by M J Lee
Danilov could see the marks clearly on her legs. Livid, blue marks, lying along the inside of the thigh and along the inside of the ankles.
‘The marks don’t go around her thighs or legs. They are only found on the inside.’
‘Were they inflicted pre- or post-mortem?’
‘Pre-mortem, Inspector. See, the bruising is livid, going from purple into blue. I’ve seen these sorts of marks before. Usually old scars that have healed and left a mark.’
‘Where did you see them, Doctor?’
Dr Fang sniffed. ‘It’s very strange but they are usually found on men who ply the coastal trade. On the old junks.’ He mimed a sailor climbing a rope. ‘The men get them from climbing the ropes attached to the rigging. But one sees them less and less these days. The advent of steam power.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. Any other reason she would have these marks?’
‘There are many reasons, Inspector, none of which I could speculate about.’ The doctor sniffed once again. ‘A few more things. You will have noticed the corpse has dyed hair just like the previous victim. A slightly darker shade though, not so platinum, but still dyed. And then there are the eyes…’
‘Cornflower blue.’
‘So that is what the shade is called. I looked it up in the dictionary but couldn’t find it anywhere.’ Dr Fang took a small book out of his top pocket and began writing notes.
Inspector Danilov stared down at the face once more. The cornflower-blue eyes were there sitting in their sockets, staring out lifelessly into the world, shaded by two rolls of skin that formed a small peaked cap along her hairline.
A pretty girl, he thought, a very pretty girl.
His thoughts about Elsie Everett were interrupted by the clatter of the door to the morgue swinging open. A young man’s head appeared.
‘I’ve told you so many times, I am not to be interrupted when in the middle of an autopsy.’
‘I’m sorry, Dr Fang, this was delivered.’ He held up a blue hessian bag. ‘The man said it was for Detective Constable Strachan.’
‘It’s the barrel lid, sir. I asked Lieutenant Masset to send it here.’
‘You are being efficient today, Stra-chan. There’s hope for you yet. Dr Fang, I wonder if you would mind taking a look at this for us?’
‘I’ve got two stabbings and a coronary thrombosis to deal with before tea-time.’
‘I would consider it a great favour if you could examine it, Doctor. I’m sure you’ll find it very interesting. Professionally, of course.’
Dr Fang sniffed, enjoying the compliment. ‘I’ll see if I can find the time.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. Come, Stra-chan, you have work to do. And so does the good doctor.’
Chapter 17
He loved the sound of a knife sharpening against a steel. There’s the ascending harmonic of the rasp of the blade as the edge kisses the metal. Up one side and up the other in a rhythm like the sound of the bossa nova. No downstrokes. We wouldn’t want to snag the end, chipping away at its edge, would we?
Even more than the sound, he loved the way the eyes of the guilty were inevitably drawn to the blade. Fascinated, entranced by its shining prospect of pain. He always sharpened the knife in front of them. It did prolong their terror.
The preacher lay on a slab in front of him. His eyes were only focused on the knife. Nothing else existed for him. The man was struggling against the ropes. He didn’t blame him. He would struggle too if he were in the preacher’s position.
Then he smelt the rich earthy smell of shit. The preacher hadn’t been able to control himself. What a shame. It meant Li Min was going to have to clean him again. He did wish they could control themselves more. He would have thought a preacher would have set a better example. After all, he was going to the place he’d always wanted to go, wasn’t he?
He touched the edge of the blade with his finger. Nearly there, a few more strokes should do it. Well, it was always better to be safe than sorry. At least, that’s what his nanny used to say.
He had tried the preacher that morning, soon after he had got back here. Now, in some courts, it might be seen as strange that he was prosecutor, judge, jury and executioner, but not here. We all know many criminals escape real justice through having clever solicitors. Or corrupt police. Or even incompetent judges. But in his court, there was no such chance to escape. They always enjoyed the certainty of justice.
Sometimes, he even acted for the defence, but not often. The guilt of his accused was usually so clear, he could smell and taste it.
