An Inspector Danilov Historical Thriller
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‘It’s not that bad,’ he mumbled through a mouthful of starch.
‘It’s not that good, either.’ She pushed the food away from her across the table.
Danilov continued to eat his. ‘What are you going to do today?’
‘Same as I do every day.’
‘Which is?’
‘You know, Papa, you don’t need to ask.’
At least she was talking. He struggled to find a way to keep the conversation going. He had lived on his own for so long before she had come to Shanghai; he had lost the knack of making small talk. And in his job, he didn’t need to. ‘I’m curious about what you do when I’m not here,’ he finally said.
‘I read or go to the movies or eat or sleep. In the mornings, I study Shanghainese and Mandarin. Sometimes I go out for long walks. My day in a nutshell.’ She picked at a thread that had come loose from her housecoat.
‘Why don’t you go back to school? I could arrange for you to attend one.’
‘We’ve been through this before. Not yet, maybe soon.’
‘You’re seventeen now…’
‘Too old for school. Too much to catch up.’
‘It’s not too much.’
She sighed as if explaining something to a six-year-old who kept asking the question ‘why?’. ‘Last time I was at school was when I was twelve. I can’t imagine sitting in some classroom surrounded by giggling schoolgirls. I’ve seen too much since then.’
Danilov pushed his plate away from him. He had eaten half of it. He hoped she wouldn’t notice how much remained. ‘You haven’t told me what happened.’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Not really.’
‘Papa, we’ve been through this so many times.’ She brushed her fingers through her hair and began speaking in a fast monotone as if reciting a story simply because a teacher had demanded it. The voice was flat without emphasis or excitement. ‘After you went to Moscow, the problems started. The local security committee began asking Mama so many questions. Neighbours were called in. A couple made accusations…’
‘About?’
‘About you. Working for the Tsar’s police. Arresting revolutionaries.’
‘They knew all about that. I investigated some anarchists who had planted bombs. The party investigator cleared me in 1922.’
‘It didn’t matter. Mama was under so much pressure. Then one night she woke us, we dressed and ran down to the train station.’
‘A friend had warned her?’
‘See, you know the story better than I do. It doesn’t change, Papa.’
Danilov wanted to roll a cigarette but stopped himself. ‘I just want to know what happened. Maybe it will help me find your mother and brother.’
‘You know what happened next.’
Danilov spoke. ‘I came back and found a note from your mother. She wrote you would meet me in Kiev. But when I got there, I found another note at the station saying you had all gone on to Tsaritsyn.’
‘We never got to that city. Bandits stopped the train. We were forced off near Donetsk. All our clothes, everything, was stolen.’ She picked up the plates and took them to the sink. ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more. I’ve told you so many times.’ She washed the dishes, making a loud clattering noise to silence his questions.
He persisted. ‘I just feel there are some details you haven’t told me. Small secrets that could help me find Mama.’
She turned on him, her eyes like light blue ice beneath her shock of brown hair. ‘Secrets? All families have secrets, Father. You above all should know that. I’m not one of your suspects to be interrogated for their crimes.’
‘It’s not that, Lenchik, I just want…’
‘You just want to find Mama. I know. You’ve told me a thousand times.’ She sneered. ‘The great detective who can’t even find his own wife. How that must stick in your throat.’
His heart sank and his head followed. Did she resent him that much? Or was it a stronger emotion, a more Russian emotion, contempt and hate?
He planned to spend the rest of the day with her. They would play a little chess, the only time they could sit opposite each other without her silence coming between them. It was as if the logic of chess was a shared moment, full of the possibility of more shared moments.
And maybe, just maybe, he would be able to ask her a few more questions.
The phone began to ring in the living room. A long, insistent ring that begged to be answered.
Danilov ignored it.‘Lenchik, I just want to bring our family together again. Like the old days in Minsk.’ He recognised the desperation in his own voice. He hadn’t seen his wife or son for four years now. The only clue to their whereabouts was his daughter, and she was telling him nothing. Why?
She turned her back on him and continued to clean the stove. ‘You’d better answer the telephone.’
‘The only people who ring me are from the office.’
The phone rang again and again.
‘You’d better answer it,’ she said, slightly more softly this time.
Another ring, this time longer and more insistent.
