by M J Lee
Strachan peered closely at the photograph. ‘It’s a guide book, sir. Gow’s Guide to Shanghai 1924. Perhaps he was looking for an address?’
‘But Mr Lee was Chinese. Why would he need an English guide book written for tourists?’
‘True, sir, but what about the girl lying in bed, why didn’t she get up?’
‘That’s easy, Strachan.’ Danilov opened the door to the bedroom. The blood-covered bedclothes were still pulled back as they had been left by the mortuary attendants. ‘They didn’t even take the sheets away. Incompetence of the highest order.’
‘It looks like they weren’t really interested in doing a proper investigation, sir.’
‘An interesting observation, Strachan.’ He walked over to the bedside table and opened the drawer. Inside was an array of tablets and medicines that would have made a chemist happy.
‘She was ill, sir, that’s why she didn’t leave the bed.’
‘More than ill, I think, Strachan.’ He pointed to a pair of crutches and a wheelchair against the wall. ‘An invalid. Probably needed help to get out of bed. Makes me ask once again, where was the maid that evening, if our invalid needed constant help?’
‘I don’t know sir.’
‘Neither do I, Strachan. Anyway, let’s go up.’ He strode out of the room and up the stairs to the third floor. ‘Our man has run up here, not down to save his wife and his children. He knows the killers are after him. Is he running to hide or to escape?’ They reached the door of the bedroom on the third floor. It was open with the chalk outline of a body clearly visible near the window. ‘But he doesn’t lock it. The key is still in the lock. He runs instead into the room. They burst in, he runs to the window and they shoot him dead. One shot to the chest, another, the killing shot, to the centre of the head.’
‘Sounds like a professional, sir.’
‘Exactly, Strachan. Now look over there.’
In the wall opposite the window was a row of holes, spaced unevenly in the wall, breaking through in places to reveal the laths and the plaster.
‘That’s the work of our visitor today. He was obviously looking for something he thought was hidden in this room.’
‘I don’t think he found it, sir, he wasn’t carrying anything. I got a good look at his face, I’d recognise him again.’
‘Strachan, get the uniforms in and search this place properly. Before you do that, get a team to go through the house from top to bottom, fingerprints, everything. Make an imprint of the shoe in the kitchen. We have to start again where Cowan failed.’
‘Yes, sir. Right away, sir. Cowan is not going to be happy we are interfering in his case.’
‘Let me handle Inspector Cowan. This is still my patch.’ Danilov scratched his head. ‘One other thing. Why did the young boy open the door and let his killer into the house?’
‘He may have known his assailant, sir.’
‘Perhaps, Strachan, or there could be another reason. A thought has just occurred to me.’
‘Would you like to share it, sir?’
Danilov looked out of the window. ‘Not yet, Strachan. Not yet.’ He walked over and examined the holes in the wall.
‘Our man with the hammer has been busy. None of the other rooms have been searched or destroyed, just this one. I wonder why? What was he looking for? And why search in this room?’
‘Because that’s where Mr Lee ran, sir, after he heard the shots.’
‘That makes sense, Strachan. Our thug started to search here first. We interrupted him in his work.’
Danilov ran down the stairs to the next floor. He stood at the entrance to the girl’s bedroom. The blood-stained sheets still lay draped across the bed. The room had the faint tang of stale blood, a smell with just a hint of rust and salt.
Danilov whispered a Russian prayer under his breath.
‘What was that, sir?’
‘Nothing, Strachan. Why kill the girl?’
‘Perhaps she saw them, sir?’
‘But even then, no point in killing her. It was dark, their faces wouldn’t have been clear to her from her position in the bed.’
‘An invalid was no threat to them.’
Danilov pinched the skin on the bridge of his nose. ‘This was a professional job, Strachan. They wanted to leave no witnesses. And it wasn’t a robbery. Mrs Lee’s jewellery box is still in her bedroom untouched.’
‘So the motive wasn’t robbery?’
‘No, it wasn’t. And a man like Kao is no more capable of being a professional killer than your mother.’
‘You should see her strangle a chicken from the market.’
‘Thank you, Strachan, remind me never to eat your mother’s chicken. We need to get back to the station. Now.’
‘Shall I wait for forensics, sir?’
Danilov thought for a moment. ‘No, come with me. They can handle everything themselves. I think Mr Kao is in grave danger, Strachan, and not just from the Cowans of this world.’
Chapter 11
He waited on the street, blending in with all the reporters, photographers and assorted hangers-on who were attracted like flies to dung whenever something happened in Shanghai.
It was a good place to hide.
In amongst people. It was the only time he didn’t feel lonely. Here. In a crowd. Waiting.
The butt of the revolver rubbed against the skin of his chest. He loved this moment. The time before the world erupted around him in a storm of chaos.
He knew it was going to happen.
He was the only one who knew.
The idea gave him satisfaction. He had come to this job early in his life. A young man, born in the city with nothing to offer but his brains and the ability to kill.
His first job had been at twelve, smuggling a gun through a police checkpoint and passing it to an assassin, the man hired to kill a politician in the foyer of a council chamber. He had watched him do the job. Three bullets the killer had used. So wasteful. Even worse, the politician had lived to fight on.
