by M J Lee
‘But weren’t the words “HATE ALL”?’
‘That’s right. At first, I thought it was English.’
‘“HATE ALL” sounds pretty English to me.’
‘That’s just it. The word “HATE” wasn’t English at all. Why would a dying Russian woman write in English? Strachan pointed it out to me and all the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle clicked into place. She was writing in her own language. Russian. I should have realised it much earlier. In Cyrillic, the word “HATE” is used when you are giving something to somebody. She was giving us her killer.’
‘What about “ALL”?’
‘That’s the saddest part. She was giving us his name. But she died before she could finish writing it. Once I realised that, I knew who our killer was. Proving it though was a different matter.’
‘That’s why you went to find him?’
‘We had to bring him out into the open.’
‘A dangerous game.’
‘I think it would have been more dangerous not to go.’
Boyle scratched his head. A red lesion appeared on the skin. ‘Very clever.’
‘I should have spotted it much earlier. May have been able to save the life of Dr Renfrew if I had. Mr Allen was…’ He searched for the right words.
‘We are well aware of that Mr Allen was.’ He searched for the right words, ‘…a misguided man.’
‘Misguided? He murdered at least five people. Probably more.’ Danilov reached across and took a cigarette out from the box with his left hand. Boyle reached over and lit it for him. He inhaled the rich tobacco. ‘It will all come out in the trial.’
‘Allen is dead. There will be no trial.’ Boyle knitted his arms across his chest and stared at Danilov.
‘But there has to be a trial.’
‘Li Min has already been handed over to the Chinese authorities in Chapei.’ He glanced down at his watch. ‘He was due to be executed this morning. I’m sure his head no longer rests on his shoulders.’
Danilov just sat there, his yellow pallor even more pronounced. The cigarette burned uselessly in his hand, its blue smoke rising up to stain the ceiling.
‘Allen is already dead, and now the Chinese man has joined him in his own version of hell. No point in stirring things up unnecessarily, is there?’
‘But justice…’
‘Justice is a fickle mistress. She changes her affections depending on the mood of the day or of the time.’ Boyle threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Danilov, you’re a man of the world, you know how these things work.’
‘But he murdered five people…’
Boyle sighed, combing back the tuft of hair above his ear with his hand. ‘Sometimes, I just don’t understand you. How do you think a police force of 150 Europeans, a few Russians, Sikhs and Japanese manages to control a city with a Chinese population of four million people?’
Danilov stayed quiet, his cigarette beginning to burn his fingers.
‘It’s an illusion, that’s all it is. We have managed to convince four million people only we can manage their affairs to ensure they enjoy the freedom to make money, make children and make a life. We do it all because they respect us. Respect our prestige as natural rulers. That prestige must be maintained at all costs.’
Boyle sat back in his chair and knitted his fingers in front of him. ‘Look here,’ he said more softly, ‘the Chinese may be right in their idea of what life means and we may be wrong. But if we admit they are right, and we are wrong, then we undermine the whole moral basis for our government in Shanghai. We are only here because they think we are bringing them the benefits of Western civilisation. They only allow us to rule because they believe they will benefit from that civilisation.’
‘But Western civilisation is maintained by the rule of law.’
‘Not in Shanghai it isn’t. It’s maintained by the perception that the rule of law applies. In actual fact, the Chinese carry on doing what they have always been doing for centuries. We simply provide a veneer of respectability.’
‘And in return?’
‘And in return we have a standard of life unknown in the West. A life of luxury and servants and money and all those things none of us could afford if we were not attached to the great tit of Shanghai. Remember, Shanghai was founded as a commercial venture. It’s still that even today.’ Boyle sat forward. ‘And when the Russians, your countrymen, were looking for somewhere safe to run to, they came here, to the haven that is the International and the French settlements. Here, they found freedom.’
‘The freedom to become killers and prostitutes and drivers and pimps…’
‘And policemen. We don’t mollycoddle people here in Shanghai, you either sink or swim.’
‘Or die.’
‘Or die.’ Boyle sat back, his argument finished. ‘Can’t you see? Our prestige, the veneer that keeps us in power, must be maintained – otherwise we have nothing.’
‘What about the French? Or Richard Ayres? Doesn’t he have the right to see his fiancée’s murderer brought to justice?’
‘The French are happy that Allen is dead. Saves them the cost of a trial. Mr Ayres is an intelligent young man. He understands what’s at stake. His father represents many of the commercial interests I mentioned earlier. Unfortunately, his fiancée will be forgotten just as quickly as one of her roles.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s just the way of the world.’
Danilov felt the cigarette burning his fingers. He stubbed it out in the ashtray. ‘Allen’s crimes will go unpunished?’
Boyle leant forward again; his eyes had changed, become harder, more focused. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he? You killed him. He’s been punished by you.’
Danilov’s head went down.
‘He deserved to die,’ Boyle said softly, ‘you and your family deserve to carry on living.’
Danilov lifted his head at the mention of his family.
‘You are separated from them?’
‘How do you know?’
‘Allen kept a file on you. He was a most efficient Intelligence officer. You recently placed an advertisement in the North China Daily News looking for them?’
