Death In Shanghai (3 page)

‘Was it true?’

‘He has the same breakfast every morning because he can’t be bothered explaining to his cook he would like something different. He wasn’t wearing his normal pungent eau de cologne which only happens when his wife locks him out of the marital bedchamber after an argument. She was still unhappy with him, so he was unable to splash more on this morning. You may have noticed he is still wearing the same clothes as two days ago. Hence, the boy is no longer providing his services.’

‘But how did you know about his…’ she leaned forward and whispered ‘…paramour?’

‘That part was easy. I observed her with Robson on Nanking Road two nights ago. It seems she has switched her favours recently. And everything I said about myself was true.’

‘You are a proper Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you, Inspector Danilov?

‘I admire your famous detective, Miss Cavendish, but I always believed he missed the patterns in crime. The patterns are everything. Once we understand them, everything else falls into place.’

‘A bit like my knitting, without the pattern I’m lost.’

‘Precisely, Miss Cavendish. All criminals have patterns through which they reveal themselves. Our job is to discover the pattern. It was one of the first things they taught us at the Imperial Police Academy.’

Miss Cavendish was the ears of all gossip in Central. If he wanted to know anything about the station or its inhabitants, Chinese, English, Russian or Japanese, he just asked her. She was better than any stoolie on the street, and she was free, which was even more important.

‘I would look out for him if I were you.’ She indicated the closed door of the detectives’ room. ‘A bit of a bull in a china shop is our Inspector Cartwright. Or a bull in a China police station, I should say.’ Miss Cavendish giggled as she played with the pearls that encircled her neck. Danilov wondered if she were flirting with him.

She popped a sweet into her mouth from the packet that lay on her table. She offered one to him. For a moment he was tempted but then shook his head. His hands lay on her desk, the scars that creased the skin above his knuckles vivid red against the pale white, a legacy of the education his father had given him years before in Minsk. He quickly hid them behind his back.

‘Inspector Allen from Intelligence gave these to me.’ In her left hand, she waved her packet of purple sweets. ‘Haven’t had these French sweets since before the war. He’s such a nice man. He left this for you.’ Her right hand held a large brown internal envelope marked private and confidential.

He took it, ensuring his hands were palm upwards. Inside was a white sheet of expensive writing paper. ‘Too predictable, Allen.’

He took out a large fountain pen and wrote P X QKN below Allen’s last line. Folding the paper, he returned it to the internal envelope.

‘Secrets and secret notes, Inspector Danilov.’ She thought for a moment and then said, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you something for a long time.

‘Ask away, Miss Cavendish, if I am able to satisfy your curiosity, I will be happy to oblige.’

‘How is it you speak such good English? For a Russian I mean.’

‘Two years at Scotland Yard, Miss Cavendish, looking for some Russian bombers. We never found them so it was a wasted time. It did give me a love for your language though. Such a less stoic tongue than my native Russian.’

‘Well, you are a card, I must say. Scotland Yard indeed. Who would have guessed?’

‘Thank you, Miss Cavendish. If you see Detective Stra-chan, please tell him to meet me at the morgue.’

‘Now, that’s an invitation nobody could refuse.’

Danilov stood there for a moment, nodded once and left. He would never understand the English sense of humour.

Chapter 2

Elsie Everett strode across the classic wood-lined lobby and entered the Grand Ballroom. A resplendent peacock dominated the stage above the band, couples shuffled around the dance floor and waiters danced between the tables, carrying drinks and plates of snacks.

She couldn’t see Richard. Was he late again? There was Margery Leadbitter. She would have to sit with the viper. Richard was so annoying; if it wasn’t for his money, she would…well she didn’t know what she would do, but she would have to bring him under control quickly.

She dodged the dancing waiters and presented herself in front of Margery, leaning in to kiss her on both cheeks. She felt a slight stickiness from the woman’s skin and it gave her a frisson of disgust. ‘Where’s Richard?’

Margery picked at something that lay on her bottom lip and examined it closely. ‘I don’t know. He was supposed to have been here half an hour ago. Alfred’s late too.’

‘Typical men. What are you drinking?’

‘An Old-Fashioned. I can’t face anything bubbly today.’

Elsie caught the eye of one of the waiters. ‘Another Old-Fashioned, with a maraschino cherry and no lemon.’ She turned back to Margery. ‘How’s Alfred these days?’

