Shanghai, 1928. The body of a blonde is washed up on the Beach of Dead Babies, in the heart of the smog-filled city. Seemingly a suicide, a closer inspection reveals a darker motive: the corpse has been weighed down, its lower half mutilated…and the Chinese character for ‘justice’ carved into its chest.

The moment Inspector Danilov lays eyes on the dismembered body, he realises that he has an exceptional case on his hands. And when the first body is followed by another, and another, each displaying a new, bloody message, he has no option but face the truth. He is dealing with the worst kind of criminal; someone determined, twisted…and vengeful. Someone who must be caught….whatever the cost.

Death in Shanghai is the first novel in M J Lee’s Inspector Danilov series, perfect for fans of Philip Kerr.

Death in Shanghai

An Inspector Danilov Thriller

M J Lee

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015

Copyright © M J Lee 2015

M J Lee asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474035590

Version date: 2018-06-27

M J LEE

has spent most of his adult life writing in one form or another. As a University researcher in history, he wrote pages of notes on obscure topics. As a social worker with Vietnamese refugees, he wrote reams of memoranda. And, as the creative director of an advertising agency, he has written print and press ads, TV commercials, short films and innumerable backs of cornflake packets and hotel websites.

He has spent 25 years of his life working outside the North of England – in London, Hong Kong, Taipei, Singapore, Bangkok and Shanghai.

It was whilst working in Shanghai that he developed the idea behind a series of crime novels, featuring Inspector Pyotr Danilov, set in the 1920s. Death in Shanghai is the first in that series.

To my editor, Clio Cornish, thank you for being so enthusiastic and passionate about the idea of a Russian detective in the Shanghai of the 1920s. To the people of Shanghai, thank you for a wonderful two years in your amazing city. To my wife, Sharon, thank you for making this possible. To my daughter, Eve, thank you for making this impossible. To everybody else, I hope you enjoyed reading the adventures of Inspector Danilov. Find out more at writermjlee.com

For my mother, Margaret Lee.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgments

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Epilogue

Endpages

About the Publisher

February 22nd 1928.

The 31st day of the Year of the Earth Dragon.

Chapter 1

In the middle of Soochow Creek is a sandbank known by the locals as ‘the Beach of Dead Babies’. On a bright, cold Shanghai morning, there were no dead babies lying on it, just a dead blonde.

Inspector Danilov stamped his feet on the cobblestones of the bank, trying to force some life into his cold toes. He pulled his old coat around his thin body and searched its pockets for his tobacco tin. Blowing some warm air on his fingers, he opened the tin and rolled a cigarette with one hand. The first breaths of smoke choked his lungs, producing a series of deep, barking coughs like the alarm cries of a deer. A spit of black tar filled his mouth, the remains of the opium he had smoked the night before. He spat it out and watched it land in the mud at the edge of the creek before it was swallowed by the lapping, grey waters.

His colleague, Charles Meaker, the District Inspector from Hongkew, walked to the middle of Zhapu Bridge, scanning the area as if getting his bearings. At the centre of the bridge, Meaker located the position of the blonde stretched out on the sandbank. From a pocket, he produced a linen measuring tape and laid this along the stone parapet of the bridge.

After an age of measuring, a smug smile spread across his pale face. ‘I believe it’s one of yours. It’s on your side,’ he shouted. Then he rolled up the measuring tape and put it back inside his jacket pocket, taking the opportunity to hitch his trousers over his large stomach.

He strolled over to Danilov on the city side of the bridge. ‘Floaters are always a nightmare. Hate ’em meself. Looks like this one topped hersel’ upstream, and the body floated down. Enjoy it.’ He tugged at his moustache. ‘Another chance to enhance your reputation.’

Danilov took a long drag of his cigarette, savouring the bitter tang of the tobacco. ‘Thank you, Inspector Meaker, have you finished?’ He turned back looking for his new constable in the large crowd that now lined the banks. ‘Stra-chan, come here will you?’

‘It’s Straw-aaan,’ said Meaker, the “ch” is silent. But you Russians wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’

The young detective ran up. ‘Yes, sir?’ He had a shock of black hair, an eager smile and eyes that gave away he was half Chinese.

‘Stra-chan,’ Inspector Danilov emphasised, ‘go down to the sampans and check if anybody saw anything.’

‘Good luck with that. Hear no evil. See no evil. Speak no evil. Just do evil. That’s what this lot believe.’ Meaker mimed the actions of the three monkeys ending with an expansive gesture that took in all the watching Chinese.

Inspector Danilov ignored him. ‘Go and check them anyway. Somebody may have seen something.’ Strachan began to turn away. ‘Don’t forget to send a man to the pathologist. The morgue is just across Garden Bridge on the other side of the river. Let Dr Fang know there’s a body coming in.’

‘Yes, sir, anything else, sir?’ Strachan stood to attention awaiting his orders. He was new to the detective squad, and this was his first case.

‘Hurry up, we haven’t got all day,’ said Danilov. ‘The feet feed the wolf, as we say in Minsk.’

‘Er…yes, sir, right away.’

‘I’m off back to Hongkew for a nice cuppa. Good luck with the floater, Danilov, rather you than me, heh?’ With a long, pipe-stained chuckle, Meaker twisted his moustache and walked back across the bridge to his own district.

Danilov looked down once more at the muddy, murky water eddying around the foundations of the bridge, Inspector Meaker and his jibes already forgotten. His eyes drifted across to the sandbank where the body lay half submerged, its arms stretched out to the sides. Like Jesus on the cross, he thought. And then the image of a long-forgotten triptych came back to him, its central panel a Jesus with sharp ribs and blood pouring from a wound in his side.

He smelt the rich fragrance of incense, a smell that was only found in the Orthodox churches of his youth. He lifted his nose to the wind and looked around him. A hawker had already set up his stall on the banks of the creek, taking advantage of the crowds that had come to see the body. The hawker was stirring his pot of charcoal and sweet potatoes with a wooden paddle. Each time he stirred, the unmistakable smell of incense filled the air. How strange, thought Danilov, how very strange.

The body still lay there on the sandbank, only thirty yards from shore but a whole lifetime away. The long blonde strands of hair, washed by the muddy waters, writhing in each ripple of the creek, the blondness contrasting vividly with the bleached greys of the sampans that lined the banks tied up to each other, sometimes three deep. A child, its head as round as a football, ran to the prow of one of the boats, where it was joined by a small dog, both fascinated by all the fuss. On his right leg, the child had a rope tied around his ankle. Danilov smiled to himself. Tied to a life on his boat for the next forty years. Just like all of us.

He heard Strachan run up and stand behind him.

‘Time and tide wait for no man, the English are fond of saying, are they not?’

‘I suppose so, sir.’

‘Well then, let’s get going. Our body is waiting for us, and the tide will change soon. Find the photographer, he should be around here somewhere.’

Followed by a long line of people, Danilov walked through the crowd towards the sampan like the Pied Piper leading a gaggle of curious children.

***

He was watching from the crowd. He saw the pantomime performed by the tall detective with the absurd moustache, wearing a suit that was too small for him. The measuring, the sighting, the rushing around to achieve nothing. God, they were idiots! Why had he been forced to endure such morons all his life? But they kept him safe, he knew that. Their stupidity allowed him to hide among them, to hide in plain sight. In Shanghai, it was so easy to pretend to have a veneer of sophistication, a veil of normality. Here, surface was everything, shallowness exalted. Everybody had a secret. Everyone knew that somebody was hiding something. It just didn’t matter.

Well, he would make it matter. He would throw light on their shallowness, on their dark secrets. The city of shadows could not hide from him. Those flickering images that pretended to be real concealing their evasions, lies, and dissembling. He would shine a light on them all. He would show them up for what they were. He had already started, but now it was time to really go to work.

