City Of Shadows

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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