He did have a helper though. Li Min was splendid at the work, a court clerk if you like. Li Min enjoyed bringing the miscreants to justice as much as he did. But it was up to him to see justice was done. That was his role. The role assigned to him.
He tested the edge of the blade with his finger.
Perfect.
The preacher struggled again as he got closer to him. The man saw the knife clearly now. He had been calling it a knife, but it was probably more of a cleaver. The sort butchers used in the market to slice into a piece of beef. It had a marvellous balance, nestling in his hand, crying out to be used.
As he got closer to the preacher, the man struggled even more. He could see the wild fear in the preacher’s eyes. Quite an imagination this one. Perhaps it was the man’s obsession with the Old Testament that enabled him to imagine what was going to happen next. It was a harsh book. They certainly knew how to deal with criminals.
Only the Chinese had the same sense of justice. A quick judgement and an even quicker execution, that’s what criminals could expect. They had been refining the ways of death for thousands of years. Coming to Shanghai, discovering the Chinese way, had made it all clear to him. This was what he had to do. This was what he was driven to do. They had done wrong. This was what they deserved.
The blade was in front of the Preacher’s eyes now. The man was struggling, but the rope around his forehead held him tight. He could see the blood where the rope had bitten into the skin.
Don’t struggle, preacher, you’ll only hurt yourself.
He put the point of the knife into the shoulder where the socket met the body. There was a little indentation there to guide him. How thoughtful the gods were. He saw the preacher’s face grimace with pain as his mouth struggled to scream against the glue of the duct tape.
Don’t struggle, preacher, you’ll only hurt yourself.
He pressed the knife deeper into the socket. The blood was flowing now from the wound, drenching the preacher’s body. He was wearing an apron, a mask and a surgeon’s cap. He didn’t want any of the preacher’s blood on him. Li Min stepped forward to wipe his brow, so very thoughtful of him.
He pushed the blade in further. He could see the pale whiteness of the bone through the blood. There was a roundness to the ball of the joint where it slotted into the arm socket. What a perfect piece of engineering, so beautifully designed to give a range of movement and strength.
He pushed it deeper and turned the blade. The preacher had gone limp now, unconscious.
Don’t sleep, preacher, you’ll only hurt yourself.
Li Min stepped forward and threw a bucket of cold water over the preacher’s face. The man opened his eyes, looked at him and tried to scream again, his mouth tearing at the glue of the duct tape.
He pressed the knife down and cut through the final tendons that held the arm to the shoulder. The arm pulled away neatly when he removed it from the body. Quite a good job, even if he did say so himself.
He showed the severed arm to the preacher. The man tried to scream but collapsed, unconscious.
The preacher didn’t know yet he still had to remove the man’s other arm and both legs.
He would do them later after he had eaten a spot of dinner.
Chapter 18
Victorov was seated at the table with a glass of tea in front of him. Danilov knew it was him as soon as he entered the cafe. Three days’ worth of beard. A dirty black overcoat and the consta
nt shifting of the eyes, first to the left and then to the right, gave it away.
The Princess introduced them. ‘Victorov, this is an Inspector from the Shanghai Police. He’s here to have a chat with you.’
‘But Princess Ostrepova, you promised…’
‘I promised nothing. Enjoy the tea.’
Danilov sat down on the chair opposite. ‘Hello, Victorov, I want to ask you a few questions.’
‘The Princess tricked m’ into comin’ here.’ The man spoke with a heavy Moscow accent. Once again the eyes flicked from left to right, never looking Danilov directly in the face. ‘I don’ have to answer. Shanghai Police. No power in French Concession.’
For the first time, he stared directly at Danilov, defiance dancing in his eyes, before they darted to the left and right again, like a rat in a sewer.
The Inspector sighed. Time to end this. ‘Look, Victorov, you have two choices. Either you answer my questions and walk out of here, free to run wherever you want. Or I call my men to come and drag you back to the International Settlement. By the time the French hear about it, you will be locked up in Ward Road Jail for a couple of years. The Warders take a perverse pleasure in Russian prisoners, I have heard.’