‘I don’t see much of him any more. He always seems so busy. I was surprised he wanted to come this afternoon.’ She paused for a moment and then continued, ‘Maybe it was because I told him you were coming.’

Elsie didn’t know how to respond, so she lit a cigarette and studied the room. It seemed to be the usual crowd of wasters, good-time charlies and hangers-on. On her left, a young Chinese man with closely-cropped hair like a military helmet was surrounded by three extremely young and giggly women. In one corner, an elegant Chinese grandfather in a long Mandarin coat sat all alone drinking tea. Across the dance floor, she caught a fat, bald European staring at her, his gaze averted as she noticed him through the dancers.

Then she was seized in a big bear grip and kissed on the cheeks. He was always a little rough, like a colt who had just learned to walk, but she enjoyed the hard bristle of his moustache against her soft skin.

‘Look who I met outside. He was prowling around like a cat looking for a sparrow.’ Richard stepped back to reveal the long, lean silhouette of Alfred. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, bowing slightly from the hips.

‘Don’t be so stiff, Alfred. Give her a kiss on the cheeks. You remember how we used to do it in France, don’t you?’ Richard rounded the table and reached over to kiss Margery. She accepted as if it were exactly what she was supposed to receive, nothing less, nothing more.

‘I’m so thirsty, I could drink Lake Tai.’ Richard raised his hand and instantly a waiter appeared at his elbow. ‘Champagne?’

‘Not for myself and Margery,’ said Elsie.

‘But you’ll join me won’t you, Alfred? Can’t drink champagne alone.’

‘I’ll join you too,’ said Margery, looking at Elsie.

The waiter ran off to fetch the bottle. ‘Sit down, Alfred. You’re making my neck tired looking up to you.’

Alfred pulled out the cane chair and placed himself between Richard and Margery, opposite Elsie.

‘How was this morning, Richard?’ She emphasised her refined vowels, taught at considerable expense and even more pain by Madame Tollemache all those years ago. Pain that had been worth it, as she had long lost the nasal twang of the streets of Salford.

The waiter brought the champagne and poured out three glasses. ‘Here’s to life, liberty and the pursuit of drunkenness.’ Richard drained the glass in one gulp and indicated for more to be poured.

‘As I was saying, Richard, you really need to get that pony of yours into better shape. You have a real chance at the races this Easter.’

‘I can’t be bothered getting up early and exercising the bloody thing in the wee small hours of the morning. I’d rather wallow in my pit.’

‘Well, it’s your loss…’

‘I just hate it when men ignore us, don’t you, Elsie?’ Margery’s voice cut through the music from the band, and all the other conversations at the tables nearby.

‘Well, I…’

‘Elsie’s far too polite to complain, aren’t you, dear?’

‘Of course she is,’ said Alfred quickly, ‘the manners of an angel and a voice to match. I was in the audience the other night at the theatre. You were perfect in the Novello song. What was it called?’

‘“The Land of Might-Have-Been”,’ said Elsie, ‘a lovely tune, almost as good as “I Can Give You Starlight”.’

‘Thank you, Alfred, we all know how you admire Elsie’s…attributes,’ said Margery, finishing her champagne.

A hush enveloped the table like a damp sea mist.

‘Let’s dance shall we? I love this new one from Harry Horlick.’ Richard held out his hand to Elsie.

They stepped out onto the brightly lit dance floor. A woman glided past them with a manic grin on her face, her partner a stiff, small man with the shiniest hair Elsie had ever seen. The band seemed to get louder and gayer.

‘Thank God, I got you away from them. Alfred’s fine, but Margery’s becoming a little shrill, a shrike with claws.’

‘She’s fine, Richard, she means well.’ Elsie had decided to play the shy innocent girl for all she was worth. It was going to be her best role.

‘Just like you to say something kind about Margery, when she’s been such a witch.’

‘No she hasn’t.’ She leaned away from him, beating her little fist playfully on his jacket. He laughed, pulled her closer and together they shimmied across the dance floor.

***

‘Good afternoon, Inspector, good to see you again, even if it is always under the most trying of circumstances that we meet.’ The voice was elegantly patrician, the Received Pronunciation even more pronounced than usual.

Dr Fang was dressed in his normal working attire: bright red bow tie with a fine gold weave, a crisp, rather old-fashioned shirt with wing collars and a beautifully tailored dark-green tweed suit. On his small feet, polished brown brogues peeped out beneath the turn-ups of the tweed trousers.