Danilov got up and walked into the living room. He picked up the ear piece and spoke into the receiver. ‘Danilov.’
‘It’s Strachan here, sir. Sorry to bother you on your day off, but I thought you’d better know…’
‘Know what, Strachan? Come to the point, man,’ Danilov snapped.
‘There was a murder last night, sir. Actually, four murders in a lane off Hankow Road.’
‘That’s my beat. Why wasn’t I informed?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I’m at the station now, and I’ve just found out. Inspector Cowan took the case.’
Danilov sighed and thought of his daughter and their chess game. ‘I’ll be at the station in half an hour. Make sure Cowan doesn’t do anything stupid before I get there.’
‘I don’t know about that, sir, but he’s already made an arrest.’
‘Cowan doesn’t usually move that sharply. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’
‘I’ll wait for you, sir.’
The telephone went dead in Danilov’s hand. He replaced the receiver back on its cradle. The long upright telephone reminded him of a chalice in one of the churches of his youth in Russia, except it was made from black Bakelite, not gold.
He walked across the sitting room and put on his old brown brogues, an even older macintosh and his battered hat with its oil-stained lining, mahogany with wear.
In the kitchen, his daughter was still hunched over the dishes, her arms covered in soap and suds.
‘I have to go to the station. Perhaps, we can play chess when I come back this evening?’
For a moment, she stopped washing dishes, and her head lifted slightly.
He wanted to go across to her and wrap her in his arms as he had done when she was a child. A hug that said it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, just you and me and now.
But he didn’t. He just stood there.
She went back to the dishes, scrubbing the cream pottery as if her life depended on it.
He looked across at the chess board, lying on the table, its pieces untouched, unmoved. ‘Good bye, Elina,’ he called as he opened the front door.
There was still no answer.
Chapter 4
Strachan was waiting for Danilov outside the station, eating a jian bing he had just bought from the hawker’s stall on the street, an infamous trap for hungry policemen.
‘No breakfast, Strachan?’
‘Had it this morning, sir, this is just a snack to keep me going till lunchtime.’
Danilov watched as Strachan took another bite, bending forward to prevent any of the chili sauce from dripping on his suit. Despite all the food he consumed, his half-Chinese detective sergeant was as lean as a Borzoi.
‘Had yours, sir?’
‘Had my what?’
‘Breakfast. Got to have breakfast in the morning. Gets the day off to a great start, my mother always says. Wouldn’t let me leave home without it.’
Danilov thought about the burnt syrniki prepared by Elina. ‘You might call it breakfast, Strachan. On the other hand, you might call it something else.’
He walked up the steps to the double doors that guarded the police headquarters. ‘You didn’t call me in to talk about breakfast, Detective Sergeant,’ he said over his shoulder.
‘No, sir,’ said Strachan, wiping the crumbs from his face with the back of his hand, dropping the remains of his snack on the floor and running after his inspector. ‘Four murders last night in a lane off Hankow Road. A family, name of Lee.’
‘Why wasn’t I called?’
‘I don’t know, sir. Inspector Cowan told me he was handling the case.’
‘Cowan couldn’t handle a knish.’
‘A what, sir?’
Danilov ignored the question and approached a tall Sikh in a blue turban who guarded the gate that led to the interior of the station. ‘Quiet today, Sergeant Singh,’ he said looking back at the crowd in the foyer.
‘Wait till this afternoon, Inspector.’
He walked down the corridor and entered the detectives’ office. The group of detectives standing together in the corner fell silent.
A tall ginger-haired who had spoken to Strachan earlier, broke off from his story and said, ‘Good morning, Danilov. Thought it was your day off?’
A couple of the detectives smirked.
‘Could I speak with you, Inspector Cowan, in private?’
Cowan looked around him. ‘I’m sure the lads wouldn’t mind hearing what you have to say, would you, lads? Tinkler? Davies?’
There were a few mutters in response from the group.
Danilov hung his hat and coat on the stand that was next to the door. ‘There was an incident last night near Hankow Road.’
‘Yes.’ Cowan folded his arms across his chest. The rest of the detectives were looking from one to the other like spectators at a tennis match.
‘Four murders. A family.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why wasn’t I informed? It’s my area.’
Cowan came to stand in front of him. ‘I don’t report to you, Danilov. You’re not my boss.’
‘You should have telephoned me.’
