A family has been found murdered in the heart of 1920s Shanghai. But what could have compelled them to open the door to their killer?

Inspector Danilov has always taken a unique approach to detective work. So, when he’s asked to investigate the violent death of a fellow police officer, killed in action, he doesn’t think twice about turning his attention to a different case altogether: the brutal murder of the Lee family, found massacred in their own home.

How could the deaths of an ordinary family account for a shooting halfway across the city? And what clues lie with the letter found clasped in the dead girl’s hand? Inspector Danilov’s instincts tell him he’s close. But when the investigation reveals deep corruption at Shanghai’s core, Danilov faces a choice: probe further, and expose the evil underbelly of the city? Or shy from duty…and keep the few people he loves safe?

Also by M J Lee

Death in Shanghai

City of Shadows

An Inspector Danilov Thriller

M J Lee

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016

Copyright © M J Lee 2016

M J Lee asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9781474046558

Version date: 2018-09-20

M J LEE

has spent most of his adult life writing in one form or another. As a University researcher in history, he wrote pages of notes on reams of obscure topics. As a social worker with Vietnamese refugees, he wrote memoranda. And, as the creative director of an advertising agency, he has written print and press ads, TV commercials, short films, and innumerable backs of cornflake packets and hotel websites.

He has spent 25 years of his life working outside the North of England. In London, Hong Kong, Taipei, Singapore, Bangkok and Shanghai, winning advertising awards from Cannes, One Show, D&AD, New York, and the United Nations.

Whilst working in Shanghai, he loved walking through the old quarters of that amazing city, developing the idea behind a series of crime novels featuring Inspector Pyotr Danilov, set in the 1920s.

When he’s not writing, he splits his time between the UK and Asia, taking pleasure in playing with his daughter, practising downhill ironing, single-handedly solving the problem of the French wine lake and wishing he were George Clooney.

To all my friends that helped write this book. Jon Resnick, Winnie Hsu, Katie Ge, Jonathan Holburt and Fabrice Desmarescaux. I couldn’t have done it without you. And to all the other HQ Digital authors, whose support and friendship means so much, thank you for being there.

To my brother, Michael, and sister, Patricia.

Family means everything.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

DAY ONE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

DAY TWO

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

DAY THREE

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

DAY FOUR

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Endpages

About the Publisher

DAY ONE

Chapter 1

The girl lay beneath the covers listening to the sounds of the night.

Off in the distance a dog barked. Somewhere closer a woman sang the opening bars of a song from The Peony Pavilion, but soon trailed off into humming the melody. Closer still, a bottle was kicked over in the dark, shattering against the wall of one of the houses in her row.

The girl listened to the sounds of the Shanghai night as she had done every evening for the last six months.

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.

The pale light of the moon streamed in through a small crack in the curtains where the maid had not closed them properly, reaching across the room to the far door. On the wall, a picture of Jesus, chosen by her birth mother, stared down at her, his hands framing a bright red heart.

Next to the door, her wheelchair was pushed against the wall beside her crutches. Why hadn’t the maid left them closer to her bed?

Since the onset of polio, the girl had been dependent on the kindness of strangers. The first week of fevers, headaches and weakness had been the most frightening. Then the paralysis had set in, just her legs at first, but slowly creeping up her body.

The diagnosis, when it finally came, had been a relief to her father and both his wives. At least they now knew what they were dealing with. It was just a question of time, waiting for her muscles to recover their strength. But always, the fear lurking like a hyena that she would never recover. She would lie here in her bed for the rest of her life, paralysed.

They had moved to this new house a month ago. A healthier area her birth mother had said, a more modern house. She didn’t miss the old neighbourhood, or the sly, insinuating words of her father’s first wife. Here, the sounds were more playful, happier, keeping her entertained each evening. The night soil collectors on their rounds. Her neighbour’s phonograph playing the latest jazz from America. Her brother running up and down the stairs, how she envied him. The rows between her birth mother and her father late in the night. Rows about money, always about money.

It was as if the world was a series of sounds that only she could hear, created just for her.

She knew she was supposed to get up every day to exercise her wasted muscles, but she preferred lying here in her bed. Twice a week, she had to go for hydrotherapy at the hospital on Bubbling Well Road.

She resented the pitying looks of the people as the maid pushed her in the wheelchair. Pity edged with relief that it was her in the chair and not them.

Even the nurses cut her with their words when she visited the hospital.

‘Here you are, Miss Lee. I’ll help you up.’

Or: ‘Take my hand, you’ll need it if you want to get dressed.’

And the worst: ‘You pee now. I’ll stand here and wait until you’ve finished.’

She hated them all, but more than anything else, she hated her mothers, both of them.

The one who had given birth to her, her father’s second wife, was the worst. She beat her on the legs and arms every day to get rid of the ghosts she said were infesting her body. At first, the blows were not too hard, a tap with a wooden paddle to the soft part of the calf. But as her illness worsened, so the blows became harder, until she screamed from the pain. Her mother constantly telling her she was only doing it for her own good.

And the other, her father’s first wife, who kept insinuating in her sly way that this illness was a punishment from the gods. A punishment that, one day, would also take her brother. At least they had left her behind in the old house, to stew in her barren bitterness.

God, she hated both of them. One day she would be up and walking again. No need for the wheelchair or the crutches. She would run up and down the stairs every day, just for the hell of it. And, when she was strong enough, she would run away from this house.

She heard two sharp raps on the door of the courtyard. Who could be visiting them at this time of the night? She hadn’t heard anybody walk up the street.

Her brother shouted something, but she couldn’t make it out. What had he said? She heard his feet running out to open the door. A few indistinct words were spoken, followed by the slow creak of hinges as the door opened.

She would have to tell father that it needed oil.

Another sound.

She lifted her head from the pillow, straining to hear. There it was again. Fainter, this time, coming from the back of the house, where the kitchen was. A sharp tap, the crack of glass as it fell to the floor.

She listened intently, straining her neck muscles to hold her head upright off the pillow.

The window was opening, a scrape of something on the ledge. A soft bump on the tiled floor of the kitchen.

Where was the maid? Why didn’t she ask who was there?

More words in the courtyard. Her brother speaking. A man answering him. A stifled shout. Then, a sound she had never heard before like the gurgle of a frog, but cut off, strangled.

Where was the maid?

A startled cry from the hallway. It sounded like her mother shouting at her father during one of their arguments, but the voice was different. Too high. Too sharp. Too surprised. Then, the clatter of shoes running up the stairs. Shoes with sharp little heels. Not the soft felt slippers of the maid.

Where was the maid?

She turned her head towards the door. Something was going on downstairs. Something wasn’t right. She willed her body to move, straining it to sit up, urging it to get out of bed.

But nothing happened. Her head collapsed back on the pillow.

A loud bang. A heavy weight fell on the landing below her door.

She expected to hear more shouts from her mother. The loud screech of her voice with the rounded trill of its Peking accent.

But she heard nothing.

Silence in the house.

She focused on her bedroom door. The moon still streamed in through the crack in the curtains. A dog was barking in the house two doors away.

She listened for more noises in the house, but all she could hear was her own breathing.

Something was wrong. Where was the maid? Where was her father?

A soft sound on the stairs. A creak as weight was placed on a step. The third step from the top. It always creaked when somebody stood on it.

There was the creak again. Two people coming up the stairs.

She could hear their footsteps now. Remorseless, one after another, coming closer to her door.

Whispering.

Two men’s whispers. She couldn’t hear what they were saying.

The footsteps stopped outside her door.

Whispers again. A language she’d never heard before. Words she didn’t understand.

The round wooden handle of her door began to turn. She buried her head beneath the covers, pulling them over her.

Please don’t come in here. Please don’t. I’ll be a good girl. I’ll say my prayers every night and be good to my mother. I promise. I promise.

The door cracked as it opened. More whispers in the strange language. She stayed beneath the covers and closed her eyes. Perhaps, if she pretended to be asleep, they would go away.

Please let them go away.

Soft steps across her room towards the bed.

Please let them go away. I’ll be good from now on, I promise.

A hand pulled the covers off her. She opened her eyes and stared into a small mousey face with a sharply pointed chin. She knew that face. She had seen that face before. What was he doing here?

On the next floor up, the slamming of a door. Heavy boots running up the uncarpeted stairs to the top floor. Her father’s footsteps.

The man ran out of her room, closing it behind him. She lifted her head off the pillow. More footsteps running up the stairs. A door on the top floor slammed shut.

A loud shout. Again, she didn’t understand what they were yelling. Something foreign, like the words her doctor spoke at the hospital. Harsh words, hurtful words.

Someone was banging on a door upstairs, shouting once again in a loud voice. The sound of a door being kicked, once, twice, flying open, knocking against the wall.

A shout from her father. She knew it was her father’s voice. Then a bang, muffled, less sharp than before.

Heavy footsteps stomping across her ceiling. She followed them until they reached the window upstairs, right above her bed.

Another bang.

Something falling heavily, hitting the ceiling with a loud thud.

She wanted to scream, to shout out for someone to save her. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She tried again, but all she heard was a gagging noise in her throat.

Her body was rigid beneath the covers. Should she try to get away? She lifted her head above the sheets. Her wheelchair and crutches were still propped against the far wall. Why had the maid put them over there?

Steps on the staircase, coming down, getting closer, getting louder.

The handle of her door turned again.

The door opened a crack, throwing a sharp shaft of light onto the wall, illuminating her crutches.

Please don’t come back. You don’t belong here.

The shadow of a man was thrown into the room. He was standing in the doorway. She could see no features on his face, just a darkness and the sharp outline of a pointed chin. But she knew it was him, the man she had seen before.

She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out. It was as if her voice was now as paralysed as her body.

The shadow moved into the room.

She closed her eyes tight.

The footsteps on the carpet were getting closer to her bed.

Keep your eyes closed. Pretend you’re asleep. Perhaps he will go away and leave you alone.

She opened her eyes.

The round end of a piece of metal was staring straight at her. Wisps of blue smoke escaped from it, sinuous strands rising into the air. The smell was sweet and heavy, like the morning after Chinese New Year when the stench of the firecrackers hung over Shanghai.

A hand with dirty nails was holding the metal, pointing it straight at her, coming closer with every second.

The other man in the doorway silhouetted against the light from the hallway. More words in the language she didn’t understand. The small man turned and said something.

They were talking about her. She knew they were talking about her.

Her eyes darted left and right. How could she let them know who he was?

Then she saw the letter lying on the table, next to her bed. She grabbed it while the men were talking and crushed it tightly into a small square in her palm.

She closed her eyes again. She prayed like she had been taught by the nuns at her school before the illness, mumbling the words over and over again.

Blessed Virgin Mary, pray for us.

Blessed Virgin Mary, pray for us.

Blessed Virgin Mary, pray for us.

The men finished speaking. Through her mumbled words, she heard his breathing. Short, sharp bursts of breath, as if he had been running.

She couldn’t help herself, her eyes opened again. The metal cylinder began to come closer, lowering, pointing directly at her now. The metal eye getting larger with every step.

‘Sleep well, child,’ he said in Chinese.

They were the last sounds she ever heard.

Chapter 2

Detective Sergeant Strachan strode up the steps of Central Police Station and pushed through the double doors.

As soon as he entered, he was hit by a wall of sound. Two half-naked rickshaw drivers were arguing with each other in a dialect he didn’t understand. A woman was wailing in the corner, bemoaning the loss of her little boy. A group of hawkers were pushing and shoving each other, and, in turn, being hustled by a Sikh guard into the corner with shouts of I mi te, I mi te in Indian-accented Shanghainese.

