by M J Lee
She nodded her head at Earnshaw and walked out of the office, silently closing the door behind her.
The editor pulled out the photographs from the brown envelope and laid them on the table. There were eight. Danilov immediately recognised the three that had been featured in the newspaper.
‘That’s all of them. Taken by our staff photographer. These three are the ones we used. As you can see, the rest are either out of focus or blurred. The idiot should have taken better shots.’
‘Somebody was firing a revolver in his direction.’
‘Makes no difference. Should have got the shot, and shouldn’t have got shot. That’s his bloody job.’
Danilov pulled out a small magnifying glass from his jacket pocket. He took one photograph and placed it underneath the green desk light, examining it carefully. He did the same with each of the pictures in turn. ‘Your man did a good job,’ he said finally.
‘Didn’t get a shot of the shooter, though, did he?’
‘He caught the sequence of the shooting.’ Danilov laid out the images in order, like a cartoon starting top right and ending bottom left. Thomas leaned over to look more closely. ‘See here.’ He pointed to the first photograph. ‘Kao and his lawyer are just coming out of the station. Your photographer must be standing at the bottom of the steps.’
‘All I can see are a load of heads. He should have been at the front, not stuck in’t back.’
‘In the next one, Kao is walking down the steps flanked on either side by the policemen. In the third, he’s caught them from the side. He’s stayed where he is and they have moved past him.’
‘Aye, no use showing the side of a face.’
‘There’s me, standing in the front.’ Thomas smiled at the editor. He received a grunt in return.
‘The fourth shows the back of Kao and the policemen as they walked towards their ambulance. You can see the lawyer just coming into the shot.’
‘All we can see are the backs of their bloody heads, no bloody use.’
‘Now, we move on to the three that you used. Your photographer must have run around to the front of the pack of reporters. We see Kao and the policemen walking toward him again.’
‘Thank Christ for that. Should’ve moved his arse years ago.’
‘Then we see Kao falling. The policemen have their arms up, protecting themselves.’
‘Should’ve been protecting their prisoner. You’re on’t floor too, Thomas, couldn’t keep your bloody feet?’
‘There was firing, sir, loud…’
‘Aye, just thought of your own skin, didn’t you?’ The editor turned back to Danilov. ‘Can’t find the bloody staff these days.’
Danilov carried on looking at the photographs. ‘The seventh has Moore, the policeman, now falling after he has been shot and wounded.’
‘Tried to interview him, but your people wouldn’t let us anywhere near,’ said Thomas.
Danilov ignored him. ‘Apparently this is when your photographer decided to get to the ground.’ Danilov turned the next photograph so that it was vertical, not horizontal. An arm was extended at the side of the frame, pointing a gun directly at Cowan as he cowered on the steps.
Thomas leant in. ‘That’s when we heard the misfire. Lucky for your Inspector Cowan, he would be dead otherwise. Where is he by the way?’
‘I would like to know as much as you, Mr Thomas. If you see him, please ask him to contact me.’
Thomas glanced across at his editor.
Danilov turned back to the photograph, hoping that his answer had intrigued the reporter enough to follow up. ‘The shot is sharply angled. The photographer must have been on the floor and still using his camera. Shame he didn’t capture the killer’s face.’
‘Should’ve stayed on his feet and got a better shot. He’ll be looking for another job, you mark my words.’
‘I wouldn’t be too harsh if I were you, he’s given you another scoop.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘He’s given you a picture of the killer.’ Danilov picked up the fourth photograph and placed it under the bright light of the desk lamp. He angled the light so that it shone directly onto the print. Then he brought the magnifying glass over to the top left-hand corner.
Earnshaw and Thomas leaned in to take a closer view.
‘It’s blurred, but there’s someone standing in front of the car, wearing a long Mandarin coat and a dark hat. See, he’s holding something in his right hand.’
‘It’s a gun, I’m sure it’s a gun. You’re a bloody marvel, Danilov.’
