Death In Shanghai (34 page)

Danilov’s head slumped forward, his body held in place by the rope. The sweat and blood dripped off his brow and fingers onto the floor, pooling at his feet, forming a rich, sticky mess.

‘You see, for those of us who were there, unlike you, we live it every day. Oh, we may bury it beneath an orgy of sex or champagne or dancing, but it’s always there, buried deep in our bones. A part of us, you see, a desperate part of us.’

‘I never went to the Front.’

‘You were lucky.’

Danilov lifted his head. ‘Lucky?’

‘Yes, lucky. The war was horrific yet beautiful. Nobody ever understands its beauty.’

‘Beauty? The war destroyed my country, killed my Tsar, brought famine and destruction to my city,’ Danilov sucked in a deep breath of the foetid air of the cell, ‘and destroyed my family.’ The eyes blinked behind the darkness of the wall. Was he laughing at him?

‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? Your family is still alive. Well, at least part of it is.’

Danilov sat bolt upright. ‘What? How do you know? Where are they?’ He twisted and jerked against the ropes again, struggling to free himself.

‘You had a telegram from a Mr Willis in Tsingtao. An answer to your advertisement. Cartwright took it.’

‘I know.’

A soft chuckle came from behind the wall.

‘Cartwright…you have been using Cartwright, haven’t you?’

‘Not directly. But Charles Meaker was so very keen to return to Central, and he controlled Cartwright.’ The voice trailed off leaving Danilov to work out the rest.

‘You’ve been watching my investigation all this time?’

‘I just wanted to make sure I knew what you were doing. It’s knowing the moves your opponent is going to make before he makes them. Like chess, only with people.’

‘Just pawns, aren’t we?’

‘Like flies to the gods…’

‘Cartwright told you everything I was doing?’

‘Him and Miss Cavendish. She didn’t know, of course. But she’s such a terrible gossip. I find a few sweets always loosens her tongue.’

‘And Stra-chan?’

‘Such an innocent, isn’t he? Shame. Under you he would have the makings of a halfway decent copper. Pity we’re never going to find out. Meaker will probably be his new boss.’

‘So it was time to get rid of me.’

‘You were getting a little too close, asking the wrong sort of questions.’

‘Time to kill me off?’

‘Oh no, you did that yourself, Danilov, the day you deserted your wife and children. I am merely the agent of Di Yu, punishing those who transgress.’

There was a loud snap as the small window high on the black wall closed.

Danilov was left staring at the wall. ‘Where are my family?’ he shouted. ‘Where are my family?’

His body slumped forward again, the sweat running down his forehead into his eyes. He pulled against the ropes, twisting his body for extra leverage.

His right arm came free.

***

Strachan parked the Buick around the corner from the Rowing Club on Yuanmingyuan Road. There was no point letting the killer know he was there. Not until the back-up arrived in their Red Marias.

He walked to the Rowing Club, the sun fighting with its late afternoon strength to cast strong shadows across the buildings. He passed one of the new Art Deco buildings that was finished yet still not occupied. The streets were deserted. This wasn’t the Shanghai he knew, full of lights and noise and people and smells. Here, everything was as quiet as a funeral parlour with no bodies.

A mist was creeping off the creek and drifting around the dark buildings of the club, shrouding the mock-Tudor frontage and the black and white boathouse. Strachan sniffed the air. The unmistakable reek of salted fish assaulted his nostrils, carried on the mist from the boats on the river.

He crept around the building trying to remain hidden from view. So like the British to build something like this, as if it were located on the Thames at Henley rather than here, in the middle of the biggest Chinese city in the world.

He stared down at the flotsam and jetsam floating off the launch ramp of the Rowing Club. Over there, they had found the body of Henry Sellars, stretched out on the ‘Beach of Dead Babies’, his stomach ripped apart. It seemed so long ago. A lifetime and an age away.

He turned back to the building. Should he go in, or wait for help to arrive? It looked empty and deserted, but the killer might be inside right now.

And if the killer came out before the Mobile Unit arrived, what was Strachan going to do? He could try to ambush him, but there was nowhere to hide on the open street.