At the centre of the mayhem, as calm as the eye of a storm, was Sergeant Wolfe, perched behind his desk, above it all.

Strachan elbowed his way through the crush to the Sikh sergeant who guarded the entrance to the interior. It was one of the times he loved most. The sense that he knew what was going on behind these closed doors whilst the rest of Shanghai remained ignorant.

His father had brought him here before he was killed. Proudly showing him where he worked and what he did. Strachan had sat on the knee of the desk sergeant, played with the beards of the Sikhs, listening to the arguments in all the languages of China; Mandarin, Shanghainese, Chiuchow, Hakka, even the sing-song tones of the excitable Cantonese. He remembered some of the words even to this day. Being able to say, ‘Good morning’ in eight different dialects amused him.

His father loved being a policeman, walking the beat, sorting out the problems on his patch. Strachan had listened to all his stories when he came home in the evening, sitting by the fire. The tales of cheating merchants, kidnappers, burglars, con-men, pickpockets, street fighters, and card sharps were his bedtime stories. It was inevitable that one day he would join the police, even though his mother, in her Chinese way, had tried to persuade him against the idea.

‘It’s not the profession of a good boy. Become an accountant or a lawyer instead.’

‘I don’t want to be an accountant or a lawyer.’

‘Get an education first and then decide.’

He had done as she wished. Went to St John’s University, got his degree and then decided.

She wasn’t happy but knew he had made his mind up. ‘You’re just like your father. Stubborn as a Yangtse boatman.’

He took that as a compliment.

The Sikh sergeant closed the door behind Strachan, and he experienced the familiar surge of excitement. He was here, where it was all happening, where death and glory, life and sadness, truth and lies stalked the corridors. Even after five years in the force, he still enjoyed the same thrill every time he stepped through that door. The divide that separated the world of normal people and his world; the underworld.

He pushed through the gate and walked down a short green-walled corridor. The only light came from a single dim bulb hiding behind a frosted-glass sconce. A door on the right was stencilled with the words Detective Office in thick block letters. He opened it. Immediately the group of detectives in the corner fell quiet and stared at him.

‘He’s here, lads. Danilov’s little chum.’

The voice came from a ginger-haired detective seated at a desk on one side of the group. . Strachan ignored him.

‘And where’s the great detective today? Solving another devilish plot?’ The group of detectives sniggered.

Strachan faced them. They all stopped laughing. ‘It’s his day off. He deserves one day to himself.’

‘He deserves one day to himself,’ mimicked the ginger detective. ‘Shame he missed the murders last night, wasn’t it?’

Chapter 3

Inspector Danilov’s daughter placed the plate of syrniki in front of him. The food was slightly charred at the edges and gave off a strange orange glow.

She had decided that he needed to eat more regularly, and part of this new healthy regime was a home-cooked breakfast, just like his wife used to make back in Minsk.

Except she didn’t cook like her mother. She cooked like a poet with a vivid imagination; everything was overdone and overwrought.

‘Thank you, Lenchik. It looks delicious.’

There was no answer. Since coming home she had gradually lapsed into an uncommunicative silence, but he would keep trying. ‘Is it a new recipe?’

Again, no answer. She turned back to the stove and took her own plate.

She sat down opposite him. Inspector Danilov saw the puzzled look on her face and that slight tilt of her head to the left. A movement she had made even when she was three years old, explaining to him why her doll had made such a mess on the floor.

Was she pretty? He couldn’t judge. A father can never judge his own daughter.

He stared at the syrniki. What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. He tucked into the food with gusto. The strange texture fought with the leftover taste of the opium he had smoked the night before, creating a bitter mixture in his mouth.

He fought the urge to gag and closed his eyes, imagining he was eating a dish from the Princess Ostrapova’s cafe.

‘It’s not that bad,’ he mumbled through a mouthful of starch.

‘It’s not that good, either.’ She pushed the food away from her across the table.

Danilov continued to eat his. ‘What are you going to do today?’

‘Same as I do every day.’

‘Which is?’

‘You know, Papa, you don’t need to ask.’

At least she was talking. He struggled to find a way to keep the conversation going. He had lived on his own for so long before she had come to Shanghai; he had lost the knack of making small talk. And in his job, he didn’t need to. ‘I’m curious about what you do when I’m not here,’ he finally said.

‘I read or go to the movies or eat or sleep. In the mornings, I study Shanghainese and Mandarin. Sometimes I go out for long walks. My day in a nutshell.’ She picked at a thread that had come loose from her housecoat.

‘Why don’t you go back to school? I could arrange for you to attend one.’

‘We’ve been through this before. Not yet, maybe soon.’

‘You’re seventeen now…’

‘Too old for school. Too much to catch up.’

‘It’s not too much.’

She sighed as if explaining something to a six-year-old who kept asking the question ‘why?’. ‘Last time I was at school was when I was twelve. I can’t imagine sitting in some classroom surrounded by giggling schoolgirls. I’ve seen too much since then.’

Danilov pushed his plate away from him. He had eaten half of it. He hoped she wouldn’t notice how much remained. ‘You haven’t told me what happened.’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘Not really.’

‘Papa, we’ve been through this so many times.’ She brushed her fingers through her hair and began speaking in a fast monotone as if reciting a story simply because a teacher had demanded it. The voice was flat without emphasis or excitement. ‘After you went to Moscow, the problems started. The local security committee began asking Mama so many questions. Neighbours were called in. A couple made accusations…’

‘About?’

‘About you. Working for the Tsar’s police. Arresting revolutionaries.’

‘They knew all about that. I investigated some anarchists who had planted bombs. The party investigator cleared me in 1922.’

‘It didn’t matter. Mama was under so much pressure. Then one night she woke us, we dressed and ran down to the train station.’

‘A friend had warned her?’

‘See, you know the story better than I do. It doesn’t change, Papa.’

Danilov wanted to roll a cigarette but stopped himself. ‘I just want to know what happened. Maybe it will help me find your mother and brother.’

‘You know what happened next.’

Danilov spoke. ‘I came back and found a note from your mother. She wrote you would meet me in Kiev. But when I got there, I found another note at the station saying you had all gone on to Tsaritsyn.’

‘We never got to that city. Bandits stopped the train. We were forced off near Donetsk. All our clothes, everything, was stolen.’ She picked up the plates and took them to the sink. ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more. I’ve told you so many times.’ She washed the dishes, making a loud clattering noise to silence his questions.

He persisted. ‘I just feel there are some details you haven’t told me. Small secrets that could help me find Mama.’

She turned on him, her eyes like light blue ice beneath her shock of brown hair. ‘Secrets? All families have secrets, Father. You above all should know that. I’m not one of your suspects to be interrogated for their crimes.’

‘It’s not that, Lenchik, I just want…’

‘You just want to find Mama. I know. You’ve told me a thousand times.’ She sneered. ‘The great detective who can’t even find his own wife. How that must stick in your throat.’

His heart sank and his head followed. Did she resent him that much? Or was it a stronger emotion, a more Russian emotion, contempt and hate?

He planned to spend the rest of the day with her. They would play a little chess, the only time they could sit opposite each other without her silence coming between them. It was as if the logic of chess was a shared moment, full of the possibility of more shared moments.

And maybe, just maybe, he would be able to ask her a few more questions.

The phone began to ring in the living room. A long, insistent ring that begged to be answered.

Danilov ignored it.‘Lenchik, I just want to bring our family together again. Like the old days in Minsk.’ He recognised the desperation in his own voice. He hadn’t seen his wife or son for four years now. The only clue to their whereabouts was his daughter, and she was telling him nothing. Why?

She turned her back on him and continued to clean the stove. ‘You’d better answer the telephone.’

‘The only people who ring me are from the office.’

The phone rang again and again.

‘You’d better answer it,’ she said, slightly more softly this time.

Another ring, this time longer and more insistent.

Danilov got up and walked into the living room. He picked up the ear piece and spoke into the receiver. ‘Danilov.’

‘It’s Strachan here, sir. Sorry to bother you on your day off, but I thought you’d better know…’

‘Know what, Strachan? Come to the point, man,’ Danilov snapped.

‘There was a murder last night, sir. Actually, four murders in a lane off Hankow Road.’

‘That’s my beat. Why wasn’t I informed?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I’m at the station now, and I’ve just found out. Inspector Cowan took the case.’

Danilov sighed and thought of his daughter and their chess game. ‘I’ll be at the station in half an hour. Make sure Cowan doesn’t do anything stupid before I get there.’

‘I don’t know about that, sir, but he’s already made an arrest.’

‘Cowan doesn’t usually move that sharply. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

‘I’ll wait for you, sir.’

The telephone went dead in Danilov’s hand. He replaced the receiver back on its cradle. The long upright telephone reminded him of a chalice in one of the churches of his youth in Russia, except it was made from black Bakelite, not gold.

He walked across the sitting room and put on his old brown brogues, an even older macintosh and his battered hat with its oil-stained lining, mahogany with wear.

In the kitchen, his daughter was still hunched over the dishes, her arms covered in soap and suds.

‘I have to go to the station. Perhaps, we can play chess when I come back this evening?’

For a moment, she stopped washing dishes, and her head lifted slightly.

He wanted to go across to her and wrap her in his arms as he had done when she was a child. A hug that said it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, just you and me and now.

But he didn’t. He just stood there.

She went back to the dishes, scrubbing the cream pottery as if her life depended on it.

He looked across at the chess board, lying on the table, its pieces untouched, unmoved. ‘Good bye, Elina,’ he called as he opened the front door.

There was still no answer.

Chapter 4

Strachan was waiting for Danilov outside the station, eating a jian bing he had just bought from the hawker’s stall on the street, an infamous trap for hungry policemen.

‘No breakfast, Strachan?’

‘Had it this morning, sir, this is just a snack to keep me going till lunchtime.’

Danilov watched as Strachan took another bite, bending forward to prevent any of the chili sauce from dripping on his suit. Despite all the food he consumed, his half-Chinese detective sergeant was as lean as a Borzoi.

‘Had yours, sir?’

‘Had my what?’

‘Breakfast. Got to have breakfast in the morning. Gets the day off to a great start, my mother always says. Wouldn’t let me leave home without it.’

Danilov thought about the burnt syrniki prepared by Elina. ‘You might call it breakfast, Strachan. On the other hand, you might call it something else.’

He walked up the steps to the double doors that guarded the police headquarters. ‘You didn’t call me in to talk about breakfast, Detective Sergeant,’ he said over his shoulder.

‘No, sir,’ said Strachan, wiping the crumbs from his face with the back of his hand, dropping the remains of his snack on the floor and running after his inspector. ‘Four murders last night in a lane off Hankow Road. A family, name of Lee.’

‘Why wasn’t I called?’

‘I don’t know, sir. Inspector Cowan told me he was handling the case.’

‘Cowan couldn’t handle a knish.’

‘A what, sir?’

Danilov ignored the question and approached a tall Sikh in a blue turban who guarded the gate that led to the interior of the station. ‘Quiet today, Sergeant Singh,’ he said looking back at the crowd in the foyer.

‘Wait till this afternoon, Inspector.’

He walked down the corridor and entered the detectives’ office. The group of detectives standing together in the corner fell silent.

