The Killing Time Page 3

  ‘Kidnappings, sir? Why?’

  Danilov tapped the side of his beak-like nose. ‘A hunch. Back in 1912, when I was in London… ’

  ‘And I was in school.’

  ‘Thank you, Strachan, for reminding me of your youth and inexperience. As I was saying, back in 1912, there was a gang of kidnappers operating in Poplar who encouraged the families of their victims to pay up by sending them a severed ear. It invariably concentrated their minds as they haggled over the price.’

  He turned to go.

  ‘Did you catch them, sir?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The kidnappers?’

  ‘Of course. Like all criminals, they became greedy. Demanding money once too often and removing far too many ears.’

  Miss Cavendish tapped her watch. ‘The chief inspector is waiting.’

  ‘I’ll ask around, sir.’

  ‘And don’t forget to chase the report. I want it on my desk by the time I’ve finished with the chief inspector.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Danilov followed Miss Cavendish down the corridor to Chief Inspector Rock’s room.

  ‘I could ask around for you too, Inspector. People tell me things; I don’t know why,’ said the elderly woman over her shoulder.

  ‘People do it because you are an excellent listener, Miss Cavendish, with a capacity for gossip that puts Catherine the Great to shame.’

  They both stopped in front of the chief inspector’s door.

  Miss Cavendish played with the rope of pearls that surrounded a roll of fat on her neck. ‘You do say the nicest things, Inspector. But I’ll ask anyway.’

  She knocked.

  A loud ‘Come!’ from inside.

  ‘Into the dragon’s den. Good luck,’ she whispered, opening the door. ‘Inspector Danilov as you requested, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Cavendish. Do come in, Danilov, and take a seat. I won’t be a moment.’

  5

  The chief inspector was a small, dapper man, perfectly dressed in a pinstriped suit, matched with a blue and yellow striped tie set exactly in the centre of the two prongs of his shirt collar. He continued to write in the book in front of him as Danilov looked for a seat.

  There was one in the corner. A simple high-backed bentwood chair. Danilov took it and placed it in front of the desk, facing the chief.

  The man finished what he was doing by adding his signature with a flourish, capping the fountain pen and placing it in the tray in front of him.

  Danilov could only admire the neatness of the chief inspector’s desk. It required discipline to keep it so tidy. A physical manifestation of the man’s mind. It was ordered and precise, with everything in its place and a place for everything.

  ‘Now, Danilov, I believe you are handling Inspector Sheehan’s case?’

  ‘The child murder? Yes, I am, sir.’

  ‘Sorry you’ve been lumbered with it. With the emergency, we’re losing a lot of men to the Volunteers. Still have murders, though.’

  Chief Inspector Rock’s London accent shone though his speech. He had been seconded to the Shanghai Municipal Police with a brief to educate the squad in the latest methods of detecting crime, and to reorganise them to be more efficient. Danilov thought he had made some progress on both fronts but still had a long way to go.

  ‘Without crime we would be out of a job, sir.’

  ‘I just wish there wasn’t so much of it. Faced a grilling from the Municipal Council last night on all these anti-Japanese demonstrations and the boycott of Japanese goods. As if that were one of my problems too.’

  ‘The situation is not looking good, sir. After the Mukden incident and the annexation of Chinese territory, there’s a lot of anti-Japanese feeling in the air.’

  ‘Nothing to do with us, Danilov. We solve crime and that’s the end of it, despite what the council think.’

  ‘We’re being dragged in, sir. Another Japanese warship arrived in the harbour this morning. And I saw an organised mob of students outside a tea shop when I left the morgue. They were obviously intimidating the merchant, forcing him to get rid of all his Japanese goods.’

  ‘But what can we do? When we ask, they deny everything. And to be honest, many of my Chinese detectives sympathise with the students. If I were to order them to protect the merchants, I’m not sure they would obey.’

  ‘A difficult situation, sir.’