Better to catch him unawares inside, when Strachan would be in control. Besides, the Inspector was probably in there too. What if he had already been captured by the killer? A shudder went down Strachan’s spine.

He stood on tiptoes and peered through the window of the boathouse. The waters of an indoor swimming pool reflected into dancing shadows on the walls. He could stand here waiting for help to come, or he could go in and check it out for himself. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. Was that one of Danilov’s Russian idioms or something he had picked up at school?

He didn’t care.

He smashed his revolver against the glass. The sound seemed so loud in the silence of the street. He stopped and looked around, waiting for a reaction.

Inside, the building nothing moved. Outside, the streets were empty, the only sound the waves lapping against the launch ramp of the club, and the muffled chug of some ancient motor as it struggled against the tides of the Whampoo.

He cleared the remaining glass from the window, reached inside and drew back the bolt. He pushed the window open and climbed in. His boots made a loud crunch as they landed on the broken glass on the inside of the building.

Once again, he froze and listened for any reaction.

Nothing.

He stepped forward, carefully checking where he put his feet, the revolver clenched in his right hand. A vehicle drove past outside, its headlights briefly illuminating the shadows in the boathouse, throwing blue light onto the walls.

He was five feet from a shimmering swimming pool. The smell of the water – a mixture of chlorine and damp bath towels – took him back to his childhood, swimming with his father, laughing, being wrapped up in a giant swathe of Lancashire cloth, teeth chattering with the cold.

Mustn’t think about that now, not now.

The shadows of the reflected water danced on the wall in front of him. He jerked back as something brushed against his face, striking out with the butt end of the gun. The back of his hand touched the crinkled leaves of a palm frond.

He slumped forward, breathing deeply. Pull yourself together.

He stepped past the palm tree and peered through the stained glass windows of the double door leading to the club itself. He remembered the layout from when he visited with his father. But he hadn’t been here for years, not since his father had died.

The doors led to a large open lobby, a restaurant and smoking room to one side and upstairs, more rooms for reading and relaxing.

He pushed the door open with his left hand. It moved smoothly, without a squeak. It was as dark as the devil’s soul in the club. He stood there listening, smelling the years of tobacco smoke and whisky and whiskers.

He stepped through, letting the door swing shut behind him. It made a wooden thunk as it closed against the other door. Once again, he froze and listened.

Letting his eyes slowly become accustomed to the gloom, he scanned the room. A large oil painting of a dead grouse on the opposite wall, while beneath his feet a thick maroon carpet cushioned his steps. There were other prints and etchings on the wood-panelled walls, all depicting long lost hunting scenes in England.

To his left, the carpeted stairs rose to the next floor. He began to climb upwards, stopping after each step to listen for any noise that might show the killer was in the building, lying in wait for him.

But all he ever heard was his own breathing.

He reached the landing. Above him, the portrait of a pompous European, proprietorial in its whiskered face and smug smile, stared down as if wondering what this half-Chinese interloper was doing in his club.

Then a scream pierced the silence.

***

Danilov kept his eyes on the spy hole in the wall as he undid the rope tying his left arm to the chair. His fingers fumbled on the complex knot. He worked his fingers into it and pulled one of the strands. It began to give.

The spy hole opened and he immediately put his right arm back on the chair, letting his head fall forward as if he were unconscious.

What was he going to do next? There were only two of them as far as he could see, but both were more powerful than he was and neither had spent the last five hours without food and water, tied to a chair.

The spy hole snapped shut again. He opened one eye and stared at the wall were the sliding panel should be. He could see nothing but a black, blank wall.

He began tugging at the rope binding his left wrist again, working his fingers into the strands. It was coming free. He could feel his left wrist had more movement now, it wasn’t as tightly gripped as before.

He pulled at the knot but his fingers felt like coarse German sausages. The rope was taking an age to untie with one hand. In the pictures, the hero always freed himself in three seconds, but this wasn’t a film, this was real.

