by M J Lee
It was a good job he didn’t ask her about the hiding place. Nobody knew that she had seen Mr Lee put the things in there. He didn’t know. None of them knew.
But she had seen him sneak down one day with a bundle wrapped in a cloth. Perhaps the killers were after that bundle, so they killed the family. Now she was the only one left alive who knew where it was.
She had to get away.
She threw her remaining clothes into the case and shut the lid. She would leave the umbrella. Ghosts live in umbrellas. One could be lurking inside there now.
She bustled downstairs. Ah Yen was waiting at the bottom.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Away. Won’t tell you where. Too dangerous. Got to get away from the police and the ghosts.’
‘You’re going to leave me behind?’
‘You should go too, back to your village. You’ll be safe there.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I don’t know yet. I’ll know when I get there.’
She went out the back door, stopping for a moment to glance back at the house where she had lived and worked. The memory of the second wife lying dead on the landing, blood oozing from her body, sent a shiver down her spine. She heard a noise from the house. Got to get away from here. Got to go.
She ran down the street as quickly as her little legs would carry her. At the corner, she stopped. Left or right? Should she go back to the old neighbourhood on Canton Road? Mr Hung, the butcher, would put her up. He always was so nice to her, giving her the best cuts of meat and a little bit of ham from Yunnan, just for herself. But she knew that such kindness always came with a price. The grizzled chin and torn vest of Mr Hung were not worth it.
What about the first wife? She remembered the last meeting at the door. The wife so upset, shouting and screaming at her and the family. She couldn’t go there either.
Home. Her family.
She would go home. Her mother would look after her. Of course, she would ask questions. What are you doing? Why have you left Mr Lee? Did you get paid first? It wasn’t Chinese New Year so she would know that something was wrong.
She started down the street to wave down a rickshaw. One was stopping. It would cost her 20 cents, but it was worth it.
‘Where to, missus?’ said the old man.
She hesitated before she got in. Wasn’t home where the police would go first? She couldn’t go there. She stepped away from the kerb.
‘Are you getting on or not? I haven’t got all day to hang around here.’
The maid stood on the street, looking right and left. Then, she remembered her aunt in Nanking. She could go there. The aunt had married a carter and they had moved to that city ten years ago. She’d never been to it, but she had the address. Her aunt was always asking her to visit and see the children. They had five now.
‘Shanghai North Station.’
‘Well, get on. People think I can spend my life waiting for them.’
The maid put her bag on the seat and sat on it, just in case there were any snatch thieves. The rickshaw driver picked up the limbers and ran down the street, weaving in and out of the traffic.
Chapter 63
Elina reached for the old suitcase that lay on top of the wardrobe in her room. It was made from thick board covered in a beige paper to make it appear to be leather. Two rusted locks on either side of the handle snapped open as she touched them. She lifted the lid, inside the case was empty.
She had bought this case in Vladivostok before her journey to Harbin. She remembered the night her mother had packed it with her. Her brother was asleep on his bed in the corner, exhausted from working in the sawmill.
Her mother had folded her cotton vests and underwear and placed them carefully in the bottom of the case, next to an extra pair of shoes in a drawstring bag, and two thin jumpers bought that day second-hand from the market. Finally, she placed her tortoise-shell brush, the one memento of her life in Minsk, on top of the jumpers and closed the lid.
Her mother had insisted that she take their one overcoat. ‘You wear it. The ship will be cold and I don’t need it in the kitchen where I work.’
‘But you’ll freeze in winter.’
Her mother had brushed aside her objections as easily as she chopped vegetables for the cafe.
Then her mother had pressed what little money she had into her hand. A few old coins wrapped up in three wrinkled notes. It wasn’t much for six months of work.
They had hugged once and she had left to go to the wharf without waking her brother. Saying goodbye that day had been the hardest thing she had ever done in her life. One of them had to find her father.
Why had she bothered to find him? All the time, he was here in Shanghai enjoying nights at the clubs, drinking and dancing with the Wunu.
The image of her mother wearing an old maroon cardigan, a worn out scarf covering her head, standing at the door to the dilapidated shed that they called home, crept into her mind.
Why had they bothered to find him? It would have been better to have stayed with her mother and her brother.
She placed the case on her bed and searched for the two thin jumpers in the wardrobe. She would only take what she had brought into this house. All her new clothes, new shoes and new brushes would remain with her father. She didn’t want anything from him.
Nothing at all.
She found the rest of her things, putting the brush in last just as her mother had done. She closed the lid, snapping the rusty locks shut.
She took her mother’s old coat out from the wardrobe and put it on. It was too big for her, hanging loosely off her shoulders, but she didn’t care.
She picked up the case and glanced back at her bedroom. The bed was made, the water jug and bowl sat on the dresser, the clock ticked remorselessly on the chair next to her bed. It was exactly the same as when she had arrived six months ago.
It was like she had never been here. As if she had never existed.
Without looking back at the cold white walls of Medhurst Apartments, she closed the front door.
It was time to leave.
