City of Shadows

by M J Lee

  ‘It’s much further on, sir.’

  ‘I worked that out for myself, Strachan.’

  They walked on in silence, passing the next alley, much smaller and thinner, which led to the back doors of the houses.

  They had walked past five of these rows before Strachan spoke again. ‘I’d like to live here one day, sir. The new style, much cleaner and better than my old place.’

  ‘Looking to move up in the world, Detective Strachan? You’ll be after my job next.’

  ‘No, sir, I didn’t mean that,’ he said hurriedly, ‘it’s just that you have to have something to aim for in life.’

  ‘And your aim is “Prosperous Peace Lane”, is it?’

  ‘I could do worse, sir.’

  ‘Indeed you could, Detective Sergeant Strachan. Or you could do better.’

  They both stopped in front of a sign on the wall. ‘335 to 353. It’s down here, sir.’

  ‘Your first piece of detection today, Strachan, well done.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Lead the way, Detective.’

  Strachan walked into the alley counting off the doors.

  ‘It’s here, sir.’

  They stopped in front of one of the courtyard doors. On it was a large red paper with bright gold characters, pasted across the centre where the two sides met.

  ‘I presume that says something like “Police. Crime Scene”.’

  ‘Actually, sir, it says, “Happy Prosperous New Year”. I think Inspector Cowan and his team must have run out of sealing paper and used a New Year greeting instead.’

  ‘Very enterprising. Break the seal, Strachan.’

  The detective reached up to tear down the long strip of red paper, but as he did, he saw that it had already been cut with a sharp knife. ‘Sir, I think you should look at this.’

  Danilov signalled Strachan to be quiet and pushed open the door. They both stepped over the stone entrance. Inside, the courtyard was empty except for a large potted palm in the corner. Danilov, followed by Strachan, strode across the courtyard in four steps and stopped in front of the main entrance of the house. The Inspector reached for the round metal door knob and turned it. The door began to open, creaking loudly. They both stopped, surprised by the loud screeching noise. Up above, they could hear the sounds of banging on the walls.

  On the wooden floor, the chalk outline of a small body was still visible. Next to the outline a long dark pool of what appeared to be dried blood stained the wooden boards.

  Danilov stepped over the chalk outline and crept up the stairs, searching for the source of the sound.

  On the next landing, they were greeted by another chalk outline, this time slightly larger. Danilov placed his finger across his lips. Strachan drew his pistol, holding it close to his face.

  They climbed up to the next landing. The banging noises were getting louder now. They could hear something else too, the sound of a man’s voice, swearing loudly in Chinese.

  Danilov pointed to the door at the top of the stairs in front of them. The noise seemed to be coming from inside. He walked closer, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead. The banging stopped.

  Heavy steps across the room and the door flew open, revealing a stocky figure silhouetted in the doorway, in his hand the black shape of a large demolition hammer.

  Danilov shouted, ‘Police, stay where you are.’

  The man reacted immediately, throwing the hammer at Danilov. It hit him on the shoulder, knocking him backwards against the banister.

  The door slammed. Strachan was already at Danilov’s side.

  In the room, the sound of glass crashing on the wooden floor.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  Strachan leapt up and over Danilov and ran to the top of the stairs.

  He pushed at the door, but it was locked. He stepped back and drove his shoulder into the centre. It shuddered but held firm. He stepped back again and this time, kicked hard against the join where the lock and the frame of the door met.

  The door splintered. He kicked again and again. And again.

  The door crashed open.

  Strachan ran into the room. It was empty. In front of him, another chalk outline of a body, and above it a broken window. He ran to it, carefully avoiding the chalk on the floor, and looked out.

  Nothing. Just the back of the neighbour’s house.

  A tile scuttled down the roof and crashed into the courtyard of the house next door.

  He leant forward and looked upwards and behind him. The small, stocky man was inching slowly across the ridge line, his feet either side of the decorative tiles.

  Strachan shouted. ‘Police. Halt or I fire.’

  The man glared back at Strachan. Quickly, he dropped down on all fours and vanished from view.

  Strachan put his revolver back in its holster. He kicked out the remaining glass in the window, noticing that one of the shards was streaked with blood. He grabbed each side of the frame and stepped up to crouch in the window.

  Don’t look down, he thought. Whatever you do, don’t look down.

  He looked down.

  Immediately, he leant back into the empty window frame away from the drop. Jesus, he thought, it’s at least sixty feet to the ground.

  He took a deep breath and peered over the edge again. Closer to eighty feet. What am I doing?

  He inched his way through the mansard window and onto the slate roof, keeping hold of the frame all the time.

  Don’t look down. Don’t look at the ground.

  He took one step up the slates and then another, still holding onto the top of the mansard. The ridge of the roof was ten feet above him. Behind the ridge, the scuffling sounds of the man scrabbling across the roof on the other side.

  He stood up straight, letting go of the window frame. Immediately, he could feel the wind through his hair. He held his arms out to his sides and began to inch up the roof.

  Don’t look down. Whatever you do, don’t look down.