A tall ginger-haired who had spoken to Strachan earlier, broke off from his story and said, ‘Good morning, Danilov. Thought it was your day off?’

A couple of the detectives smirked.

‘Could I speak with you, Inspector Cowan, in private?’

Cowan looked around him. ‘I’m sure the lads wouldn’t mind hearing what you have to say, would you, lads? Tinkler? Davies?’

There were a few mutters in response from the group.

Danilov hung his hat and coat on the stand that was next to the door. ‘There was an incident last night near Hankow Road.’

‘Yes.’ Cowan folded his arms across his chest. The rest of the detectives were looking from one to the other like spectators at a tennis match.

‘Four murders. A family.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Why wasn’t I informed? It’s my area.’

Cowan came to stand in front of him. ‘I don’t report to you, Danilov. You’re not my boss.’

‘You should have telephoned me.’

‘Didn’t know your number.’

Danilov pointed to the notice board. A list of detectives, with their addresses and telephone numbers clearly marked, was pinned up on the green baize.

‘I never look at that, too much trouble. And anyway, I was duty officer last night.’

Danilov advanced towards Cowan. ‘But it’s my area. Regulations state clearly that officers should be informed when incidents take place in their area.’

‘An incident took place in your area.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve just informed you. Regulations satisfied.’

‘That’s right, I heard you, Gordon,’ said Tinkler.

‘I should have been informed the moment the incident was known to you.’

Cowan’s arms went down and he took a step towards Danilov. ‘Listen, Danilov, you’re not the only bloody detective in this office, understand? Just ’cos you’ve made a few arrests doesn’t make you God bleedin’ almighty.’

‘I should have been informed immediately.’

The tall man towered over Danilov. The angrier he became, the more pronounced was his Scottish accent.

‘Listen, Danilov, I don’t like ye or your kind, understand? Ye may have got rid of poor Meaker and had Cartwright sent to the Badlands, but ye dinnae scare me.’ A large finger poked Danilov in the chest.

Danilov noticed that the knuckles of Cowan’s right hand were red and bleeding. In three places, the skin had been removed completely, revealing the pink, red flesh beneath.

‘And besides…’ A smile appeared on Cowan’s face. He looked over his shoulder at the other detectives before turning back to face Danilov. ‘…I’ve already arrested the murderer.’

Danilov stood at the centre of the detectives’ room. He pulled at the flap of skin that lay between his eyebrows. ‘You have somebody in custody?’

‘You’re damn bloody right, I have somebody in the nick. Already coughed to it too, hasn’t he?’

‘He’s confessed?’

‘To all four murders. Did it for the money. A robbery gone wrong, that’s all it was. Don’t have to be a great detective to work that out.’ He turned and walked away back to the other detectives who congratulated him, patting him on the back.

‘I want to see him.’

Cowan swung around. Another smile slowly spread across his face. ‘See who you like. I’ve got him. He’s confessed. End of story. He’s my collar.’ Again the arms folded across the chest.

Chapter 5

Danilov stood on tiptoes to peer into the cell. Yellow light crept through the grill. Inside a figure huddled in the corner, his face hidden in the shadows.

‘Open the door, please, Sergeant.’

‘I don’t know if I can, sir, it…’

Danilov stared at the duty sergeant. He had come straight down to the cells after leaving Cowan and the other detectives in the office. Their laughter as he went out the door still echoed in his head. He had told Strachan to stay upstairs. No point in involving him in this unpleasantness too. ‘Open the door, Sergeant,’ he said quietly.

The sergeant began to protest again, looked at Danilov’s eyes and posture, then pulled a large bunch of keys from his belt. They rattled as he selected the right one for cell three, inserted it into the lock, turning it twice.

He stepped back without opening the door. Danilov looked through the key hole once more before entering. A long time ago in a similar cell beneath a small police station in Minsk, he had entered a cell without checking where the prisoner was. He still had the scar on the top of his head as a reminder. An old Russian idiom popped into his head: the scabby sheep scares the whole flock. How true, how true.

The loud creak of unoiled hinges sang in the dark cell. The prisoner tried to bury his head further into the brick walls, hiding from whoever had entered.

‘My name is Inspector Danilov.’

There were a few mumbled words of reply that Danilov couldn’t understand and the same movement into the wall.

‘You can leave us, Sergeant.’ Danilov said, without taking his eyes from the bundle of clothes huddled in the corner.

‘But sir, I’m not…’

‘Leave us.’

Reluctantly the sergeant left the cell. Danilov heard his footsteps receding down the corridor. No doubt, he would be going to report Danilov to his superior. So be it. A small price to pay for speaking to this man alone.

He moved to the corner of the concrete bed and sat down. The man edged away from him, pressing his body into the far corner. A tall man, curling himself into a foetal ball.

Danilov took out his tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette. Even in the dim light of the cell, his fingers knew exactly what to do. He brought the edge of the paper up to his mouth and licked it. ‘Would you like a cigarette? Only hand-rolled, I’m afraid. But the best Virginia from Jacobson’s.’

A hand snaked out and took the cigarette. Danilov pulled a lighter from his pocket and flicked the wheel. Instantly, the cell was flooded with light, the glaze of its brown brick walls reflecting the flame of the lighter.

The prisoner shrank back into the wall.

‘Sorry, I didn’t realise how bright this was.’ Danilov closed the lid of the light and adjusted the wheel beneath the flame. He flicked the wheel and a smaller, less bright flame flickered. The cell was illuminated again, but less harshly. Danilov could see the back of the prisoner’s head now, his hair matted with sweat. For a second the man hesitated then put the cigarette in what was left of his lips and mouth.

Danilov brought the flame up to the prisoner’s face. The white tube of the cigarette stood out like a long thin maggot against the red and purple of the lips. Blood oozed from the side of his head, dribbling down onto his chin and shirt. The mouth was a bloody mess, with a few gaps where teeth had once been.

Danilov lit the end of the cigarette and the man inhaled, coughing and gasping as he did so. The rest of his face was in even worse condition. The nose was bent at an angle resting against the left cheek, while, beneath one eye, a vivid purple egg of a bruise looked like it would burst at any moment, showering blood everywhere. The other eye was closing, a thick black line like a calligraphy stroke the only indication of its existence.

The man coughed once more, his chest rasping, trying to suck in air.

‘Lie down. You’ll feel better if you lie down.’

The man shook his head, throwing a drizzle of blood-stained spittle onto Danilov’s jacket.

‘What’s your name?’

The man tried to speak through his split lips. Danilov couldn’t understand a word.

‘I’m sorry, could you say that again?’

The man collapsed in another round of coughing, blood splattering on the floor of the cell. Without looking up, he composed himself and though rasping breaths, he said, ‘Kao. Kao Ker Lien.’

The rasping continued as Kao tried to breathe, sucking in air through his torn mouth.

Then he spoke, the words unintelligible.

Danilov leant forward. ‘What did you say?’

The man paused and seemed to concentrate his whole body into the words that were coming out of his mouth. ‘Didn’t do anything,’ he enunciated slowly.

The effort seemed to exhaust him. He fell forward, fighting to get some air into his lungs.

Danilov caught him and cradled the man’s body, laying him gently on the hard concrete of the bed.

‘Didn’t do anything. Didn’t kill them. Didn’t do anything,’ Kao said over and over again as he lay there, the words coming out through bubbles of blood and spit.

Danilov stood up and banged on the cell door. ‘Sergeant.’

The duty sergeant appeared in a few seconds from his hiding place just around the corner.

‘Get this man to the hospital immediately.’

‘Can’t do that, sir. Not without Chief Inspector Boyle’s permission. He’s been charged. Can’t leave here.’

‘He’s going to die unless you do something.’

The sergeant stared at the prisoner lying prostrate on the bed, mumbling over and over again through his broken mouth.

‘I need the Chief’s permission, sir. Regulations.’

Danilov raced out of the cell and up the stairs at the end. ‘I’ll see about bloody regulations.’

Chapter 6

‘You can’t go in, Inspector.’ Miss Cavendish looked up from painting her nails a bright scarlet to match her lipstick.

‘I’m sorry, I must.’

She got up from behind her desk and stood in his way. Miss Cavendish was the gatekeeper to Boyle’s office, protecting the sanctum from trespass or unauthorised entry, both criminal offences in her eyes.

‘I need to see him immediately.’

Miss Cavendish played with the string of pearls around her neck, thinking about his request. ‘He said he wasn’t to be disturbed. Manpower reports for upstairs. But as it’s you, Inspector, I’ll try.’

She knocked gently on the frosted glass door. A grumpy ‘Yes’ came from within.

She pushed open the door and Danilov caught a glimpse of a large, portly man, sitting behind his desk.

He caught the traces of a conversation.

‘Can’t he come back later?’

‘He says it’s important.’

‘Tell him to come back later.’

‘Chief Inspector, I’m sure Inspector Danilov wouldn’t bother you unless it were urgent.’

Danilov heard a long, loud sigh followed by a grumpy, ‘Show him in then.’

Miss Cavendish pushed open the door and stepped aside.

‘What is it, Danilov? Upstairs are demanding these reports from me yesterday.’

Chief Inspector Boyle was sitting behind his desk, a half-smoked cigar burning in the ashtray, its smoke sending tendrils of petrol-blue up towards a tanned ceiling. Behind his head, a portrait of King George V dressed in a naval uniform looked down, a bland smile etched into the thin lips, surrounded by a manicured beard.

‘It’s the prisoner, Kao, he…’

‘Damn fine work by Cowan, arresting the culprit so quickly after the murders. And he’s confessed. Upstairs is very pleased.’ He pointed with his thumb towards the ceiling.

‘The prisoner is severely injured, sir. A punctured lung, maybe even worse.’

‘Severely injured, you say? I heard he resisted arrest. The men had to restrain him. Nothing unusual in that.’

‘This man has been severely beaten up, sir. To get his confession.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ Boyle picked up his cigar and sat back in his chair. ‘Won’t you sit down, Danilov?’

‘I prefer to stand, sir.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Boyle took a long drag on the cigar, blowing out a long stream of smoke that filled the room. ‘Look, a family, a decent working family, was shot down in their home without mercy. The man in the cells has confessed to the crime. End of story.’

‘He says he didn’t do it, sir.’

‘Well, he would say that now, wouldn’t he?’ Boyle leaned forward, opening the box in front of him. ‘Take a cigarette and sit down.’

‘I still prefer to stand, sir.’

Boyle sighed, scratching his bald head as he did so. Danilov noticed three long red scores on his scalp. The skin had begun to flake at the edges of the marks, sending white motes of skin onto Boyle’s shoulders.

‘The prisoner could die from his injuries, sir. How would that look on the records?’ Now was the time to play his final card. ‘And worse, what would upstairs say?’ Danilov repeated the gesture of pointing upwards with his thumb.

‘Are you threatening me, Danilov?’

‘No, sir, merely pointing out the obvious. If the main suspect in such a high profile case dies in police custody, well…there are bound to be questions asked about the competence of the officer in charge. And I’m sure the press would be the first to ask.’

Boyle sat and thought for a moment, the cigar burning uselessly between his fingers. Then he leant forward and stubbed it out in the ashtray. ‘Listen, Danilov, you’re a good copper. A brilliant copper. But sometimes, you have to realise it’s important to get a result. Quickly.’

‘Even when “the result” is wrong?’

‘So you’re the arbitrator of right and wrong these days?’

‘Isn’t that our job, sir? To find and punish criminals?’

