by M J Lee
There was a space behind. Empty space.
He reached in and tore the wood away with his hands. ‘Inspector Danilov,’ he shouted into the void.
There was no answer.
Chapter 36
Li Min screamed again and fell moaning to the floor. Danilov reached down to his left leg. Got to get it free. His fingers struggled with the knot, clumsily undoing the first few strands of rope.
Allen just stood there, transfixed by the moaning Li Min lying on the floor. Danilov’s fingers worked faster, the knot was coming loose, just a few more pulls.
Allen suddenly came alive, roared at the top of his voice, and launched himself at Danilov, hitting him square in the chest. Danilov felt his arms being knocked upwards, away from his foot. The chair toppled over backwards.
Allen was on top of him, hitting down with the leather belt across his face. The silver points snagged the skin beneath his eye. Blood poured from the cut.
He kicked out with his right foot and caught Allen just below the knee. A loud crack as a bone snapped. A sharp gasp came from Allen’s mouth.
Danilov tried to roll away from the chair but his left foot was still tied to its leg. He jerked himself over onto his left side and reached down to his foot. The knot tore into his ankle. He managed to undo another strand, just one more and he would be free. He kicked hard with his left leg and there was movement.
Allen was getting slowly to his feet, one leg dragging beneath him. He still had the leather belt in his hand. He steadied himself for a few moments against the wall and then lashed out with the belt again, the silver points cutting into the upper part of Danilov’s arm.
Ignore the pain.
His fingers carried on tugging and pulling at the knot around his foot. It was coming loose. The belt swooshed down again, catching him where his neck joined his shoulder, ripping into the soft flesh beneath his clavicle.
Ignore the pain.
He twisted and tugged at the rope gripping his ankle. It began to come loose. The brown leather of the belt was coming straight towards his face. In slow motion, he could see the silver points, the holes of the belt and even the grain of the leather coming closer. It caught his jaw on the right. His head snapped backwards and his whole body, and the chair, rolled over. He spat out a tooth through a mouthful of blood.
Ignore the pain.
He kicked out his left leg. It was free. The room went darker. He looked up. Allen was limping through the doorway blocking the light from the corridor.
Danilov kicked away the remains of the chair and rolled over onto his knees. He spat another tooth and a mouthful of blood out onto the floor of the cell.
Got to get to his feet. Got to go after Allen.
He tried to stand up but immediately fell backwards.
Slowly, take it slowly. He reached out to the wall and used it to lever himself up. Allen was nowhere to be seen.
He staggered to the doorway and was immediately stunned by the light. His name was being called from above. At least, he thought it was his name, but it was faint and so far away. He shouted back. ‘Here, down, here.’
His head was spinning. He leant on the side of the door to steady himself for a moment. Allen was getting away, got to go after him.
He staggered through the doorway into a long corridor, lit by two bulbs hanging from the ceiling. He leant into the walls for support. His legs wobbled beneath him, as if he was learning how to walk all over again. He stopped, leaning into the wall, taking deep breaths, calming his body, focusing his mind.
Got to find him.
He lurched down the corridor, bumping from wall to wall. A door was open at the end. He stepped through it and there was a loud bang, followed by a crunch as the bullet struck the stone door surround.
Danilov ducked back behind the doorway. He took two deep breaths and quickly stuck his head out, searching for Allen.
There he was, on the path by the creek, limping towards Garden Bridge.
A mist was rolling over the creek. A cold mist, flavoured with all the smells of rubbish and shit and rotting fish. A few boats chugged past on the creek, the rest having put away their nets and cargo, tying up for the night.
His name was being shouted again. Still behind him, but closer now. He couldn’t stop and wait for whoever it was. He ran after Allen.
Mustn’t let him get away.
After three steps, his feet became entangled in a heap of discarded nets and rubbish. He tumbled over, banging his left knee on the edge of the road.
Don’t let him get away. Can’t let him get away.
