Death In Shanghai (30 page)

Danilov pushed his chair back from the desk. ‘This man is going to carry on killing until he’s stopped. How many deaths will you have on your hands, Chief Inspector Boyle?’

There was no answer.

He straightened up and strode out of the office, past Miss Cavendish, whose head was still buried in her files.

The walk to the detectives’ room was long, the longest he had ever taken. He had let Cartwright get to him. Stupid. How could he have been so stupid? Finally, he had sunk to their level.

He stepped into the detectives’ room. It went quiet. Suddenly, the reports they were writing, or the doodles they were scribbling, were far more important than Danilov’s arrival.

On his desk, everything was neat and tidy, except for an ashtray in the centre of his blotter. The ashtray was full of burnt paper; the blackened remains of an envelope with just a few hints of light green showing through the dark brown ashes.

He reached forward and touched them. They dissolved into a black powder, leaving a dark stain on the tips of his fingers.

He collected his things from the desk. His tobacco tin, a few pens and pencils, his warrant card. The words written on it in dark blue type: Detective Inspector Pyotr Danilov. Shanghai Municipal Police.

Looking at these words, seeing them so close, he decided he wasn’t going to be beaten by these people. His job was too important. The murderer had to be stopped. Despite Cartwright. Despite Boyle. Despite Shanghai.

Sergeant Wolfe appeared at the door. ‘I’m to escort you out of the station, Inspector Danilov. Orders from the Chief.’

Danilov gathered up his few possessions and stuffed them in his pockets. These people weren’t going to beat him.

Not this time.

Not ever.

***

The interview with the young man from the Astor had been worse than useless. He had obviously been smoking opium and his mind drifted off after every question that Strachan asked. It was like interviewing a fish only not as helpful.

Strachan decided to give up and head back to the station. He stepped through the door. Instead of the usual greeting, Sergeant Wolfe looked down, finding something terribly urgent to do in his desk diary.

Strange.

He walked past the Sikh guards, through the double doors and into the detectives’ room. Again, nobody greeted him. All who were there seemed to be engrossed in their work. Even Cartwright didn’t look up and make a joke as he entered.

He looked at the desk next to him. ‘Where’s Danilov?’

‘He’s been suspended,’ a detective answered without bothering to look up. ‘Attacked George Cartwright, didn’t he? Russians, don’t have the temperament for our work.’

Danilov was suspended? But there was so much to do. What about the case? The killer? What should he do now? He ran his fingers through his thick black hair. Didn’t Danilov have a phone at home? Perhaps, he should ring him. Find out what to do.

He went to see Miss Cavendish. ‘Do you have Danilov’s phone number?’

Her finger went to her lips. She leant forward and whispered theatrically, ‘You’re not supposed to speak to him. He’s been suspended.’ She stared past him to the closed door of Boyle’s office. ‘Between you and me, Inspector Danilov and Chief Inspector Boyle had a fight. It was over Cartwright. I think your Inspector is off the case.’

She picked up her pen and wrote a number down on a pad in front of her, passing it across to Strachan whilst staring at the closed door.

Danilov off the case? What was he going to do? He thought about the old man and his description of the killer. What was he going to do with it?

‘Detective Constable Strachan.’ A large body with an even larger moustache placed itself in between himself and the door. ‘Good to see you again.’ The body leaned in closer to him, and he could smell the whisky on the breath. It was as if the whiskers were soaked in it so the owner could taste them any time he wanted. ‘Well done, good collar, even if I do say so myself.’

Meaker stuck out a meaty hand towards him. Strachan took the hand and shook it, but it didn’t let him go. ‘I’m here to see Chief Inspector Boyle. To take over Danilov’s case, the one from the creek. Apparently, he’s cocked it up, the brass are livid.’

Strachan could see Meaker’s yellow teeth beneath the bushy whiskers. They looked like large, unkempt gravestones. Once again, he smelt the overpowering stench of whisky.