‘When you get to do my job, you’ll realise that it’s not as straightforward as that.’

‘For me, it is, sir.’

‘Then you’ll never be able to do my job.’

‘I know, sir. The idea gives me immense pleasure.’

Boyle sat back in his chair and let out a long, audible sigh like the release of gas from a punctured balloon. His voice became softer, more cajoling. ‘You did well on the Character Killer case, but you didn’t make any friends in the force. Cartwright and Meaker were liked.’

‘A man may die unless we get him help. Do you think I care about making friends?’

Boyle looked towards the door and coughed, clearing his throat. ‘Miss Cavendish…’

There was no answer.

‘Miss Cavendish, I know you are there.’

‘Yes, sir?’ a tiny voice squeaked.

‘Ask Inspector Cowan to join us, will you?’

‘Certainly, Chief Inspector. Now?’

‘Right away, Miss Cavendish.’

They both heard the clatter of heels on the wooden floorboards as Miss Cavendish went to fetch Cowan.

Boyle took a cigarette from his box, lit it, inhaled and blew a long stream of smoke up towards the ceiling. ‘I have to be honest with you, Danilov. Since the trouble with Cartwright and Meaker, a lot of people have been gunning for you.’

‘They obstructed my investigations, sir. Hiding witnesses and information.’

‘They did and were punished for it. But you have to understand this police force. We stick together. Most of the men you serve with also served in the trenches. You didn’t, did you?’

‘No, sir. The Imperial Police in Minsk were exempt from the Army.’

‘In the trenches, there was a sense of solidarity. All in this together. Against the mud, the slime, the Germans, even our own generals. You don’t understand what loyalty means to these men.’

‘No, I don’t, sir.

Boyle took out a brown paper file from his desk drawer and opened it. A few faded typewritten sheets lay inside, the ink faded to light blue. ‘I checked your record with the chaps at Scotland Yard.’ His eyes scanned one of the sheets. ‘Two years exemplary service but a bit of a maverick was their judgement. Too smart for his own good.’

‘I enjoyed my time on secondment from Russia to London, sir, but we never did catch the anarchists we were looking for. A waste of my time.’

‘But you did get to live in England for two years. Anyone who is tired of London is tired of life. Somebody famous said that, can’t think who.’

‘Samuel Johnson, sir.’

‘Who?’

‘Compiler of the first English dictionary.’

‘See? They were right. You are too clever for your own good.’

A knock rapped on the frosted glass door and Cowan stepped in.

‘You asked to see me, sir.’

‘Yes, Inspector. Danilov tells me the prisoner you arrested for the Lee murders is in a bad way.’

Cowan glanced across at Danilov. ‘Resisted arrest, sir. We had to subdue him. Attacked me when I was questioning him.’

Boyle grunted. ’You seem to be remarkably free of any marks, Inspector.’

‘I was lucky, sir. Three other officers will back me up on what happened.’

‘I’m sure they will.’

‘The prisoner will be fine, sir. Just play-acting. You know how these people are…’

‘And if he dies?’ interjected Danilov.

Cowan shrugged his shoulders. ‘I suppose the courts will have one less case to handle.’

Boyle took another long drag on his cigarette.

‘You can’t let this prisoner die, sir. There’s a lot more going on here. It just doesn’t feel right. I feel that…’

‘We’re to run this station based on your feelings, Danilov?’ asked Boyle.

‘No, sir. But what if this prisoner died in custody? Shouldn’t he go on trial? It’s our duty to see him in court.’

‘Where he can be sentenced to death? Better to let him die now and save ourselves the trouble,’ sneered Cowan.

Boyle’s fist slammed down on the table. ‘Enough. Send the doctor to see him. If the doctor agrees, then we send him to hospital.’

‘But it could take an hour for the doctor to arrive…’

‘Keep an eye on him until then. Make sure he’s comfortable. Let me know if his condition worsens.’

‘But, sir…’ stammmered Danilov.

‘That’s my decision, Danilov.’ He turned and faced Cowan. ‘We want this man to stand trial for his crimes, not die in our cells. An example for all. Do you understand me?’

A glance from Cowan across to Danilov. This time, the malice in the look was obvious.

‘I understand, sir.’

‘That will be all.’

Cowan left the office, rattling the glass in its frame as he closed the door.

‘As for you, Danilov, this is Cowan’s case. Stay out of it. Is that clear?’

Chapter 7

Danilov could feel the tension in the detectives’ office as soon as he stepped through the door.

He sat down at his desk. His pens, telephone, and desk pad were nowhere to be seen. The games had already started.

The other detectives stood in the corner of the room, staring malevolently at him.

Strachan leant across. ‘Shall I get some new stationery from Miss Cavendish, sir?’

‘Don’t bother, Strachan.’ Danilov took out his tobacco pouch and rolled another cigarette. God how he hated these games. Children all of them with not a brain cell between them.

‘Did you find out anything else about the case, Strachan?’

Strachan looked over at the group of detectives surrounding Cowan as he rang for the doctor. ‘Not much, sir. Four murders; a man, his wife and two children, all from the same family, killed in their home last night. I managed to talk to one of the photographers.’ He handed over a brown envelope. ‘These are from the crime scene, sir. Apparently, the call came in at 9.47 pm. Moore took it.’ He indicated another policeman standing off to one side, not a member of Cowan’s group. ‘They took half an hour to find Cowan. Moore wanted to call you, but Cowan said no. He decided to investigate the case himself.’

‘When did they arrest Kao?’

‘This morning, sir. Cowan received a tip-off from an informant.’

Danilov lit the roll-up, watching the end flare in the flame of the lighter. ‘He moved quickly. Not like Cowan at all.’

‘Hear the noise, sir?’ Strachan gestured towards the window. ‘The gentlemen of the press. All waiting for Kao.’

Danilov sucked in the sweet smoke of his cigarette. Immediately his body relaxed and he felt a mild tingle, tremor through his bones. Even after years of smoking, he never tired of this moment when, for a brief second, the terrors of the day were forgotten.

‘How is he?’

‘Who, sir?’

‘The prisoner, Kao.’

‘He’s sleeping. One of the constables is sitting with him in a cell. And a lawyer has turned up.’

‘Really? Kao didn’t strike me as a man who knew any lawyers. Who called him?’

‘That’s the point. They think you did, sir.’ Once again, Strachan indicated the group of detectives who were still staring at them, anger etched into every line on their faces.

The clamour from the reporters outside the window grew louder.

‘Get your coat, Strachan.’

‘We’re going out, sir?’

Danilov took the brown envelope off his desk. ‘Kao is being looked after, the best way we can help him is to find out more about these murders.’

‘But I thought it was Inspector’s Cowan’s case?’

‘Not any more. Get a move on.’ Danilov was already going out of the door. Strachan grabbed his hat and coat off the stand and rushed after him.

‘This case smells higher than a troop of Cossacks. I’m not going to let a man die just to keep Cowan happy. Not today. Not any day.’

‘Do you want me to drive, sir?’

‘No, I’ve asked an elephant to do it. Don’t ask stupid questions, Strachan.’

‘No, sir. Not today, sir.’

Chapter 8

The Lee family home was in a new estate just off Hankow Road. Inspector Danilov rolled a cigarette while he waited for Strachan to park the car. Around him, the Chinese residents bustled in and out of the lane, glancing surreptitiously at this strange foreigner standing in front of their homes. The guard sitting in his little shed ignored him, preferring to shovel his rice from his bowl into his mouth.

Danilov looked up at the Chinese characters above the doorway with their English translation clumsily painted beneath: ‘Prosperous Peace Lane’. Well, it certainly wasn’t peaceful for the Lees, he thought.

The address of the house was officially known as 349, Lane 7, Hankow Road. He much preferred the efficiency and order of this address, so far from the aspirational dreams of the middle class where ‘Morally Righteous Estate’ was next door to ‘Filial Piety Lane’. ‘Eternal Rectitude Alley’ was found in ‘Eternal Haven Estate’. And his favourite: ‘Bright Future Street’ lurked in ‘Forever Past Estate’.

He was sure they meant something profound in Chinese, but their English translations came across as faintly ridiculous.

‘Prosperous Peace Lane’ was a home for this new class, people who had made some money but still weren’t part of the elite yet; three-storey houses built in the new Art Deco style with white concrete exteriors, porthole windows and the simple straight lines that promised sophisticated elegance without the stuffy clutter that he remembered from the Russia of his youth.

Strachan came running up. ‘Sorry, took me a while to find a place, sir.’

Danilov didn’t reply, he just walked through the gate.

The guard raised his head from his bowl for a second before lowering it once again, continuing to remorselessly shovel the rice from his bowl to his mouth, before either mysteriously vanished into thin air.

A long lane stretched in front of the detectives, with branches off to the side every thirty metres. ‘It’s number 349. It should be on the left.’

They walked along looking at the numbers. The first row on their left held 101 to 126. They looked down the alley. A long tier of terraced, three-storey houses, all facing South, stretched to another alley at the end. Each door led to a small internal courtyard, then onto the main entrance to the house. There was a mirror image of the alley on the right-hand side of the lane.

‘It’s much further on, sir.’

‘I worked that out for myself, Strachan.’

They walked on in silence, passing the next alley, much smaller and thinner, which led to the back doors of the houses.

They had walked past five of these rows before Strachan spoke again. ‘I’d like to live here one day, sir. The new style, much cleaner and better than my old place.’

‘Looking to move up in the world, Detective Strachan? You’ll be after my job next.’

‘No, sir, I didn’t mean that,’ he said hurriedly, ‘it’s just that you have to have something to aim for in life.’

‘And your aim is “Prosperous Peace Lane”, is it?’

‘I could do worse, sir.’

‘Indeed you could, Detective Sergeant Strachan. Or you could do better.’

They both stopped in front of a sign on the wall. ‘335 to 353. It’s down here, sir.’

‘Your first piece of detection today, Strachan, well done.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Lead the way, Detective.’

Strachan walked into the alley counting off the doors.

‘It’s here, sir.’

They stopped in front of one of the courtyard doors. On it was a large red paper with bright gold characters, pasted across the centre where the two sides met.

‘I presume that says something like “Police. Crime Scene”.’

‘Actually, sir, it says, “Happy Prosperous New Year”. I think Inspector Cowan and his team must have run out of sealing paper and used a New Year greeting instead.’

‘Very enterprising. Break the seal, Strachan.’

The detective reached up to tear down the long strip of red paper, but as he did, he saw that it had already been cut with a sharp knife. ‘Sir, I think you should look at this.’

Danilov signalled Strachan to be quiet and pushed open the door. They both stepped over the stone entrance. Inside, the courtyard was empty except for a large potted palm in the corner. Danilov, followed by Strachan, strode across the courtyard in four steps and stopped in front of the main entrance of the house. The Inspector reached for the round metal door knob and turned it. The door began to open, creaking loudly. They both stopped, surprised by the loud screeching noise. Up above, they could hear the sounds of banging on the walls.

On the wooden floor, the chalk outline of a small body was still visible. Next to the outline a long dark pool of what appeared to be dried blood stained the wooden boards.

Danilov stepped over the chalk outline and crept up the stairs, searching for the source of the sound.

On the next landing, they were greeted by another chalk outline, this time slightly larger. Danilov placed his finger across his lips. Strachan drew his pistol, holding it close to his face.

They climbed up to the next landing. The banging noises were getting louder now. They could hear something else too, the sound of a man’s voice, swearing loudly in Chinese.