He picked himself up and lurched after Allen. He could see him eighty yards away, climbing up the stairs leading to the Garden Bridge, leaning on the balustrade as he limped upwards.
Can’t let him get away.
He heard his name being called again. It was Strachan’s voice. He shouted over his shoulder. ‘This way, over here.’
Allen turned as he shouted, levelled his pistol, firing another shot. The bullet whistled past Danilov’s right shoulder. He ducked again, far too late. No point in trying to get out of the way of a bullet that had already been fired.
He got up and staggered after Allen. He felt stronger now as the adrenalin surged through his body. He was getting closer, nearer with every step.
The sirens of the Red Marias blared in the distance, faint but getting louder with every second.
He mustn’t let Allen get across the bridge. In the chaos of the lanes and lilongs on the other side, he could escape and kill again.
Allen was nearing the top of the stairs that led onto the bridge. People scattered as they saw the gun. Women screamed, men shouted, rickshaw pullers raced to the other side of the road, pulling for all their lives were worth.
Danilov shouted up at Allen. ‘Can you hear them?’
The sirens of the Red Marias were closer now, their klaxons cutting through the mist, the sound echoing off the walls of the warehouses. ‘You can’t get away. No point in running.’
He was at the bottom of the stairs. He began to climb upwards, getting closer to Allen with every step.
Allen was on the bridge, lurching from side to side. He fired at a car that had stopped next to him. The driver stamped on the accelerator and the car surged away, scattering the rickshaw drivers in front of it.
Danilov was at the top of the stairs. Allen was halfway across the bridge, limping slowly.
‘You can’t get away.’
As he shouted at Allen, a Red Maria pulled across the bridge at the far end, blocking it completely.
Allen stopped, twisting left and right, looking for another route to get away from the shouts of Danilov and the screams of the klaxons.
‘You can’t get away, Allen. It’s finished. You’re finished.’
Allen’s head swivelled around, first staring at Danilov, then down the bridge to the Red Marias that blocked his exit.
There were footsteps behind Danilov. Strachan was there, breathing heavily, his Webley nestled in his fist.
‘About time, Strachan. Good to see you.’
‘Yes, sir, thought you might need a hand.’
‘I need a gun more.’
Strachan handed over his Webley.
Allen had backed himself into the middle of the bridge, against the wrought-iron balustrade, the pistol gripped in his hand.
‘Time to finish this.’ Danilov stepped forward. Allen backed further along the iron railing. He swung round and stared down into the murky waters below, turning back to face Danilov.
‘It’s all over, Mr Allen.’ Danilov stepped forward with his hand outstretched. ‘Give me the gun.’
Allen twisted right and left, terror in his green eyes. The police had decamped from the Red Marias and had formed a line at the end of the bridge, advancing across it, pistols drawn.
Danilov moved closer. ‘Checkmate,’ he said softly.
Allen seemed to calm down, took a deep breath and a sad smile crossed his face. ‘There are still so
many of them to be judged, Danilov. So many who need punishment.’
Danilov moved closer, his arm still outstretched. ‘It’s over, Allen. No more Yama. No more trials. No more judgements. No more executions.’
Allen looked at the gun in his hand, smiled and brought it up to his temple.
Strachan shouted ‘No’, and jumped towards Allen, his arms outstretched.
Allen lowered the pistol from his head and pointed it straight at Strachan. There was a flash. The bullet left the barrel in a gush of smoke and flame, zipped straight towards Strachan, pushing through the air, piercing his clothes and into his body.
Strachan stopped for a moment and just stood there. His arm moved up to touch the red spot of blood that had begun to stain his white shirt. Then, his knees just crumpled and he fell sideways, landing on his left side, his arms outstretched.
Danilov raised the Webley and two loud bangs came from it.
Too loud.
Allen’s body jerked as if two bolts of electricity had surged up from the paving of the bridge and shot through his torso, exiting out of the top of his skull. Two red blotches opened in his chest, getting larger and larger. He was thrown back against the iron balustrade and stood there, staring straight at Danilov, as if not believing what had just happened.