Dr Fang had been educated in London, then studied under Locard in Lyon, which he never tired of telling people. He believed in Locard’s principles religiously. Procedures were to be followed to the smallest detail because every contact leaves a trace, however minute. There was no room for speculation, no margin for error. It was the facts, just the facts, that were important.

‘Come into my parlour.’ Dr Fang opened the door to the morgue. The pungent smell of formaldehyde hit Danilov like a Shanghai tram. And, as always, he was transported back to the sweets of his youth. He never knew why the smell of formaldehyde had this effect on him, bringing back memories of running down the streets of Minsk, his shoes clattering on the cobblestones, an aunt, elegant, austere, reaching into a large jar of sweets and bringing out a soft pink bonbon that melted in his mouth, covering his teeth in sticky sugar.

But he wasn’t in the Minsk of his youth now. He was in a brightly lit white-tiled room that ached of loneliness and solitude. In front of him lay six stainless steel tables, each covered with a white sheet.

Dr Fang stood next to the nearest of these tables and removed the cover revealing a white, bloodless corpse. The body had a Y-shaped incision on the chest that had been crudely sewn up with large, even stitches. The stomach and lower body was a mass of nothingness, revealing glimpses of pale meat hidden in the dark emptiness.

He heard Strachan coughing behind him.

‘Is this your first post-mortem, young man?’ asked Dr Fang.

‘Yes, sir,’ answered Strachan with a voice that was much stronger than Danilov expected.

‘If you’re going to be sick, please do it outside. There’s a pail placed there precisely for the purpose. I will not have my clean floor covered in the acids of your stomach, is that clear?’

‘I’m not going to be sick, sir.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Shall we begin?’

Danilov nodded.

‘Good. I would like to thank you, Inspector Danilov. As ever you have given me a most interesting specimen to work with. Found in Soochow Creek wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right, sir. Early this morning, floating on the “Beach of Dead Babies”. It must have been washed down the creek on the ebbing tide,’ said Strachan.

Dr Fang gave a loud sniff as if he had just inhaled a large dose of formaldehyde. ‘Oh, I doubt that, young man, it’s…?’

‘Detective Constable Strachan, sir.’

‘Well, Detective Strachan, we are here today to deal in facts, not idle suspicions, rumours, conjectures or suppositions. Is that clear?’

‘As the Soochow Creek, sir.’

Dr Fang sniffed once again. ‘Let us begin, with just the facts this time.’

Danilov watched as the doctor tugged at the end of his nose, letting the pause add to the drama, playing the game of silence.

‘As I said before, a most interesting case. Of course, a cursory examination of the body would conclude the victim had died from a deep incision across the lower abdomen and the pubic region.’ He indicated both areas with a retractable metal pointer. ‘But one would be wrong to leap to such an erroneous conclusion.’

Here he stared pointedly at Strachan. ‘I’m quite sure the cuts were made post-mortem. See, there is no bleeding from the wounds.’ He pointed to the deepest slash across the base of the stomach.

‘But wouldn’t the creek have washed away the blood?’ asked Strachan.

‘For a layman, that would be the most obvious inference,’ sniffed Dr Fang, ‘but examining the capillaries under the microscope indicates no blood flowed through them when these cuts were made. Ergo, the victim,’ again he pointed to the body lying naked on the slab, ‘had already been dead before the wounds were made.’

‘Approximately how long had the victim been dead?’

‘I’m afraid it’s impossible to say. Being in water makes the time of death uncertain.’

‘So the victim drowned?’

‘It seems, Detective Strachan, you have quite a lot to learn about forensic science. The first thing you should learn is that we will complete these examinations more quickly if you keep quiet and not ask so many damn fool questions.’ Dr Fang adjusted his red bow tie and sniffed once again.

Danilov held up his hand to prevent any response from Strachan. ‘Please continue, Dr Fang.’

‘As I was saying, the victim couldn’t have drowned because there is no water in the lungs. Interestingly, this medical phenomenon was first reported by a Chinese physician. His name was Song Ci and he produced a fascinating book called
Xi Yuan Lu
or
The Washing Away of Wrongs
, in 1248 during the Song Dynasty. I’m presently preparing an English translation which I would be happy to let you read, Inspector Danilov.’