Danilov pointed to the door at the top of the stairs in front of them. The noise seemed to be coming from inside. He walked closer, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead. The banging stopped.

Heavy steps across the room and the door flew open, revealing a stocky figure silhouetted in the doorway, in his hand the black shape of a large demolition hammer.

Danilov shouted, ‘Police, stay where you are.’

The man reacted immediately, throwing the hammer at Danilov. It hit him on the shoulder, knocking him backwards against the banister.

The door slammed. Strachan was already at Danilov’s side.

In the room, the sound of glass crashing on the wooden floor.

‘I’ll be fine.’

Strachan leapt up and over Danilov and ran to the top of the stairs.

He pushed at the door, but it was locked. He stepped back and drove his shoulder into the centre. It shuddered but held firm. He stepped back again and this time, kicked hard against the join where the lock and the frame of the door met.

The door splintered. He kicked again and again. And again.

The door crashed open.

Strachan ran into the room. It was empty. In front of him, another chalk outline of a body, and above it a broken window. He ran to it, carefully avoiding the chalk on the floor, and looked out.

Nothing. Just the back of the neighbour’s house.

A tile scuttled down the roof and crashed into the courtyard of the house next door.

He leant forward and looked upwards and behind him. The small, stocky man was inching slowly across the ridge line, his feet either side of the decorative tiles.

Strachan shouted. ‘Police. Halt or I fire.’

The man glared back at Strachan. Quickly, he dropped down on all fours and vanished from view.

Strachan put his revolver back in its holster. He kicked out the remaining glass in the window, noticing that one of the shards was streaked with blood. He grabbed each side of the frame and stepped up to crouch in the window.

Don’t look down, he thought. Whatever you do, don’t look down.

He looked down.

Immediately, he leant back into the empty window frame away from the drop. Jesus, he thought, it’s at least sixty feet to the ground.

He took a deep breath and peered over the edge again. Closer to eighty feet. What am I doing?

He inched his way through the mansard window and onto the slate roof, keeping hold of the frame all the time.

Don’t look down. Don’t look at the ground.

He took one step up the slates and then another, still holding onto the top of the mansard. The ridge of the roof was ten feet above him. Behind the ridge, the scuffling sounds of the man scrabbling across the roof on the other side.

He stood up straight, letting go of the window frame. Immediately, he could feel the wind through his hair. He held his arms out to his sides and began to inch up the roof.

Don’t look down. Whatever you do, don’t look down.

The ridge at the top was only six feet away now. He was getting closer. He began to feel more confident, shuffling his feet forward a little further each time.

Take it slowly, Strachan, softly does it.

At that moment, he lifted his foot and it caught the raised edge of one of the slates. His arms and body jerked forward and his legs slipped from under him. He crashed down onto the slates and began to slide backwards.

He flailed around with his arms and legs, desperately looking for something, anything, to grab on to. He was still sliding, his fingers could get no grip. His legs went over the edge and they kicked against nothing but air.

Chapter 9

His body began to fall over the edge when he heard a loud rip and jerked to a stop, half his body from the waist down dangling in the air.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head to the left. The top pocket of his jacket had caught on a nail sticking out from the gutter. He breathed out, swinging his legs to find something to stand on. Another loud rip. His body slipped down six more inches jerking him away from the safety and comfort of the cold slates.

He thought about shouting for help from Inspector Danilov, but he couldn’t risk lifting his head to call out.

Carefully, he lifted his right arm and reached up over the gutter to the slates, gripped them by digging his nails into a rough edge. He pressed his body down, swinging his right leg up as carefully as he could, bringing the knee to rest on the edge of the gutter.

He breathed out.

Don’t look down.

He promised himself that this was the last time he would ever chase a criminal. No more. He would leave it to Inspector Danilov from now on. His chasing days were over.

He inched his knee upwards, gripping with his nails and pushing upwards to let his body rest on the slates. The sole of his shoe touched the gutter.

Slowly, Strachan, slowly.

He pushed with his leg. The gutter strained and groaned against the joint holding it to the wall. His body inched up the roof.

He breathed out, offering prayers to all the gods he knew, and some he didn’t.

There was a sharp screech. The metal gutter jerked away from his foot, hung in the air for a few moments, before clattering to the ground.

Strachan rolled his back onto the cold slates and breathed out again, enjoying their hard embrace. He looked up at the sky. Three swallows were dancing in the air, weaving figures of eight above his head.

A faint scuffling noise off to his left. The man was further away now, escaping.

He crawled up the steep roof, this time pushing off with his feet, always looking for handholds. He was near the ridge line now. Heaving himself across it, he looked over to his left. At the end of the terrace, the thug was standing on the edge of the roof. The man looked over his shoulder and, for a short moment, his eyes met Strachan’s.

Then he jumped.

Strachan shouted. He couldn’t remember what he shouted. All he knew was that the shock of seeing the man suddenly leap out into nothing expelled all the air from his chest.

Up above, ominous grey clouds were coming in from the East, bring with them the threat of rain. Already, the wind was lapping at Strachan’s jacket. He sat up until he was on all fours and crawled along the ridge, scraping his knees on the rough edges.

A few more feet left. He reached a large tile that marked the end of the ridge line and peered over the edge, trying to see where the body of the man had fallen.

But there was no body. Instead, a latticework of bamboo crawled up the wall, left behind by some builders.

He stood up slowly, took a deep breath and jumped over the edge.

After what seemed like an eternity of a fall, he landed on the bamboo platform, which immediately began to move away from the wall and topple backwards.

He dropped to the platform, getting down as low as he could. The bamboo shook and rattled for a few seconds before it settled down again, the only sound the wind whistling through its lattice.

Why the hell am I doing this? I could be safely tucked up at home in bed. Or enjoying my mum’s sweet soup. Or even spending my time typing an incident report in the comfort of the office, another detective snoring at the desk next to me.

‘Don’t be scared, youngster. It’s nought but a wee tree.’ His father’s strong Scottish brogue encouraged him to climb up to the tree house. How he missed the warmth of his father and the strength he gave him. He wasn’t going to let him down now, he was never going to let his father down.

He remembered seeing the scaffolders on the buildings of Shanghai ascending and descending the bamboo scaffolds with the ease of monkeys. They had a careless rhythm, using the area between the lattice and the support to make their way up and down.

He moved away from the support and swung his leg over the edge. Immediately, it touched the crossbeam of the lattice. He lowered the other leg and it stepped onto another crossbeam. He let his legs slide down until they were both standing on the join where the crossbeams met.

He stood there and repeated the step down again, holding on to the upper crossbeam with his hands. Easy, he thought. This is how it’s done.

Strachan moved confidently now, descending the bamboo scaffold with all the grace of an elephant tap dancing. Finally, his feet touched the hard concrete of the alley and he sank to his knees

Never again. Never, never again.

Then he remembered the man he was chasing. He ran down to where the alley turned into another lane. He looked both ways. More terraces, a few kids playing with a top and a rope. No sign of any man.

Time to go back and tell Danilov the good news. He had let the man escape.

Strachan took one last glance at the roof and the bamboo scaffolding. A shiver ran down his spine as he looked up into the sky.

Chapter 10

‘What the hell do you think you were doing?’ Danilov stood in the entrance hall of the house with his hands on his hips.

‘I chased after…’

‘Across the roof? What the hell were you thinking, Detective Sergeant Strachan?’

‘I didn’t think, I just went…’

‘I didn’t think – damn right, you didn’t think. Listen, I don’t want brawn and stupidity, there’s plenty of that in the Shanghai Police. I wanted someone with a brain. And you have one, Detective Sergeant Strachan. It’s time you used it. If you get killed, I have to find another copper to take your place.’

Strachan looked down at a spot just in front of his feet. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’

‘Don’t do it again, Strachan, I don’t want to stand over your body while Dr Fang tells me that you died from stupidity. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Danilov took three deep breaths. ‘You look a mess.’

Strachan’s jacket was ripped and his face, body and hands covered in black dirt from the roof slates, and paint from the bamboo scaffold. ‘I’m afraid he got away, sir.’

‘I thought so. While you have been away enjoying yourself, I’ve been using the photographs to work out what happened here on the last night.’

Danilov walked to the main entrance, followed by Strachan. ‘See here, our first body.’ He pointed to the chalk outline in the hall of the house. ‘We know from the photograph that this is where the son was found with his throat cut. Now the two don’t match exactly, the body had been moved after the photograph was taken, before they drew the outline. Cowan’s team were incompetent or worse.’ Danilov sniffed. He pointed to the wall. ‘See there, a line of dark spots that goes up the wall starting from the left.’

He walked to the wall and pointed to a line of diagonal black spots. ‘I think we’ll find that they are blood.’ Danilov leant in to see the small dark spots on the wall. ‘That’s strange. The drops of blood are missing from here, and here.’ He pointed to two areas of the white wall where there were no marks. ‘Most strange.’

Strachan reached up to a higher spot on the wall. ‘Why are they getting longer and thinner here, sir?’

Danilov tugged once more at the skin between his eyes at the bridge of his nose. ‘The spots are in ellipses which suggest our victim’s head was moving as he was killed. Not surprising when we know that he had his throat cut. Here’s what I think happened. The killer entered through that unlocked door.’ Danilov pointed to the door they had come through. ‘He crossed the courtyard and knocked on the main door and, for some reason, the young boy answered it, not the maid. You may ask where was she? But I think that’s a question we will save for later. The killer steps in and grabs the boy from behind. The boy may or may not have had time to shout. I think he probably did. The killer then slits the boy’s throat with a knife from right to left, producing the blood spatter on the wall.’

A frown appeared on Strachan’s forehead. ‘I see what you mean, sir, I think.’

‘Keep up, Strachan, use your imagination.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Danilov held up a rectangular white card. ‘I found a stack of these on the hall table.’

‘Business cards, sir?’

‘To be precise, Mr Lee’s business card. Apparently, he worked for the Three Friends Company. We must interview the boss, find out more about Mr Lee.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll add it to our list of things to do.’

Danilov put the card into his pocket and stepped into the hall. ‘When the mother heard her son shouting, she must have been in the hallway. She was wearing her shoes which suggest she was on her way out. She sees what is happening, but instead of running down to save her son, she turns and runs up the stairs. Strange that, not a maternal reaction at all. I wonder if she was going to warn her husband? The other killer chases after her.’

‘The other killer?’

‘Yes, didn’t I say? At least two. I don’t think there were three. Come here.’ He pushed open the front door and walked into the kitchen with Strachan trailing after him. ‘See the window, this latch has been jimmied. Deep scratches on the green paintwork.’

‘But that could have been done before. Burglars aren’t uncommon in these new estates.’

‘But look around you, Strachan, the kitchen has been freshly painted, I’d say in the last month or so. And we mustn’t ignore these.’ Danilov pointed to a faint footprint on the sill of the kitchen window and an even fainter one on the floor beneath the window. He opened the back door and the plants had been trampled. ‘The rest of the back garden is spick and span, the plants well cared for, except here.’

‘Why didn’t Inspector Cowan spot these, sir?’

‘You ask me, and I ask who, Strachan?’

The detective constable shrugged his broad shoulders.

Danilov smiled and walked back out to the hallway. ‘As I was saying, the mother saw her son being killed and ran up the stairs. Our second killer comes out from the kitchen and shoots her in the back.’