He caught the aroma of sweet potato on the air. An ugly vegetable with a beautiful core of sweetness within. A bit like Shanghai he thought, but in reverse.

***

Danilov stepped on to the old sampan. It rocked drunkenly beneath his feet as he was joined by Strachan, two Chinese constables who would lift the body from the river, and a photographer.

An old woman stood at the rear of the boat, her back bowed like the branch of a mulberry tree. She reached out her hand with its deeply creased palms and short, stubby, dirt-encrusted fingers. ‘One dollar,’ she said thrusting her hand closer to Danilov. He reached into his pocket and gave her 50 cents. She glanced at it, smiled toothlessly, and placed it carefully in a cotton drawstring bag around her neck.

She leant on the oar that stuck out from the back of the sampan. Slowly, rhythmically, she swayed from side to side, her gnarled feet gripping the deck of the boat, only moving her upper body. The boat swam forwards toward the sandbar in short, rolling jerks.

Along the banks, the watching faces were mostly Chinese, but with a smattering of Europeans dotted in the crowd. Their taller size and sharp, white faces stood out against the round heads and Chinese gowns of the men, the elegant chi paos of the female office workers, and the thin vests and blue trousers of the dockside labourers.

At one side, the hawker stirred his pot of sweet potatoes. It was amazing how quickly the hawkers turned up whenever a crowd formed. It was as if they sensed that something was going to happen and were drawn to the scene like flies to sticky paper.

The boat was closer to the sandbank now. He could see the naked body quite clearly. The blonde hair was longer than he thought, the muddy water hiding its length as it waved like yellow seaweed just beneath the waves. The breasts and shoulders were small, almost undeveloped. The face was thin and angular, with traces of mascara around the eyes and a thin smear of lipstick on the lips. The arms were kept in place by weighted stones. Thin sisal ropes wrapped around the wrists ensured they stayed in place, anchored to the sandbank.

Danilov thought for a moment. This was no suicide. Not a person driven to such despair that they had thrown themselves into the river rather than face life.

Then he noticed the long nails with their bright purple nail varnish. Claws rather than nails, he thought, weapons for inflicting damage. He never understood why such nails were seen as beautiful or beguiling in a woman. For him, they appeared like the weapons of a predatory insect.

A flash went off as the photographer manoeuvred to get a better shot. More flashes and more rocking of the boat. He took one last look at the body lying half submerged on the sandbank and gestured for the constables to take it out of the water. They reached over the prow of the boat. One constable untied the ropes from the wrists while the other held the body steady. The constable handed both ropes and the stones to Danilov. He felt their weight. About three pounds he guessed. Enough to keep the arms outstretched even in the face of the tide.

Both constables leant out and grasped the naked blonde underneath the shoulders. As they did so, the body came free of the water and a torrent of snakes issued from the stomach. The constables dropped it back in the river and jumped back into the boat. Danilov leant out and saw the body floating now, the blonde hair still waving in the water. For a moment, all he could see were snakes, their heads raised as if to strike. Then he realised that he was looking at intestines, which had fallen out from a vast dark hole where the stomach had once been.

The constables were next to him, chattering loudly in Shanghainese. The old lady looked at the body and spat a long stream of brown juice into the river. Strachan was just staring fixedly at the naked corpse, his mouth slightly open.

Danilov reached down and lifted the body by the shoulders whilst one of the constables took the feet. As they lifted it into the boat, the other constable pushed the intestines back into the stomach cavity with his hands. But still the guts wriggled out beneath his fingers, slithering away from his touch.

Strachan watched, unable to move, fascinated by the paleness of the corpse, its whiteness in stark contrast to the murky grey of the water. The others ignored him as they heaved it into the boat, where it lay there like a dead fish, the intestines still alive as they oozed out of the cavity.

Danilov knelt down and examined the body at his feet. The stomach and thighs had been slashed with deep, frenzied cuts so all that remained was a dark emptiness where life should have been. Surprisingly though, there were no rat bites. In a city teeming with rats, even they had avoided this particular feast. On the chest, or what remained of it, two Chinese characters had been carved. ‘Stra-chan, come and look at this, will you?’

Strachan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and slowly inched his way across the deck, keeping his eyes fixed on the pale body.

‘What do you make of this?’ Danilov pointed to the characters sliced into the flesh. Strachan’s face went bright red as he finally looked away from the body and its intestines lying on the deck.

He reached out and touched Strachan on the hand. ‘Everybody reacts differently, the first time they see a dead person up close.’

Strachan nodded and forced himself to look back at the body. ‘It’s “justice”, sir. The characters for “justice”.’

‘Thank you.’ At a nod from Danilov, the photographer moved into position. Flashes exploded, capturing the body from every angle and every side as he struggled with the rocking of the boat to get his shots.

When he had finished, one of the Chinese constables inched forward to cover the body with a loose tarpaulin. The old woman began to sway backwards and forwards again, propelling the boat towards the shore. Her mouth, with its graveyard of teeth, still held its smile.

‘When we get to shore, fingerprint the body and send it to the morgue. Come back to the station when you’ve finished.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Strachan answered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘You’d better get used to bodies, you’ll see many more before you finish working with me.’

***

‘The Chief Inspector’s been asking after you. Just thought I’d let you know.’

Danilov thanked Sergeant Wolfe, and walked behind the desk of Central Police Station past two Sikh guards, into the inner sanctum of the detectives’ office.

The desks were arranged in two neat rows, one behind the other like a deck of cards laid out for a game of patience. Behind each desk was a detective. Some were going through old files. Some were on the telephone. Some were pretending to read old reports. A few were asleep, their heads nestled in the crooks of their arms.

Danilov put his tobacco tin and keys on his desk, walked up to Chief Inspector Boyle’s office and knocked.

There was no answer. He knocked again.

He heard the faint shuffling of chairs and a loud ‘Enter’. He opened the door and took off his hat. A tall, rather dapper man sat behind his desk, two white tufts of hair above his ears contrasting sharply with a florid face. The curtains were half closed, giving the room a dark, cave-like atmosphere. In the corner, a putter and ball leant up against the eau-de-nil wall, a colour that seemed to cover every wall of every British office he had ever entered. Why they loved this particular colour, he was yet to discover. Perhaps its sickly paleness reminded them of home?

Boyle coughed. ‘Inspector Danilov, do take a seat.’ He indicated the only chair in front of him. It was small and hard, forcing all those who sat in it to feel like a penitent schoolboy.

The strong smell of Boyle’s cologne dominated the room. 4711, thought Danilov, as he took one of the more comfortable seats from its place along the wall and set it down noisily in front of the desk.

Boyle reached forward to open the large silver box in front of him. Inside was a choice of cigarettes: Turkish for smokers who loved a rich aroma, American for the sophisticated and, of course, British Woodbines for those who had acquired the habit in the trenches. Danilov took a Turkish cigarette, lighting it with the onyx lighter that lay next to the cigarette box.

So it was going to be one of those meetings, he thought. Boyle had a particular style: no offer of a seat was going to be a dressing down. A seat and a cigarette was a ‘quiet’ chat. A seat and a cigar was an understanding that Boyle wanted something that only the person blessed with the cigar could provide. All the police dreaded the seat and the glass of whisky, for that meant the miscreant was going to be transferred to some obscure job in the nether reaches of the police universe where the offender would spend the rest of his life arresting dog eaters and night soil collectors.

Danilov inhaled the rich earthy smoke of the Turkish. Fine tobacco, a little elegant for his taste but still a fine smoke.