  The ridge at the top was only six feet away now. He was getting closer. He began to feel more confident, shuffling his feet forward a little further each time.

  Take it slowly, Strachan, softly does it.

  At that moment, he lifted his foot and it caught the raised edge of one of the slates. His arms and body jerked forward and his legs slipped from under him. He crashed down onto the slates and began to slide backwards.

  He flailed around with his arms and legs, desperately looking for something, anything, to grab on to. He was still sliding, his fingers could get no grip. His legs went over the edge and they kicked against nothing but air.

  Chapter 9

  His body began to fall over the edge when he heard a loud rip and jerked to a stop, half his body from the waist down dangling in the air.

  Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head to the left. The top pocket of his jacket had caught on a nail sticking out from the gutter. He breathed out, swinging his legs to find something to stand on. Another loud rip. His body slipped down six more inches jerking him away from the safety and comfort of the cold slates.

  He thought about shouting for help from Inspector Danilov, but he couldn’t risk lifting his head to call out.

  Carefully, he lifted his right arm and reached up over the gutter to the slates, gripped them by digging his nails into a rough edge. He pressed his body down, swinging his right leg up as carefully as he could, bringing the knee to rest on the edge of the gutter.

  He breathed out.

  Don’t look down.

  He promised himself that this was the last time he would ever chase a criminal. No more. He would leave it to Inspector Danilov from now on. His chasing days were over.

  He inched his knee upwards, gripping with his nails and pushing upwards to let his body rest on the slates. The sole of his shoe touched the gutter.

  Slowly, Strachan, slowly.

  He pushed with his leg. The gutter strained and groaned against the joint holding it to the wall. His body inched up the roof.


  He breathed out, offering prayers to all the gods he knew, and some he didn’t.

  There was a sharp screech. The metal gutter jerked away from his foot, hung in the air for a few moments, before clattering to the ground.

  Strachan rolled his back onto the cold slates and breathed out again, enjoying their hard embrace. He looked up at the sky. Three swallows were dancing in the air, weaving figures of eight above his head.

  A faint scuffling noise off to his left. The man was further away now, escaping.

  He crawled up the steep roof, this time pushing off with his feet, always looking for handholds. He was near the ridge line now. Heaving himself across it, he looked over to his left. At the end of the terrace, the thug was standing on the edge of the roof. The man looked over his shoulder and, for a short moment, his eyes met Strachan’s.

  Then he jumped.

  Strachan shouted. He couldn’t remember what he shouted. All he knew was that the shock of seeing the man suddenly leap out into nothing expelled all the air from his chest.

  Up above, ominous grey clouds were coming in from the East, bring with them the threat of rain. Already, the wind was lapping at Strachan’s jacket. He sat up until he was on all fours and crawled along the ridge, scraping his knees on the rough edges.

  A few more feet left. He reached a large tile that marked the end of the ridge line and peered over the edge, trying to see where the body of the man had fallen.

  But there was no body. Instead, a latticework of bamboo crawled up the wall, left behind by some builders.

  He stood up slowly, took a deep breath and jumped over the edge.

  After what seemed like an eternity of a fall, he landed on the bamboo platform, which immediately began to move away from the wall and topple backwards.

  He dropped to the platform, getting down as low as he could. The bamboo shook and rattled for a few seconds before it settled down again, the only sound the wind whistling through its lattice.

  Why the hell am I doing this? I could be safely tucked up at home in bed. Or enjoying my mum’s sweet soup. Or even spending my time typing an incident report in the comfort of the office, another detective snoring at the desk next to me.

  ‘Don’t be scared, youngster. It’s nought but a wee tree.’ His father’s strong Scottish brogue encouraged him to climb up to the tree house. How he missed the warmth of his father and the strength he gave him. He wasn’t going to let him down now, he was never going to let his father down.

  He remembered seeing the scaffolders on the buildings of Shanghai ascending and descending the bamboo scaffolds with the ease of monkeys. They had a careless rhythm, using the area between the lattice and the support to make their way up and down.

  He moved away from the support and swung his leg over the edge. Immediately, it touched the crossbeam of the lattice. He lowered the other leg and it stepped onto another crossbeam. He let his legs slide down until they were both standing on the join where the crossbeams met.

  He stood there and repeated the step down again, holding on to the upper crossbeam with his hands. Easy, he thought. This is how it’s done.

  Strachan moved confidently now, descending the bamboo scaffold with all the grace of an elephant tap dancing. Finally, his feet touched the hard concrete of the alley and he sank to his knees

  Never again. Never, never again.

  Then he remembered the man he was chasing. He ran down to where the alley turned into another lane. He looked both ways. More terraces, a few kids playing with a top and a rope. No sign of any man.

  Time to go back and tell Danilov the good news. He had let the man escape.

  Strachan took one last glance at the roof and the bamboo scaffolding. A shiver ran down his spine as he looked up into the sky.

  Chapter 10

  ‘What the hell do you think you were doing?’ Danilov stood in the entrance hall of the house with his hands on his hips.

  ‘I chased after…’

  ‘Across the roof? What the hell were you thinking, Detective Sergeant Strachan?’