He climbed the stairs and stepped across the chalk outline of the body on the landing. ‘That’s interesting.’ The door to a closet on the next level was open. Danilov went inside. A pile of freshly laundered sheets and towels were placed on the shelves. Another clean sheet lay in the corner as if discarded. ‘I wonder if the maid put these here?’

He came out of the closet and continued his explanation. ‘By now, the husband must have heard the shouts of his wife and the shot from the killer. But instead of running to save his wife and children, he runs upstairs. Why?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Neither do I, Strachan. Neither do I. But we know the killers came up the stairs after him.’

‘How do you know he was in the bedroom, sir?’

‘See the photograph of his body, Strachan. This man is getting dressed to go out. His buttons are undone on his shirt and he’s wearing just one cufflink. He didn’t have time to put the other on before the killers arrived. What I don’t understand is why he was reading a book when he was just about to go out?’

Strachan peered closely at the photograph. ‘It’s a guide book, sir. Gow’s Guide to Shanghai 1924. Perhaps he was looking for an address?’

‘But Mr Lee was Chinese. Why would he need an English guide book written for tourists?’

‘True, sir, but what about the girl lying in bed, why didn’t she get up?’

‘That’s easy, Strachan.’ Danilov opened the door to the bedroom. The blood-covered bedclothes were still pulled back as they had been left by the mortuary attendants. ‘They didn’t even take the sheets away. Incompetence of the highest order.’

‘It looks like they weren’t really interested in doing a proper investigation, sir.’

‘An interesting observation, Strachan.’ He walked over to the bedside table and opened the drawer. Inside was an array of tablets and medicines that would have made a chemist happy.

‘She was ill, sir, that’s why she didn’t leave the bed.’

‘More than ill, I think, Strachan.’ He pointed to a pair of crutches and a wheelchair against the wall. ‘An invalid. Probably needed help to get out of bed. Makes me ask once again, where was the maid that evening, if our invalid needed constant help?’

‘I don’t know sir.’

‘Neither do I, Strachan. Anyway, let’s go up.’ He strode out of the room and up the stairs to the third floor. ‘Our man has run up here, not down to save his wife and his children. He knows the killers are after him. Is he running to hide or to escape?’ They reached the door of the bedroom on the third floor. It was open with the chalk outline of a body clearly visible near the window. ‘But he doesn’t lock it. The key is still in the lock. He runs instead into the room. They burst in, he runs to the window and they shoot him dead. One shot to the chest, another, the killing shot, to the centre of the head.’

‘Sounds like a professional, sir.’

‘Exactly, Strachan. Now look over there.’

In the wall opposite the window was a row of holes, spaced unevenly in the wall, breaking through in places to reveal the laths and the plaster.

‘That’s the work of our visitor today. He was obviously looking for something he thought was hidden in this room.’

‘I don’t think he found it, sir, he wasn’t carrying anything. I got a good look at his face, I’d recognise him again.’

‘Strachan, get the uniforms in and search this place properly. Before you do that, get a team to go through the house from top to bottom, fingerprints, everything. Make an imprint of the shoe in the kitchen. We have to start again where Cowan failed.’

‘Yes, sir. Right away, sir. Cowan is not going to be happy we are interfering in his case.’

‘Let me handle Inspector Cowan. This is still my patch.’ Danilov scratched his head. ‘One other thing. Why did the young boy open the door and let his killer into the house?’

‘He may have known his assailant, sir.’

‘Perhaps, Strachan, or there could be another reason. A thought has just occurred to me.’

‘Would you like to share it, sir?’

Danilov looked out of the window. ‘Not yet, Strachan. Not yet.’ He walked over and examined the holes in the wall.

‘Our man with the hammer has been busy. None of the other rooms have been searched or destroyed, just this one. I wonder why? What was he looking for? And why search in this room?’

‘Because that’s where Mr Lee ran, sir, after he heard the shots.’

‘That makes sense, Strachan. Our thug started to search here first. We interrupted him in his work.’

Danilov ran down the stairs to the next floor. He stood at the entrance to the girl’s bedroom. The blood-stained sheets still lay draped across the bed. The room had the faint tang of stale blood, a smell with just a hint of rust and salt.

Danilov whispered a Russian prayer under his breath.

‘What was that, sir?’

‘Nothing, Strachan. Why kill the girl?’

‘Perhaps she saw them, sir?’

‘But even then, no point in killing her. It was dark, their faces wouldn’t have been clear to her from her position in the bed.’

‘An invalid was no threat to them.’

Danilov pinched the skin on the bridge of his nose. ‘This was a professional job, Strachan. They wanted to leave no witnesses. And it wasn’t a robbery. Mrs Lee’s jewellery box is still in her bedroom untouched.’

‘So the motive wasn’t robbery?’

‘No, it wasn’t. And a man like Kao is no more capable of being a professional killer than your mother.’

‘You should see her strangle a chicken from the market.’

‘Thank you, Strachan, remind me never to eat your mother’s chicken. We need to get back to the station. Now.’

‘Shall I wait for forensics, sir?’

Danilov thought for a moment. ‘No, come with me. They can handle everything themselves. I think Mr Kao is in grave danger, Strachan, and not just from the Cowans of this world.’

Chapter 11

He waited on the street, blending in with all the reporters, photographers and assorted hangers-on who were attracted like flies to dung whenever something happened in Shanghai.

It was a good place to hide.

In amongst people. It was the only time he didn’t feel lonely. Here. In a crowd. Waiting.

The butt of the revolver rubbed against the skin of his chest. He loved this moment. The time before the world erupted around him in a storm of chaos.

He knew it was going to happen.

He was the only one who knew.

The idea gave him satisfaction. He had come to this job early in his life. A young man, born in the city with nothing to offer but his brains and the ability to kill.

His first job had been at twelve, smuggling a gun through a police checkpoint and passing it to an assassin, the man hired to kill a politician in the foyer of a council chamber. He had watched him do the job. Three bullets the killer had used. So wasteful. Even worse, the politician had lived to fight on.

He wasn’t going to make that mistake today.

He would be professional. He had learnt from the mistakes of others not to make mistakes himself. Every single detail of each of his jobs was written down and safely hidden from prying eyes.

His diary of murder.

What he had for breakfast. How he felt. The weather. The time of day. The atmosphere before the shooting. The pain and surprise on the victim’s face. His escape route. The depression afterwards.

Twenty-three separate entries.

This was going to be the twenty-fourth.

He had operated as part of a team. He had killed alone. He had used a knife. A gun. Poison. And once a garrotte.

He hadn’t enjoyed using a garrotte. The victim had shit himself as he was dying. The stink had lingered around his nostrils for days like a drowning man clings to a lifebuoy.

He would have to drown somebody one time. To test it out as a means of killing. He imagined that it was the same as the garrotte only wetter.

He had learnt to plan everything. The method. The time. The place. An escape route. The shoes he would wear. The changing area. He always changed his clothes as soon as he could. He didn’t like the smell of death.

Planning a murder was everything.

It was why he was so popular as an operative with Mr Zhang. It was why he received so many jobs. It was why he did what he did. Professionally.

He was a professional as much as any lawyer, accountant or engineer. His skills were in demand. His knowledge needed. His abilities respected. He didn’t lack for jobs. They found him.

He realised long ago after the fourth killing that he didn’t work for money but for the perfection of it all. The perfect murder. One day, he would make it happen.

What was the perfect murder?

When nobody realised a crime had been committed. Nobody was looking for a victim. Nobody looking for a killer. And yet, a victim was dead.

This job was unique. He had not been paid for it, but strangely, he didn’t mind. This time, he had to rush the planning, only receiving the call that the man was coming out thirty minutes ago.

But he was sure it was long enough. The opportunity was too good to miss. A chance to kill two birds with one stone.

Or, in his case, four bullets.

The location added a frisson of danger. An emotion that he enjoyed when it was under control. And when it was finished, all the ends would be neatly tied in a bow.

Not by him, but by the police themselves.

There had been four murders and now their killer was dead. His death witnessed by the police themselves.

The simple beauty of it enthralled him.

A neatly packaged story for the people to devour. Better to celebrate the excitement of someone’s life and death in the pages of the newspapers than remember the boring mundanity of their own.

He didn’t take any old job. There had to be something of interest in it. Something that challenged him. Killing was easy. Any country bumpkin could kill. But to kill well, to know that the correct victim had been targeted, to get away – there was skill in that.

A test of his skills.

Afterwards, he would vanish. As he always did.

He noticed a stir in the mob of reporters and photographers ahead of him.

He took a deep breath. Calming himself. Focusing his mind on the job in hand.

Chapter 12

Danilov and Strachan pushed their way through the crowd of reporters, photographers and assorted sightseers to get back into the station.

Sergeant Wolfe was standing guard at the entrance.

‘What’s happening, Sergeant?’

‘They’re just about to take the prisoner to the hospital, Inspector. The doctor insisted. Had a proper fight with Cowan about it too. Chief Inspector Boyle had to order him to do obey the doctor. He wasn’t keen, said the prisoner was malingering.’

At last, thought Danilov, at least Kao will be looked after now. He looked towards the press of reporters outside the doors. ‘The mob is baying for blood, Sergeant.’

‘The scum of the earth, they are. Would sell their own mothers for a story.’

The clamour outside the station grew louder.

‘They are using the side door?’

The Sergeant nodded. ‘I thought it better, Inspector. Easier for the prisoner to get to the ambulance.’

‘Thank you, Sergeant, at least one man is thinking today.’

Like a flock of birds moving as one body, the mob of reporters suddenly surged towards the right, shouting noisily as they did.

‘It looks like they are bringing him out now, Inspector. The vultures are descending on their prey,’ said the Sergeant.’

Chapter 13

As soon as they left the safety of the police station, the mob of reporters surged forward.

‘Did you murder the Lee Family?’

‘Why did you do it?’

‘Why did you kill them?’

Cowan and Moore stood either side of Kao, holding his body upright between them. Despite being hunched over, the prisoner still towered above them, his arms handcuffed to them on either side and a blanket half-covering his head. Cowan was pushing Kao down with his free hand so that the reporters could not see the bruises that were still livid on his face.

His lawyer had protested that he should be carried to the ambulance, but Cowan had forced him to walk through the crowd. ‘He can still walk. Nothing wrong with him,’ was his blunt answer.

Three uniformed policemen walked ahead of them, clearing a path through the crowd. The lawyer stopped at the top of the steps. Immediately a small group of reporters separated from the large pack and surrounded him.

The lawyer raised his arms. ’Gentlemen, I’m sure Mr Kao will give a statement when he’s ready.’

‘Did he kill the Lee family?’ shouted one reporter.

‘As you can see, gentlemen, Mr Kao was assaulted during his arrest by the Shanghai Police. He is now being taken to hospital where his injuries will be treated by doctors.’ He stopped speaking and rushed to join his client. The pack of reporters and photographers followed him. ‘But did he murder the Lee family?’ another reporter shouted over the mob.

The policemen pushed the press back, using their arms, elbows and shoulders to forge a path. The reporters gave way reluctantly, still shouting their questions at the lawyer and his client. Lightbulbs flashed, illuminating the scene in a blaze of light, followed by an incoherent barrage of shouted questions.

‘Why did you kill the family?’

‘Four people dead, how do you feel?’

‘Was it a property deal gone wrong?’

‘Did you murder them?’

Cowan and Moore gripped the prisoner tightly, staying close to the constable clearing the way in front.

Kao kept his head down, forced to do so by Cowan’s hand pressing on his neck, stumbling forward, his chest heaving with every painful step.