Another loud bang from Danilov’s revolver. Allen’s body launched itself up and over the metal railing of the bridge, flying through the air and out of sight.
The smoking revolver lay heavy in Danilov’s hand. He let it fall from his fingers and onto the tarmac.
Where Allen had once stood was just emptiness. He saw again Allen’s eyes as the bullet struck his body. Their sense of surprise, betrayal almost, and then the body falling over the balustrade of the bridge.
He sank to his knees. He was tired. Of life. Of the police. Of everything.
Then he smelt a sweet aroma wafting across his face and nose like a silk scarf.
Sweet potato. The sweet potatoes of Shanghai. How he loved that smell.
A moan came from the body lying next to him.
Strachan. Strachan was alive. His mouth was moving but only a deep moan came from his lips. Danilov crawled beside him, shouting as loud as he could for help from the other policemen.
Strachan was looking at him, his brown eyes strangely calm.
Then they closed.
A constable ran to his side.
‘Get an ambulance.’
The constable hesitated.
‘Now, man, hurry.’
The man’s eyes flicked across to the Red Maria. ‘The radio’s down.’
Danilov picked up Strachan’s body, cradling it in his arms like Mary in a Pietà holding the body of Christ.
A crowd had already gathered to witness the shooting. The constables were running around. A few were checking the river, looking for the tall man’s body. Others were pushing back the crowd. A few others just ran around doing nothing.
Danilov looked down at Strachan. He couldn’t see or hear any breathing. He had to do something quickly or Strachan was finished. He couldn’t wait for an ambulance.
Then he knew.
He started to run across the bridge, through the startled constables and onto the Hongkew side. The crowd scrambled to get out of his way.
He ran as fast as he could, his shoes clanging down the metal steps at the other side, onto the road.
He elbowed his way through the crowd at the end of the bridge, using Strachan’s legs as a battering ram. The crowd was quick to get out of the way. As he ran, his mind raced back to Minsk. He was fifteen years old. The dark walls of a crematorium. His father’s casket vanishing behind the curtains. Him standing there, not crying, not knowing what to do. Just feeling an immense sense of loss. He would never hear his father’s voice again. Never talk to him. Never hold his hand. Then the curtains pulled across and his father was gone.
Forever.
He ran faster. He wasn’t going to stand in front of Strachan’s coffin as it vanished behind a curtain.
He darted across a road, hearing the squeal of brakes behind him. The morgue was up on the left. Dr Fang would know what to do. He must know what to do.
He kicked open the wooden doors, rushing in. Strachan was still not breathing, not moving. ‘Help. Help me.’ His shout echoed against the white-tiled walls.
Dr Fang appeared in his white coat, coming from his lab. ‘What’s all the noise? This…’
‘It’s Strachan, he’s been shot.’
Fang threw away the towel in his hands and ran to Danilov. ‘Here, put him in here.’
Danilov pushed his way into the main morgue. At the front was an empty, white marble slab.
‘Put him here. Call for an ambulance.’
‘It’ll be too late. He’s not breathing.’
Dr Fang examined Strachan. He leant over and put his ear to his mouth. Then he lifted up the eyelids and looked into his eyes.
‘He’s lost a lot of blood.’ Danilov lifted his arms. They were covered in Strachan’s blood. ‘You have to do something.’
‘I’m a pathologist not a doctor. I deal with the dead not the living. He needs an ambulance.’
‘It’s too late. He’ll die if you don’t do something.’
Dr Fang stared at the body of Strachan lying on his marble table. He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over Strachan’s body.
‘You’ve got to do something.’
Dr Fang turned his back on the body. ‘Get his collar open. Quickly,’ he shouted over his shoulder.
Danilov struggled with Strachan’s shirt. His hands, covered in blood, seemed to slide over the cloth.
‘Just rip it off.’ Dr Fang was standing there with a scalpel in his hand.
Danilov grabbed the tie and shirt and ripped them open. Dr Fang handed him a pen. ‘Take the barrel. Just the barrel and wash it in hot water.’