‘Or would you like a cigar?’ Boyle opened the other wooden box that lay on the table, revealing a selection of the finest Havanas and Dominicans.

‘Thank you, sir. A coffin nail is fine for me.’

Boyle chuckled. ‘Coffin nails. That’s what we used to call them during the war. Long time ago though. Lost a lot of good men, too many.’ He blew a long cloud of blue smoke out into the office. ‘You didn’t fight, did you, Danilov?’

‘No, sir, I was in the Imperial Police in Minsk. We weren’t sent to the Front.’

‘I was a Captain, Manchester Regiment, you know. The scum of the Earth from the back streets of Hulme but damn fine men, if you get my meaning.

‘I understand, sir.’

Boyle stared into mid-air. Above his head, a print of a Chinese street scene hung at a slight angle. Hawkers sold food from banana leaves placed on the ground. People wandered through examining the wares. On each building, Chinese characters blared the names of the proprietors of the shops.

Not a traditional choice for a head of detectives, thought Danilov. He stubbed his cigarette out in a bronze ashtray already full of stubs.

The movement seemed to pull Boyle out of his remembrance of the past. ‘Jolly good. I’ve asked you here today for a couple of reasons, Danilov. Firstly, how was the body that you found this morning?’

‘How was it? Dead, sir, extremely dead.’

‘Suicide?’

‘No. Not unless this one decided to kill herself by slashing her stomach and thighs to the bone, tying her wrists with stone weights, rowing out to a sandbank and then jumping into Soochow Creek. No, sir, I think suicide is out of the question.’

‘Shame that. I had Meaker on the phone. He thought it was, but as it was on our side of the creek, he was going to leave it to us. He seemed rather pleased at the idea.’

‘Inspector Meaker is entitled to his opinion, sir, but it’s not a suicide. Far from it. Murder I’m afraid. A brutal one as well.’

Boyle shuffled the papers in front of him. ‘Well, get it over with as quickly as you can. Upstairs gets its whiskers in a curl when Europeans are murdered. The murder of European women particularly seems to excite them. Got to maintain our prestige. The Chinese depend on us maintaining order. Without it, where would we be? Solve it quickly, Danilov.’

‘The body is on its way to the pathologist now, sir. Dr Fang will do his usual thorough job.’

Boyle harrumphed and lifted a piece of paper from the top of his pile. ‘There’s one other thing that requires a delicate touch. You did rather well with the Bungalow Murders last year and that awkward affair with the American Consul in ’26. As for your time with Scotland Yard, well, enough said.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Danilov recognised when he was being buttered up. ‘But my two years in London were wasted. We never found the anarchists we were looking for.’

‘At least it meant you could polish your English. You speak it better than most of my English chaps.’

‘Thank you again, sir.’

‘As I was saying, you handled those delicate situations rather well. The thing is, we’ve had a strange note from the French. The French Head of Detectives actually, a Mr…’ he glanced down at the paper he was holding ‘…a Mr Renard.’

‘Is it the note that’s strange, sir, or the fact that the French have sent it?’

‘It’s both, Danilov. Last time we talked to them was spring last year, when we had that little problem with the communists. Anyway, a meeting has been set up for tomorrow morning with him. Usually, I’d go myself but I’ve got a Council session and it can’t be postponed. Can’t stand the frogs anyway. Had enough of them in the war. Far too dramatic for my tastes. Quite like the language though, became quite good at it, even if I do say so myself. Damn fine wine too, if my memory serves me right.’

‘Where is the meeting, sir?’

‘Oh yes, that would help wouldn’t it?’ He scanned the note quickly, his lips moving as he read the words. ‘Ah, here it is, Avenue Stanislaus Chevalier at 10 am. Their HQ, it would seem.’

Danilov took out his notebook and wrote down the details.

‘Do report to me afterwards, Danilov. Can’t have those frogs sending you off on a wild goose chase. Une poursuite de l’oie sauvage, if I remember my French.’

‘A better translation, sir, might be un ballet d’absurdités or more simply une recherche futile.

‘Well, that’s as may be. French never was my strong suit.’ Boyle closed the cigarette case, always a sign that the meeting was over. ‘Clear this blonde case up quickly, Danilov.’

‘I’m going to see the pathologist right away, sir.’

‘Good. It’s probably just a lovers’ quarrel that’s gone too far.’

‘It went too far, sir, of that I am sure, but it’s more than a lovers’ quarrel. I believe it’s far darker and more dangerous than that.’

***

Inspector Danilov returned to his desk after the interview with Boyle. He stood in front of it for a long time, realising that something was wrong. The ink bottle was in a different place, and the pencil was half an inch out of alignment. He reached down and put them back exactly where they should have been.

Behind him, he could hear the muffled sniggers of the other detectives.

‘Wha’s up, Danilov, somethin’ not right?’ This was from Cartwright, a detective with the imagination of a bull and the wit of a dinosaur. ‘Out of whack, are we?’

Danilov turned back and addressed Cartwright, but actually talking to all of them. ‘I’d rather you didn’t touch anything on my desk in future.’

‘Always so prim and fuckin’ proper aren’t we? I thought you Russians were rougher and tougher, like the girls in Blood Alley.’ More sniggers from the detectives.

‘Not all of us are the same, Cartwright. Just like you English, we are different too.’ He looked him up and down. ‘You, for instance, had an egg with two slices of bacon this morning for breakfast. I had just one cup of coffee. You had an argument with your wife last night and this morning it continued. I live alone. And your house boy has left, as well. I prefer to do without servants. Your…’ he stopped here looking for the right word ‘…paramour…is also two-timing you with…’ he swivelled round and pointed at another detective, Robson, sitting to the left of Cartwright. ‘Such women, of course, do not interest me.’

‘Wha’ the fuck? How do you know…?’

But Cartwright was already talking to the back of Danilov as he walked out of the detectives’ office.

‘You’ll get your comeuppance one day, you mark my words. You may speak bloody English but you’ll never be an Englishman. Bloody Russian prick!’ Cartwright shouted to the closing door.

Danilov had already gone next door to see Miss Cavendish, the office secretary. She was an old maid who had been born in Shanghai and lived there all her life, but still didn’t speak a word of Chinese. ‘Well, there’s no need is there, they all speak English. Or at least the ones I have to speak to. Or they speak pidgin. And I’m frightfully good at pidgin. Second language to me it is.’

Danilov stood in front of her desk and coughed. She glanced up and he caught a waft of her scent. French and very floral. ‘Miss Cavendish, could I bother you for the file on the French Head of Detectives? A Mr Renard, I believe.’

‘Actually, it’s Major Renard, Inspector. I’ll have it on your desk in an hour.’ She leaned forward and whispered, ‘I couldn’t help but hear what you said about Cartwright, he will be upset.’

‘Cartwright can’t be upset, Miss Cavendish. That would indicate an ability to feel. He is either totally happy or totally drunk. Those are the limits of his emotions.’

‘Was it true?’

‘He has the same breakfast every morning because he can’t be bothered explaining to his cook he would like something different. He wasn’t wearing his normal pungent eau de cologne which only happens when his wife locks him out of the marital bedchamber after an argument. She was still unhappy with him, so he was unable to splash more on this morning. You may have noticed he is still wearing the same clothes as two days ago. Hence, the boy is no longer providing his services.’

‘But how did you know about his…’ she leaned forward and whispered ‘…paramour?’

‘That part was easy. I observed her with Robson on Nanking Road two nights ago. It seems she has switched her favours recently. And everything I said about myself was true.’

‘You are a proper Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you, Inspector Danilov?

‘I admire your famous detective, Miss Cavendish, but I always believed he missed the patterns in crime. The patterns are everything. Once we understand them, everything else falls into place.’