He strained his left wrist against the rope. The bindings were looser now. Just a few more tugs at the strands of the rope and he would be free. He pulled at the rope with his right hand, working his left wrist up and down. It slid from under the rope, taking a layer of skin with it. The pain shot through his arm, he almost cried out but stifled it to a quiet groan.

He held up his arms, massaging the hands together, desperately trying to bring life and energy back into the fingers. My feet, he thought, I still have to untie my feet.

He kicked against the restraints, and the chair rocked backwards and forwards. He brought his hands down and began to work on the ropes tying his ankles to the chair. It was easier now, even though the rope was tied tightly. Two hands worked on the knot, searching for a way to loosen it.

He kicked out with his right foot again. This time the knot gave slightly. His fingers found the strand that would come loose. He pulled and pulled, alternatively straining and relaxing his ankle against the leg of the chair. The foot began to work itself free.

There was the rattle of a key in the door, turning in the lock. He sat bolt upright, returning his hands to their tied position on the arms of the chair.

The door swung open, light shafting in from the corridor. Danilov shut his eyes.

‘Ah, good to see you are with us again, old chap. But I would open my eyes if I were you. It does make Li Min’s job easier, and it will certainly be far less painful for you.’

Allen hadn’t bothered to wear the mask this time. He stood in front of Danilov with his long, patrician face, Roman nose and tight jaw, every inch the stern judge passing sentence.

Despite himself, Danilov opened his eyes. The bald Chinese man had followed Allen into the cell, still carrying his notebook and pen, but now he also had a canvas bag over his arm.

‘Li Min will do the honours.’ Allen’s voice was almost jovial, like a schoolboy asking a new boy to cut the cake.

‘Pyotr Alexandrevich Danilov,’ Li Min read from his book, ‘you have been tried and found guilty by this court of deserting your family in time of war.’

‘I’m not guilty,’ shouted Danilov.

‘I’m afraid it’s a little too late for pleading, Inspector. Please carry on, Li Min.’

‘You have been sentenced in accordance with the assigned punishment for this heinous crime. Your eyes will be gouged from your head whilst you are still conscious. You will then be left to bleed until you are dead.’

Danilov could hear his own breathing, short and sharp and rasping. Allen and Li Min were silent, waiting for a reaction from him, but he refused to give them any more pleasure.

‘It is customary at times like these for the guilty party to say a few last words before the sentence is carried out. But as you, Danilov, have shown neither remorse nor guilt for your actions, I am going to dispense with tradition. Such a waste of time and effort, don’t you think?’

Danilov stayed quiet, thinking furiously. When could he act? When could he do something?

‘Carry out the sentence, Li Min. Let’s not keep the Inspector waiting any longer. The suspense is killing him.’

Li Min placed his book and fountain pen on the floor. Danilov could see the neat handwriting of the notes, covering the two open pages. The pen was a Parker, filled with purple ink. Its black body and open nib lay there on the words, on his sentence of death. Such a strange colour to use, he thought.

Li Min reached into his canvas bag and pulled out a long piece of old leather. It was shaped like a thick headband with a buckle at one end. In the middle were two spikes, sharpened to glittering points. They glinted savagely in the light from the open door.

‘I thought we would use silver on you, Inspector. It’s a far more elegant way to die than cold steel, don’t you agree?’

Danilov stayed quiet, every muscle in his body waiting for the moment when he could act. The bald Chinese man walked around the chair and out of sight, carrying the leather headband like a priest carrying a chasuble. The scratch of leather on metal as the headband was released from its clasp. Li Min’s soft footsteps as he stepped forward, leaning in closer to fasten it around Danilov’s head.

He felt the heavy touch of the hard leather on his forehead.

Now, now was the time.

He reached down and grabbed the fountain pen from the top of the book, bringing it up in an arc over his head, stabbing backwards with all his strength.

The pen dug deep into flesh. A scream burst over Danilov’s head. Warm liquid squirted over his hand. He pulled the pen out and stabbed backwards again, harder this time, as hard as he could.

Another scream pierced the air. Li Min staggered in front of him, the Parker pen buried deep in his right eye.