Danilov nodded.
‘And received a telegram in response to the advertisement?’
‘You know all this, Cartwright burnt it.’
Boyle sighed. ‘Inspector Cartwright is not the brightest hammer in the toolbox. We will be sending him out to police the Badlands for a few years. I doubt whether he will survive it, few do.’
‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better.’
‘No, not at all.’ Boyle opened the drawer to his desk. ‘But what if we could show you what was in the telegram?’
‘It was burnt. I know Cartwright burnt it.’
‘You may be interested to discover our Intelligence division, formerly headed by Mr Allen, keeps copies of all telegrams coming into the Shanghai Post Office. It’s a matter of security.’
Danilov sat back in his chair. ‘That’s how Allen knew.’
‘Knew what?’
‘The name of my daughter. He knew her name was Elina. He had seen the telegram.’
‘Probably. It took some persuasion, but I managed to get our Intelligence johnnies to give me a copy.’
‘A copy?’
‘Of the telegram.’ Boyle reached into his drawer and pulled out a light green envelope. Danilov could see the words ‘Shanghai Post Office and Telegram’ typed in both English and Chinese on the front. Stamped across the top was a large square box with the word COPY in bold letters. The ink was breaking up, the red lines of the stamp bleeding into the pale green of the envelope.
Danilov leaned across and took another Turkish cigarette from the box. This time Boyle didn’t reach over and light it. ‘In exchange for what?’
‘In exchange for all the good work you did in solving this heinous series of murders.’
‘And in exchange for my silence.’
Boyle remained quiet.
Danilov brought the unlit cigar
ette up to his mouth. He fumbled with the lighter in his left hand before finally getting the flame to touch the tip of the cigarette. There was a brief flare as it finally lit. ‘And Detective Constable Strachan?’
‘Detective Sergeant Strachan will continue to work with you. He’s going to be a good copper. Takes after his father.’ He picked up the pale green envelope and put it down on Danilov’s side of the table.
He stared at it for a moment before crushing the cigarette out into the ashtray. ‘Thank you, Chief Inspector Boyle, for your time.’ He took one more look at the pale green envelope lying there on the mahogany of the table and reached out to put it in his pocket.
‘Inspector Danilov, if I were you, I would open the envelope at eight o’clock this evening. That would be a good time.’
Danilov opened the door and walked out.
***
Strachan relaxed in his armchair pulled up in front of the fireplace. His mother passed him a steaming bowl of Hong Dao Sa. The sweet, maroon soup with its soft balls of red bean had always been one of his favourites. He lifted the porcelain spoon to his mouth and drank. It was warm and sweet and comforting, just what he needed tonight.
He was feeling better but he had lost weight. Two weeks surviving on cold hospital soup had not done him a world of good.
He fingered the raised edge of the scar that ran down his throat. It still hurt sometimes and coughing was a nightmare he avoided as much as the hospital food. The gun shot was not as serious as they thought. It was the shock that had nearly killed him.
He remembered very little from the bridge. He had felt no pain as the bullet entered his chest, but his legs didn’t seem to want to go forward. The bridge had rushed up to meet him. Its concrete and metal floor kissing his face. In slow motion, he had seen Danilov raise his Webley, two loud bangs coming from it. Then all was a series of images: the iron stanchions of the bridge, black against the grey of the sky, like the bars of a prison. Danilov above him, his mouth moving but no sound coming from his lips.
He had woken up hospital, his whole body aching.
He had finally been released from that particular prison early that morning. Danilov had picked him up and brought him home. They hadn’t said a word until the driver had parked the car in the small space next to his building. He didn’t know what say. What do you say to a man who saved your life?
As he got out of the car, all he could think of was, ‘Thank you, Inspector Danilov.’
The Inspector nodded. ‘It was all Dr Fang’s work. You are one of the few men who can say that they came to life in a morgue.’
‘I suppose that’s something to tell the children.’
‘It will make a great story for them. And thank you, Detective Sergeant Strachan.’
‘I did nothing.’
‘You misunderstand. I’m thanking you for turning up.’ He took a few deep breaths and continued, ‘I had to bring him out into the open, you see, otherwise we would never have caught him.’
‘Bring him out?’ Strachan thought for a moment. ‘You mean you were the bait to trap him?’
Danilov nodded. ‘I thought the killer was Allen. The Parma Violets and Maria Stepanova let me know. Then the telegram you gave me confirmed it. He served in Washington for two years before he was posted to Shanghai. But there was no time. He was certain to kill again and all the evidence we had against him was circumstantial. He would have been able to deny everything. And who would believe a couple of detectives against the word of the Head of Intelligence?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Wouldn’t have been much of a bait if everybody knew. Allen had too many informants.’ Danilov coughed three times, covering his mouth with his handkerchief. ‘So thank you for coming.’
‘What would have happened if I hadn’t checked the fingerprint or talked with Miss Cavendish?’
‘But I knew you would. You’ve got the makings of a good policeman, if you can train your mind.’
‘Look for the patterns.’
