Death In Shanghai (5 page)

‘Interesting, you say “placed”, Stra-chan, because it
was
“placed”. We were meant to find it. The creek is one of the most open places in Shanghai, with constant river traffic. The body was bound to be found. In both senses of the word. The killer weighted it with stones so we would find it there. He didn’t want it to be washed down into the Whampoo. Why did he do that? What’s he trying to tell us?’ He exhaled a long stream of cigarette smoke and coughed again. A glob of spit formed in his mouth.

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘But that’s what we have to find out, Stra-chan. That’s what they pay us to find out.’

‘I thought they pay us to find the killer, sir.’

‘We won’t be able to do that until we know why he does what he does, Stra-chan.’ He rolled another cigarette with tobacco from his tin. ‘I wonder why it’s called the “Beach of Dead Babies”.’

‘I asked the locals, sir. They told me it’s because of the local currents. All the unwanted babies placed in the river inevitably end up there.’

‘Like Moses.’

‘Exactly, sir. The river people adopt the male children as their own.’

‘And the girls?’

‘Apparently, they get taken to the orphanage, sir. Girls are just extra mouths to feed.’

‘Thank you for that, Stra-chan, remind me never to introduce you to my daughter.’ As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Danilov knew he had made a mistake. He looked away, pretending to examine the wharves behind them. It was nearly four years since he had last seen her. Four years on April 26th. Strachan was still staring at the ‘Beach of Dead Babies’. Perhaps, he hadn’t noticed? Time to get him working. ‘The doctor said our victim was a male with a female appearance.’

‘I believe there are a few clubs catering for those sorts of tastes, sir. I could check them out. Show a few photographs around once they come back from processing.’

‘That’s a start. Check the registry of doctors. This man was already showing female characteristics, maybe he was already seeing a physician. Did you notice the absence of body hair?’

‘Could have been shaving, sir.’

‘Hair continues to grow after death. Yet there was none.’

‘I’ll get onto it when we go back to the station. I was also thinking about the Chinese characters carved into the chest.’

‘And?’

‘I suppose it means we are looking for a Chinese killer, sir.’

‘You suppose wrong, Stra-chan. Anybody can write or copy a character, even you.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Let me do the supposing, Stra-chan, you just concentrate on the facts.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Next steps are, you will follow up on the doctors and the boatmen. I would like your report on my desk by tomorrow morning.’

‘I’ll do it before I leave this evening, sir.’

‘Good, then you can accompany me to meet our Frenchman tomorrow morning.’

‘As long as we don’t have frog’s legs for breakfast, sir.’

‘Most certainly not, Stra-chan. It will be a strong coffee and a croissant in the French Concession. Frog’s legs would only be served for luncheon or dinner.’

‘It was a joke, sir.’

‘I see you have an English sense of humour.’

‘I picked it up at school, sir.’

‘Well, put it down when you are with me, Stra-chan, is that clear?’

Strachan looked out over the river. For the second time that day, he gave the same response. ‘As the Soochow Creek, sir.’

***

Her head ached. She shook it to try and clear the fuzziness.

Where was she? Another night drinking too much? She tried to remember what happened but nothing would come. She had got into a taxi but then…?

She tried to lift her arm to brush away the hair from her eyes, but it wouldn’t move. She tried again. It was like both her arms were gripped around the wrists by coarse, hairy fingers.

She shook her head once more and looked down. Both her arms were strapped to a wooden chair with lengths of thin rope. Twisting left and right, she leveraged her body against the back of the chair and twisted her arms. The ropes cut into her wrists, drops of fresh blood flowed down her hands and onto her leg.

Tears ran down face. Her head lolled forwards. Memories flashed into her head. Leaving the Astor, Getting into a cab. A bald head. Driving around Shanghai. Stopping. Bitten fingers. A red livid scar across the top of his head. Reaching for her. A cloth over her mouth. Darkness.

How did I get here? Why me? A great wracking sob seized hold of her chest. Her head lolled forward again, the tears dripping down onto her dress where their warmth and wetness seeped into the fabric.

She tried to rock the chair backwards and forwards, but it wouldn’t move. It was made from solid, thick wood, bolted to the floor. Like an electric chair without the current, she thought bitterly.