He wasn’t going to make that mistake today.
He would be professional. He had learnt from the mistakes of others not to make mistakes himself. Every single detail of each of his jobs was written down and safely hidden from prying eyes.
His diary of murder.
What he had for breakfast. How he felt. The weather. The time of day. The atmosphere before the shooting. The pain and surprise on the victim’s face. His escape route. The depression afterwards.
Twenty-three separate entries.
This was going to be the twenty-fourth.
He had operated as part of a team. He had killed alone. He had used a knife. A gun. Poison. And once a garrotte.
He hadn’t enjoyed using a garrotte. The victim had shit himself as he was dying. The stink had lingered around his nostrils for days like a drowning man clings to a lifebuoy.
He would have to drown somebody one time. To test it out as a means of killing. He imagined that it was the same as the garrotte only wetter.
He had learnt to plan everything. The method. The time. The place. An escape route. The shoes he would wear. The changing area. He always changed his clothes as soon as he could. He didn’t like the smell of death.
Planning a murder was everything.
It was why he was so popular as an operative with Mr Zhang. It was why he received so many jobs. It was why he did what he did. Professionally.
He was a professional as much as any lawyer, accountant or engineer. His skills were in demand. His knowledge needed. His abilities respected. He didn’t lack for jobs. They found him.
He realised long ago after the fourth killing that he didn’t work for money but for the perfection of it all. The perfect murder. One day, he would make it happen.
What was the perfect murder?
When nobody realised a crime had been committed. Nobody was looking for a victim. Nobody looking for a killer. And yet, a victim was dead.
This job was unique. He had not been paid for it,
but strangely, he didn’t mind. This time, he had to rush the planning, only receiving the call that the man was coming out thirty minutes ago.
But he was sure it was long enough. The opportunity was too good to miss. A chance to kill two birds with one stone.
Or, in his case, four bullets.
The location added a frisson of danger. An emotion that he enjoyed when it was under control. And when it was finished, all the ends would be neatly tied in a bow.
Not by him, but by the police themselves.
There had been four murders and now their killer was dead. His death witnessed by the police themselves.
The simple beauty of it enthralled him.
A neatly packaged story for the people to devour. Better to celebrate the excitement of someone’s life and death in the pages of the newspapers than remember the boring mundanity of their own.
He didn’t take any old job. There had to be something of interest in it. Something that challenged him. Killing was easy. Any country bumpkin could kill. But to kill well, to know that the correct victim had been targeted, to get away – there was skill in that.
A test of his skills.
Afterwards, he would vanish. As he always did.
He noticed a stir in the mob of reporters and photographers ahead of him.
He took a deep breath. Calming himself. Focusing his mind on the job in hand.
Chapter 12
Danilov and Strachan pushed their way through the crowd of reporters, photographers and assorted sightseers to get back into the station.
Sergeant Wolfe was standing guard at the entrance.
‘What’s happening, Sergeant?’
‘They’re just about to take the prisoner to the hospital, Inspector. The doctor insisted. Had a proper fight with Cowan about it too. Chief Inspector Boyle had to order him to do obey the doctor. He wasn’t keen, said the prisoner was malingering.’
At last, thought Danilov, at least Kao will be looked after now. He looked towards the press of reporters outside the doors. ‘The mob is baying for blood, Sergeant.’
‘The scum of the earth, they are. Would sell their own mothers for a story.’
The clamour outside the station grew louder.
‘They are using the side door?’
The Sergeant nodded. ‘I thought it better, Inspector. Easier for the prisoner to get to the ambulance.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant, at least one man is thinking today.’
Like a flock of birds moving as one body, the mob of reporters suddenly surged towards the right, shouting noisily as they did.
‘It looks like they are bringing him out now, Inspector. The vultures are descending on their prey,’ said the Sergeant.’
Chapter 13
As soon as they left the safety of the police station, the mob of reporters surged forward.
‘Did you murder the Lee Family?’
‘Why did you do it?’
‘Why did you kill them?’
Cowan and Moore stood either side of Kao, holding his body upright between them. Despite being hunched over, the prisoner still towered above them, his arms handcuffed to them on either side and a blanket half-covering his head. Cowan was pushing Kao down with his free hand so that the reporters could not see the bruises that were still livid on his face.
His lawyer had protested that he should be carried to the ambulance, but Cowan had forced him to walk through the crowd. ‘He can still walk. Nothing wrong with him,’ was his blunt answer.
Three uniformed policemen walked ahead of them, clearing a path through the crowd. The lawyer stopped at the top of the steps. Immediately a small group of reporters separated from the large pack and surrounded him.
The lawyer raised his arms. ’Gentlemen, I’m sure Mr Kao will give a statement when he’s ready.’
‘Did he kill the Lee family?’ shouted one reporter.
‘As you can see, gentlemen, Mr Kao was assaulted during his arrest by the Shanghai Police. He is now being taken to hospital where his injuries will be treated by doctors.’ He stopped speaking and rushed to join his client. The pack of reporters and photographers followed him. ‘But did he murder the Lee family?’ another reporter shouted over the mob.
