M Lee - City Of Shadows

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.’