  ‘It is, Danilov.’ Chief Inspector Rock brushed some imaginary fluff from the sleeve of his jacket. ‘The detective force mustn’t be dragged into political matters. Let’s leave such dirt to C3 and Commander Davies. Our job is to combat crime. Now, tell me about this murder.’

  Danilov kept his mouth shut. Politics would intrude into their lives whether they liked it or not. Had the events in Russia taught people nothing? The image of the young boy lying on the cold mortuary table forced its way into his mind, the face slashed in clean, clear strokes.

  ‘The body found in Hong Kew is that of an unknown Chinese boy, aged approximately thirteen years old.’

  ‘A gang killing?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir. From the condition of his hands and body, Dr Fang believes the boy was a scholar, somebody who had never worked in his life.’

  ‘Puts a different complexion on it. No missing person reports?’

  Danilov shook his head. ‘Not yet. Strachan’s going through them as we speak. One more thing: the right ear was missing.’

  ‘Why would anybody take the boy’s ear?’

  ‘That’s what I am endeavouring to discover, sir.’

  The chief inspector shook his head. ‘Shanghai never ceases to amaze me.’

  ‘As a city, it does have the capacity to surprise and astound even the most jaded detective’s palate.’

  Chief Inspector Rock coughed once and looked down at his blotter, apparently finding a speck of dirt lying on its pristine whiteness. ‘Er, nothing… erm… sexual, was there?’ he muttered to the speck of dirt.

  ‘Dr Fang doesn’t think so, sir. There’s no evidence the boy was raped or sexually molested in any way. No tears around the anus or bruising in the genital area.’

  Rock looked up. ‘I do wish you weren’t so… blunt about these matters, Danilov.’

  The inspector continued. ‘But the face had been slashed deeply seven times.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I am endeavouring to discover that too, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘What’s your hypothesis for the moment?’

  ‘It’s too early in the investigation to have any hypothesis, sir.’

  The chief inspector looked past Danilov’s head at the large clock on the far wall. The second hand was sweeping up to the twelve. ‘Well, solve it quickly and solve it quietly. I don’t want anybody stirring up trouble. The murder of children is something people get worked up about. The last thing we need at the moment is for the press or the Municipal Council to find out.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Miss Cavendish,’ he bellowed through the thin wall. ‘Bring in the Criminal Records meeting and make me a cup of green tea.’

  There was no answer from outside.

  ‘Solve it, Danilov.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  6

  David Strachan was coming to the end of the fifth missing persons file; just two more to go.

  There was a world of humanity exhibited on each page. A young woman from Manchester, working for the Cotton Council, had vanished two weeks ago without notifying her employers or her parents. A note appended to her page detailed the mother’s fear that she had been sold into white slavery.

  Strachan laughed. The old myths were resurfacing again, fed by the British tabloids and Hollywood. She was probably bored with her job and had gone off with a new boyfriend.

  A Chinese maid had disappeared from her employers’ residence, without taking any clothes. Had she gone back to her village? The missing persons bureau had sent a note to the Chinese commissioner in her home province of Anhui. A
reply could be expected in the next six months.

  An old man had left his home one day never to return. He had simply vanished into thin air.

  And so the list continued. Page after page of missing persons, but no schoolboy aged around thirteen with a birthmark on his right shoulder. Strachan closed the file; he would finish the last two later.

  Perhaps he should contact the French and Chinese authorities and check with them? Then he remembered Inspector Danilov’s words about this being a local job. It would simply be too difficult to cross into the settlement without being discovered. Why take the risk? The boy was killed in the International Settlement; they had to find out why, when and who had done it.

  The words of the student in the tea shop came back to taunt him. A running dog of the imperialists. Perhaps he was. But he didn’t care. He was following in his father’s footsteps, doing a job he loved.

  Being half Chinese, he straddled the vast divide between East and West with difficulty. At first, it had been impossible. He had spent more time fighting in school than learning, until he worked out he had to be a different person with each group. With the Westerners, including the other detectives, he was a hard-drinking lad about town, enjoying all the pursuits of an Englishman: sport, racing and drink. With the Chinese, he was quieter, a family man loving food and his city with equal passion.