The policemen were joined by others from the station, who elbowed the reporters to the side, creating a tunnel to the waiting black Dodge at the kerb.

A figure stepped in front of them. A shot like the stamping of a foot against a sheet of metal. Kao Ker Lien was thrown backwards against one of the policemen, his hand reaching up to grab his chest, before falling heavily on the steps, dragging Cowan and Moore down with him.

For a second, the mob of reporters was stunned into near silence.

One more shot. Then another, followed by a loud click.

The reporters screamed, trying to get away from the deadly noise as quickly as they could, tripping over legs, dropping cameras and notebooks and pens.

Policemen went down, bludgeoned out of the way by the scared reporters. People ran everywhere, desperately seeking cover from the sound of the shots.

A woman, caught in the mad rush, was struck by the hard edge of a flashbulb holder. The light went off, catching her in its light as she fell onto the hard concrete.

Those who had fought in the war simply threw themselves down on the ground looking to escape the gunfire, hugging the pavement as if it were a long-lost lover.

One reporter, braver or more stupid than the rest, picked himself up and walked gingerly to the three bodies lying on the ground. He tripped over a camera on the floor, setting off the flash once again, illuminating the scene with a harsh explosion of light.

His eyes were momentarily blinded, but he stumbled forwards, his sight gradually clearing. In front of him, Moore sat moaning, holding his right arm as blood oozed from the shoulder. Beside him, Kao lay on the steps, his arms spread and his eyes wide open, a small hole sitting between them. To his left, Cowan was curled up in a ball, trembling.

The reporter looked back at the body in the middle. He thought for a moment that it had an extra eye. Then he realised what it was and, and from somewhere deep within him, there escaped a shrill keening shriek.

Chapter 14

Lightbulbs were going off. Reporters were shouting.

Up ahead, the crowd jostled each other.

He checked his position. Perfect.

He stepped forward from behind the ambulance. The crowd of reporters were thinning out in front of him, pushed out of the way by the policemen.

The cold metal of the butt solid in his fingers. There were six bullets loaded in the Smith & Wesson. He would not use them all. No need.

The mob thinned out even more. He could see the targets up ahead. They were positioned exactly as agreed.

He stepped forward pulling the revolver out of its holster as he did so.

Nobody noticed him, focused as they were on the people leaving the police station.

He levelled the revolver. Pressed the trigger. There was a brief noise. A flash of flame. The recoil jerked his hand upwards. He would have to use less powder next time.

The target fell backwards onto the stairs, dragging the two policemen down.

The screams. The noise. The shouts of the reporters and the photographers and the watchers, all disappeared.

He was in a bright tunnel. Just him and the target.

He stepped forward and fired again. Into the head.

The kill shot.

The revolver flashed. He was using too much powder.

The target lay still, a small round hole in his forehead.

Perfect.

Now to take care of the policeman on the right. A sitting duck, literally. He squeezed the trigger again. A wounding shot, not necessary to kill.

Cowan was looking at him, eyes strident with fear. The man tried to scramble away but he had forgotten the handcuffs that bound him to the prisoner.

He levelled the revolver at Cowan’s head. Time to kill him. Time he was gone.

He pulled the trigger. Another forehead shot.

A click.

He looked at the gun. A misfire. Too much gunpowder, must change the ratio next time.

The reporters were beginning to move now. Time to leave. Cowan could wait.

He slid the revolver back into the holster, feeling the warmth of the barrel through his shirt.

He turned and walked towards Foochow Road.

Move quickly, don’t run. Running suggested fear and a desire to escape. He wasn’t afraid but he wanted to get away.

Behind him, he could hear the screams of chaos.

He turned the corner and crossed the street to a quiet lilong. Twenty yards left along a lane he took off his hat. He turned to check if anybody was following him.

Nobody.

Good.

He pulled the Mandarin coat up and over his head, revealing his uniform beneath. Reaching up to the washing line above his head he hung the coat over it. He would return later to get it back. He hated waste in any job. Waste was inefficiency.

The blue coat had served him well, blending in with the thousands of others just like it on the streets of Shanghai.

He threw the hat away into a rubbish heap at the side of the alley. One of the rubbish collectors would remove it and sell it cheaply. Somebody, somewhere would enjoy the soft feel of the brown felt.

He pulled a dark cap from his trouser pocket, adjusting it so that it sat well on his head.

He was in uniform now. Nobody ever noticed people in uniform. They blended in with everything else on the street, part of the furniture. Some nosey person might remember there was a man in uniform, but they would never be able to describe his face. That was the beauty of a uniform: it guaranteed anonymity.

He did a final check and then walked back towards the police station he had just left.

Invisible again.

Just another person going to see what had happened.

Another uniform in the crowd.

Chapter 15

The clamour outside the window increased. Lightbulbs flashed. The shouts of the reporters above the noise. The lawyer’s voice, calm and collected.

More shouts from the reporters. More flashes. Then a loud bang.

Silence.

Danilov and Strachan raced towards the door.

Two more bangs.

Screams and shouts of chaos. People running. More shouts, shriller now, desperation in the voices.

They hurtled through the double doors. On the steps to the left of them, all was chaos. Men lay close to the ground desperately trying to crawl away. A woman searched for her glasses on her hands and knees. Cameras, notepads, and used bulbs lay strewn down the steps.

At the bottom, two bodies lay next to each other joined by a steel chain. One was on its back, staring up at the sky, the other had rolled onto his side and was moaning loudly, like a bull that had just been gelded.

A photographer was taking shots of the bodies, his flash blinding despite the sunlight.

‘Stop,’ Danilov shouted. Strachan rushed past him and hustled the protesting photographer away.

Danilov stepped over a large brown shoe lying on its side. He walked down the step and knelt down next to Detective Constable Moore. The man was moaning loudly.

He rolled him over and saw blood seeping into the man’s jacket from a wound on his shoulder.

He heard Strachan run back to join him.

‘I confiscated the camera, sir. Might come in useful.’

‘Good. Those ambulance men,’ he pointed to two men dressed in white coats crouched down behind the rear of their vehicle, ‘get them up here to take Moore to the hospital. Quickly, man.’

He stood up and stepped across Moore. The body of Kao lay stretched out on the steps, exactly where it had fallen, arms out wide like the pope blessing the multitudes in St Peter’s Square.

Between the eyes, in the centre of the forehead, a small round hole with a blackened edge disturbed the smoothness of the skin. One eye was wide open, staring into space as if looking for something that wasn’t there. The other was still closed, the bruise around it puffy, yellow and purple.

The face itself looked as though it was at peace, removed from the terrors of life. So different from the last time Danilov had seen it in the cells beneath the station, illuminated by the flickering flame of a lighter.

Danilov knelt down. A small trail of dark liquid had trickled from the corner of the smiling mouth. A large patch of wet, wine-dark blood stained the front of his shirt.

He reached out to touch the blood but stopped himself at the last moment. Dr Fang would want an untouched body, no need for him to become an amateur pathologist.

Strachan had returned with the ambulance men and was lifting Moore’s body onto a stretcher, but the right arm was still attached to the body of Kao.

‘Where’s the key?’

‘Check the fob pocket of his waistcoat, Strachan, most coppers keep it there.’

Strachan’s fumbling fingers searched in the pocket. His eyes remained fixed on the body of Kao lying next to Moore.

‘Look what you are doing, Strachan.’

‘Yes, sir.’ He forced his eyes away and delved deeper into the pocket. A small compact shape was buried deep in the fabric.

‘You were right, sir.’ He unlocked the handcuffs and helped the moaning Moore onto the stretcher. The ambulance men carried him down the steps, his moans increasing as they jolted his shoulder against the bare canvas.

He beckoned for Strachan to kneel down beside him. The young detective stepped forward, his eyes never leaving the face of the dead man.

‘What do you make of it, Strachan?’

‘He’s dead, sir.’

‘A blind man with blinkers could have worked that out. What else?’

Strachan stared at the dead man’s face. He twisted his head to the left like an artist sizing up a model for an insightful portrait. When he spoke, it was hesitating. ‘The expression on his face, sir, it doesn’t seem right.’

‘Very strange, isn’t it? Like he was smiling at his killer as he was shot. Look at the hands.’

Strachan stood up again and stared down at the body. ‘He’s got his hands raised, sir. Like he was surrendering.’

‘Yes, maybe. The shot was good. Professional.’

‘A kill shot, sir.’

‘Nobody gets up and walks away from those. It looks the same as the one that killed Mr Lee.’ He stood up and took a last lingering look at the body. ‘Get it down to Dr Fang at the morgue. Let’s see what he can tell us.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Danilov breathed in a deep lungful of Shanghai air.

His nose wrinkled as he scanned the watching faces of the crowd. ‘Sweet potatoes. It’s strange, but there’s always the smell of sweet potatoes at every death I investigate.’

Strachan tapped him on the arm and pointed to a hawker stirring the charcoal beneath a large iron wok. The man lifted the lid. The overpowering sweetness of the aroma of roasting drifted across the crime scene.

For a moment, Danilov was back in the Minsk of his youth, hearing the chants of the priests, seeing the bright flash of the chains of the incense burner, smelling the sweet aroma, seeing the dead body of his father lying in the casket, arms crossed in front of him.

He rubbed the scars on the back of his hands. He mustn’t let himself be distracted. Not now, now he needed to concentrate.

Then he was back in the present, surrounded by a crowd of people that had gathered to see what was happening, all staring at him and the body lying on the pavement.

‘Round up all the coppers you can and clear the area. Make sure these reporters are taken into the station. We need to question them.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Move these people back, they’re getting in the way of the crime scene.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do it now.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And get the body over to Dr Fang. We need the autopsy as soon as possible.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And make sure we get pictures of the body before Dr Fang’s men move it.’

Strachan held up the camera he had confiscated from the press photographer.

‘Well, don’t just stand there looking pleased with yourself. Get a move on.’

‘Right away, sir.’

Danilov looked down once more on the serene face of Kao. Shame such peace had to come with death. The once white shirt, soiled with blood, sweat and the dirt of the cell walls, clung to his body. Around his right wrist, a set of handcuffs was still fastened, slightly different in size and colour from the set that had been attached to Moore. Shinier, almost new, with thicker steel links and a heavy lock.

Kao must have been handcuffed to two policemen as he was being led away. Moore and one other. Who could the other man have been?

He looked up and saw Strachan organising the uniforms to herd the reporters and photographers into the station. The lawyer was protesting loudly, arguing as Strachan gently backed him towards the open double doors at the top of the steps.

He looked down at the body lying sprawled at his feet, an open pair of handcuffs still attached to one arm.

Danilov picked up the handcuffs. A small key fell from the lock and tumbled to the steps, landing with a metallic clink on the hard concrete.

He looked around the scene once more and then it struck him. ‘Where was Cowan?’

Chapter 16

Danilov sat alone in the empty detectives’ room. The others were out helping Strachan with the gentlemen of the press.

He laughed to himself. Such an English description, ‘gentlemen of the press’. The press he knew were rabid dogs rather than gentlemen, willing to sacrifice everyone and everything in pursuit of a byline.

He could hear them outside in the reception area shouting and complaining, baying together.

Above the noise, Boyle was bellowing, trying to control the mob, followed by the higher register of the interpreter, repeating the orders in Mandarin and Shanghainese.

He rolled another cigarette.

But what was the story here? A family had been murdered in cold blood and now their killer had been shot on the steps of the police station. Why?

