Death In Shanghai (27 page)

The same kind of man who decides to become a detective, he thought ruefully. But, at least in his job he dealt with living people. How can you have a relationship with a corpse?

Dr Fang began speaking. ‘This is the 46-year-old man brought here last night.’

The corpse of the preacher lay on the cold, white marble slab of the mortuary. The arms and legs had been placed in their usual positions on the body, but Danilov could still see the gap where the arm didn’t quite meet the shoulder, and the leg was separated from the torso.

‘The arms and legs have been separated from the body by a large knife with an extremely sharp edge, rather like a butcher’s cleaver. The separation was not performed with any professionalism or accuracy, however.’ He sniffed. ‘It’s the work of an amateur. Quite a good amateur but still an amateur, you’ll understand. The cuts are quite clean, and the knife work is solid rather than spectacular.’

‘So not a surgeon or a doctor?’ he asked.

‘No, I don’t think so. A butcher not a surgeon. See here…’ He pointed to the leg. Danilov could see the white of the thigh bone as it shone through the pinkness of the muscle and skin. ‘The femur has been sawn through with a blade. It would have been much easier, if one wanted to remove the leg, to simply place the blade in here,’ he picked up a scalpel to demonstrate, ‘and pop the joint here.’

‘Pop?’ asked Strachan.

‘That’s the medical term,’ answered Dr Fang.

Danilov coughed. ‘Was the victim already dead when this was being done?’

‘No, he was still alive. There must have been copious amounts of blood.’ Dr Fang pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. ‘I don’t normally comment on the manner of a victim’s death. I never believe such details are relevant to my investigations. But, in this case, I will make an exception.’ There was a slight pause as Dr Fang gathered his thoughts. ‘This death was very painful. Excruciatingly painful. The amputations were performed while this man was still alive.’

‘Alive?’

‘This man would have been conscious. And this work wasn’t carried out all at the same time. It was spread out over a number of hours.’

‘Why?’

‘I couldn’t possibly comment, Inspector. The man’s motives are none of my concern, simply his actions.’

‘Of course, Dr Fang, please continue.’

‘From the angle of the cuts, we can conclude the man was right-handed, working from the right hand side of the body. There are more characters carved into the chest. This time, they read “revenge” as I am sure you are already aware.’ The doctor sniffed and pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. ‘However, following the principles of Song Ci, I have undertaken some experiments on a pig’s body over the last few days. I believe the knife that carved the characters would look something like this.’ From beneath the mortuary table, he produced a short, rather stubby, triangular blade with a sharp point. He placed it next to the skin of Dr Renfrew. The blade seemed to fit exactly into one of the cuts of the stroke on the character. ‘The knife is not common. Used by sailors on the Yangtse to splice ropes.’

‘Thank you, Dr Fang, you have been diligent. Is there anything else?’

For the first time the pathologist smiled. ‘There are no other marks but we have found this.’ He pulled up the torso and turned it over to reveal the back of the left shoulder. ‘The body had been washed after the amputations, removing all the blood. He is a clean operator our killer. I remember that the English actress had been washed in exactly the same way. And, of course, our first victim had been cleaned by the waters of the creek, not that they are particularly clean.’

‘I don’t believe he is being clean, Doctor, I think he is removing any trace of evidence that might remain with the body,’ said Danilov.

‘If that is the case, Inspector, he must be aware of Locard’s theories also. It suggests an educated man who is aware of the latest advances in forensic science.’

‘Oh, he’s clever all right, too clever perhaps.’

‘But cleverness is not everything, is it, Inspector? Sometimes, the truly clever make the simplest mistakes.’ The doctor turned the shoulder and pointed to a small red mark with distinctive whorls and ridges. ‘In this case, he wasn’t as punctilious as he was with our English actress. Do you see it?’

Both Danilov and Strachan leant over the body to get a better view.

‘I think the killer reached around with his left hand and gripped the shoulder, whilst his right hand severed the remaining sinews and muscles attaching the arm to the shoulder. Something like this.’ The doctor demonstrated what he meant to the two detectives using the small scalpel as a knife.

‘I’ll call the fingerprint squad right away,’ said Strachan.

‘I have taken the liberty of calling them already, Inspector.’ Dr Fang looked at his watch, ‘they should be waiting outside.’

