The Killing Time Read online

  ‘Quite correct, Inspector, though I have no empirical evidence to bring me to that conclusion.’

  ‘But we may infer it.’

  The pathologist nodded cautiously. ‘There is one final thing you should know, Inspector.’

  ‘What?’

  Dr Fang smiled. ‘You haven’t asked me the cause of death yet.’

  They both waited. It was Strachan who broke the silence. ‘What was the cause of death?’

  ‘This young boy was strangled. To be precise, he suffered manual strangulation. The hyoid bone is broken and there are signs of petichiae in the whites of the eyes. More obviously, one can see thumb and finger marks on the sides of the neck. Not a pleasant way to die.’

  ‘None of them are, Doctor.’

  ‘But this one is extremely personal, Inspector. Our victim, whatever his name is, will have been looking straight into the eyes of his killer as he died.’

  3

  Outside on the street, a cigarette already rolled and ready to be lit, Danilov breathed in the fresh, coal-smoke-riddled air of a Shanghai winter. It was cold, with a dampness that slithered through the inspector’s thin overcoat and lodged itself between his ribs.

  Opposite, an old man selling roasted chestnuts and sweet potatoes was stirring his pot, releasing the fragrant smells of charcoal and roasting vegetables. Trolley buses, cars, lorries and small motorised carts pumped fumes into the streets between the crowded houses, the gases hanging over the city like a dirty brown shroud. Infused through it all, like the top note of an expensive perfume, was the stench of mankind. Twelve million of them, crowded into the narrow streets and alleys, loving, working, living and killing. Each person adding their own particular addition to the fragrant assault on the nostrils that was Shanghai.

  Danilov didn’t notice the smells any more. In his five years in the city, his nose had become accustomed to the peculiar odour of the place. It was the stench of death he couldn’t stand. That and the formaldehyde Dr Fang used in such copious quantities.

  Across the road, a tea merchant was opening his barrels of tea: oolong, lapsang souchong, jasmine, tit koon yum, green tea, pu erh. With reverence, he placed compressed cakes of tea in the shop window, each wrapped in white muslin with colourful designs on the cover. The best teas from all of China, Japan, Ceylon and India.

  Danilov lit the cigarette and inhaled. Immediately the sterile formaldehyde was expelled from his lungs, to be replaced by the warmth of nicotine. He was happy to be out of the morgue. He respected Dr Fang and his work immensely, but anybody who spent his life surrounded by corpses was not a person who was comfortable with life.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Strachan stamping his feet, trying vainly to force some warmth into them.

  ‘Not a pretty sight, sir.’

  ‘They never are, Strachan. And it never gets easier, no matter how many you see.’

  ‘The missing ear… ’

  ‘Not cut off in a struggle, but removed ante mortem, Dr Fang said.’

  ‘He should know.’

  In the distance they could hear chanting and the sound of cymbals and drums. Danilov ignored the sound, taking another long drag on his cigarette.

  ‘And why mutilate the boy’s face after death?’

  ‘To conceal his identity?’

  ‘But why? What does Inspector Sheehan’s report say?’

  ‘Not a lot, sir.’ Strachan held up an extremely thin brown paper file. ‘I don’t believe he had time to complete a full report before he was called away. His constable is doing it for him as we speak.’

  The chanting was getting louder. A small group of young men, students possibly, came round the corner carrying home-made signs, accompanied by a man crashing a pair of cymbals and another playing the raucous sounds of a Chinese flute. They advanced along the pavement, forcing pedestrians to jump out of their way into the street.

  For a moment, even the traffic stopped to watch them, before continuing on its way, cars, lorries and rickshaw drivers inching their way forward.

  Strachan ignored them and read from the file. ‘The body was found at a building site in Hong Kew.’

  ‘The Japanese area?’

  ‘Apparently, sir.’