‘Didn’t know your number.’
Danilov pointed to the notice board. A list of detectives, with their addresses and telephone numbers clearly marked, was pinned up on the green baize.
‘I never look at that, too much trouble. And anyway, I was duty officer last night.’
Danilov advanced towards Cowan. ‘But it’s my area. Regulations state clearly that officers should be informed when incidents take place in their area.’
‘An incident took place in your area.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve just informed you. Regulations satisfied.’
‘That’s right, I heard you, Gordon,’ said Tinkler.
‘I should have been informed the moment the incident was known to you.’
Cowan’s arms went down and he took a step towards Danilov. ‘Listen, Danilov, you’re not the only bloody detective in this office, understand? Just ’cos you’ve made a few arrests doesn’t make you God bleedin’ almighty.’
‘I should have been informed immediately.’
The tall man towered over Danilov. The angrier he became, the more pronounced was his Scottish accent.
‘Listen, Danilov, I don’t like ye or your kind, understand? Ye may have got rid of poor Meaker and had Cartwright sent to the Badlands, but ye dinnae scare me.’ A large finger poked Danilov in the chest.
Danilov noticed that the knuckles of Cowan’s right hand were red and bleeding. In three places, the skin had been removed completely, revealing the pink, red flesh beneath.
‘And besides…’ A smile appeared on Cowan’s face. He looked over his shoulder at the other detectives before turning back to face Danilov. ‘…I’ve already arrested the murderer.’
Danilov stood at the centre of the detectives’ room. He pulled at the flap of skin that lay between his eyebrows. ‘You have somebody in custody?’
‘You’re damn bloody right, I have somebody in the nick. Already coughed to it too, hasn’t he?’
‘He’s confessed?’
‘To all four murders. Did it for the money. A robbery gone wrong, that’s all it was. Don’t have to be a great detective to work that out.’ He turned and walked away back to the other detectives who congratulated him, patting him on the back.
‘I want to see him.’
Cowan swung around. Another smile slowly spread across his face. ‘See who you like. I’ve got him. He’s confessed. End of story. He’s my collar.’ Again the arms folded across the chest.
Chapter 5
Danilov stood on tiptoes to peer into the cell. Yellow light crept through the grill. Inside a figure huddled in the corner, his face hidden in the shadows.
‘Open the door, please, Sergeant.’
‘I don’t know if I can, sir, it…’
Danilov stared at the duty sergeant. He had come straight down to the cells after leaving Cowan and the other detectives in the office. Their laughter as he went out the door still echoed in his head. He had told Strachan to stay upstairs. No point in involving him in this unpleasantness too. ‘Open the door, Sergeant,’ he said quietly.
The sergeant began to protest again, looked at Danilov’s eyes and posture, then pulled a large bunch of keys from his belt. They rattled as he selected the right one for cell three, inserted it into the lock, turning it twice.
He stepped back without opening the door. Danilov looked through the key hole once more before entering. A long time ago in a similar cell beneath a small police station in Minsk, he had entered a cell without checking where the prisoner was. He still had the scar on the top of his head as a reminder. An old Russian idiom popped into his head: the scabby sheep scares the whole flock. How true, how true.
The loud creak of unoiled hinges sang in the dark cell. The prisoner tried to bury his head further into the brick walls, hiding from whoever had entered.
‘My name is Inspector Danilov.’
There were a few mumbled words of reply that Danilov couldn’t understand and the same movement into the wall.
‘You can leave us, Sergeant.’ Danilov said, without taking his eyes from the bundle of clothes huddled in the corner.
‘But sir, I’m not…’
‘Leave us.’
Reluctantly the sergeant left the cell. Danilov heard his footsteps receding down the corridor. No doubt, he would be going to report Danilov to his superior. So be it. A small price to pay for speaking to this man alone.
He moved to the corner of the concrete bed and sat down. The man edged away from him, pressing his body into the far corner. A tall man, curling himself into a foetal ball.
Danilov took out his tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette. Even in the dim light of the cell, his fingers knew exactly what to do. He brought the edge of the paper up to his mouth and licked it. ‘Would you like a cigarette? Only hand-rolled, I’m afraid. But the best Virginia from Jacobson’s.’