‘A bit like my knitting, without the pattern I’m lost.’

‘Precisely, Miss Cavendish. All criminals have patterns through which they reveal themselves. Our job is to discover the pattern. It was one of the first things they taught us at the Imperial Police Academy.’

Miss Cavendish was the ears of all gossip in Central. If he wanted to know anything about the station or its inhabitants, Chinese, English, Russian or Japanese, he just asked her. She was better than any stoolie on the street, and she was free, which was even more important.

‘I would look out for him if I were you.’ She indicated the closed door of the detectives’ room. ‘A bit of a bull in a china shop is our Inspector Cartwright. Or a bull in a China police station, I should say.’ Miss Cavendish giggled as she played with the pearls that encircled her neck. Danilov wondered if she were flirting with him.

She popped a sweet into her mouth from the packet that lay on her table. She offered one to him. For a moment he was tempted but then shook his head. His hands lay on her desk, the scars that creased the skin above his knuckles vivid red against the pale white, a legacy of the education his father had given him years before in Minsk. He quickly hid them behind his back.

‘Inspector Allen from Intelligence gave these to me.’ In her left hand, she waved her packet of purple sweets. ‘Haven’t had these French sweets since before the war. He’s such a nice man. He left this for you.’ Her right hand held a large brown internal envelope marked private and confidential.

He took it, ensuring his hands were palm upwards. Inside was a white sheet of expensive writing paper. ‘Too predictable, Allen.’

He took out a large fountain pen and wrote P X QKN below Allen’s last line. Folding the paper, he returned it to the internal envelope.

‘Secrets and secret notes, Inspector Danilov.’ She thought for a moment and then said, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you something for a long time.

‘Ask away, Miss Cavendish, if I am able to satisfy your curiosity, I will be happy to oblige.’

‘How is it you speak such good English? For a Russian I mean.’

‘Two years at Scotland Yard, Miss Cavendish, looking for some Russian bombers. We never found them so it was a wasted time. It did give me a love for your language though. Such a less stoic tongue than my native Russian.’

‘Well, you are a card, I must say. Scotland Yard indeed. Who would have guessed?’

‘Thank you, Miss Cavendish. If you see Detective Stra-chan, please tell him to meet me at the morgue.’

‘Now, that’s an invitation nobody could refuse.’

Danilov stood there for a moment, nodded once and left. He would never understand the English sense of humour.

Chapter 2

Elsie Everett strode across the classic wood-lined lobby and entered the Grand Ballroom. A resplendent peacock dominated the stage above the band, couples shuffled around the dance floor and waiters danced between the tables, carrying drinks and plates of snacks.

She couldn’t see Richard. Was he late again? There was Margery Leadbitter. She would have to sit with the viper. Richard was so annoying; if it wasn’t for his money, she would…well she didn’t know what she would do, but she would have to bring him under control quickly.

She dodged the dancing waiters and presented herself in front of Margery, leaning in to kiss her on both cheeks. She felt a slight stickiness from the woman’s skin and it gave her a frisson of disgust. ‘Where’s Richard?’

Margery picked at something that lay on her bottom lip and examined it closely. ‘I don’t know. He was supposed to have been here half an hour ago. Alfred’s late too.’

‘Typical men. What are you drinking?’

‘An Old-Fashioned. I can’t face anything bubbly today.’

Elsie caught the eye of one of the waiters. ‘Another Old-Fashioned, with a maraschino cherry and no lemon.’ She turned back to Margery. ‘How’s Alfred these days?’

‘I don’t see much of him any more. He always seems so busy. I was surprised he wanted to come this afternoon.’ She paused for a moment and then continued, ‘Maybe it was because I told him you were coming.’

Elsie didn’t know how to respond, so she lit a cigarette and studied the room. It seemed to be the usual crowd of wasters, good-time charlies and hangers-on. On her left, a young Chinese man with closely-cropped hair like a military helmet was surrounded by three extremely young and giggly women. In one corner, an elegant Chinese grandfather in a long Mandarin coat sat all alone drinking tea. Across the dance floor, she caught a fat, bald European staring at her, his gaze averted as she noticed him through the dancers.

Then she was seized in a big bear grip and kissed on the cheeks. He was always a little rough, like a colt who had just learned to walk, but she enjoyed the hard bristle of his moustache against her soft skin.

‘Look who I met outside. He was prowling around like a cat looking for a sparrow.’ Richard stepped back to reveal the long, lean silhouette of Alfred. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, bowing slightly from the hips.

‘Don’t be so stiff, Alfred. Give her a kiss on the cheeks. You remember how we used to do it in France, don’t you?’ Richard rounded the table and reached over to kiss Margery. She accepted as if it were exactly what she was supposed to receive, nothing less, nothing more.

‘I’m so thirsty, I could drink Lake Tai.’ Richard raised his hand and instantly a waiter appeared at his elbow. ‘Champagne?’

‘Not for myself and Margery,’ said Elsie.

‘But you’ll join me won’t you, Alfred? Can’t drink champagne alone.’

‘I’ll join you too,’ said Margery, looking at Elsie.

The waiter ran off to fetch the bottle. ‘Sit down, Alfred. You’re making my neck tired looking up to you.’

Alfred pulled out the cane chair and placed himself between Richard and Margery, opposite Elsie.

‘How was this morning, Richard?’ She emphasised her refined vowels, taught at considerable expense and even more pain by Madame Tollemache all those years ago. Pain that had been worth it, as she had long lost the nasal twang of the streets of Salford.

The waiter brought the champagne and poured out three glasses. ‘Here’s to life, liberty and the pursuit of drunkenness.’ Richard drained the glass in one gulp and indicated for more to be poured.

‘As I was saying, Richard, you really need to get that pony of yours into better shape. You have a real chance at the races this Easter.’

‘I can’t be bothered getting up early and exercising the bloody thing in the wee small hours of the morning. I’d rather wallow in my pit.’

‘Well, it’s your loss…’

‘I just hate it when men ignore us, don’t you, Elsie?’ Margery’s voice cut through the music from the band, and all the other conversations at the tables nearby.

‘Well, I…’

‘Elsie’s far too polite to complain, aren’t you, dear?’

‘Of course she is,’ said Alfred quickly, ‘the manners of an angel and a voice to match. I was in the audience the other night at the theatre. You were perfect in the Novello song. What was it called?’

‘“The Land of Might-Have-Been”,’ said Elsie, ‘a lovely tune, almost as good as “I Can Give You Starlight”.’

‘Thank you, Alfred, we all know how you admire Elsie’s…attributes,’ said Margery, finishing her champagne.

A hush enveloped the table like a damp sea mist.

‘Let’s dance shall we? I love this new one from Harry Horlick.’ Richard held out his hand to Elsie.

They stepped out onto the brightly lit dance floor. A woman glided past them with a manic grin on her face, her partner a stiff, small man with the shiniest hair Elsie had ever seen. The band seemed to get louder and gayer.

‘Thank God, I got you away from them. Alfred’s fine, but Margery’s becoming a little shrill, a shrike with claws.’

‘She’s fine, Richard, she means well.’ Elsie had decided to play the shy innocent girl for all she was worth. It was going to be her best role.

‘Just like you to say something kind about Margery, when she’s been such a witch.’

‘No she hasn’t.’ She leaned away from him, beating her little fist playfully on his jacket. He laughed, pulled her closer and together they shimmied across the dance floor.

***

‘Good afternoon, Inspector, good to see you again, even if it is always under the most trying of circumstances that we meet.’ The voice was elegantly patrician, the Received Pronunciation even more pronounced than usual.