  Shanghai, and especially the International Settlement, was a series of small villages rather than one city. The Japanese lived in Hong Kew. The English and Americans in the area sound of Soochow Creek. The French in their own concession. The Jews around the Ohel Moshe synagogue. All the other nationalities, and Chinese from every province in the country, were spread amongst them. Surrounding everything was China itself, the sick man of Asia, weakened by the debilitating diseases of corruption, warlords, factions, poverty and the galloping virus of Japanese militarism.

  Within the International Settlement, tension between the competing nationalities, dialects and races was always bubbling beneath the surface, with the Shanghai Municipal Police providing a thin barrier of protection, like a sticking plaster over a deep, gaping wound.

  Recently, though, the Japanese annexation of Manchuria, and the subsequent influx of refugees, had destroyed the careful balance in the city, bringing all the tensions to the surface.

  Danilov raised his head to listen to the cymbals and drums. It reminded him so much of Minsk in 1917 after the tsar had been deposed.

  ‘Let’s be careful with this one, Strachan, it smells almost as bad as a Shanghai sewer.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Strachan returned to the crime notes and scanned them, reading out the details. ‘There were no marks on the boy’s clothing and no ID. According to the report, all they found was a nail in the right-hand pocket.’

  Danilov held up his right hand with the thumbnail showing.

  ‘No, sir, an iron nail, about two inches long.’

  ‘Strange, Strachan, very strange. Why would an educated boy carry an iron nail in his pocket?’

  Strachan shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sheehan had the crime team examine and photograph the scene. The pictures and fingerprint report should be back from the lab soon.’

  ‘Get them as soon as you can. And where are the clothes he was wearing? Dr Fang mentioned nothing about clothes.’

  ‘I’ll check it out, sir.’

  ‘When you get back, give that constable a kick in the backside. He should have finished the report before he left the station last night. You would have done so.’

  Strachan thought about saying something but eventually decided it wasn’t worth the effort. The inspector was right: he would have stayed to finish it.

  The small crowd of students stopped outside the tea shop. The cymbals and flutes continued to play while three men detached themselves from the main group and entered the building. The detachment was headed by a tiny Chinese man wearing a blue cord cap, accompanied by two stockier men, their muscles evident even through their padded blue jackets.

  Danilov stared across the road. ‘What’s going on here, Strachan?’

  The detective sergeant glanced up from his notes for the first time. ‘Looks like a party of students from the university, sir.’

  Danilov blew a long stream of smoke into the air above his head. ‘What do the signs say?’

  ‘“Death to the Japanese barbarian”, or words to that effect, sir. And “Boycott Japanese goods”. I think they are protesting about the Japanese occupation of Manchuria.’

  ‘The trade boycott is still going strong?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Strachan replied, trying but failing to keep the pride, the elation out of his voice. ‘Six months now. No Japanese goods bought or sold in Chinese shops in the city.’

  From inside the shop came the sound of raised voices followed by the crash of glass breaking. A hand reached into the window, removing two of the cakes of tea.

  Danilov thought about ignoring the sound. He had enough on his plate with the murder. He needed more trouble as much as he needed a new arsehole.

  The sound of more breaking glass from the inside of the shop.

  Finally, his se
nse of responsibility, ingrained over twenty years of being a copper, defeated the new-found cynicism since the death of his son. He threw the end of the cigarette onto the ground. ‘Come on, Strachan.’

  They ran across the street, weaving through the traffic. Danilov was nearly knocked down by a trishaw loaded with bales of cotton. But Strachan grabbed his arm in time and pulled him back.

  In the tea shop, more raised voices. The crowd assembled on the street outside rattled their signs, the cymbals crashed and the flute began its plaintive cry once more.

  Danilov and Strachan pushed their way through the crowd.

  ‘Make way. Police. Make way.’

  A young man, hair parted sharply in the centre, stood in front of the door.

  ‘Get out of my way,’ Danilov said.

  ‘Nothing to do with you. This is Chinese business.’

  Danilov pulled his warrant card out and shoved it beneath the man’s nose. ‘This is my business.’ He elbowed the man aside and strode into the shop, followed by Strachan.