  Only with Danilov was he himself, able to do what he loved doing: being a copper, part of the force. All that guff about protecting the weak and the innocent from those who would prey on them was for the tourists. He knew why he did it: the adventure, the excitement. To be part of it all. His father had understood; his mother had always hated it.

  No wonder he had fallen in love with Danilov’s daughter, Elina.

  He smiled to himself. What a wonderful woman she was: feisty, independent, intelligent and loving all at the same time. Above all, she knew what it meant to be police. She might not like it, but she understood.

  The clock on the wall sounded the hour.

  Damn, thought Strachan, the inspector would be back soon and he hadn’t done half of what he’d asked.

  He picked up the phone and dialled the number for Criminal Intelligence. There was no answer.

  ‘Shit.’ He swore out loud. He would have to go up to the sixth floor and see the desk jockeys himself. He could pick up Sheehan’s report from Miss Cavendish and the photos of the murder scene from the lab. No rest for the wicked.

  He grabbed the last two missing persons files and rushed out the door, bumping into Sergeant Wolff in the corridor.

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant.’

  ‘Tha dun wanna rush everywhere, young man. More haste, less speed, as we say in Yorkshire.’

  Wolff was one of the oldest men on the force, first coming out to Shanghai in 1905. Only three years away from his pension, he usually ran the reception desk of Central Police Station, dealing with an assortment of thieves, pimps, vagabonds, hustlers, conmen, pickpockets and the citizens of Shanghai with a mixture of blunt honesty and red-faced anger. He also had the best contacts of any copper on the force.

  ‘Sorry.’ Danilov edged past him before turning back. ‘Sergeant, I wonder if you could help me.’

  Wolff tapped the side of his nose. ‘Lazy Boy, next Sunday at the racecourse. Mr Fellowes from Jardine’s is riding him. An excellent little pony according to those in the know.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip, but I was wondering more about kidnap gangs. Have any been operating in the settlement recently?’

  Wolff thought for a moment, stroking the ends of his extravagant moustache. ‘You’ve got me there. There were three gangs active in the settlement last year. Had two of the kidnappers in the cells for a couple of days. Taking businessmen for ransom mainly. The family pay off the gangs and then tell us later. It’s just business.’

  ‘How did we catch them?’

  ‘The usual way. We pay for a tip-off when one of them gets greedy or feels disgruntled about his cut. It never changes.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘We handed them over to the Chinese authorities. They were executed last year. One of the gangs was from Hunan, the other from Kiangsi. Stupid buggers.’

  ‘And the third?’

  ‘Vanished. Gone off somewhere to enjoy their ill-gotten gains. Probably Hong Kong, as they were Cantonese. But they’ll be back when the money runs out, mark my words. The pickings are too easy in Shanghai.’

  ‘Did any of them kidnap children?’

  Wolff looked at him quizzically. ‘Strange question. I would say no, too much trouble. It’s usually businessmen or their wives.’

  ‘Thanks, Sergeant Wolff, you’ve been a great help.’

  ‘Is this for Danilov?’

  ‘Yes, a new case, one of Inspector Sheehan’s.’

  Wolff leant in closer. ‘Tell him from me to be careful. He’s been seen down on Foochow Road, going into one of the opium dens there. Bit of gossip flying around, but you didn’t hear it from me.’

  Strachan didn’t know what to say. ‘I’ll let him know,’ he managed eventually. He pointed upstairs with his index finger. ‘Got to go up to Criminal Intelligence.’

  ‘Lucky you. Criminal Lack of Intelligence, it should be called.’

  Strachan ran up the stairs to escape from the sergeant. What was he going to tell Inspector Danilov?

  Nothing would be the best option.

  And what about Elina? Should he tell her about her father?

  ‘What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her,’ he said out loud.

  A young constable passed him on the stairs, glancing across suspiciously.

  ‘You’d start going crazy too if you worked with Danilov.’

  The constable hurried away.

  7

  ‘Have the pictures come back from the lab yet?’