Dr Fang was dressed in his normal working attire: bright red bow tie with a fine gold weave, a crisp, rather old-fashioned shirt with wing collars and a beautifully tailored dark-green tweed suit. On his small feet, polished brown brogues peeped out beneath the turn-ups of the tweed trousers.

Dr Fang had been educated in London, then studied under Locard in Lyon, which he never tired of telling people. He believed in Locard’s principles religiously. Procedures were to be followed to the smallest detail because every contact leaves a trace, however minute. There was no room for speculation, no margin for error. It was the facts, just the facts, that were important.

‘Come into my parlour.’ Dr Fang opened the door to the morgue. The pungent smell of formaldehyde hit Danilov like a Shanghai tram. And, as always, he was transported back to the sweets of his youth. He never knew why the smell of formaldehyde had this effect on him, bringing back memories of running down the streets of Minsk, his shoes clattering on the cobblestones, an aunt, elegant, austere, reaching into a large jar of sweets and bringing out a soft pink bonbon that melted in his mouth, covering his teeth in sticky sugar.

But he wasn’t in the Minsk of his youth now. He was in a brightly lit white-tiled room that ached of loneliness and solitude. In front of him lay six stainless steel tables, each covered with a white sheet.

Dr Fang stood next to the nearest of these tables and removed the cover revealing a white, bloodless corpse. The body had a Y-shaped incision on the chest that had been crudely sewn up with large, even stitches. The stomach and lower body was a mass of nothingness, revealing glimpses of pale meat hidden in the dark emptiness.

He heard Strachan coughing behind him.

‘Is this your first post-mortem, young man?’ asked Dr Fang.

‘Yes, sir,’ answered Strachan with a voice that was much stronger than Danilov expected.

‘If you’re going to be sick, please do it outside. There’s a pail placed there precisely for the purpose. I will not have my clean floor covered in the acids of your stomach, is that clear?’

‘I’m not going to be sick, sir.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Shall we begin?’

Danilov nodded.

‘Good. I would like to thank you, Inspector Danilov. As ever you have given me a most interesting specimen to work with. Found in Soochow Creek wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right, sir. Early this morning, floating on the “Beach of Dead Babies”. It must have been washed down the creek on the ebbing tide,’ said Strachan.

Dr Fang gave a loud sniff as if he had just inhaled a large dose of formaldehyde. ‘Oh, I doubt that, young man, it’s…?’

‘Detective Constable Strachan, sir.’

‘Well, Detective Strachan, we are here today to deal in facts, not idle suspicions, rumours, conjectures or suppositions. Is that clear?’

‘As the Soochow Creek, sir.’

Dr Fang sniffed once again. ‘Let us begin, with just the facts this time.’

Danilov watched as the doctor tugged at the end of his nose, letting the pause add to the drama, playing the game of silence.

‘As I said before, a most interesting case. Of course, a cursory examination of the body would conclude the victim had died from a deep incision across the lower abdomen and the pubic region.’ He indicated both areas with a retractable metal pointer. ‘But one would be wrong to leap to such an erroneous conclusion.’

Here he stared pointedly at Strachan. ‘I’m quite sure the cuts were made post-mortem. See, there is no bleeding from the wounds.’ He pointed to the deepest slash across the base of the stomach.

‘But wouldn’t the creek have washed away the blood?’ asked Strachan.

‘For a layman, that would be the most obvious inference,’ sniffed Dr Fang, ‘but examining the capillaries under the microscope indicates no blood flowed through them when these cuts were made. Ergo, the victim,’ again he pointed to the body lying naked on the slab, ‘had already been dead before the wounds were made.’

‘Approximately how long had the victim been dead?’

‘I’m afraid it’s impossible to say. Being in water makes the time of death uncertain.’

‘So the victim drowned?’

‘It seems, Detective Strachan, you have quite a lot to learn about forensic science. The first thing you should learn is that we will complete these examinations more quickly if you keep quiet and not ask so many damn fool questions.’ Dr Fang adjusted his red bow tie and sniffed once again.

Danilov held up his hand to prevent any response from Strachan. ‘Please continue, Dr Fang.’

‘As I was saying, the victim couldn’t have drowned because there is no water in the lungs. Interestingly, this medical phenomenon was first reported by a Chinese physician. His name was Song Ci and he produced a fascinating book called Xi Yuan Lu or The Washing Away of Wrongs, in 1248 during the Song Dynasty. I’m presently preparing an English translation which I would be happy to let you read, Inspector Danilov.’

‘I would be delighted, Dr Fang. But to return to our present investigation…’

‘Of course. I’m sure that the victim was killed before entering the water. An examination of the skin shows few signs of wrinkling, it wasn’t in the water for long.’

‘But there is one sign that indicates this more than anything else, isn’t there, Dr Fang?’

‘As ever, Inspector Danilov, you have noticed that something is missing.’ Again, the doctor paused for effect. ‘There are no rat bites. Normally, when a body ends up in any of the creeks or rivers surrounding Shanghai, our friends, rattus rattus and rattus norvegicus, like to partake of a little spot of luncheon or supper. One can usually estimate the length of time in the water from the number of bites. Of course, this can depend on the time of year and the exact place in the river they were found, but an absence of rat bites indicates the body was not in the creek long enough for our friends to gather a party for luncheon. In fact, after a thorough examination, I only noticed one bite, here…’ he pointed to the right side of the body closest to him ‘…and possibly one more, here on the intestines.’

‘Hmm, interesting and very illuminating, Doctor,’ said Danilov, ‘I thank you for the depth of your investigation.’

Dr Fang beamed like a schoolboy who had just received a gold star for having spelt hypothalamus correctly. ‘But, there is more, Inspector. You see the bruising around the neck, here and here…’

Danilov leant in to take a closer look. The dead eyes of the victim stared up at him. Cornflower-blue eyes, he noticed. Such a beautiful colour. He forced himself to look closely at the marks on the victim’s neck.

‘You will notice bruising on the neck. I would say with certainty this victim died from strangulation.’

‘The bruising seems to go all the way round.’

The doctor nodded.

‘So it wasn’t manual strangulation?’ Inspector Danilov demonstrated by holding his hands out in front of him, grasping an imaginary neck.

‘I would say not. More likely to be mechanical or ligature strangulation, but using something soft, not hard or abrasive. There is incomplete occlusion of the carotid arteries and the skin is not broken.’

‘A garrotte then.’

‘I couldn’t say, Inspector. All I can say with certainty is the victim wasn’t strangled with the hands. There are no finger or thumb impressions or bruising.’

‘Thank you, Doctor. The facts are just what we need.’

Dr Fang sniffed again. ‘There are four other facts that may interest you, Inspector.’

‘Please continue, my ears are on the top of my head, as we say in Russia.’

‘That would be interesting anatomically, Inspector, but a little painful when it rains.’

Strachan laughed and received a warning glance from Danilov.

‘As I was saying, four facts. Firstly, here, on the inside of the wrist, the faint mark of a tattoo. Somebody has tried to remove this, but the words are still clear.’

Danilov leaned forward once more and inspected the inside of the wrist. He reached into his pocket and produced a pair of wire-framed glasses. ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me,’ he said out loud.

‘Luke, chapter 18 verse 16,’ said Strachan, looking pleased with himself.

‘I’m sorry, Stra-chan?’

‘Luke, chapter 18 verse 16. “But Jesus called them unto him, and said, suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.” Sunday school years ago, sir. Comes in handy once in a while, all those years on my knees, learning the bible. But I think everybody knows these particular verses.’

‘I suppose they do, Detective. But why would our victim have a tattoo like that? Not so common is it?’

