Death In Shanghai (35 page)

***

Strachan heard another scream, this time even louder. Where had it come from?

He rushed down to the bottom of the stairs. He stopped and listened. There were the muffled sounds of somebody in pain, moaning like a ghost. It seemed to come from within the wooden walls.

He put his ear to the panels. There it was. A keening moan, like a dog with a broken leg.

He rushed into the lounge of the club. The moans were slightly louder now, and they seemed to be coming from below. He got down on his knees and listened once again, but the thick maroon carpet dissipated the sound.

A door at the end of the room was half open. He ran to it and flung it out of his way. More shouts now. Much louder. Coming from beneath his feet.

He ran down a short corridor and entered the kitchen. Pots and pans hung from the hooks above a long range. On a long table in the middle sat a tea pot, milk jug and two empty tea cups.

There was more shouting from below. The sounds of fighting. Another shout. Was that Danilov’s voice? He ran to the back of the kitchen, hurdling one of the chairs in his way.

He was in a larder now. Bags of sugar and flour, assorted tins of fish and beans, bottles of oil and jars of soy sauce lined the shelves. There were more shouts. The loud crack of a gun being fired, another shout, indistinct and muffled. It was the Inspector.

‘Danilov,’ he shouted back.

There was a shout in return, muffled, indistinct. He shouted back but there was no answer this time.

He banged on the wooden wall. It shook but stayed intact. He stopped and listened.

Nothing.

Silence.

He banged harder. The wood sounded hollow; there was nothing behind it. He slammed the edge of his fist against one of the panels. It shook, but held solid.

He stepped back to the door of the larder and then jumped at the wall with his feet. The panel cracked in the centre. He kicked again and again, each kick becoming more and more violent as the wood splintered.

There was a space behind. Empty space.

He reached in and tore the wood away with his hands. ‘Inspector Danilov,’ he shouted into the void.

There was no answer.

Chapter 36

Li Min screamed again and fell moaning to the floor. Danilov reached down to his left leg. Got to get it free. His fingers struggled with the knot, clumsily undoing the first few strands of rope.

Allen just stood there, transfixed by the moaning Li Min lying on the floor. Danilov’s fingers worked faster, the knot was coming loose, just a few more pulls.

Allen suddenly came alive, roared at the top of his voice, and launched himself at Danilov, hitting him square in the chest. Danilov felt his arms being knocked upwards, away from his foot. The chair toppled over backwards.

Allen was on top of him, hitting down with the leather belt across his face. The silver points snagged the skin beneath his eye. Blood poured from the cut.

He kicked out with his right foot and caught Allen just below the knee. A loud crack as a bone snapped. A sharp gasp came from Allen’s mouth.

Danilov tried to roll away from the chair but his left foot was still tied to its leg. He jerked himself over onto his left side and reached down to his foot. The knot tore into his ankle. He managed to undo another strand, just one more and he would be free. He kicked hard with his left leg and there was movement.

Allen was getting slowly to his feet, one leg dragging beneath him. He still had the leather belt in his hand. He steadied himself for a few moments against the wall and then lashed out with the belt again, the silver points cutting into the upper part of Danilov’s arm.

Ignore the pain.

His fingers carried on tugging and pulling at the knot around his foot. It was coming loose. The belt swooshed down again, catching him where his neck joined his shoulder, ripping into the soft flesh beneath his clavicle.

Ignore the pain.

He twisted and tugged at the rope gripping his ankle. It began to come loose. The brown leather of the belt was coming straight towards his face. In slow motion, he could see the silver points, the holes of the belt and even the grain of the leather coming closer. It caught his jaw on the right. His head snapped backwards and his whole body, and the chair, rolled over. He spat out a tooth through a mouthful of blood.

Ignore the pain.

He kicked out his left leg. It was free. The room went darker. He looked up. Allen was limping through the doorway blocking the light from the corridor.

Danilov kicked away the remains of the chair and rolled over onto his knees. He spat another tooth and a mouthful of blood out onto the floor of the cell.

Got to get to his feet. Got to go after Allen.

He tried to stand up but immediately fell backwards.