Earnshaw ran round the desk and pressed the intercom button again. ‘Tell them to hold the presses, Miss Chang, we’ve got a new front page.’
‘I’d like the negatives. Our police photographers might be able to create a sharper image.’
‘Aye, you’ll get them.’
‘I think we are even, don’t you agree, Mr Earnshaw?’
Thomas held out his hand. ‘Thank you, Inspector Danilov. But I’m still coming after you. This case smells worse than a basket of hairy crabs.’
Danilov ignored him and his outstretched hand. He picked up the photographs, put his hat on and walked towards the door.
‘One more thing, Inspector.’ said Earnshaw.
Danilov stopped and turned around.
‘A little bird tells us you have been looking into the killing of the Lee family.’
‘I may be, what’s it to you?’
‘Mr Lee worked for a company called the Three Friends.’
‘I knew that already, Mr Earnshaw.’
The editor smiled like a cat who had a whole barrel of cream.‘The company has its headquarters in the French Concession. You don’t need me to tell you what business they are in, do you?’
‘I don’t. But I’m sure you will tell me anyway.’
Earnshaw sat back in his chair. ‘Opium. They are in the opium business, Inspector.’
Chapter 34
Danilov stepped out of the newspaper’s offices and onto the Bund. He inhaled the smoke and exhaust and damp of the city. It felt good. An exotic mixture of sweat, human greed, the sweetness of opium and the bitterness of fear, with just a smidgeon of love. Not too much love, this was Shanghai after all.
He rolled a cigarette, adding the smell of tobacco to the other scents that drifted off the Bund, forcing his mind to think about the case. There was so much he didn’t understand yet. Who was Lee and why was he killed? Did he really work for a company that imported opium? Who were the Three Friends? And why kill the rest of the family too? Was it a threat? A signal? A punishment? And who was the man that Strachan had chased across the roof? What was he looking for in the house?
He took another long drag on his cigarette. The bitter tang of the tobacco stung the back of his throat. Where was Cowan? The investigation had been incompetent and mismanaged. Was that deliberate? Or was Cowan just a tired old copper who was waiting for retirement and the pension that would allow him to wallow in comfort and alcohol, back in Margate or Maidstone?
He had a few ideas that were beginning to form in his mind. None of them portrayed Cowan in a favourable light. The sooner he found the man, the better.
But first he had to know more about Lee and the Three Friends. One person might be able to tell him more, or at least point him in the right direction.
He threw his cigarette into the gutter and hailed a cab.
It was time to visit the Princess.
Chapter 35
Mr Zhang took a rickshaw to the old part of the city, still controlled by the Chinese government. Or he should say still controlled by a combination of the old guilds, the old families and the new street gangs. Each lived in an uneasy truce with the other, occasionally calling on Mr Zhang to provide his unique services when one or the other stepped over the mark.
As soon as the rickshaw crossed over into the French Concession, he noticed an immediate difference. The policemen’s uniforms were much more exotic. Gone were the drab khakis and blu
es of the International Settlement. Instead, the bright colours and round faces of the Annamites dominated each of the crossroads, directing the busy traffic with a flair and colour that contrasted with the grey stone of the buildings.
The streets were lined with cafes, people sitting out to enjoy the sunshine and an espresso or a glass of wine, chatting to each other with not a care in the world. People always joked that one should live in the French Concession and work in the International Settlement. Seeing those men and women enjoying themselves on a working day, Mr Zhang could understand why.
They went down Rue Montauban, past the large Church and its convent and took a sharp right onto the Boulevard des Deux Republiques. As they went down to the North Gate, the old city walls loomed over him on his left. They were looking a little battered now, and at their base, enterprising businessmen had erected all sorts of stalls to sell curios and knick-knacks to the visiting tourists.
The rickshaw boy, actually an old man of fifty, wove through traffic and they entered the Old City through a dark alley beneath the gate, stopping in a small open area.