‘You’ll be reporting to me. I’m sure we’ll get on fine.’ He finally released Strachan’s hand and stroked his moustache. ‘We’ll soon have this killer caught, sentenced and executed, won’t we? Then, we can go back to our quiet, ordinary lives.’ Meaker glanced around him. ‘Where is Danilov anyway?’

‘I don’t know, sir. Inspector Danilov didn’t tell me where he was going.’

‘Just like Danilov. You know when I worked with him, he wouldn’t tell me anything. Can’t think why. Probably off enjoying himself with one of his Russian lady friends, you mark my words. Anyway, can’t stand around jawing all day, Chief Inspector Boyle is waiting.’

He turned to Miss Cavendish. ‘Can I go in now?’

‘Please go ahead, Inspector, Chief Inspector Boyle is waiting for you.’

‘I’m going to look forward to coming back to Central.’ He looked around the office. ‘I always feel at home here.’

He knocked on Boyle’s glass door. There was a muffled ‘Enter’, and Meaker strode in.

Strachan whispered to Miss Cavendish, ‘Thank you for the number.’

‘If you see Inspector Danilov, do tell him we miss him, won’t you?’

Chapter 30

Danilov had been lying on his bed since his return from the station, staring up into the white blankness of the ceiling. He was so close. He knew who it was. He just needed proof.

His body tensed as he remembered the confrontation with Cartwright. How could he have been so stupid? It was what they wanted him to do. To react, to fight. He had descended to their level, rolling around the floor like a Cossack. He had let them get to him. The children, with their petty jealousies and their stupidity. He had always remained aloof from them, and they had repaid his isolation with a revenge of the worst kind.

Now the only link to his family had been destroyed. The ashes of the envelope and the telegram mixed up with all the cigarette butts and filth of the detectives’ office.

What had the telegram contained? Was his family alive or not? Where were they?

He got up from the bed and paced around the room. He must be able to find out.

The phone rang.

He ignored it.

Nobody would be ringing him. Nobody ever rang him. In the year the phone had been installed in his home, it had rung only once. Miss Cavendish wanted to let him know there would be a staff meeting the following day to discuss overtime.

The phone continued to ring. Perhaps it was Miss Cavendish again. Perhaps Boyle had realised his mistake in putting Meaker in charge of the investigation.

He walked over to the table. The telephone rang again, its base and handset rattling with each vibration.

He reached out his hand to pick it up.

No, they would never realise their mistake and, even if they did, it would be a terrible sign of weakness to admit it by ringing him.

He went back inside the bedroom and looked across at the opium pipe. A bowl or two to forget Boyle and Meaker and Cartwright and the whole maggot-filled corpse that was the Shanghai Police. He took the pipe in his hands, looking for his lighter.

He knew who the killer was but he could not prove it. There was circumstantial evidence but no actual proof. This man was far too smart to admit his guilt. And he knew enough about police work not to fall for any tricks that could make him confess. He had to be caught in the act of murder.

But how?

Meaker was running the investigation now not him. He was stuck here at home, whilst the killer was still on the loose in Shanghai.

He looked down at the opium pipe again and raised the lighter to the ivory bowl.

The phone rang again. And again. And again.

He put the pipe back on the bedside table. This was not the time to find solace in the dreams of opium. This was a time for his mind to be sharp. A time to stop the killer.

Despite the jealousy of his colleagues.

Despite the stupidity of his bosses.

Despite the aching loneliness of his life without his family.

Stop the killer.

Why should he just roll over and accept what he was told to do? He wouldn’t do it in Russia when ordered by the Tsar, why do it here when the man commanding him was a pipsqueak English colonial?

He’d never given up on an investigation in his life; why start now? What could possibly happen? If he failed, he was in exactly the same position as he was now. If he succeeded, then a deranged killer would be brought to justice.

But how was he going to bring him out into the open?

He had no resources. No Mobile Unit to back him up. No legions of constables to dance to his orders. No way to do anything.

But he knew he had no choice. This killer was never going to stop until he was dead and buried, with a stake driven into his heart.

The phone rang again.

He walked out of his bedroom. The phone was sitting on its small table in the living room.

It rang again, the vibrations making the base shiver against the wood of the table. It was near the edge now, about to fall. He jumped forward and caught it as it fell off the table.