  Strachan opened the envelope on his desk. ‘Only four of them, sir; they are still processing the rest.’ He handed the pictures over to the inspector.

  ‘And the report?’

  Strachan tapped the rather thicker brown file on his desk.

  Danilov grunted, rolling a cigarette with one hand while switching on his desk lamp with the other. The sky outside the detectives’ room had grown rapidly dark, a grey light forcing its way in through the grimy windows. Rain, heavy winter rain, seemed to be on its way.

  When he had adjusted the light so it was at a forty-five-degree angle to the desk, and rolled his cigarette but not lit it yet, the inspector spoke again. ‘Remind me, where was the body found?’

  Strachan read from the report. ‘On a patch of waste ground near Hong Kew market. The area had been fenced off. They’re due to start building on it next week.’

  ‘More building?’

  ‘Shanghai will be a lovely place when it’s finished, sir.’

  Danilov grunted in reply and looked at the first of the pictures. It showed the body sprawled over a stack of new wood, covered in a dirty tarpaulin. ‘Who found the victim?’

  ‘The security guard. He came back on duty at six and checked the site, finding the body almost immediately. It wasn’t hidden, sir, just covered over.’

  ‘No workers there?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. The security guard had gone to buy his dinner at five. He always comes back an hour later.’

  ‘So for one hour the place was left unguarded?’

  ‘That’s correct, sir.’

  Danilov turned over the next picture. This was a close-up of the tarpaulin, showing it covering the head of the child.

  ‘The tarpaulin was from the site?’

  ‘The security guard had never seen it before.’

  In the next picture, the boy’s body was shown with the tarpaulin removed. He was dressed in simple clothes: a dirty white shirt, covered in dried blood, and a pair of black shorts. His feet were bare, dark muddied soles staring back out of the picture.

  ‘Why were the feet bare?’ Danilov said out loud.

  Strachan didn’t answer.

  Danilo
v placed the third picture on his table next to the other two. The photographer had changed position slightly when he had taken the shot. In the first picture, Danilov could see more of the background of the building site.

  He turned over the last picture. The face of the boy stared out at him, eyes wide open, face streaked with the cuts and slashes of the knife. Why would anybody do this to a young boy?

  ‘Did you find the clothes, Strachan?’

  ‘Not yet. I haven’t found Sheehan’s constable either. He’s vanished, sir.’

  ‘While the cat’s away, the mice will play.’

  ‘We say the same in English, sir.’

  Danilov stared at Strachan. ‘Not surprising, it’s an English idiom.’

  Strachan coughed.

  ‘How did you get the file?’

  ‘Miss Cavendish. He left it on her desk.’

  Danilov grunted again. Once more a feeling of unease crept over him. None of this felt right. The detective work of both Sheehan and his constable was shoddy and careless. Why hadn’t they examined the scene of the crime properly? And if the boy was not killed in Hong Kew but dumped there, why choose that particular place? A shiver ran down his spine.

  ‘I want to go and look at the scene, Strachan.’

  His detective sergeant remained silent.

  ‘Did you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He coughed. ‘Elina asked me to remind you that the ceremony is at five. She doesn’t want you to be late.’

  Danilov looked at his watch. Two thirty: time enough. He picked up his coat and hat. ‘We’d better get a move on.’

  ‘To Hong Kew, sir?’

  ‘And afterwards back home for the ceremony.’

  Strachan was already at his side. ‘I’ll get the Buick.’

  Danilov raised his arm to stop him before he left. ‘One more thing. You are my detective sergeant, not my nursemaid. Remember, Strachan.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  8

  They drove in silence over Garden Bridge, the only noise the rhythmic sweep of the wipers making a vain attempt to keep the windscreen clear. The rain, which had been threatening for a week, sleeted down Soochow Creek, dripping from the metal stanchions that arched over the water and flooding the roadway. Beneath the bridge, the creek flowed like brown sludge, studded with the flotsam and jetsam washed down from inland China. An open sewer in the heart of Shanghai.