Mr Zhang jumped down from the rickshaw and paid the old man fifty cents. The usual fare was twenty, but he liked to pay over the odds. It meant he would receive the service he had become accustomed to. The eyes of the rickshaw man opened wide at the silver coin sitting in his hand.
Immediately he was accosted by the hawkers of the city, who spotted his Western clothes and believed that here was fresh meat for the picking.
He waved them away with a shake of his head. None of them returned. They recognised that this was a man of business, a man not to be trifled with.
He boarded another rickshaw, this one specially licensed to operate in the Old City. It was driven by a much younger man who couldn’t have been older than forty.
The new rickshaw man padded down the narrow street, past the open shops, their wares displayed proudly. Dealers in gold and silver, coral, jade, seal cutters, and brass merchants, mahjong tile and ivory carvers, all spilled out onto the narrow street, all proclaiming in the loudest voices possible and in a multitude of differing dialects, the quality and excellence of their merchandise.
The rickshaw swung left at the bottom of the street and headed to their stop. An ornate building topped with crenellated towers and intricately carved balconies; Little World. The bastard offspring of the amusement centre in the International Settlement.
He got down from the rickshaw and paid the driver another fifty cents. Mr Zhang left him, accompanied by repeated thanks of ‘Xie, xie’ and a rather extravagant military salute. Perhaps, the man had served in the labour battalions in France?
He would walk to the Woo Sing Dong Tea House from here. It would give him time to scout out the area, checking that everything was how it should be. In his profession, one couldn’t be too careful.
The tea shop was surrounded by water with just a single zig-zag causeway linking it to the land. He had arranged a table on the ground floor overlooking this entrance. From here, he could keep watch on anybody who came to the tea house.
The ground floor area was tiny but served the best tea in Shanghai. He sat by the window and ordered a pot of Mao Feng, a green tea from Huang Shan. As he was early, he would be able to enjoy the drink before the difficult decision about Mr Han had to be made.
He had only enjoyed one precious sip of the slightly smoky, aromatic tea when a shadow crossed his table. Mr Han had arrived. Had he been waiting all the time?
Mr Zhang gestured for him to sit down on the chair opposite. He poured some hot water from a thermos into a tea cup and washed it, throwing the waste water over the teapot to warm it up, the water dripping down into the reservoir beneath. He added more water to the small pot, tilting it backwards and forwards. Finally, he poured the greenish-orange liquid into the cup, making sure no leaves clouded the tea, passing it to Mr Han with both hands.
Mr Han took it in the same way, inhaled the aroma and sipped just a little, putting a pottery lid on top to keep it warm. ‘Superb, sir. You always did have excellent taste in tea.’
‘Maybe it’s just a little bitter. Too young, perhaps. A year from now, it will be better. I must inform the owner.’
‘You are the connoisseur, not me. I bow to your judgement in these matters.’
Mr Zhang put his tea cup down on the table and covered it with his own porcelain lid. ‘And now to business. The contract has had some problems.’
‘I am sorry. I have heard nothing from my client.’
‘But my other clients are unhappy. The activity of the police is beginning to upset business.’
Mr Han remained silent, now was not a time to speak.
‘Let me explain our business once again, Han. When a client has a problem they come to me to solve it. I have a team of operatives, all efficient in their profession.’
‘The profession of killing.’
Mr Zhang reached over, lifted the lid from his tea and brought the porcelain cup up to his nose, inhaling the aroma of the brew. ‘You can be very blunt at times, but your description is essentially correct. They are professionals at terminating life. Murder Inc is essentially a middle man, bringing together those with a problem and those who can solve that problem. I don’t like clients to be unhappy. We are in a service industry. A happy client means more business. Our reputation is all we have.’
‘I realise that, sir.’
Mr Zhang lifted up his tea cup once more, smelling the pleasant aroma again. ‘I don’t like mistakes, Han.’