She lifted her head and peered into the gloom that surrounded her. Not much to see, just a drab brownness that seemed to be walls. From them, a dark, dank smell like the earth of a graveyard suffused with the stench of fish, drifted towards her.

She felt the wood of the chair arm beneath her fingers. There were marks there. Something hard buried in the wood. She picked at it, digging it out. There was a crescent moon of opaque whiteness on the tips of her fingers. What was it? She felt its sharp edges and realised straight away.

A fingernail.

She screamed and struggled against the ropes. Got to get free. Got to get out of here. The ropes clung to her wrists, tightening their grip.

Who’d taken her? Why was she a prisoner? She hadn’t done anything wrong in Shanghai. What were they going to do with her? Another sob wracked her chest and more tears flowed down her cheeks.

A shroud of self-pity enveloped her. All she wanted was her turn in the limelight. She shouldn’t have been here at all. Diane had been chosen for the part. But she had an accident on the Underground. Elsie had tried to save her but…it was too late. Everybody creates their own luck, don’t they? It just wasn’t Diane’s day or her part. She deserved what happened. And Elsie deserved her chance as an actress. One of them had to be disappointed. It just wasn’t going to be her.

She struggled again against the ropes. They seemed to become tighter. She stopped, exhausted.

Her head sank onto her chest. I wonder if they are white slavers? Like those people she’d read about in the Sunday papers. One of them had seen her on the stage and kidnapped her to sell into slavery as the mistress of a Chinese warlord. Or maybe the moll of a famous gangster? But why tie her up here? In the newspaper reports, the star had been kidnapped, imprisoned in the lap of luxury, waited on hand and foot by a charming manservant. But she was tied to an old chair in a dark, dank place which stank of rancid fish and putrid earth.

She twisted her head to one side. For some reason, she sensed a presence. ‘Who’s there?’ The words harsh against the darkness.

Nobody answered, but she knew somebody was there. Over to her left, in the midst of the blackness, there was something even darker. She stayed very still and controlled her breathing, taking a quick intake of air and holding it, listening for any noise.

Silence.

But there it was, on the left, the soft whisper of someone else breathing. Deep, controlled breathing.

She fought against the ropes. Once again, they seemed to get tighter the more she struggled to wrench herself free. ‘Who’s there? I know somebody is there.’

Still no answer.

Above her head, a single bulb hung from a black flex in the ceiling. The light didn’t penetrate to the gloom that enveloped the rest of the room. She realised the only thing it illuminated was her. Finally, my own spotlight, she thought bitterly.

She stopped struggling and listened again. She was sure she heard soft breathing from the depths of the darkness. ‘I know you’re out there,’ she shouted, using her theatrical voice to project more confidence than she actually felt.

There was movement. A chair being scraped back, someone standing. Then she caught the memory of a smell. The sweet, delicate aroma of a scent. Where had she smelt that before?

Footsteps coming towards her. No, the echoes of the room were playing with her hearing. They were moving off to her right. The creak of an old door opening, no light coming through the entrance though. The click of a switch. She was in darkness. Alone in the darkness.

She screamed and screamed and screamed, but nobody came.

Chapter 4

‘Hello, George, what’s your poison?’

‘A large Scotch with a drop of the wet stuff. I hope you’re buying, Charlie?’

‘Wouldn’t want you to reach into your pocket, George, don’t know what you’d find there.’

‘A lovely little bit of stuff from Kiev, last time I looked.’

Meaker waved at the barman standing in the corner, staring into space. Reluctantly, he stirred himself and strolled over to them. It was like a thousand other joints in Shanghai: a long mahogany bar, a stack of bottles behind the counter, many covered in dust, sawdust on the floor and a gaggle of bored girls in the corner.

The barman poured their drinks from a bottle of Johnnie Walker, leaving a jug of water with a brightly painted piper and the legend ‘Bonnie Scotland’ next to their glasses.

‘I hope it’s real,’ said George Cartwright, smelling his whisky.

‘Nothing’s real in Shanghai, you know that.’

‘Well anyway, down the hatch. If it doesn’t touch the sides, it can’t hurt.’

They both finished their drinks in one long swallow. The waiter ambled over again to refill the glasses. ‘I wouldn’t go too far, pal, it looks like George has got a thirst on.’

‘I’ve always got a thirst on. Runs in the family. A thirsty throat, that’s what all the Cartwrights have, according to my dad.’