  The shopkeeper was sitting on one of the stools he normally kept for his customers. His head was down, staring at the floor, unmoving. The student with the blue cap stood over him, waving his finger and shouting. The two thugs looked on, one holding the cakes of tea, the other with a hammer in his hand. The glass cover of the counter was shattered into a thousand pieces, the shards lying on the floor.

  As Danilov stepped into the shop, he heard the crunch of glass beneath his shoes.

  All four men stopped what they were doing and stared at the Russian inspector and his Chinese partner.

  ‘Who are you?’ the young student challenged him. ‘The shop is closed.’

  Danilov produced his warrant card. ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘This is Chinese business. Nothing to do with you.’

  Danilov turned to Strachan. ‘You know, that is the second time somebody has told me this is not my business. Such a statement only ensures I make it my business.’

  The shopkeeper was on his feet. ‘It’s nothing, Inspector. A friendly discussion… ’

  Danilov pointed to the shattered counter.

  The shopkeeper smiled weakly and shrugged his shoulders. ‘An accident. I will be more careful next time.’

  Danilov lowered his voice. ‘Are these men causing you a problem? Intimidating you?’

  The shopkeeper laughed too quickly, placing his hand on Danilov’s shoulder but removing it when he saw the look in the inspector’s eyes. ‘No, no, no, these are my friends, my customers, just having a discussion about the price of tea.’ The smile vanished and the voice became more wheedling. ‘Would you like some tea, Inspector? A cake or two to take home, perhaps?’

  Danilov shook his head. ‘These men are not giving you trouble?’

  ‘No, Inspector, a discussion becoming slightly heated, that’s all. The price of tea is so variable these days. Isn’t that so, Shao Yi?’

  The young student thought for a moment, before nodding his head slowly.

  ‘Your full name?’ asked Danilov forcefully.

  The two thugs next to the student bristled; the one on the right started to raise his hammer. The young man put up his hand and they stepped back. ‘My name is Ge Yi, from the Anti-Japanese Boycott Committee. We were politely requesting this shopkeeper to support the boycott and remove the Japanese tea from his shop, which he has now agreed to do. Haven’t you, Mr Zhang?’

  ‘Of course, of course. I support the boycott one hundred per cent. I don’t know how this worthless Japanese tea ever found its way into my shop.’

  ‘Or even into your shop window?’

  ‘A mistake, a simple misunderstanding. If I ever have a problem, I will be sure to call the police, Inspector. The sergeant in Hong Kew, Chen, will vouch for me. Always gets his tea from Zhang Chun Liang, does Sergeant Chen.’

  Danilov looked around. If the shopkeeper refused to press charges against the men for smashing his counter top, there was not much he could do. He remembered a proverb his mother used to tell him constantly: ‘Chase after two rabbits and you’ll end up with none.’ The death of a young boy was far more important.

  ‘Check up on this man when you get back to the station, Strachan,’ he said, pointing at the student.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Let’s go. We have more serious matters to deal with.’

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a few cakes of tea for your wife?’ the shopkeeper called after them as they were leaving.

  Danilov ignored him.

  As they reached the door, the student shouted in Shanghainese, an obvious menace in his voice.

  Danilov turned back. Before the thugs could move, he crossed the shop and grabbed the student around the throat, pushing him back into the shattered counter, the blue cord cap falling onto the shop floor.

  ‘You threaten my sergeant again, and you will spend the rest of your life in Ward Road jail, the plaything of some tall, muscular man who will enjoy having fresh young meat in his cell. Do I make myself clear?’

  The student nodded meekly.

  The inspector pulled the man upright, smoothing down the collar of his Mandarin jacket. ‘I do hate violence,’ he said softly. ‘It’s always a last resort. Don’t you agree, Hong Yi?’

  The man nodded again.

  They left the shop. Outside, the protesters had stopped chanting, the cymbals were no longer being banged together and the flute was silent.

  The crowd parted in front of them.

  ‘How did you know it was a threat, sir?’ Strachan asked.

  ‘I didn’t, but it was pretty obvious from the man’s tone. What did he actually say?’