From the listening extension in his hand, a small, tinny voice squeaked. He brought it up to his ear.

Strachan’s voice echoed through the wires.

‘Hello. Hello, Inspector?’

He raised the phone to his mouth. ‘I’m glad you called Stra-chan. I need you to do something for me.’

February 26th 1928.

The 35th day of the Year of the Earth Dragon.

Chapter 31

‘Right then, you, let’s get a move on.’ Meaker was standing at the door of the detectives’ room, gesturing for Strachan to follow him.

‘Where are we going, sir?’

‘I’ve been looking over the files and the case notes. Good ones from you by the way, nothing from bloody Danilov, of course.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘It strikes me there is one person who could have killed the woman in the creek.’

‘It was a man, sir.’

‘Man, woman, whatever. Anyway the one person who had both time and opportunity to do it, was the boatman.’

‘Which boatman, sir?’

‘The one that came into the station to report what he had seen the morning of the killing. Very clever him comin’ here. Steppin’ into the mouth of the dragon, as it were.’ Meaker chuckled at his own joke and tugged on his moustache.

Strachan smelt the salty tang of whisky as he did so.

‘Anyway, George Cartwright told me he tried to pin it on two other people. A tall European and some bald Chinese man. Not a likely story, is it? A European and a bald Chinese in cahoots, murderin’ people on the river? Nah, this smacks of the Oriental, I can feel it in my water.’

Strachan decided to fix a smile on his face. Meaker seemed to be ignorant of the fact he was talking to somebody who was half Chinese. On reflection, Strachan decided he was just ignorant. ‘What about the other murders, sir?’

‘He did them as well. We’ve got our killer, Strachan. I’ve asked George Cartwright to put together a team with the Mobile Unit. You’ll need to do the paperwork. We’ll bring him in, and then, with a bit of gentle persuasion, he’ll cough up to everything. What are you waiting for, man? Hop to it. Haven’t got all day.’

‘What paperwork do you want me to do, sir?’

‘You are slow this morning, Strachan. Didn’t have our pickled pig’s foot, or whatever it is you Chinese eat for breakfast?’

Strachan just stared at him.

‘No, well, get on with it, man. Just make it all above board and proper. Can’t have any cock-ups at the last minute. I need a cuppa tea and a fag.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Before I forget, make sure you include George Cartwright’s name in your notes. I want him to share in the glory for this one.’

‘Cartwright, but he…’

‘You heard me, Strachan, get a bloody move on.’

***

Inspector Danilov sat in the cafe waiting for Strachan to arrive. The Princess recognised his desire to be alone and simply sent a waitress to serve him with a glass of hot tea.

The cafe was empty this morning, save for two chess players hunched over their board. He wondered if they were the same two who had been playing when he last visited here, still absorbed in the same game. Probably were, he laughed to himself, understanding the obsession that chess can become.

He had thought about what he was going to do all night, planned it down to the smallest detail. But he knew that too much was still left to chance. He had no hope of proving who the killer was. The evidence was far too circumstantial. He had to drive him out into the open. Get him to make one more mistake.

The killer had been clever so far, but he had begun to take risks. Killing almost every day now. With every murder, becoming more and more confident.

His plan had to succeed. If it didn’t, then the killer would carry on. More lives would be lost. He had no choice. He had to go ahead.

Strachan would bring the final confirmation with him this morning. One piece of paper that would confirm the name of the killer. He knew it wouldn’t stand up in a court of law though. The connections, the patterns, were too abstract for the logic of the law. But he knew he was right. This morning would simply confirm it.

Then, it would be time to set his plan in motion.

He chances of success were slim but he could see no other way of trapping the killer. He would have to rely on Strachan doing what was right.

With his suspension, he finally had the freedom to act without asking for permission. He had always been an outsider in every force he had ever worked. In Russia, they had just left him to get on with what he did best: catch criminals. The politics and the political in-fighting he left to others. He had stayed an Inspector for many years whilst others had risen up in the world but he didn’t care. He was doing what he knew how to do.