M. Lee - Death In Shanghai

Danilov nodded. ‘I thought the killer was Allen. The Parma Violets and Maria Stepanova let me know. Then the telegram you gave me confirmed it. He served in Washington for two years before he was posted to Shanghai. But there was no time. He was certain to kill again and all the evidence we had against him was circumstantial. He would have been able to deny everything. And who would believe a couple of detectives against the word of the Head of Intelligence?’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Wouldn’t have been much of a bait if everybody knew. Allen had too many informants.’ Danilov coughed three times, covering his mouth with his handkerchief. ‘So thank you for coming.’

‘What would have happened if I hadn’t checked the fingerprint or talked with Miss Cavendish?’

‘But I knew you would. You’ve got the makings of a good policeman, if you can train your mind.’

‘Look for the patterns.’

‘That’s it. They tell us everything we want to know. And one other thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Learn to trust people. The right people. They won’t let you down.’ He nodded to the driver. The car moved away from the kerb and Strachan was left standing all alone outside his home.

He took another mouthful of the warm, sweet soup. He looked up at the photograph of his father that hung above the fireplace. For so long it had been there, staring down at him, chastising him for what he had failed or forgotten to do.

Strachan knew it was all in his imagination but, tonight, the look on the face in the photograph was different, less judgemental, more forgiving. The photograph seemed to say to him that he had done well, he hadn’t let his father down.

The investigation still haunted him: the viciousness of the killings, the pale body floating in the water of the creek, the loneliness of death in the mortuary, and the fight with Jimmy Lin.

He shuddered at the memories and looked up at the picture of his father again. The look on his face seemed almost proud now.

Strachan knew this was impossible. No photograph ever changed. It was fixed, immutable, as certain as his father’s death all those years ago. But nonetheless, here, this night, in front of the coal fire with its amber glow, in front of the picture, he knew it had changed.

He glanced at it once more and for the first time in his short life, he was at peace.

Behind him, his mother entered the room. He took another large mouthful of the warm red bean soup and turned towards her. ‘I forgot to tell you I’ve been promoted. I’m Detective Sergeant Strachan now.’

***

Danilov arrived home, took his hat and coat off, and hung them behind the door as he always did. The apartment echoed with emptiness as it always did. Cold oozed from its bare walls as it always did.

Ever since the meeting with Boyle, the envelope had sat like a dead weight in his pocket. He took it out and stared at the pale green cover, with its red stamp and neatly typed address.

He checked the clock on the mantlepiece. It was 7.50. What had Boyle said? Open the envelope at 8 pm. He didn’t think Boyle had such a flair for the dramatic but this afternoon’s meeting had shown a different side to the Chief Inspector. Gone was the bumbling colonial and, in its place, a harder, more determined bureaucrat had emerged.

‘Perhaps I underestimated him,’ he said out loud to the clock. The minute hand ticked over to 7.51.

He went into the bedroom. The bed was unmade, an old shirt, its collar frayed, lay draped across the chair. On the bedside table, the pipe, lighter, pipe cleaners and pins for the opium lay on the tray where he had used them the night before. A small pea-sized ball of opium remained unused in the saucer. Enough for two pipes, he thought, before I have to go and see the Princess again.

Enough for this evening.

He lay on the bed without taking off his shoes. The telegram was in his right hand. It was still sealed, the gum seeping out where the triangular flap of the envelope met the main body.

He placed it next to the opium pipe on the tray and stared at both of them.

He had waited for this moment for so long. What if the telegram said his daughter was dead? What if it said she had died recently, so close to finding him? What if it told him about the death of his wife and son?

He slid his thumb beneath the seal of the envelope. Tonight, the opium could wait. Tonight belonged to his real family, not to the family of his dreams.

He pulled out the thin sheet of paper and unfolded it. The words were exactly the same as a typical telegram. Teletype that had been pasted onto a standard sheet. The words were blurry and he forced his eyes to focus.

HAVE INFORMATION RE DAUGHTER STOP CALL TSINGTAO 73546 WILLIS STOP

The number jumped at him off the page. Should he ring now or wait? What if this man, Willis, told him Elina was dead?

The opium pipe lay on its side on the tray. Perhaps just one pipe to help him get through this time, just in case it was bad news, news he didn’t want to hear.

Danilov put the telegram down and began to reach for his pipe. Just before he touched its ebony hardness, he stopped.

Tonight belonged to his real family, not to the family of his dreams. His real family. His real daughter. His Elina.

He walked into the living room. The minute hand was just reaching eight o’clock.

The phone rang.

Its sharp trill shocked him. He jumped backwards.

It rang again. And again.

He thought about the pipe of opium lying beside his bed, the warmth of the smoke in his lungs, the comfort of his dreams.

Another ring.

But this night belonged to his family, wherever they were, whatever had happened.

He reached out to lift the receiver off the hook and placed it close to his ear. ‘This is Inspector Danilov,’ he said into the mouthpiece, conscious that his voice sounded frail and unsure.

‘This is Willis.’ A tinny voice echoing in his ear. ‘Just a minute, I have someone for you.’

There was a loud rustling down the line and then a small, quiet voice said, ‘Papa.’

For the first time in a very long time, Inspector Danilov didn’t have an answer.

I was here for at least two weeks before I regained consciousness.

A time of nightmares. Struggling under water. Gasping for breath. Kicking against the grasp of the river.

Survive, my mind had shouted.

Survive.

I don ’ t know why the old couple plucked me out of the water. They didn ’ t speak any English and I didn ’ t understand a word of the gibberish they spoke to me. All I know is that every time they look at my tattoo, the old lady whispers something under her breath. A prayer? An incantation? A spell?

I remember them pulling me aboard their boat. Pain. Much pain. The stench of fish. The rolling of the boat. The chatter of seagulls.

And then nothing.

I woke up once as the old woman was pressing something down against my chest. I fought against her but someone held me down.

I lost consciousness again.

When I awoke, my chest ached and my breathing came in shallow gasps. A hand reached out to touch my face. In it, a cold cloth, stinking of fish.

The coolness of the cloth soothed my brow. A warm coolness like the kiss of a seal.

I lay there in the dark of the boat, tossing from side to side as the waves struck the side, hearing the constant throb of the engine and smelling the salt in the air.

On the wall, I saw a calendar. The dates changing as the fisherman tore off the red leaves.

Two more weeks passed before I could sit up.