‘Not common at all, sir. Usually, it’s a tiger. Or a heart with Mother written in the middle.’ Strachan seemed to think a little more. ‘Or even a naked lady. One time…’

‘Yes, yes, Detective, we don’t have time to hear about your experiences with naked ladies. I have two more bodies I have to examine before supper.’

‘Please continue, Dr Fang, we wouldn’t want to keep you from your bodies. Or your supper. It seems you have three more pieces of information to give us?’

‘Thank you, Inspector. The second is that the victim’s hair was dyed.’ He pointed to the long locks of blonde hair, now dry, that flowed from the head of the body. ‘Recently dyed, I would say. No traces of new growth coming through at all. The third is the characters carved into the chest with a knife or similar instrument. The characters are those for “justice”. Neatly cut, almost like a stencil. I will try to ascertain what type of knife made the strokes of the characters when I have time.’

‘And the final piece of information?’

Now a smug smile passed across the lips of Dr Fang. ‘This is probably the most interesting thing I discovered in my examination of the body. Most interesting indeed.’

‘And what is that, Doctor?’

‘Well…’ Dr Fang dragged out the revelation, playing the moment for all it was worth, ‘our victim was a man, not a woman.’

‘But the hair? The breasts? The make-up?’ said Strachan.

‘Yes, detective, all there. But this is, without doubt, a man.’

‘How can you be sure?’

Dr Fang sniffed as if the imparting of secrets of his profession was beneath him. ‘There are noticeable physical differences between the male and female bodies. The most obvious, the genitalia, are how most laymen distinguish between the sexes.’ Here, he stared at Strachan. ‘But there are other indicators. The first is bone size. Males tend to have larger bones then women. Next I would look at the pelvic region, here…,’ he pointed to the area around the body’s missing stomach. ‘But with this particular corpse, that area has been devastated by the murderer.’

Strachan leant over to look closely. Dr Fang sniffed once more and pointed to the skull. ‘Then, I would look here. In males, the chin tends to be squarer. Females tend to have a more pointed chin. If you look closely, our corpse has a quite pronounced square chin. The last giveaway is the supraorbital ridge…’

‘The what?’ said Strachan.

‘The brow, for our young Detective Constable. In males it tends to be much more prominent. Finally, if all else fails, I check the fingers. On women the index finger is longer than the third finger. The reverse is true of men.’

Danilov couldn’t stop himself from checking the hands of the victim.

‘This, taking everything into consideration, gentlemen, is most definitely a man.’ Dr Fang folded his arms across his chest, daring Strachan to question him any further.

‘Now that is interesting,’ said Danilov.

***

Elsie glanced at her Vacheron Constantin watch, a present from Richard. ‘I’ve got to be off now, back for the evening show.’ She took one last swallow of her Old-Fashioned, draining her glass.

‘Such a bore,’ said Margery.

‘Terrible isn’t it? But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.’

‘Can I give you a lift?’ said Richard.

‘Don’t worry, you stay here and…’ she looked straight at Margery ‘…enjoy yourself with your friends. I’ll see you this evening at Ciro’s. Shall we say 11 pm? Don’t be late, it’s no fun sitting there all alone.’

‘I’ll pick you up from the theatre if you want.’

‘Don’t bother. Trevelyan gets awfully jealous when he sees any of his girls with somebody else. You know how old theatrical poofs get, more possessive and catty as they age. That one has the claws of a female tiger with cubs to protect.’ She looked at her watch again.

With a blown kiss to Richard thrown over her shoulder, she dodged the white-jacketed waiters and ran out of the ballroom. With luck, there would be a taxi waiting, hang the expense. Anything was better than another dressing down from Trevelyan.

She stepped out of the hotel, and immediately a taxi started its engine and pulled up in front of her. Maybe my luck has finally changed, she thought.

Elsie Everett didn’t notice that a man had followed her out of the hotel.

She didn’t notice that he nodded to the driver of the taxi as it picked her up.

She didn’t notice that there was no meter in the taxi.

***

He watched her leave, stepping past all the waiters and the scum who frequented these cesspits. How the smell of them disgusted him. The sharp odours of stale perfume sprayed on liberally to smother the even sharper stench of sweat. The powder spotting the women’s faces, clumping in small white boils as they pranced to the beat of the band. And the raucous laughs, hollow red-framed mouths showing nicotine-stained teeth. All laughing too hard, too long and too falsely.

He saw all the dancers and their escorts, the waiters and waitresses, the musicians and their shiny dinner jackets, and he knew they couldn’t see him. Couldn’t see him for what he was. He blended in so well, like a chameleon in human form, he was changed by wherever he was, melting into the background, hiding in plain sight.

If you never want to be noticed, just be bland, be ordinary. It was the same at the Front, just wear khaki like all the others and nobody could ever see the real you. Just another soldier they would say. Never noticed his face they would say. Well, you don’t, do you? Just notice the rank not the man, they would say.

Here, in Shanghai, he needed to cleanse the city of its degenerates, to remove the bloated maggots that fed on its flesh. He had made a start in other places, of course, but somehow, it never felt right. Meaningless deaths to salve an itch. There was no pleasure in it. But here, he had found his reason to exist. Perhaps the city had fed it, like a mould growing on a petri dish, concentrating the need like never before. And, strangely, Shanghai had made it so much easier to act. Here, everything was allowed, nothing forbidden, not even him.

He took out another cigarette and lit it with his gold Dunhill lighter. Time to play with her now. She deserved not to be kept waiting.

***

‘Are you both leaving? Just as I was beginning to enjoy myself. The dance doesn’t end for at least another half an hour.’

‘I need to check in at the office,’ said Richard, ‘you know how I’m expected to show my face every day. Ah Ching will have already finished everything, of course.’

‘And I’m feeling incredibly dirty, like I’ve been swimming in Soochow Creek. Horrible feeling,’ said Alfred.

She pouted, placing another cigarette in the ivory holder, leaning forward for Alfred to light it. ‘I’m not happy, but you can both make it up to me tonight at Ciro’s. It’s going to cost you a bottle of Belle Epoque and Lobster Thermidor.’

‘Can I at least give you a lift back to your place?’

‘No thank you, Richard. If you two are both leaving me, I think I’ll do a little window shopping. Dimitri has some new Art Deco pieces in from Paris. There’s this wonderful titanium bracelet that shouts my name every time I see it.’

‘I’ll get this.’ Richard took the silver plate off the table and checked the bill: $13.50. He quickly signed the chit, adding a dollar from his pocket as a tip.

All three got up and ambled towards the door. The waiters still danced frenetically around the tables. A black trumpeter, having received a smattering of applause for his solo, sat back down on his seat as the rest of the orchestra took up the melody. There were fewer dancers now but the short, shiny-haired man and his tall, grinning partner still beat their merry path round the outside of the dance floor, magically avoiding all the other dancers.

Before they had even reached the door, the waiters had removed the glasses, plates, tablecloth and half-drunk bottle of champagne, replacing them with a fresh supply of tableware from behind the counter.

The money had gone too. It had been removed first, of course.

Chapter 3

Danilov stared out over the creek and onto the now empty ‘Beach of Dead Babies’. The sun was just going down over the post office on the other bank, casting an orange haze over the river.

‘I always like to come back to the scene of the crime afterwards, Stra-chan. It lets me see at it as the murderer knew it, without the crowds and the rest of the watchers.’

Life in the creek carried on as usual despite the excitement of that morning. The sampans wobbled in their ungainly way up to the Whampoo or down into the interior. The wharves bustled with sweat and energy as cargo was unloaded from the lighters that served the ships in the harbour. The young boy still sat on the prow of the boat playing with his dog, the tether attached to his foot.

