur of blue, a sweep of an arm coming towards him. His instinctive reaction was to duck and avoid the arm, but the man was too quick for him.
A hand grabbed him around the back of the neck, and a wet cloth covered his mouth and nose. He smelt the pungent aroma of chloroform on the rag. The hand clamped tighter around his mouth, and he tried not to breathe. He kicked backwards with the heel of his shoe and it connected with the hard peak of a knee. For a second, the grip relaxed and he heard a grunt from behind him. Then, other arms encircled his and the rag was clamped tighter to his mouth and nose.
He threw his head backwards and felt it connect with the bridge of a nose. This time the rag came free from his mouth. He started to shout and struggled against the other arms holding him. For a second, the grip on him relaxed, then it tightened again, and the rag clamped over his nose once more.
He breathed in.
His legs lost all their strength, and his body collapsed, as he went as limp as a sock full of borscht.
The arm released him, and he fell. A strange slow-motion fall where he could see everything that was happening to him, but was unable to prevent any of it.
The ground came up to meet him. His head bounced once, twice, three times, then settled into the earth, blending into the soft ground. He was aware of a beetle, a twig between its jaws, making its way home in front of his eyes.
Above him, a bald Chinese man slowly came into focus and then disappeared from view after shaking the Inspector’s shoulders.
‘He’s out like a bowl of noodles,’ said the man with a voice like a grind of gears.
Behind him, a tall European man stood adjusting the sleeves of his jacket.
Then blackness.
Strachan knocked on the door of the Fingerprint Lab. There was a long silence before somebody inside shouted, ‘Go away.’