Slowly, take it slowly. He reached out to the wall and used it to lever himself up. Allen was nowhere to be seen.

He staggered to the doorway and was immediately stunned by the light. His name was being called from above. At least, he thought it was his name, but it was faint and so far away. He shouted back. ‘Here, down, here.’

His head was spinning. He leant on the side of the door to steady himself for a moment. Allen was getting away, got to go after him.

He staggered through the doorway into a long corridor, lit by two bulbs hanging from the ceiling. He leant into the walls for support. His legs wobbled beneath him, as if he was learning how to walk all over again. He stopped, leaning into the wall, taking deep breaths, calming his body, focusing his mind.

Got to find him.

He lurched down the corridor, bumping from wall to wall. A door was open at the end. He stepped through it and there was a loud bang, followed by a crunch as the bullet struck the stone door surround.

Danilov ducked back behind the doorway. He took two deep breaths and quickly stuck his head out, searching for Allen.

There he was, on the path by the creek, limping towards Garden Bridge.

A mist was rolling over the creek. A cold mist, flavoured with all the smells of rubbish and shit and rotting fish. A few boats chugged past on the creek, the rest having put away their nets and cargo, tying up for the night.

His name was being shouted again. Still behind him, but closer now. He couldn’t stop and wait for whoever it was. He ran after Allen.

Mustn’t let him get away.

After three steps, his feet became entangled in a heap of discarded nets and rubbish. He tumbled over, banging his left knee on the edge of the road.

Don’t let him get away. Can’t let him get away.

He picked himself up and lurched after Allen. He could see him eighty yards away, climbing up the stairs leading to the Garden Bridge, leaning on the balustrade as he limped upwards.

Can’t let him get away.

He heard his name being called again. It was Strachan’s voice. He shouted over his shoulder. ‘This way, over here.’

Allen turned as he shouted, levelled his pistol, firing another shot. The bullet whistled past Danilov’s right shoulder. He ducked again, far too late. No point in trying to get out of the way of a bullet that had already been fired.

He got up and staggered after Allen. He felt stronger now as the adrenalin surged through his body. He was getting closer, nearer with every step.

The sirens of the Red Marias blared in the distance, faint but getting louder with every second.

He mustn’t let Allen get across the bridge. In the chaos of the lanes and
lilongs
on the other side, he could escape and kill again.

Allen was nearing the top of the stairs that led onto the bridge. People scattered as they saw the gun. Women screamed, men shouted, rickshaw pullers raced to the other side of the road, pulling for all their lives were worth.

Danilov shouted up at Allen. ‘Can you hear them?’

The sirens of the Red Marias were closer now, their klaxons cutting through the mist, the sound echoing off the walls of the warehouses. ‘You can’t get away. No point in running.’

He was at the bottom of the stairs. He began to climb upwards, getting closer to Allen with every step.

Allen was on the bridge, lurching from side to side. He fired at a car that had stopped next to him. The driver stamped on the accelerator and the car surged away, scattering the rickshaw drivers in front of it.

Danilov was at the top of the stairs. Allen was halfway across the bridge, limping slowly.

‘You can’t get away.’

As he shouted at Allen, a Red Maria pulled across the bridge at the far end, blocking it completely.

Allen stopped, twisting left and right, looking for another route to get away from the shouts of Danilov and the screams of the klaxons.

‘You can’t get away, Allen. It’s finished. You’re finished.’

Allen’s head swivelled around, first staring at Danilov, then down the bridge to the Red Marias that blocked his exit.

There were footsteps behind Danilov. Strachan was there, breathing heavily, his Webley nestled in his fist.

‘About time, Strachan. Good to see you.’

‘Yes, sir, thought you might need a hand.’

‘I need a gun more.’

Strachan handed over his Webley.

Allen had backed himself into the middle of the bridge, against the wrought-iron balustrade, the pistol gripped in his hand.

‘Time to finish this.’ Danilov stepped forward. Allen backed further along the iron railing. He swung round and stared down into the murky waters below, turning back to face Danilov.

‘It’s all over, Mr Allen.’ Danilov stepped forward with his hand outstretched. ‘Give me the gun.’