The waves continued to lap the shores of the ‘Beach of Dead Babies’, where just eight hours before a body had lain with its belly slit open.

The hawker, with his fragrant pot of sweet potatoes, had vanished though, gone to ply his trade somewhere else.

‘It’s quiet, sir.’

‘It is if you ignore all the bustle and noise of the river.’

‘I meant compared to this morning.’

‘That’s the point, Stra-chan.’ He rolled a cigarette with tobacco from his tin. ‘I can see it as it was when the murder was committed.’ He brought the cigarette up to his mouth and took a long drag, coughing as he exhaled, clearing his lungs. ‘But of course, this wasn’t the primary murder scene. The body was carried here.’

Strachan stared out into the river. A sampan swam past the ‘Beach of Dead Babies’, almost touching the edge of the sandbank.

‘See the sampan, how close it gets to the area where the body was found?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Our victim didn’t just float there. It was carried out to the “Beach of Dead Babies”. Somebody must have seen it being taken there.’

‘I asked the local river people. Of course, nobody saw anything. But I’ve put the word out. Perhaps somebody will come forward.’

‘Remember there were no rat bites. It means the body hadn’t been in the creek for long. Thirty minutes at the most. Ask people if they heard or saw anything from 5.30 am to 6.00 am.’

‘I’ll get the local sergeant on it, sir.’

‘Make sure people know there is a reward for information. Five dollars should be enough.’

‘More than enough, sir.’ A lighter chugged past, its thin funnel sending out acres of grey smoke that stank of half-burned coal. Strachan flipped open his notebook, checking what he had written earlier that morning. ‘The victim’s body was weighted down with stones and placed on the sandbank.’

‘Interesting, you say “placed”, Stra-chan, because it was “placed”. We were meant to find it. The creek is one of the most open places in Shanghai, with constant river traffic. The body was bound to be found. In both senses of the word. The killer weighted it with stones so we would find it there. He didn’t want it to be washed down into the Whampoo. Why did he do that? What’s he trying to tell us?’ He exhaled a long stream of cigarette smoke and coughed again. A glob of spit formed in his mouth.

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘But that’s what we have to find out, Stra-chan. That’s what they pay us to find out.’

‘I thought they pay us to find the killer, sir.’

‘We won’t be able to do that until we know why he does what he does, Stra-chan.’ He rolled another cigarette with tobacco from his tin. ‘I wonder why it’s called the “Beach of Dead Babies”.’

‘I asked the locals, sir. They told me it’s because of the local currents. All the unwanted babies placed in the river inevitably end up there.’

‘Like Moses.’

‘Exactly, sir. The river people adopt the male children as their own.’

‘And the girls?’

‘Apparently, they get taken to the orphanage, sir. Girls are just extra mouths to feed.’

‘Thank you for that, Stra-chan, remind me never to introduce you to my daughter.’ As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Danilov knew he had made a mistake. He looked away, pretending to examine the wharves behind them. It was nearly four years since he had last seen her. Four years on April 26th. Strachan was still staring at the ‘Beach of Dead Babies’. Perhaps, he hadn’t noticed? Time to get him working. ‘The doctor said our victim was a male with a female appearance.’

‘I believe there are a few clubs catering for those sorts of tastes, sir. I could check them out. Show a few photographs around once they come back from processing.’

‘That’s a start. Check the registry of doctors. This man was already showing female characteristics, maybe he was already seeing a physician. Did you notice the absence of body hair?’

‘Could have been shaving, sir.’

‘Hair continues to grow after death. Yet there was none.’

‘I’ll get onto it when we go back to the station. I was also thinking about the Chinese characters carved into the chest.’

‘And?’

‘I suppose it means we are looking for a Chinese killer, sir.’

‘You suppose wrong, Stra-chan. Anybody can write or copy a character, even you.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Let me do the supposing, Stra-chan, you just concentrate on the facts.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Next steps are, you will follow up on the doctors and the boatmen. I would like your report on my desk by tomorrow morning.’

‘I’ll do it before I leave this evening, sir.’

‘Good, then you can accompany me to meet our Frenchman tomorrow morning.’

‘As long as we don’t have frog’s legs for breakfast, sir.’

‘Most certainly not, Stra-chan. It will be a strong coffee and a croissant in the French Concession. Frog’s legs would only be served for luncheon or dinner.’

‘It was a joke, sir.’

‘I see you have an English sense of humour.’

‘I picked it up at school, sir.’

‘Well, put it down when you are with me, Stra-chan, is that clear?’

Strachan looked out over the river. For the second time that day, he gave the same response. ‘As the Soochow Creek, sir.’

***

Her head ached. She shook it to try and clear the fuzziness.

Where was she? Another night drinking too much? She tried to remember what happened but nothing would come. She had got into a taxi but then…?

She tried to lift her arm to brush away the hair from her eyes, but it wouldn’t move. She tried again. It was like both her arms were gripped around the wrists by coarse, hairy fingers.

She shook her head once more and looked down. Both her arms were strapped to a wooden chair with lengths of thin rope. Twisting left and right, she leveraged her body against the back of the chair and twisted her arms. The ropes cut into her wrists, drops of fresh blood flowed down her hands and onto her leg.

Tears ran down face. Her head lolled forwards. Memories flashed into her head. Leaving the Astor, Getting into a cab. A bald head. Driving around Shanghai. Stopping. Bitten fingers. A red livid scar across the top of his head. Reaching for her. A cloth over her mouth. Darkness.

How did I get here? Why me? A great wracking sob seized hold of her chest. Her head lolled forward again, the tears dripping down onto her dress where their warmth and wetness seeped into the fabric.

She tried to rock the chair backwards and forwards, but it wouldn’t move. It was made from solid, thick wood, bolted to the floor. Like an electric chair without the current, she thought bitterly.

She lifted her head and peered into the gloom that surrounded her. Not much to see, just a drab brownness that seemed to be walls. From them, a dark, dank smell like the earth of a graveyard suffused with the stench of fish, drifted towards her.

She felt the wood of the chair arm beneath her fingers. There were marks there. Something hard buried in the wood. She picked at it, digging it out. There was a crescent moon of opaque whiteness on the tips of her fingers. What was it? She felt its sharp edges and realised straight away.

A fingernail.

She screamed and struggled against the ropes. Got to get free. Got to get out of here. The ropes clung to her wrists, tightening their grip.

Who’d taken her? Why was she a prisoner? She hadn’t done anything wrong in Shanghai. What were they going to do with her? Another sob wracked her chest and more tears flowed down her cheeks.

A shroud of self-pity enveloped her. All she wanted was her turn in the limelight. She shouldn’t have been here at all. Diane had been chosen for the part. But she had an accident on the Underground. Elsie had tried to save her but…it was too late. Everybody creates their own luck, don’t they? It just wasn’t Diane’s day or her part. She deserved what happened. And Elsie deserved her chance as an actress. One of them had to be disappointed. It just wasn’t going to be her.

She struggled again against the ropes. They seemed to become tighter. She stopped, exhausted.

Her head sank onto her chest. I wonder if they are white slavers? Like those people she’d read about in the Sunday papers. One of them had seen her on the stage and kidnapped her to sell into slavery as the mistress of a Chinese warlord. Or maybe the moll of a famous gangster? But why tie her up here? In the newspaper reports, the star had been kidnapped, imprisoned in the lap of luxury, waited on hand and foot by a charming manservant. But she was tied to an old chair in a dark, dank place which stank of rancid fish and putrid earth.

She twisted her head to one side. For some reason, she sensed a presence. ‘Who’s there?’ The words harsh against the darkness.