Chapter 64
He got off the tram outside Shanghai North Station. People were pushing and shoving, rushing for trains or hurrying to get home. A porter with a trolley full of six large bags came straight at him. He jumped out of the way. The porter was followed by a large, sweating Dutch passenger who bumped into Strachan without apologising, continuing on his way as if nothing had happened.
Strachan edged backwards, out of the bustling mob of passengers, porters and people. The building loomed above him. Four stories tall and covered in red brick with alternate rows of white tiles. Two massive arches, also edged with white tiles, towered over his head.
He took a deep breath and fought his way through the entrance, into the train concourse. More people. More luggage. More hustle and bustle. He spotted a destination board.
None of the trains were going to Soochow. Peking, Nanking, Tientsin, Dalian, Tsingtao and even Dalian were up on the board with platform and train numbers but no Soochow. Strange.
He ran down the concourse, bumping into farmers carrying bamboo poles across their shoulders, farmers’ wives with angry chickens, fur-clad women on their way to somewhere cold, soldiers with rifles waiting for their officers. The whole world was here, how was he going to find one little maid?
He ran towards Platform Six, dodging a giggle of schoolgirls who suddenly appeared out of nowhere in front of him. In getting out of their way, he bumped into a young woman dressed in black, who fell to the floor. He reached out his hand to lift her up. ‘I’m so sorry…’
‘Clumsy oaf,’ she shouted in bad Mandarin, ‘can’t you look where you’re going?’
She looked up at him. It was Elina. ‘Miss Danilov, I’m sorry…’
‘Has my father sent you?’
‘I’m sorry…’
‘My father sent you to bring me back, didn’t he?’
‘Bring you back where?’
<
br /> ‘Home. He didn’t have the courage to come himself. So he sent one of his lackeys.’
Strachan hated being called a ‘lackey’. ‘Miss Danilov, I don’t know what you mean. Your father didn’t send me here, or anywhere, to get you. And I’m not a lackey.’
‘I don’t believe you, he sent you, didn’t he?’
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the maid, on her own, standing with her back to the wall, looking forlorn.
‘Just a minute, Miss Danilov.’
She stopped talking, but her mouth continued to move like a goldfish out of the water.
He ran to the maid and tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Hello there, Ah Ching.’
She turned round sharply as if she had been shot, saw the smiling face of Strachan and ran.
He caught her in three strides. ‘Hey, hold on.’ She struggled to escape his grip. Strachan was aware that the other passengers were becoming conscious of this large half-Chinese man in a Western grey suit holding on to a small, fat maid. ‘If I let you go, will you promise not to run?’
She nodded.
He let go of her arms.
She ran.
Once again, he caught up with her in less than three strides. ‘It’s OK. I’m here to help. I want to help you.’
She stopped struggling and lay still in his arms. ‘You’re in danger. We need to protect you.’
‘Do you make a habit of attacking women in train stations, Mr Strachan, or is this an exception?’
Elina Danilov stood in front of him, her suitcase by her side. Her black coat far too big for her, hanging like a tarpaulin off her shoulders.
‘This woman could help with our case. That’s why I’m at the station. Nothing to do with you.’
Ah Ching struggled free from his grasp. ‘The ghosts are after me.’
Elina Danilov stepped forward and put her arms round the maid. ‘Don’t worry, I’m here to protect you. The ghosts won’t be able to get you now,’ she said directly to the maid.
‘There are no ghosts. Just men. Someone was searching in the Lee house. That’s what you heard. They could come after you.’
Elina glared at Strachan. ‘Whilst I’m here the ghosts won’t come anywhere near you.’
The maid relaxed a little, but still glanced nervously over her shoulder.
‘I need you to come back with me,’ said Strachan. ‘Whoever killed the Lees could come after you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you saw their faces. You’re the only witness.’
‘But the one I saw was a foreigner, I wouldn’t recognise him again.’
‘They don’t know that.’ Strachan looked around the station. He pointed to a man dressed in a long Mandarin coat. ‘It could be him.’ He pointed to a young man, leaning on one of the steel columns, smoking a cigarette. ‘It could be him.’ He pointed to a man in overalls, who, as he did so, looked up and gave them both a long stare. ‘It could even be him.’
The maid shuddered and held Elina tighter.
‘You are scaring her, Mr Strachan.’
‘She should be scared. She’s in great danger.’ He turned to the maid again, lowering his voice. ‘You can’t run away from them. They will find you.’ Her shoulders sagged as if all the bones had been removed from her body. Elina held her up and she began to cry.
‘What should I do?’
‘Come back with me to the police station. We can protect you there.’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can. It’s the only place you will feel safe. The only place you will be safe.’
‘But the man with the green eyes...’
‘Inspector Danilov?’
‘He frightens me.’
‘He frightens me too. And I’m his daughter.’
The maid smiled.
‘He scares the hell out of me, too. But, he’s a good man. He will protect you,’ said Strachan.
The maid lowered her head for a moment. ‘I’ll go back but only if she comes with us,’ she whispered.