The policemen pushed the press back, using their arms, elbows and shoulders to forge a path. The reporters gave way reluctantly, still shouting their questions at the lawyer and his client. Lightbulbs flashed, illuminating the scene in a blaze of light, followed by an incoherent barrage of shouted questions.
‘Why did you kill the family?’
‘Four people dead, how do you feel?’
‘Was it a property deal gone wrong?’
‘Did you murder them?’
Cowan and Moore gripped the prisoner tightly, staying close to the constable clearing the way in front.
Kao kept his head down, forced to do so by Cowan’s hand pressing on his neck, stumbling forward, his chest heaving with every painful step.
The policemen were joined by others from the station, who elbowed the reporters to the side, creating a tunnel to the waiting black Dodge at the kerb.
A figure stepped in front of them. A shot like the stamping of a foot against a sheet of metal. Kao Ker Lien was thrown backwards against one of the policemen, his hand reaching up to grab his chest, before falling heavily on the steps, dragging Cowan and Moore down with him.
For a second, the mob of reporters was stunned into near silence.
One more shot. Then another, followed by a loud click.
The reporters screamed, trying to get away from the deadly noise as quickly as they could, tripping over legs, dropping cameras and notebooks and pens.
Policemen went down, bludgeoned out of the way by the scared reporters. People ran everywhere, desperately seeking cover from the sound of the shots.
A woman, caught in the mad rush, was struck by the hard edge of a flashbulb holder. The light went off, catching her in its light as she fell onto the hard concrete.
Those who had fought in the war simply threw themselves down on the ground looking to escape the gunfire, hugging the pavement as if it were a long-lost lover.
One reporter, braver or more stupid than the rest, picked himself up and walked gingerly to the three bodies lying on the ground. He tripped over a camera on the floor, setting off the flash once again, illuminating the scene with a harsh explosion of light.
His eyes were momentarily blinded, but he stumbled forwards, his sight gradually clearing. In front of him, Moore sat moaning, holding his right arm as blood oozed from the shoulder. Beside him, Kao lay on the steps, his arms spread and his eyes wide open, a small hole sitting between them. To his left, Cowan was curled up in a ball, trembling.
The reporter looked back at the body in the middle. He thought for a moment that it had an extra eye. Then he realised what it was and, and from somewhere deep within him, there escaped a shrill keening shriek.
Chapter 14
Lightbulbs were going off. Reporters were shouting.
Up ahead, the crowd jostled each other.
He checked his position. Perfect.
He stepped forward from behind the ambulance. The crowd of reporters were thinning out in front of him, pushed out of the way by the policemen.
The cold metal of the butt solid in his fingers. There were six bullets loaded in the Smith & Wesson. He would not use them all. No need.
The mob thinned out even more. He could see the targets up ahead. They were positioned exactly as agreed.
He stepped forward pulling the revolver out of its holster as he did so.
Nobody noticed him, focused as they were on the people leaving the police station.
He levelled the revolver. Pressed the trigger. There was a brief noise. A flash of flame. The recoil jerked his hand upwards. He would have to use less powder next time.
The target fell backwards onto the stairs, dragging the two policemen down.
The screams. The noise. The shouts of the reporters and the photogr
aphers and the watchers, all disappeared.
He was in a bright tunnel. Just him and the target.
He stepped forward and fired again. Into the head.
The kill shot.
The revolver flashed. He was using too much powder.
The target lay still, a small round hole in his forehead.
Perfect.
Now to take care of the policeman on the right. A sitting duck, literally. He squeezed the trigger again. A wounding shot, not necessary to kill.
Cowan was looking at him, eyes strident with fear. The man tried to scramble away but he had forgotten the handcuffs that bound him to the prisoner.
He levelled the revolver at Cowan’s head. Time to kill him. Time he was gone.
He pulled the trigger. Another forehead shot.
A click.
He looked at the gun. A misfire. Too much gunpowder, must change the ratio next time.
The reporters were beginning to move now. Time to leave. Cowan could wait.
He slid the revolver back into the holster, feeling the warmth of the barrel through his shirt.
He turned and walked towards Foochow Road.
Move quickly, don’t run. Running suggested fear and a desire to escape. He wasn’t afraid but he wanted to get away.
Behind him, he could hear the screams of chaos.
He turned the corner and crossed the street to a quiet lilong. Twenty yards left along a lane he took off his hat. He turned to check if anybody was following him.
Nobody.
Good.
He pulled the Mandarin coat up and over his head, revealing his uniform beneath. Reaching up to the washing line above his head he hung the coat over it. He would return later to get it back. He hated waste in any job. Waste was inefficiency.
The blue coat had served him well, blending in with the thousands of others just like it on the streets of Shanghai.
He threw the hat away into a rubbish heap at the side of the alley. One of the rubbish collectors would remove it and sell it cheaply. Somebody, somewhere would enjoy the soft feel of the brown felt.
He pulled a dark cap from his trouser pocket, adjusting it so that it sat well on his head.