A hand snaked out and took the cigarette. Danilov pulled a lighter from his pocket and flicked the wheel. Instantly, the cell was flooded with light, the glaze of its brown brick walls reflecting the flame of the lighter.
The prisoner shrank back into the wall.
‘Sorry, I didn’t realise how bright this was.’ Danilov closed the lid of the light and adjusted the wheel beneath the flame. He flicked the wheel and a smaller, less bright flame flickered. The cell was illuminated again, but less harshly. Danilov could see the back of the prisoner’s head now, his hair matted with sweat. For a second the man hesitated then put the cigarette in what was left of his lips and mouth.
Danilov brought the flame up to the prisoner’s face. The white tube of the cigarette stood out like a long thin maggot against the red and purple of the lips. Blood oozed from the side of his head, dribbling down onto his chin and shirt. The mouth was a bloody mess, with a few gaps where teeth had once been.
Danilov lit the end of the cigarette and the man inhaled, coughing and gasping as he did so. The rest of his face was in even worse condition. The nose was bent at an angle resting against the left cheek, while, beneath one eye, a vivid purple egg of a bruise looked like it would burst at any moment, showering blood everywhere. The other eye was closing, a thick black line like a calligraphy stroke the only indication of its existence.
The man coughed once more, his chest rasping, trying to suck in air.
‘Lie down. You’ll feel better if you lie down.’
The man shook his head, throwing a drizzle of blood-stained spittle onto Danilov’s jacket.
‘What’s your name?’
The man tried to speak through his split lips. Danilov couldn’t understand a word.
‘I’m sorry, could you say that again?’
The man collapsed in another round of coughing, blood splattering on the floor of the cell. Without looking up, he composed himself and though rasping breaths, he said, ‘Kao. Kao Ker Lien.’
The rasping continued as Kao tried to breathe, sucking in air through his torn mouth.
Then he spoke, the words unintelligible.
Danilov leant forward. ‘What did you say?’
The man paused and seemed to concentrate his whole body into the words that were coming out of his mouth. ‘Didn’t do anything,’ he enunciated slowly.
The effort seemed to exhaust him. He fell forward, fighting to get some air into his lungs.
Danilov caught him and cradled the man’s body, laying him gently on the hard concrete of the bed.
‘Didn’t do anything. Didn’t kill them. Didn’t do anything,’ Kao said over and over again as he lay there, the words coming out through bubbles of blood and spit.
Danilov stood up and banged on the cell door. ‘Sergeant.’
The duty sergeant appeared in a few seconds from his hiding place just around the corner.
‘Get this man to the hospital immediately.’
‘Can’t do that, sir. Not without Chief Inspector Boyle’s permission. He’s been charged. Can’t leave here.’
‘He’s going to die unless you do something.’
The sergeant stared at the prisoner lying prostrate on the bed, mumbling over and over again through his broken mouth.
‘I need the Chief’s permission, sir. Regulations.’
Danilov raced out of the cell and up the stairs at the end. ‘I’ll see about bloody regulations.’
Chapter 6
‘You can’t go in, Inspector.’ Miss Cavendish looked up from painting her nails a bright scarlet to match her lipstick.
‘I’m sorry, I must.’
She got up from behind her desk and stood in his way. Miss Cavendish was the gatekeeper to Boyle’s office, protecting the sanctum from trespass or unauthorised entry, both criminal offences in her eyes.
‘I need to see him immediately.’
Miss Cavendish played with the string of pearls around her neck, thinking about his request. ‘He said he wasn’t to be disturbed. Manpower reports for upstairs. But as it’s you, Inspector, I’ll try.’
She knocked gently on the frosted glass door. A grumpy ‘Yes’ came from within.
She pushed open the door and Danilov caught a glimpse of a large, portly man, sitting behind his desk.
He caught the traces of a conversation.
‘Can’t he come back later?’
‘He says it’s important.’
‘Tell him to come back later.’
‘Chief Inspector, I’m sure Inspector Danilov wouldn’t bother you unless it were urgent.’
Danilov heard a long, loud sigh followed by a grumpy, ‘Show him in then.’
Miss Cavendish pushed open the door and stepped aside.
‘What is it, Danilov? Upstairs are demanding these reports from me yesterday.’