Danilov nodded. He ran to the sink and ran the water. Over his shoulder, he could see Dr Fang lean over Strachan with the scalpel. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he plunged the knife into Strachan’s throat.
‘The barrel, I need the barrel now.’
He ran back to the mortuary table. Dr Fang snatched the barrel of the pen from Danilov’s hand.
Blood was oozing from the cut in Strachan’s Adam’s apple. Dr Fang inserted the end of the barrel into the young detective’s throat. He bent down and placed his lips around the barrel and began to blow.
He stopped, stood up and examined the chest. ‘Place your hands here. Tell me when you feel it inflate.’ He pointed to the centre of Strachan’s chest.
He bent over once again, blowing into the barrel that stuck out from Strachan’s throat.
Danilov looked down at the chest.
Nothing happened.
Dr Fang blew again, this time slightly harder.
Again nothing.
‘Press down on the chest with your hands, just above the sternum.’
‘What?’
‘Press down with your hands on the chest just here.’ He pointed where Strachan’s heart was.
Danilov began to press down.
‘Harder, man, use your strength.’
Danilov used his body weight and leant into Strachan’s body, pressing, once, twice, three times.
‘Stop,’ shouted Dr Fang. He bent over the barrel and blew into it three times, each time stepping back to look at the chest. ‘Again. This time, press harder.’
Danilov put his hands over Strachan’s heart and pressed down.
Chapter 37
‘Sit down, Inspector Danilov.’ Boyle reached for his box and offered a cigarette. Danilov lifted his bandaged right arm.
The Chief Inspector scratched his nose. ‘Oh, I suppose not, given the circumstances.’
Danilov stared at the wall behind the Chief Inspector’s head. The old print of a Chinese street scene had been replaced by a new one. It was of a horse race, the lead horse a white charger, beating two other horses by a short head. The horse’s n
eck was lengthened unnaturally, its whole body straining for the line. Danilov could read the caption beneath: ‘Faisalabad winning the Gold Cup in 1870’.
Boyle coughed. ‘Look here, Danilov, I just wanted to congratulate you on solving the case. The Director of Criminal Investigation is over the moon, to use a rather quaint modern phrase.’
Danilov’s arm still hurt, throbbing like the engine of a car. He would have to smoke another pipe in the afternoon to help with the pain. He craved the opium even more now. It dulled the pain in his arm and the pain in his heart at the same time. ‘Thank you.’
‘A couple of things have been troubling me though.’ He scratched his bald head. This time, Danilov couldn’t see any flakes of scalp drifting down onto the suit. ‘The most important is how did you know it was Allen?’
‘He made mistakes. All criminals do. Two major ones in his case.’
Boyle leaned forward. ‘Which were?’
‘He gave Miss Cavendish some sweets.’
‘I don’t understand. What has Miss Cavendish got to do with this?’
‘One of the witnesses, the boatman, reported smelling a strange smell when Allen passed him on river. I thought it was probably a distinctive cologne.’
‘Like my 4711. Picked up a case in France when I was there.’
‘Precisely. Except it wasn’t. When Miss Cavendish came into the interview room, she was chewing the sweets that Allen had given her. The boatman recognised the smell right away. When I found the same sweets in the stolen taxi, then it all fell into place.’
Boyle scratched his head again. ‘And the second mistake?’
‘He allowed one of the victims to tell me who he was.’
Danilov was going to leave it at that but Boyle pressed on. ‘I don’t understand. How could a dead person tell you the name of the killer?’
Danilov sighed. ‘It was the last thing Maria Tatiana Stepanova did before she died. She scratched the words “HATE ALL” into the base of the lid with her fingernails.’
He imagined her last moments, gasping for breath, the smell of the pig’s blood, its slimy wet stickiness touching her naked body. ‘I thought the killer had done it. Another warning. Dr Fang showed me the truth. She scratched it with her nails. The strength of will and presence of mind to write those words at that moment…’