Danilov gestured for Strachan to get the fingerprint team.

‘I think it’s the left index finger. Fingerprinting from skin is notoriously difficult, but I think your team should be able to get something from this. This is a classic example of Locard’s theory. When two humans come into contact there will always be a transfer of some sort. Humans always have relationships, just not the sort we normally think about.’

‘Thank you, Dr Fang, your examination has been most useful. I wonder did you have time to look at the lid of the barrel?’

Strachan and the fingerprint team burst through the doors and marched up to the mortuary table. Dr Fang stared down at the wet feet spoiling his pristine white tiles.

He sniffed again and pushed his glasses up onto his nose. ‘I did, Inspector. Most interesting.’ He walked over to a stainless steel table in the corner. Beneath a white sheet lay the lid, looking as though it was yet another corpse awaiting its autopsy.

‘It’s made of oak. French oak, I believe, but wood is not really my field. Far too healthy for me, I’m afraid.’ He picked up the lid. ‘As you will have worked out, there are traces of bitumen all around the edges. A common enough material, used on boats up and down the China coast. The blood stains are pig’s blood. It seems to have seeped into the wood, giving this peculiarly pink tinge to the oak.’

‘What about the scratches on the inside of the lid, Doctor?’

‘Patience, Inspector, I was coming to those. Made with the fingers I believe. It seems to be the words, HATE ALL. But the last “L” is noticeably fainter than the rest of the letters.’

‘You said, made with the fingers?’

‘The nails of the fingers to be precise. And probably a woman’s hand.’ Dr Fang held up a small glass bottle with a minute fleck of something lying on a white cotton ball in the bottom. ‘There are traces of nail polish on this fragment. Scarlet nail polish. Not a colour I would recommend to anybody.’

Danilov scratched his head. ‘Let me understand you properly, Doctor, you are saying that a woman made these scratches?’

‘I am, Inspector. And given the context, I would be quite confident in stating these scratches were made by the victim.’

‘Maria Tatiana Stepanova?’

‘Of course, without examining the nails, I can’t be 100% certain but…’

‘Thank you, Doctor. That is most interesting.’

‘It’s my pleasure, Inspector. And now, I must return to my liver.’

Danilov looked across at Strachan and the fingerprint technicians carefully taking an impression of the print on Renfrew’s shoulder. To find a match was painstaking as they searched the records by hand. And that was pre-supposing they had the killer’s fingerprint on file.

This case was becoming more and more complex. He desperately needed time to think and smoke. ‘Stra-chan, leave those men to their jobs, they know what they are doing. We need to take a walk.’

***

They both stepped out of the morgue, leaving the sterile smells of death and loneliness behind them. Danilov immediately began to roll a cigarette. ‘Walk with me, Stra-chan. I always find a walk and a good smoke clear the mind of the cobwebs. A shot of vodka sometimes helps too.’

‘I don’t drink, sir.’

‘Not at all?’

‘No, sir. Never developed a taste for it. I prefer tea.’

‘Do you enjoy any of the vices, Stra-chan?’

The detective stared at the back of a lorry laden down with freshly cut bamboo. ‘I suppose my one vice is food, sir. I love my food.’

As if by chance, they walked past a row of carts selling all the tastes of China: pungent preserved bean curd, steaming pots of pig’s giblets, Cantonese Xiao Mai, a sizzling wok full of Ma Por To Fu, a string of glutinous rice cakes wrapped in lotus leaves dangling from a rattan roof, noodles of all shapes and sizes waiting to be thrown in vats of boiling clear soup, and golden glazed ducks hanging by their necks waiting for the burly cook to chop their heads off.

‘You wouldn’t like to eat would you, Strachan?’

‘After the morgue, a bowl of noodles would settle my stomach, sir.’

Danilov sat down at one of the small bamboo tables that surrounded each stall. The cook ran over and greeted them. ‘Can I get anything for you, sir?’

‘A cigarette and a pot of tea will be enough for me. I ate my fill at your uncle’s. But eat away, Stra-chan. Don’t let me put you off.’

Strachan ordered a few dishes from the cook.

‘While you are waiting for the food to arrive, let’s talk about the case. We now know why the killer is committing his murders. He sees all the people he’s killed as criminals who deserve to be punished. That’s important, Strachan.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The tea arrived. The cook set two glasses in front of the detectives and filled them half full. Strachan washed a pair of chopsticks in his glass and threw the tea away. ‘Can’t be too careful, sir.’