Allen twisted right and left, terror in his green eyes. The police had decamped from the Red Marias and had formed a line at the end of the bridge, advancing across it, pistols drawn.

Danilov moved closer. ‘Checkmate,’ he said softly.

Allen seemed to calm down, took a deep breath and a sad smile crossed his face. ‘There are still so many of them to be judged, Danilov. So many who need punishment.’

Danilov moved closer, his arm still outstretched. ‘It’s over, Allen. No more Yama. No more trials. No more judgements. No more executions.’

Allen looked at the gun in his hand, smiled and brought it up to his temple.

Strachan shouted ‘No’, and jumped towards Allen, his arms outstretched.

Allen lowered the pistol from his head and pointed it straight at Strachan. There was a flash. The bullet left the barrel in a gush of smoke and flame, zipped straight towards Strachan, pushing through the air, piercing his clothes and into his body.

Strachan stopped for a moment and just stood there. His arm moved up to touch the red spot of blood that had begun to stain his white shirt. Then, his knees just crumpled and he fell sideways, landing on his left side, his arms outstretched.

Danilov raised the Webley and two loud bangs came from it.

Too loud.

Allen’s body jerked as if two bolts of electricity had surged up from the paving of the bridge and shot through his torso, exiting out of the top of his skull. Two red blotches opened in his chest, getting larger and larger. He was thrown back against the iron balustrade and stood there, staring straight at Danilov, as if not believing what had just happened.

Another loud bang from Danilov’s revolver. Allen’s body launched itself up and over the metal railing of the bridge, flying through the air and out of sight.

The smoking revolver lay heavy in Danilov’s hand. He let it fall from his fingers and onto the tarmac.

Where Allen had once stood was just emptiness. He saw again Allen’s eyes as the bullet struck his body. Their sense of surprise, betrayal almost, and then the body falling over the balustrade of the bridge.

He sank to his knees. He was tired. Of life. Of the police. Of everything.

Then he smelt a sweet aroma wafting across his face and nose like a silk scarf.

Sweet potato. The sweet potatoes of Shanghai. How he loved that smell.

A moan came from the body lying next to him.

Strachan. Strachan was alive. His mouth was moving but only a deep moan came from his lips. Danilov crawled beside him, shouting as loud as he could for help from the other policemen.

Strachan was looking at him, his brown eyes strangely calm.

Then they closed.

A constable ran to his side.

‘Get an ambulance.’

The constable hesitated.

‘Now, man, hurry.’

The man’s eyes flicked across to the Red Maria. ‘The radio’s down.’

Danilov picked up Strachan’s body, cradling it in his arms like Mary in a
Piet
à holding the body of Christ.

A crowd had already gathered to witness the shooting. The constables were running around. A few were checking the river, looking for the tall man’s body. Others were pushing back the crowd. A few others just ran around doing nothing.

Danilov looked down at Strachan. He couldn’t see or hear any breathing. He had to do something quickly or Strachan was finished. He couldn’t wait for an ambulance.

Then he knew.

He started to run across the bridge, through the startled constables and onto the Hongkew side. The crowd scrambled to get out of his way.

He ran as fast as he could, his shoes clanging down the metal steps at the other side, onto the road.

He elbowed his way through the crowd at the end of the bridge, using Strachan’s legs as a battering ram. The crowd was quick to get out of the way. As he ran, his mind raced back to Minsk. He was fifteen years old. The dark walls of a crematorium. His father’s casket vanishing behind the curtains. Him standing there, not crying, not knowing what to do. Just feeling an immense sense of loss. He would never hear his father’s voice again. Never talk to him. Never hold his hand. Then the curtains pulled across and his father was gone.

Forever.

He ran faster. He wasn’t going to stand in front of Strachan’s coffin as it vanished behind a curtain.

He darted across a road, hearing the squeal of brakes behind him. The morgue was up on the left. Dr Fang would know what to do. He must know what to do.

He kicked open the wooden doors, rushing in. Strachan was still not breathing, not moving. ‘Help. Help me.’ His shout echoed against the white-tiled walls.