Chief Inspector Boyle was sitting behind his desk, a half-smoked cigar burning in the ashtray, its smoke sending tendrils of petrol-blue up towards a tanned ceiling. Behind his head, a portrait of King George V dressed in a naval uniform looked down, a bland smile etched into the thin lips, surrounded by a manicured beard.
‘It’s the prisoner, Kao, he…’
‘Damn fine work by Cowan, arresting the culprit so quickly after the murders. And he’s confessed. Upstairs is very pleased.’ He pointed with his thumb towards the ceiling.
‘The prisoner is severely injured, sir. A punctured lung, maybe even worse.’
‘Severely injured, you say? I heard he resisted arrest. The men had to restrain him. Nothing unusual in that.’
‘This man has been severely beaten up, sir. To get his confession.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ Boyle picked up his cigar and sat back in his chair. ‘Won’t you sit down, Danilov?’
‘I prefer to stand, sir.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Boyle took a long drag on the cigar, blowing out a long stream of smoke that filled the room. ‘Look, a family, a decent working family, was shot down in their home without mercy. The man in the cells has confessed to the crime. End of story.’
‘He says he didn’t do it, sir.’
‘Well, he would say that now, wouldn’t he?’ Boyle leaned forward, opening the box in front of him. ‘Take a cigarette and sit down.’
‘I still prefer to stand, sir.’
Boyle sighed, scratching his bald head as he did so. Danilov noticed three long red scores on his scalp. The skin had begun to flake at the edges of the marks, sending white motes of skin onto Boyle’s shoulders.
‘The prisoner could die from his injuries, sir. How would that look on the records?’ Now was the time to play his final card. ‘And worse, what would upstairs say?’ Danilov repeated the gesture of pointing upwards with his thumb.
‘Are you threatening me, Danilov?’
‘No, sir, merely pointing out the obvious. If the main suspect in such a high profile case dies in police custody, well…there are bound to be questions asked about the competence of the officer in charge. And I’m sure the press would be the first to ask.’
Boyle sat and thought for a moment, the cigar burning uselessly between his fingers. Then he leant forward and stubbed it out in the ashtray. ‘Listen, Danilov, you’re a good copper. A brilliant copper. But sometimes, you have to realise it’s important to get a result. Quickly.’
‘Even when “the result” is wrong?’
‘So you’re the arbitrator of right and wrong these days?’
‘Isn’t that our job, sir? To find and punish criminals?’
‘When you get to do my job, you’ll realise that it’s not as straightforward as that.’
‘For me, it is, sir.’
‘Then you’ll never be able to do my job.’
‘I know, sir. The idea gives me immense pleasure.’
Boyle sat back in his chair and let out a long, audible sigh like the release of gas from a punctured balloon. His voice became softer, more cajoling. ‘You did well on the Character Killer case, but you didn’t make any friends in the force. Cartwright and Meaker were liked.’
‘A man may die unless we get him help. Do you think I care about making friends?’
Boyle looked towards the door and coughed, clearing his throat. ‘Miss Cavendish…’
There was no answer.
‘Miss Cavendish, I know you are there.’
‘Yes, sir?’ a tiny voice squeaked.
‘Ask Inspector Cowan to join us, will you?’
‘Certainly, Chief Inspector. Now?’
‘Right away, Miss Cavendish.’
They both heard the clatter of heels on the wooden floorboards as Miss Cavendish went to fetch Cowan.
Boyle took a cigarette from his box, lit it, inhaled and blew a long stream of smoke up towards the ceiling. ‘I have to be honest with you, Danilov. Since the trouble with Cartwright and Meaker, a lot of people have been gunning for you.’
‘They obstructed my investigations, sir. Hiding witnesses and information.’
‘They did and were punished for it. But you have to understand this police force. We stick together. Most of the men you serve with also served in the trenches. You didn’t, did you?’
‘No, sir. The Imperial Police in Minsk were exempt from the Army.’
‘In the trenches, there was a sense of solidarity. All in this together. Against the mud, the slime, the Germans, even our own generals. You don’t understand what loyalty means to these men.’
‘No, I don’t, sir.
Boyle took out a brown paper file from his desk drawer and opened it. A few faded typewritten sheets lay inside, the ink faded to light blue. ‘I checked your record with the chaps at Scotland Yard.’ His eyes scanned one of the sheets. ‘Two years exemplary service but a bit of a maverick was their judgement. Too smart for his own good.’