‘Bottle, him seven dollar,’ said the barman.

‘Leave it. Saves you troubling your legs.’ Meaker reached over and snatched it from the barman, pouring another large double for himself.

‘So what’s this about, Charlie? I’m sure you haven’t asked me here just to drink your whisky and dazzle you with my sparkling repartee.’

‘Sparkling repartee is not your strength, George.’ He poured him another whisky.

Cartwright picked it up and drained the glass. He wiped his mouth. ‘So?’

‘How’s home life?’

Cartwright smiled ruefully. ‘As good as it gets. The wife refuses to speak to me. The servant has run off. And the kids, well, they think I’m just a piece of shit on the end of a stick. Other than that, everything’s hunky-dory. Why are you asking?’

‘Like to make a few bob on the side?’

‘Now you’re talking, Charlie.’

Meaker took a sip of his whisky. Cartwright filled his glass from the bottle, adding just a splash of water for the health of it.

‘I’ll put my cards on’t table, George. Hongkew’s a dead end. I’ve been stuck there for six months…’

‘You went there after working with Danilov, didn’t you?’

‘Sent there, not went there. Boyle thought it would be better if I “spent some time in a smaller station”. Silly old fart.’

‘Danilov dobbed you in, didn’t he?’

‘Strung up like a kipper, I was. Fuckin’ Russian. Always has his tongue up Boyle’s arse, cleaning his teeth from the inside.’

‘You know how I feel, Charlie. Can’t stand the little fucker, with his smug smile and neat desk.’ He took another long swallow of whisky and wiped his mouth. ‘I screw with his desk every day. Just to annoy the little fucker.’

‘Anyway, I’m looking to come back to Central but…’

‘Danilov’s in the way. What do you want me to do?’

‘Nothing. Yet.’ Meaker took a sip of his whisky. ‘Just let me know what he’s up to. He’s got that creek body to handle at the moment.’

‘And Miss Cavendish tells me Boyle has him working with the French.’

‘Rather him than me. If there’s one lot I can’t stand more than the Russians, it’s the French. Wanted nowt to do with ’em when I was in the trenches, unless they were female and horizontal.’

‘What’s in it for me, Charlie?’

‘A few bob on the side. Plus a nice cushy number when I come back to Central. I’ll look after you.’

‘Sounds good.’ Cartwright downed another glass of whisky in one long swallow. Meaker took a sip of his.

‘Well, are we kicking on? The Handle Bar is just getting going. Got a new load of Russians in from Siberia. Fresh meat for the grinder.’ He thrust his hips forward.

‘You go on, George. The missus will kill me if I’m out late again.’

***

‘Richard, you’ve finally made it. I’ve been sitting here like a lonely jam tart at the Mad Hatter’s tea party waiting for Alfred. What’s happened to the man?’

‘I’m supposed to know? You’re the one engaged to him.’

‘Engaged to nothing. You know that was just for his family and mine. Kept them both off our backs.’

The band finished their number and there was a smattering of applause from the dancers. Like a flock of errant sheep, they returned to their seats surrounding the wooden floor. Ciro’s was the most elegant place in town. No luxury had been spared no matter how frivolous: Italian marble, French glassware, an American band, the latest dancers from across the world. All because its owner, the richest man in Shanghai, David Sassoon, had once been refused entry at another club.

Sassoon was now sitting in his usual place, to the left of the band, at the front of the dance floor, surrounded by his latest harem of young women. Richard smiled and waved. Sassoon waved back but quickly returned to his girls.

‘Sassoon’s here with his FOBs.’

‘I do wish you wouldn’t use that term, Richard. I was “Fresh Off the Boat” once. Anyway, he can do what he wants. He owns the bloody place.’ She glanced across at Sassoon, hoping he wouldn’t notice she was looking. ‘The FOBs are getting younger. Either that or I’m getting older.’

‘Still as fresh as a cherry blossom to me, Margery.’

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Always the charmer, Richard. What would I do without you?’

‘Probably every man in Ciro’s, knowing your appetites. Somebody has to keep you in check.’

‘Somebody has to keep me in alcohol.’

Richard took the hint. ‘Champagne?’

‘The Belle Epoque. It feels like a
fin de si
è
cle
sort of evening.’