Victorov’s eyes had resumed their constant darting this way and that. The Inspector opened his arms wide, hoping the thug would not call his bluff. ‘The choice is yours.’
Victorov sat in his chair, rocking backwards and forwards. For one moment, Danilov thought he was going to take a chance and make a dash for the door and freedom. Then, he saw him shrug his shoulders and his head went down. ‘What d’ye wanna to know?’
Danilov relaxed and sat back in his chair. ‘Victorov. Is that your only name?’
‘That’s what they call m’. Given names are Ivan Yuri, but everybody calls m’ Victorov’
‘How did you know Maria Stepanova?’
Victorov inhaled deeply. He picked up the steaming glass of tea and sipped carefully from it. ‘We met in Shanghai, in ’27. She came from same part of Moscow as m’. Didn’t start working for m’ then. Still had money.’
‘But you helped her spend it?’
The eyes squinted up over the rim of the glass. This man wasn’t as tough, now he wasn’t facing a woman. ‘Money finished. Came to m’, begging m’ to help her. She wasn’t bad looking and wasn’t old, what else could she do?’
‘So, she went out on the streets or worked the clubs?’
Victorov became offended. ‘M’ girls don’t work streets or clubs. Better places to meet men. I set her up in own apartment. Much better for her.’
‘And for you. Easier to control and monitor the money and the merchandise.’
A smile spread across Victorov’s face like an oil slick spreading on the sea. ‘I know m’ business.’
‘So, you set her up. What then?’
‘She got her own men. Usually by word of mouth. She was good at job was little Maria. One of m’ best little earners.’
His grizzled face supped his tea again. The glass was empty. Danilov signalled the waitress to bring him more.
He took another slurp of the fresh tea and wiped the back of his mouth. ‘Maria had special man. Came every couple of weeks. An Englishman. Well-dressed, well off. Said name was Mr Thomas. Liked it rough, if you know what m’ mean.’ He took another slurp of tea. ‘Maria found his real name and address one day. He some bigwig in the Shanghai Council, name of Ayres.’
Danilov’s brain sparked at the mention of the name, but he kept his voice under control as he asked his next question. He had to keep Victorov talking. ‘So, you decided to make a little money on the side.’
‘It wasn’t m’, it was Maria. She wanted get away from Shanghai. Ayres was ticket out of here.’
‘What did you do?’
‘We waited for Ayres t’come again. Waited till he was in leather costume and I burst in.’
‘The outraged boyfriend, who just happened to have a camera at the ready.’
‘Outraged husband,’ Victorov chuckled. ‘Ayres promised would send money. We just had to give him couple of days.’
‘And…?’
‘Two days later, we were called by man. Said he was from Shanghai Police. Like you. Said he had Ayres’s money ready.’
‘So you sent Maria to get it?’
‘She was one they knew. I followed her though. She met a tall, thin man. Well-dressed too. Wealthy. A gentleman.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because when they met, he gave her his card, all polite and official like. They went into cafe but never came out. I went after them but owner said they had gone out back.’ His shoulders slumped forward and all the cockiness seemed to leave the man like air escaping from a balloon. ‘Was last time I saw her. Two days later French police found her. Dead.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I got out of Shanghai. You can’t trust police. I would’ve been set up for murder. I swear I had nothing to do with it.’
‘Other than sending her out on her own to face a killer.’
Victorov shrugged his shoulders once more.
‘Would you recognise the man she met again?’
‘No. Only saw him quickly and was dark. All I remember, tall and well-dressed. His hat covered face most of the time.’
Danilov sighed. He wasn’t going to get any more out of this thug. He pointed to the door. ‘You’ve got five seconds to get out of here, Victorov. If I were you, I would run now and keep running. The man you sent Maria to see could be looking for you as we speak. If he is…’
Danilov left the last words unspoken. Victorov finished the last of his tea and bolted for the door, slamming it behind him in his rush to get away.