Was it an escape attempt gone wrong? Probably not. Kao had been shot between the eyes and in the chest. Not caught in crossfire.

So why kill an innocent man? And why not let the man go on trial to prove his innocence? If he were found guilty, he would be turned over to the Chinese authorities and executed. End of story.

Why kill him here? On the steps of a police station? To shut him up? Stop him talking? Or was he just a fall guy, a patsy to take the rap for somebody else?

A sharp tap on the glass of the door and it opened. A postman popped his head around the corner, saw Danilov sitting alone at his desk and held up a sheaf of letters.

‘Miss Cavendish. Down at the end of the corridor.’

The postman nodded, smiled and closed the door.

Danilov lit his cigarette, taking a long, cooling drag and feeling the mellow smoke fill his lungs. He exhaled three perfectly formed smoke rings and watched them drift up to the beige ceiling.

But if Kao was innocent, as he had claimed, who had killed the Lee family? And where was Cowan? Why had he run away after the killing of his prisoner?

Boyle was shouting even louder now, desperate to make himself heard. He should go out and help, if only to stop the infernal noise.

He stood up and stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette, adjusting the black pen one more time until it was exactly horizontal.

Too many questions. Always too many questions.

Chapter 17

Danilov pushed through the door leading to the reception room.

Immediately, the noise in the room tripled. The press were surrounding the Chief Inspector and Sergeant Wolfe, shouting and waving their arms.

Flashbulbs exploded. Young reporters jostled old hands. Elbows and voices were raised.

A tall, well-dressed Chinese man bent over a much shorter photographer to shout in Shanghainese, ‘We want to get out, now.’

Above it all, but part of it, Chief Inspector Boyle was trying to maintain order. ‘One at a time, one at a time,’ he shouted over and over again in English. ‘You all need to be interviewed and then you can go.’

For a moment, the crowd of reporters quietened down as the interpreter repeated what he had said in Mandarin and Shanghainese. Before he had finished speaking, the shouting began again, but louder, more insistent.

Danilov walked over to the Sikh Sergeant. ‘Where’s the usual crowd?’

‘Scared off by the shooting, sir. They believe the ghost of the dead man is still around here somewhere, waiting to take human form, so they won’t be anywhere near the station today. They’ll be back tomorrow, you mark my words. What are we going to do with this lot?’

‘Start by herding them into the interview rooms.’

‘Easier to herd cats.’

Boyle was shouting again, standing on top of the desk, flapping his arms like a flightless bird trying to take off.

‘Listen to me,’ he shouted. ‘A man has been murdered on the steps of Central. You are all potential witnesses.’ He turned and pointed at Danilov. ‘This inspector is in charge of the investigation. He will interview you as quickly as possible and then you will be free to go.’

As the interpreter was translating his words into Mandarin and Shanghainese, Boyle stepped down from his platform.

He walked over to Danilov, leaning in to whisper in his ear. ‘Solve it quickly, Danilov.’

‘I’ll start right away. Interview the reporters. Somebody may have seen something.’

‘I doubt if they’ll tell you anything.’

‘How did they get here so quickly?’

’Beats me. Even the bloody walls have ears. Sometimes, the press finds out I’ve scratched my arse before I do.’

Boyle walked past Danilov, heading back to the safety and security of his office.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘For what? Just solve it quickly, Danilov.’ He was about to escape from the madness in the reception area when he turned and pointed his finger at the inspector. ‘Don’t go anywhere near the Lee murders. That’s an order. Cowan can finish the paperwork when he comes back.’

‘But Chief Inspector…’

‘But me no buts, Inspector. Find Kao’s killer.’ He walked back to Danilov, speaking through clenched teeth, his anger like a black cloud above his head. ‘Do you realise how embarrassing this is for the Shanghai Police? A man, a suspect, shot dead on the steps of the station. Scandalous.’ The Chief Inspector raised his voice. ‘My bloody head is on the chopping block. And I don’t like being bloody Anne Boleyn.’

The reporters, photographers and assorted hangers-on had fallen silent, all staring at the Chief Inspector. Then the shouting and mayhem began again.

Boyle leant in and whispered harshly in Danilov’s ear. ’Just find the killer. Quickly.’

Chapter 18

‘Good morning, Mr Thomas.’

‘I demand to be released, this is an intolerable treatment of the press. Imprisoning me in this station when I have a deadline to keep.’ The reporter’s already florid face became redder as he smashed his fist down on the table.

‘You are helping us with our inquiries, Mr Thomas. I’m sure the press are always happy to do their civic duty,’ answered Danilov as patiently as he could. Dealing with the press had become tiring, they had such an inflated sense of themselves. This was his tenth interview and he wished it were his last. So far, none of the reporters had seen anything. None of the cameramen had taken any photographs of the killer.

‘Not when there’s a deadline, we aren’t. I’ve missed the afternoon edition already, and your bloody sergeant won’t let me use the phone.’

‘Ty Russkiy?’

‘I was born in Russia, but I left long ago, Inspector, unlike yourself. And I would prefer to speak English. Such a more sophisticated language, don’t you think?’

’No, I don’t. Your family name?’

‘Turgachev. My father anglicised it to Thomas. He liked the sound.’ The smug, rather handsome face relaxed into a smile.

‘My name is Danilov, Pyotr Alexandrevich. Unlike you, I am proud of my Russian heritage. Where did your family come from?’

‘Moscow. But enough of the happy families, Inspector. Can I go now?’

Danilov wiped his face with the clean handkerchief his daughter had placed in his pocket that morning. ‘Do I have to remind you that a man was shot dead, and another lies injured in hospital?’

The reporter sat back and folded his arms across his chest.

‘Can you tell me what happened this morning?’

‘A shooting took place outside a police station and you’re asking me what happened? Typical.’

‘Just describe to me what you observed.’

The reporter sighed loudly. ‘I didn’t see much. Kao came out of the station handcuffed to the policemen. His lawyer was with him.

‘What happened next?’

‘I couldn’t see anything. There was so much jostling. All the photographers were looking for their shots, reporters were shouting. I think the lawyer tried to say something, but I couldn’t hear what it was.’

‘And then...?’

‘The police pushed us out of the way. I fell backwards and then I heard a shot.’

‘Just one shot?’

‘I don’t know, it was chaos. People running away, desperate to get out of there.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I dropped down to the floor. Safest place in a gunfight.’

‘So you didn’t see anything?’

‘No, I was more interested in saving my life. You don’t think about anything else.’

‘Did you see the shooter?’

Alexander Thomas closed his eyes, reliving the scene in his mind. ‘No, there were too many people in the way.’ He opened them again and looked down at the cup of tea sitting on the table in the interview room. ‘I had my face buried into the steps. Tried to hide from the shots. I crawled away from the noise.’

‘What happened next?’

He looked up and his voice became stronger. ‘I was on the floor, trying to get away. There was shouting and screaming. But then, above all of it, I heard two more shots and a loud click.’

‘A loud click?’

‘A gun misfiring. Inspector, did you ever fight in the war?’

‘No, I was in the Imperial Police in Minsk. We weren’t called up.’

‘Imperial Police?’

‘The Tsar’s police. Before he was shot.’

The reporter smiled. ‘Interesting. A career copper. You must find the Shanghai Police difficult to work in, being a professional.’

‘What’s the point you are trying to make, Mr Thomas?’

‘The point is, Inspector, when bullets start flying, there are no more heroes. You take care of number one. None of that knight in shining armour crap. That’s just so much bollocks. You get down and stay down till it’s all over, and the birds start singing again, glad you’re still alive.’

‘One person wasn’t alive.’

Thomas finished his tea and grimaced at the sour taste in his mouth. ‘Your prisoner. He’s probably lying on a slab at this very moment with Dr Fang hovering over him like a leech on warm flesh.’ The reporter picked up his cigarettes from the table and put them in his pocket. ‘Can I go now?’

‘If you think of anything else, please let us know.’

‘There is one thing, Inspector.’

Danilov looked up from his notebook.

‘Why was Mr Kao’s face covered in bruises? And why was he being taken to a hospital? Something smells very rotten here. I’ll get to the bottom of it, whatever I have to do. That’s a promise, Inspector.’

Chapter 19

Elina Danilov put on her new coat. It was dark and drab, not like the fur she had worn in during her time in Harbin, but it would do. She checked herself in the mirror. A 17-year-old with eyes that had seen too much for one so young stared back at her. It didn’t matter. That was all finished now. She was safe here, safe at last.

She remembered when she met her father again. It was in Tsingtao at the awful Welfare Home for Young Women run by a missionary with eyes like holes in snow.

He had stood in front of her with his hand held out. Her own father greeting her with a handshake. She didn’t know what to do, so she reached out and took his hand in her own, feeling its cold skin against hers.

Before she knew it, he had picked up her bag and was ushering her off to the station. On the journey to Shanghai, he just asked her questions, interrogating her like a witness to a crime. Asking over and over again: What had she done? Where had she gone? What had happened next? Where was her mother? Always where was her mother?

She brushed a thread from the coat with the ends of her fingers. She didn’t tell him what she had done. She couldn’t tell him. Not now, not ever. So she had skipped over the details and invented others. But she knew he wasn’t convinced. Better to remain silent to say as little as possible. How could she trust him after what he had done, leaving her, her brother and his wife alone in Minsk? How could she trust any man after what happened? Better to rely on the one person she had in this world.

Herself.

She looked around the apartment before she left. God, she hated these white walls. There was no warmth, no life in them. The walls of a prison. She had done nothing to make the apartment more comfortable. There was no point, her father would never notice.

She checked that all the dishes had been done; washed and dried, and placed back in the cupboard above the sink. The living room had been swept clean with the cushions on the settee plumped up. She never went into her father’s bedroom, but she knew it would be as clean and as spartan as ever.

‘Everything in its place and a place for everything,’ her father had always said to her as a child, sharp green eyes staring down into her face. She had been a little scared of him then, especially when he wore his Imperial Police uniform with its shiny stars and brightly polished boots.

Luckily her mother had been the opposite; warm, friendly and with a laugh that would shake the world with its joy. How had two such different people ever fallen in love? She didn’t know then and still didn’t know now. But they had.

Perhaps it was odnoliub, that strange Russian word that described finding the person you were meant to spend the rest of your life with. The person that was going to be the only love in your life. She hoped it would happen to her one day, odnoliub, but she doubted it. For her to fall in love she would have to trust someone again.

Her mother and father loved each other with an abandon that she found difficult to understand. It was like the two sides of a penny; each completely different, yet when each joined with the other they made one whole.

And yet with her, he was indifferent, or even hateful. As if she reminded him of the wife he missed every day. Without her mother, he was a man lost in his own world, like an ancient church with the buttresses removed, ready to collapse at any moment.

She glanced at the old clock on the wall. She would have to hurry, the film would start soon. In the papers, Street Angel was showing at the Grand Theatre. She wasn’t that keen on the movies, but it passed the time. She had so much time on her hands in Shanghai.

She walked the streets. Or went to the movies. Or simply strolled around the shops looking at the merchandise from all over the world. She never bought anything, though. She didn’t know why. Her father gave her money. But after Harbin, all that stuff was so meaningless. She had enjoyed it all then, but now, there was just no point.

She picked up her keys from the table at the door and put them in her pocket, taking one last look at the apartment. She should be back before him tonight. When he was working on a case, he sometimes didn’t return till well past midnight.

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