  ‘He said I was a running dog of the imperialists who was a disgrace to China.’

  ‘I suppose you are a hungry running dog?’

  ‘I haven’t eaten since lunchtime, sir.’

  ‘Lunch was only an hour ago, Strachan.’

  The detective sergeant shrugged his shoulders. ‘I have a Chinese appetite, even if the rest of me is Scottish.’

  ‘Come on, we have work to do. But first, let’s feed the monster you call a stomach.’

  ‘A bowl of beef noodles would hit the spot, sir.’

  ‘Nothing could hit that spot, Strachan.’

  4

  Back at Central Police Station, the detectives’ room was empty save for Strachan and Danilov. The rest of the squad, or what remained of them after the Shanghai Volunteers had decimated the ranks, were at lunch, on patrol or simply avoiding work with all the professionalism of the accomplished loafer.

  Strachan was hunched over the missing persons file, while Danilov was busy sending smoke rings up to the kippered ceiling, where they hung floating in the air before gradually dissipating like a wastrel’s fortune.

  ‘Why was the ear removed, Strachan?’

  The detective sergeant knew better than to speak now. Danilov was only turning the problem over in his mind; he didn’t require a response.

  ‘And why slash the face but leave the birthmark? If anything identifies him, it is the mark.’ Another stream of smoke rose to the ceiling. ‘We need to go back to where the body was found.’

  It was Danilov’s belief that a crime scene yielded as much information about the killer as the body itself.

  ‘When, sir?’

  ‘There’s no time like the present.’ He stubbed the cigarette out in the empty ashtray and adjusted the lamp over his desk so it was at exactly forty-five degrees. Anything less or more would be a distraction. ‘Have you found him yet in missing persons?’

  ‘Nothing so far. He might not live in the International Settlement.’

  ‘From the French Concession?’

  ‘Or any of the Chinese areas along the border: Chapei, Siccawei, Nantao, Hung Tsung.’

  ‘Hmm, but why risk transporting him? With all the recent tensions, the Volunteers are manning roadblocks at all the major crossing points.’ Danilov shook his head. ‘No, he came from the International Settlemen
t. Too risky to move him around. Keep looking; you might want to check the Criminal Intelligence files too.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I always thought Criminal Intelligence was the wrong name for the division. Criminals lack intelligence. That is precisely why we are able to catch them.’

  ‘An oxymoron, sir.’

  ‘A what, Strachan?’

  ‘A figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear next to each other, like “the young couple were alone together”.’

  ‘You’re spending too much time with my daughter, Strachan.’

  The detective sergeant smiled at the thought. ‘I’m enjoying helping her with her English literature degree. We’re reading Jane Austen at the moment. I didn’t know a—’

  He was interrupted by a knock on the glass that separated the detectives’ room from the rest of the station. A small, round woman entered.

  ‘Inspector Danilov, the chief will see you now.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He has five minutes, fitting you in between a committee on the uniforms of Sikh policemen and a meeting about the new filing system for criminal records. I’d hurry if I were you.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Cavendish. I’ll come right away.’

  The inspector stood up from his chair, feeling the ache in his knees. Winters were the devil to him, bringing back old pains he thought he’d left behind.

  ‘The chief inspector is in a jolly good mood today. They’ve approved his proposal on overtime pay for ancillary staff.’

  ‘Does that mean you will receive more money, Miss Cavendish?’ asked Strachan.

  ‘Less, actually. He’s removing all allowances. No more overtime pay, no more travel expenses, no more meal allowances. I don’t know when these budget cuts are going to stop.’

  ‘It’s what President Hoover calls the Great Depression, Miss Cavendish.’

  ‘Another oxymoron, Strachan?’

  Miss Cavendish’s right eyebrow rose. ‘An oxywhat?’

  ‘Don’t ask. My detective sergeant will have you reading Jane Austen next.’ Danilov put on his jacket. ‘While I’m gone, Strachan, ask around the station, see if anybody has heard anything about any kidnappings recently.’