‘That man leaves a bad smell wherever he goes.’ It was the Princess speaking.
Chapter 19
Sergeant Wolfe looked up from his duty book. What a day, he thought. I’ll be happy to get home to the missus tonight and put my feet up. He could feel his boots pinching his toes and the ache in his calves from standing. Lord, how he wanted to put his feet up.
It had been a good day though. Nothing had gone wrong. That was important for Sergeant Wolfe. When things went wrong that meant problems from upstairs. And he needed those like he needed a new arsehole. Years of walking the beat and being behind the desk in countless police stations across the International Settlement had taught him one thing: nobody noticed when things went right, they only saw the cock-ups. Avoid Mr Cock-Up and everything was plain sailing.
A young Chinese boy wearing the uniform of the post office was standing in front of him. ‘What do you want?’ he asked in English before immediately switching to pidgin. ‘Lookee, what wan?’
‘Telegram.’
‘Well, this is a police station not a bleedin’ poste restante.’
The post office boy just stood there. The sergeant asked again ‘Who for?’
The boy examined his book. ‘Telegram for Danny Love.’
‘Danny Love. There ain’t no Danny Love here. So piss off back to where you came from.’
The boy reached over and showed the open book to the sergeant. Wolfe scanned down the list of names with his finger until he came to Danilov. ‘Inspector Danilov, why didn’t you say?’ Then he switched back to pidgin. ‘Give one piece here.’
‘Can give only to number one man.’
‘Now look here, sonny. Me number one man, you give.’
The boy handed over the telegram reluctantly. ‘You sign chit.’
‘Me sign your arse off,’ replied Wolfe. Another fucking troublemaker, he thought, should have the lot of them thrown in Ward Road Jail. Lord knows, it’s big enough.
He glanced at the clock on the wall opposite. Nearly the end of his shift. Soon, he would be able to put his feet up and have a nice cup of tea. He took the book from the young boy and signed an illegible scrawl along the bottom. Work that one out, sonny.
‘What you got there, Jim?’
‘A telegram for Danilov. Yo
u know, George, I think I’m becoming a blooming concierge in a flophouse, not a copper any more. The amount of stuff I do, I should get three times what I get. I’m not paid to run errands and take notes for nobody.’
‘I’ll give it to him if you want. Save you the trouble.’
Wolfe looked at the telegram and the onion-sheet wrapper in his hand. ‘I should give it to him myself. I signed for it.’
‘Please yourself. Both Danilov and Strachan are out. Miss Cavendish is on her chocolate break, I wouldn’t disturb her if I was you. You could wait for her to come back…’
Sergeant Wolfe glanced at the clock on the wall again. The minute hand was just one tick away from the 12. Nearly 4 pm. The cup of tea was calling his name. He handed over the telegram to Cartwright. ‘Make sure he gets it, won’t you?’
‘You can count on me.’
As Cartwright took the telegram and walked back to the detectives’ room, Sergeant Wolfe turned round to see the post office boy still standing there with his hand held out. ‘Fuck off, before I give you a clip around the ear.’
‘Fuck you too, copper. And your mother,’ said the boy in perfect English, before running out the door.
Lord save me, thought the sergeant. He stared at the clock on the wall. The minute hand just clicked on to the twelve. Before another tick occurred, the sergeant had already taken off his uniform jacket and was heading to the back office to change.
At his desk in the detectives’ room, Cartwright opened the telegram. It was in the usual onion-skin envelope with two lines of text pasted onto a pro-forma sheet, typed in capital letters.
HAVE INFORMATION RE DAUGHTER STOP CALL TSINGTAO 73546 WILLIS STOP
Short and to the point, he thought. What’s it mean? A daughter? I didn’t know Danilov had a family. Always a bleedin’ loner that one.
He checked the telegram again, turning the sheet over to see if there was anything on the other side. He didn’t know why he did that, there was never anything on the reverse side of a telegram.