Elina shook her head. ‘I can’t…I’ve got a train to catch.’
‘Without her, I’m not going back. I’m staying here.’ The maid nestled in closer to Elina’s shoulder.
Strachan looked at the two women standing in front of him. He would never understand them. He tried once more. ‘Please, Miss Danilov, I need your help. If you are embarrassed by last night…’
Elina’s chin went up and her nostrils flared. ‘Why should I be embarrassed?’
Strachan realised he had said the wrong thing. ‘I…I…I mean by the Inspector. He told me that he was sorry for what he said.’
Her face softened and her mouth was not gripped as tightly. ‘He did? He said he was sorry?’
Strachan crossed his fingers, hoping that he would be forgiven for the white lie he had just told and the one he was about to tell. ‘He realised that he reacted wrongly.’
Elina’s shoulders lost their tenseness. Her mouth relaxed and for a moment, she almost smiled.
She turned her head to the maid and spoke in a gentle voice. ‘I’ll come with you to the police station. I can take a later train this evening.’
There was a bellow of smoke and steam from Platform Seven. The acrid stench of coal smoke flooded the station. The shrill cry of a whistle and a metallic ring as the wheels gripped the iron rails. Slowly, inexorably, a train was leaving the station.
‘Come with me. We’ll keep you safe.’ Strachan picked up her bag and stood waiting.
The maid watched the train leave in a cloud of smoke and a fanfare of whistles from the station master.
‘Why were you watching that train on Platform Five? It’s going to Nanking.’
She held up her ticket. ‘That’s where I was going.’
‘Not home? Not to Soochow?’
‘Of course not. I knew that would be the first place you would look for me. And anyway, the train for Soochow leaves from Shanghai South station. Didn’t you know?’
Strachan looked up towards the heavens and thanked all the gods he knew, and a few he didn’t, for his luck.
Elina pointed to her suitcase. ‘Make yourself useful, Mr Strachan.’
He picked it up and they walked through the crowd that still thronged Shanghai North. As they exited the station, the gods rewarded him once more. An empty taxi pulled up just as they reached the main road.
The maid and Elina climbed into the back seat. Strachan jumped in the front. ‘Central Police Station,’ he said to the driver.
Chapter 65
It was the first time that Danilov had ever been on the fourth floor of the Central Police Station. Usually, he never left the first floor, where the detectives’ room and Boyle’s office were located. If he were going to head in any direction, it would be down not up. Down to the holding cells beneath the station to interview a prisoner.
He had walked up the stairs quite deliberately. He didn’t want to meet anybody. Too many questions would be asked: ‘Have you found the killer yet?’ ‘When are you going to arrest him?’ And the worst, the one he wanted to avoid more than any other: ‘Why haven’t you found the killer yet?’
He stepped out on the fourth floor. The corridor stretched in front of him. Third door on the right, he found the Forensic Ballistics Laboratory. He knew which room it was because a black notice had been handwritten and stuck to the door with sticking tape.
He walked in without knocking. The room smelt of new paint. New eau-de-nil paint. The same paint that every British office in every country around the world was painted. Perhaps they had millions of cans left over from the war and needed to use them up. Or this shade of grey reminded them of a dull winter’s afternoon in the fens of Cambridgeshire. Or maybe there was just a severe lack of imagination on the part of the British bureaucrat: offices had always been painted this colour so they would always be painted this colour.
A young man in a white lab coat looked up from a microscope. His face had a complete absence of lines or wrinkles, like a
teenager who had never grown up. Chinese men often looked younger than their real age. Unlike Russians, who always looked older.
‘Can I help you?’ The accent was American. Very American. Somewhere in the mid-west.
I hope so. I sent you two bullets and a cartridge casing. Or at least, they were sent to you from the pathologist, Dr Fang. We took them out of two bodies recently.’
‘I got them, thank you.’
‘And?’
‘And?’
So it was going to be one of those interviews. ‘What can you tell me about them?’
‘You are...?’
‘Danilov. Inspector Danilov. In charge of the investigation.’
The young man pushed a strand of hair behind his ear. ‘I’ll send you the written results through the internal mail.’ He returned to his microscope.
Danilov moved to stand between the microscope and the window, blocking the light with his body. ‘I don’t think you understand the urgency. A man has been murdered on the steps of this police station. Another is in the hospital with a gunshot wound. A family has been gunned down at home; a father, a mother and two young children slaughtered. And if that weren’t enough, a policeman was shot dead, his body dumped in the Whampoa.’ This long speech from Danilov had started off quietly and calmly, and gradually become harsher and more strident, the last line spat between clenched teeth.
The young man stammered, ‘I’ll get it for you. It’s...it’s over here.’ He passed a file over.
Danilov opened it and read the contents. ‘This is in scientific jargon. Give it to me in words a simple Russian peasant can understand.’
The young man began to speak as if reciting a speech he had made many times before. ‘You understand the basics of ballistics?’
‘I’m a Russian peasant. Enlighten me.’
‘You understand the principle of rifling?’