‘Neither do I, sir.’
‘The instructions were to kill the man and woman but to spare the children. Why were these not carried out?’
‘My associate panicked, sir, making mistakes.’
Mr Zhang sensed that Han had just lied to him. Should he terminate this contractor? The man had always been efficient in the past. Perhaps asking him to do this job in such a short period of time had meant that the planning wasn’t as precise as usual. ‘You have always been an efficient contractor in the past. I wouldn’t want to dispense with your services.’
‘I understand, sir. I will ensure that your reputation, and that of the company, is upheld.’
‘Oh, I have no doubt of that, Mr Han. No doubt at all. But time is of the essence, don’t you think? The situation is rapidly becoming messier. Business should never be messy. You, above all, should understand that.’
‘I understand, sir. The policeman was a mistake. I believed he was more reliable than he was.’
Mr Zhang looked up from his tea cup. ‘I thought I had trained you better, Mr Han. One should never rely on other people to do our work for us. Never.’
‘It was a two person job, sir. I couldn’t see it being executed efficiently on my own.’
‘But, even with two people, was it executed efficiently? And then to shoot the man on the steps of the police station…’
‘I had planned to do it in the hospital sir, but the policeman went to pieces. Started talking about going to his boss and admitting everything.’
‘So you saw an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But you failed.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He put down his tea cup and they both sat in silence for a few moments.
Mr Zhang was suddenly aware of the raucous shouts of the merchants peddling their wares, and the even louder screams of the rickshaw drivers as they hustled for new business coming out of the narrow lanes and alleys of the Old City.
He shouldn’t have to handle these affairs any more. ‘The whole point about our company is that we are efficient, discreet and, above all, invisible. We get the job done and then we vanish into the air.’ Mr Zhang blew on the end of his fingers. ‘At the moment, the police are on constant alert, disturbing our business and that of some of my most important clients. They are complaining to me. I do not like complaints.’
He had a decision to make. ‘You have two days to make it all vanish, Mr H
an.’ He blew on the ends of his fingers once more. ‘Two days.’
The unspoken threat of what would happen after those two days lay between them like a shroud.
‘I understand, Mr Zhang.’
‘I’m glad you do. I wouldn’t like to have to terminate our...friendship.’
‘Thank you for understanding, I won’t let you down.’
‘I’m sure you won’t, Mr Han. My business and its reputation are important to me.’
Chapter 36
Danilov pushed open the door of the small cafe hidden down a short alley in the French Concession. An old man, probably Russian, looked up lazily from his chess board. His head went down again and he reached for a black rook, moving it to the centre of its back line.
Danilov could see his move was a mistake, but he didn’t say anything; it would be impolite to interrupt the game.
The man got up and manoeuvred himself around to the opposite chair to play white. The cafe must be quiet tonight if he could find no other players to oppose him. Either that or he was incompetent and nobody wanted to play him.
A white-haired woman came out from the kitchen, drying her hands on her cream apron. She was tall, thin and had an indefinable elegance about her. She spotted Danilov and immediately a gentle smile broke the severity of her face.
‘Pyotr Alexandrevich, to what do we owe this pleasure? You’re very late, we’ve just closed the kitchen, but I can prepare a few snacks if you like.’
‘No, thank you, Princess, I’ve eaten already,’ Danilov lied, ‘but a glass of tea would be most welcome.’
‘A glass of tea for the Inspector, Yuri.’ A fat man with a walrus moustache was standing in front of a large copper samovar. He began to prepare the tea.
Princess Elena Ivanova Ostrepova glided towards Danilov with her hand held out in front of her. He took it gently and kissed the tips of her fingers. He leaned back and gazed at the elegant woman before him, dressed in the silk of a bygone era, her grey hair tied tightly back in a chignon, revealing petite features carved into a porcelain skin. Like a Meissen doll brought to life, he thought.