‘No, Stra-chan. Not with a deranged killer on the loose. We also know that he carves the characters into his victims to mark them.’

‘Just like the preacher, tattooing his disciples, sir.’

‘Exactly. Then he puts them on display. He’s proud of his work. He believes this is his mission in life. And in death.’

The noodles arrived. Strachan immediately began to assemble them into a nice ball in his bowl and shovel them into his mouth with the same vitality as a stoker feeding coal into the engine of a ship.

‘He obviously knows a lot about the secrets of his victims. He knows their lives, their habits, their thoughts. How, Strachan, tell me that?’

Strachan lifted his head from his noodles for a second. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Neither do I, Strachan, not yet. But we will find out.’

‘That’s good, sir,’ said Strachan between spoonfuls of soup. Then the soup spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand?’

‘What’s that, Stra-chan?’

‘Well, sir, if our prostitute was Russian…’

‘She was. Her name was Maria Tatiana Stepanova.’

‘Yes, sir. If she was Russian, why did she write a message in English as she was dying? I mean you don’t get anything more English than “HATE ALL”, do you?’

Strachan returned to his bowl of noodles, slurping his soup. Inspector Danilov leant over and planted a kiss on the top of his head. ‘Brilliant, Stra-chan. You are brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?’

Strachan looked at his bowl of noodles, pleased with himself. ‘It’s because you don’t eat, sir.’

‘I need to see someone and then go back to the station. I’ve got an idea who the killer is. We’re close to Garden Bridge so it should be easy to get a cab. You’ve still got to finish the interviews of the people at the tea dance, haven’t you?’

‘Just one more to go, sir – the young man.’

‘Well, get a move on, we haven’t got all day.’

‘Getting a move on, sir.’

Chapter 29

‘I’m so glad you could see me at such notice.’ Danilov took his hat off as he entered the office. The secretary closed the door behind him.

Councillor Ayres continued writing, ignoring the interruption. Richard Ayres stood up from his seat in front of his father’s desk and held his hand out. ‘Good to see you again, Inspector. Please sit down.’

Richard’s father looked up from his documents. Behind him, the view of the Whampoo was stunning. Ships of all shapes and sizes swarming over the river; small bum boats, dirty tramp steamers, elegant yachts, sea-wasted junks, ocean-going liners and, in a row down the centre of the river, a fleet of warships, their decks covered with bunting, their guns pointing towards Shanghai.

Danilov heard a cough.

‘How can we help you, Inspector? If it’s about this girl, Elsie…?’

‘Everett…’ Richard leant forward and interrupted his father.

‘Yes. Elsie Everett. My son has told you all he knows. He doesn’t have anything else to add.’

‘Thank you for making the time to see me. I know you are a busy man, Councillor Ayres.’

‘I’ve given you fifteen minutes and then I have another meeting. With the American Consul.’

‘Once again, I thank you for the time. I asked to see you both this time.’

‘How I can help with a murder investigation is beyond me.’

‘Nonetheless, I’m sure you can, Councillor.’ He sat down on the chair next to Richard.

The desk in front of him was extremely tidy. A small stack of documents on the left, another stack on the right, a blotter, two pens and a telephone was all that cluttered the pale oak. There was no ashtray so he decided not to roll a cigarette. Councillor Ayres sat facing them, his back to the view and his face in the shadow of the light from the picture windows.

He turned to Richard. ‘Could you tell me about your movements last night, Mr Ayres?’

Richard glanced at his father. ‘I went to the Shanghai Club at seven, had a spot to eat. Father joined me at nine. We ate a little more and drank a nightcap at the Long Bar. Then we both went home. A very quiet night, Inspector.’

‘Why do you ask?’ The words from the Councillor had a hint of menace in them.

‘Last night, there was another murder. We believe it was the same man who killed Elsie Everett.’

‘You’re talking about Dr Renfrew?’

‘How do you know who was murdered, Councillor Ayres?’

The Councillor smiled smugly, reached down into his waste paper bin and pulled out a copy of the morning newspaper. He threw it on the desk. ‘I would think everybody in Shanghai knows, Inspector, if they read the news.’