‘That’s it. They tell us everything we want to know. And one other thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Learn to trust people. The right people. They won’t let you down.’ He nodded to the driver. The car moved away from the kerb and Strachan was left standing all alone outside his home.
He took another mouthful of the warm, sweet soup. He looked up at the photograph of his father that hung above the fireplace. For so long it had been there, staring down at him, chastising him for what he had failed or forgotten to do.
Strachan knew it was all in his imagination but, tonight, the look on the face in the photograph was different, less judgemental, more forgiving. The photograph seemed to say to him that he had done well, he hadn’t let his father down.
The investigation still haunted him: the viciousness of the killings, the pale body floating in the water of the creek, the loneliness of death in the mortuary, and the fight with Jimmy Lin.
He shuddered at the memories and looked up at the picture of his father again. The look on his face seemed almost proud now.
Strachan knew this was impossible. No photograph ever changed. It was fixed, immutable, as certain as his father’s death all those years ago. But nonetheless, here, this night, in front of the coal fire with its amber glow, in front of the picture, he knew it had changed.
He glanced at it once more and for the first time in his short life, he was at peace.
Behind him, his mother entered the room. He took another large mouthful of the warm red bean soup and turned towards her. ‘I forgot to tell you I’ve been promoted. I’m Detective Sergeant Strachan now.’
***
Danilov arrived home, took his hat and coat off, and hung them behind the door as he always did. The apartment echoed with emptiness as it always did. Cold oozed from its bare walls as it always did.
Ever since the meeting with Boyle, the envelope had sat like a dead weight in his pocket. He took it out and stared at the pale green cover, with its red stamp and neatly typed address.
He checked the clock on the mantlepiece. It was 7.50. What had Boyle said? Open the envelope at 8 pm. He didn’t think Boyle had such a flair for the dramatic but this afternoon’s meeting had shown a different side to the Chief Inspector. Gone was the bumbling colonial and, in its place, a harder, more determined bureaucrat had emerged.
‘Perhaps I underestimated him,’ he said out loud to the clock. The minute hand ticked over to 7.51.
He went into the bedroom. The bed was unmade, an old shirt, its collar frayed, lay draped across the chair. On the bedside table, the pipe, lighter, pipe cleaners and pins for the opium lay on the tray where he had used them the night before. A small pea-sized ball of opium remained unused in the saucer. Enough for two pipes, he thought, before I have to go and see the Princess again.
Enough for this evening.
He lay on the bed without taking off his shoes. The telegram was in his right hand. It was still sealed, the gum seeping out where the triangular flap of the envelope met the main body.
He placed it next to the opium pipe on the tray and stared at both of them.
He had waited for this moment for so long. What if the telegram said his daughter was dead? What if it said she had died recently, so close to finding him? What if it told him about the death of his wife and son?
He slid his thumb beneath the seal of the envelope. Tonight, the opium could wait. Tonight belonged to his real family, not to the family of his dreams.
He pulled out the thin sheet of paper and unfolded it. The words were exactly the same as a typical telegram. Teletype that had been pasted onto a standard sheet. The words were blurry and he forced his eyes to focus.
HAVE INFORMATION RE DAUGHTER STOP CALL TSINGTAO 73546 WILLIS STOP
The number jumped at him off the page. Should he ring now or wait? What if this man, Willis, told him Elina was dead?
The opium pipe lay on its side on the tray. Perhaps just one pipe to help him get
through this time, just in case it was bad news, news he didn’t want to hear.
Danilov put the telegram down and began to reach for his pipe. Just before he touched its ebony hardness, he stopped.
Tonight belonged to his real family, not to the family of his dreams. His real family. His real daughter. His Elina.
He walked into the living room. The minute hand was just reaching eight o’clock.
The phone rang.
Its sharp trill shocked him. He jumped backwards.
It rang again. And again.
He thought about the pipe of opium lying beside his bed, the warmth of the smoke in his lungs, the comfort of his dreams.
Another ring.
But this night belonged to his family, wherever they were, whatever had happened.
He reached out to lift the receiver off the hook and placed it close to his ear. ‘This is Inspector Danilov,’ he said into the mouthpiece, conscious that his voice sounded frail and unsure.
‘This is Willis.’ A tinny voice echoing in his ear. ‘Just a minute, I have someone for you.’
There was a loud rustling down the line and then a small, quiet voice said, ‘Papa.’
For the first time in a very long time, Inspector Danilov didn’t have an answer.
Epilogue
I was here for at least two weeks before I regained consciousness.
A time of nightmares. Struggling under water. Gasping for breath. Kicking against the grasp of the river.
Survive, my mind had shouted.
Survive.
I don’t know why the old couple plucked me out of the water. They didn’t speak any English and I didn’t understand a word of the gibberish they spoke to me. All I know is that every time they look at my tattoo, the old lady whispers something under her breath. A prayer? An incantation? A spell?
I remember them pulling me aboard their boat. Pain. Much pain. The stench of fish. The rolling of the boat. The chatter of seagulls.
And then nothing.
I woke up once as the old woman was pressing something down against my chest. I fought against her but someone held me down.