  ‘I didn’t think, I just went…’

  ‘I didn’t think – damn right, you didn’t think. Listen, I don’t want brawn and stupidity, there’s plenty of that in the Shanghai Police. I wanted someone with a brain. And you have one, Detective Sergeant Strachan. It’s time you used it. If you get killed, I have to find another copper to take your place.’

  Strachan looked down at a spot just in front of his feet. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’

  ‘Don’t do it again, Strachan, I don’t want to stand over your body while Dr Fang tells me that you died from stupidity. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Danilov took three deep breaths. ‘You look a mess.’

  Strachan’s jacket was ripped and his face, body and hands covered in black dirt from the roof slates, and paint from the bamboo scaffold. ‘I’m afraid he got away, sir.’

  ‘I thought so. While you have been away enjoying yourself, I’ve been using the photographs to work out what happened here on the last night.’

  Danilov walked to the main entrance, followed by Strachan. ‘See here, our first body.’ He pointed to the chalk outline in the hall of the house. ‘We know from the photograph that this is where the son was found with his throat cut. Now the two don’t match exactly, the body had been moved after the photograph was taken, before they drew the outline. Cowan’s team were incompetent or worse.’ Danilov sniffed. He pointed to the wall. ‘See there, a line of dark spots that goes up the wall starting from the left.’

  He walked to the wall and pointed to a line of diagonal black spots. ‘I think we’ll find that they are blood.’ Danilov leant in to see the small dark spots on the wall. ‘That’s strange. The drops of blood are missing from here, and here.’ He pointed to two areas of the white wall where there were no marks. ‘Most strange.’

  Strachan reached up to a higher spot on the wall. ‘Why are they getting longer and thinner here, sir?’

  Danilov tugged once more at the skin between his eyes at the bridge of his nose. ‘The spots are in ellipses which suggest our victim’s head was moving as he was killed. Not surprising when we know that he had his throat cut. Here’s what I think happened. The killer entered through that unlocked door.’ Danilov pointed to the door they had come through. ‘He crossed the courtyard and knocked on the main door and, for some reason, the young boy answered it, not the maid. You may ask where was she? But I think that’s a question we will save for later. The killer steps in and grabs the boy from behind. The boy may or may not have had time to shout. I think he probably did. The killer then slits the boy’s throat with a knife from right to left, producing the blood spatter on the wall.’

  A frown appeared on Strachan’s forehead. ‘I see what you mean, sir, I think.’

  ‘Keep up, Strachan, use your imagination.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Danilov held up a rectangular white card. ‘I found a stack of these on the hall table.’

  ‘Business cards, sir?’

  ‘To be precise, Mr Lee’s business card. Apparently, he worked for the Three Friends Company. We must interview the boss, find out more about Mr Lee.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll add it to our list of things to do.’

  Danilov put the card into his pocket and stepped into the hall. ‘When the mother heard her son shouting, she must have been in the hallway. She was wearing her shoes which suggest she was on her way out. She sees what is happening, but instead of running down to save her son, she turns and runs up the stairs. Strange that, not a maternal reaction at all. I wonder if she was going to warn her husband? The other killer chases after her.’

  ‘The other killer?’

  ‘Yes, didn’t I say? At least two. I don’t think there were three. Come here.’ He pushed open the front door and walked into the kitchen with Strachan trailing after him. ‘See the window, this latch has been jimmied. Deep scratches on the green paintwork.’

  ‘But th
at could have been done before. Burglars aren’t uncommon in these new estates.’

  ‘But look around you, Strachan, the kitchen has been freshly painted, I’d say in the last month or so. And we mustn’t ignore these.’ Danilov pointed to a faint footprint on the sill of the kitchen window and an even fainter one on the floor beneath the window. He opened the back door and the plants had been trampled. ‘The rest of the back garden is spick and span, the plants well cared for, except here.’

  ‘Why didn’t Inspector Cowan spot these, sir?’

  ‘You ask me, and I ask who, Strachan?’

  The detective constable shrugged his broad shoulders.

  Danilov smiled and walked back out to the hallway. ‘As I was saying, the mother saw her son being killed and ran up the stairs. Our second killer comes out from the kitchen and shoots her in the back.’

  He climbed the stairs and stepped across the chalk outline of the body on the landing. ‘That’s interesting.’ The door to a closet on the next level was open. Danilov went inside. A pile of freshly laundered sheets and towels were placed on the shelves. Another clean sheet lay in the corner as if discarded. ‘I wonder if the maid put these here?’

  He came out of the closet and continued his explanation. ‘By now, the husband must have heard the shouts of his wife and the shot from the killer. But instead of running to save his wife and children, he runs upstairs. Why?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Neither do I, Strachan. Neither do I. But we know the killers came up the stairs after him.’

  ‘How do you know he was in the bedroom, sir?’

  ‘See the photograph of his body, Strachan. This man is getting dressed to go out. His buttons are undone on his shirt and he’s wearing just one cufflink. He didn’t have time to put the other on before the killers arrived. What I don’t understand is why he was reading a book when he was just about to go out?’