Nobody answered, but she knew somebody was there. Over to her left, in the midst of the blackness, there was something even darker. She stayed very still and controlled her breathing, taking a quick intake of air and holding it, listening for any noise.

Silence.

But there it was, on the left, the soft whisper of someone else breathing. Deep, controlled breathing.

She fought against the ropes. Once again, they seemed to get tighter the more she struggled to wrench herself free. ‘Who’s there? I know somebody is there.’

Still no answer.

Above her head, a single bulb hung from a black flex in the ceiling. The light didn’t penetrate to the gloom that enveloped the rest of the room. She realised the only thing it illuminated was her. Finally, my own spotlight, she thought bitterly.

She stopped struggling and listened again. She was sure she heard soft breathing from the depths of the darkness. ‘I know you’re out there,’ she shouted, using her theatrical voice to project more confidence than she actually felt.

There was movement. A chair being scraped back, someone standing. Then she caught the memory of a smell. The sweet, delicate aroma of a scent. Where had she smelt that before?

Footsteps coming towards her. No, the echoes of the room were playing with her hearing. They were moving off to her right. The creak of an old door opening, no light coming through the entrance though. The click of a switch. She was in darkness. Alone in the darkness.

She screamed and screamed and screamed, but nobody came.

Chapter 4

‘Hello, George, what’s your poison?’

‘A large Scotch with a drop of the wet stuff. I hope you’re buying, Charlie?’

‘Wouldn’t want you to reach into your pocket, George, don’t know what you’d find there.’

‘A lovely little bit of stuff from Kiev, last time I looked.’

Meaker waved at the barman standing in the corner, staring into space. Reluctantly, he stirred himself and strolled over to them. It was like a thousand other joints in Shanghai: a long mahogany bar, a stack of bottles behind the counter, many covered in dust, sawdust on the floor and a gaggle of bored girls in the corner.

The barman poured their drinks from a bottle of Johnnie Walker, leaving a jug of water with a brightly painted piper and the legend ‘Bonnie Scotland’ next to their glasses.

‘I hope it’s real,’ said George Cartwright, smelling his whisky.

‘Nothing’s real in Shanghai, you know that.’

‘Well anyway, down the hatch. If it doesn’t touch the sides, it can’t hurt.’

They both finished their drinks in one long swallow. The waiter ambled over again to refill the glasses. ‘I wouldn’t go too far, pal, it looks like George has got a thirst on.’

‘I’ve always got a thirst on. Runs in the family. A thirsty throat, that’s what all the Cartwrights have, according to my dad.’

‘Bottle, him seven dollar,’ said the barman.

‘Leave it. Saves you troubling your legs.’ Meaker reached over and snatched it from the barman, pouring another large double for himself.

‘So what’s this about, Charlie? I’m sure you haven’t asked me here just to drink your whisky and dazzle you with my sparkling repartee.’

‘Sparkling repartee is not your strength, George.’ He poured him another whisky.

Cartwright picked it up and drained the glass. He wiped his mouth. ‘So?’

‘How’s home life?’

Cartwright smiled ruefully. ‘As good as it gets. The wife refuses to speak to me. The servant has run off. And the kids, well, they think I’m just a piece of shit on the end of a stick. Other than that, everything’s hunky-dory. Why are you asking?’

‘Like to make a few bob on the side?’

‘Now you’re talking, Charlie.’

Meaker took a sip of his whisky. Cartwright filled his glass from the bottle, adding just a splash of water for the health of it.

‘I’ll put my cards on’t table, George. Hongkew’s a dead end. I’ve been stuck there for six months…’

‘You went there after working with Danilov, didn’t you?’

‘Sent there, not went there. Boyle thought it would be better if I “spent some time in a smaller station”. Silly old fart.’

‘Danilov dobbed you in, didn’t he?’

‘Strung up like a kipper, I was. Fuckin’ Russian. Always has his tongue up Boyle’s arse, cleaning his teeth from the inside.’

‘You know how I feel, Charlie. Can’t stand the little fucker, with his smug smile and neat desk.’ He took another long swallow of whisky and wiped his mouth. ‘I screw with his desk every day. Just to annoy the little fucker.’

‘Anyway, I’m looking to come back to Central but…’

‘Danilov’s in the way. What do you want me to do?’

‘Nothing. Yet.’ Meaker took a sip of his whisky. ‘Just let me know what he’s up to. He’s got that creek body to handle at the moment.’

‘And Miss Cavendish tells me Boyle has him working with the French.’

‘Rather him than me. If there’s one lot I can’t stand more than the Russians, it’s the French. Wanted nowt to do with ’em when I was in the trenches, unless they were female and horizontal.’

‘What’s in it for me, Charlie?’

‘A few bob on the side. Plus a nice cushy number when I come back to Central. I’ll look after you.’

‘Sounds good.’ Cartwright downed another glass of whisky in one long swallow. Meaker took a sip of his.

‘Well, are we kicking on? The Handle Bar is just getting going. Got a new load of Russians in from Siberia. Fresh meat for the grinder.’ He thrust his hips forward.

‘You go on, George. The missus will kill me if I’m out late again.’

***

‘Richard, you’ve finally made it. I’ve been sitting here like a lonely jam tart at the Mad Hatter’s tea party waiting for Alfred. What’s happened to the man?’

‘I’m supposed to know? You’re the one engaged to him.’

‘Engaged to nothing. You know that was just for his family and mine. Kept them both off our backs.’

The band finished their number and there was a smattering of applause from the dancers. Like a flock of errant sheep, they returned to their seats surrounding the wooden floor. Ciro’s was the most elegant place in town. No luxury had been spared no matter how frivolous: Italian marble, French glassware, an American band, the latest dancers from across the world. All because its owner, the richest man in Shanghai, David Sassoon, had once been refused entry at another club.

Sassoon was now sitting in his usual place, to the left of the band, at the front of the dance floor, surrounded by his latest harem of young women. Richard smiled and waved. Sassoon waved back but quickly returned to his girls.

‘Sassoon’s here with his FOBs.’

‘I do wish you wouldn’t use that term, Richard. I was “Fresh Off the Boat” once. Anyway, he can do what he wants. He owns the bloody place.’ She glanced across at Sassoon, hoping he wouldn’t notice she was looking. ‘The FOBs are getting younger. Either that or I’m getting older.’

‘Still as fresh as a cherry blossom to me, Margery.’

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Always the charmer, Richard. What would I do without you?’

‘Probably every man in Ciro’s, knowing your appetites. Somebody has to keep you in check.’

‘Somebody has to keep me in alcohol.’

Richard took the hint. ‘Champagne?’

‘The Belle Epoque. It feels like a fin de siècle sort of evening.’

He raised his arm and was immediately served by two waiters. ‘A bottle of the Belle Epoque.’

‘Certainly, Mr Ayres.’

‘Here’s Alfred now. God, he’s bumped into that awful man, Doyle. I do hope there isn’t a scene.’

Richard turned and craned his neck towards the door. He could see Alfred apologising profusely to a one-armed man, brushing the man’s jacket with his handkerchief. Doyle did not look too pleased, and kept waving Alfred away with his one arm, finally turning on his heels.

Alfred stood there a moment before carefully wending his way through the tables. ‘I just met the most awful man.’

‘Don’t you know who he was?’

‘Am I supposed to?’

‘That’s one-armed Doyle. He’s American, bodyguard for one of the warlords. General Sung, I think. He’s supposed to be a killer.’ Margery took a drag at the cigarette in her ivory holder. ‘I hope you apologised profusely.’

Alfred went a strange shade of pale.

‘Sit down. Here comes the wine.’

Alfred coughed once and pulled out a chair. ‘Where’s Elsie?’

‘I don’t know.’ Richard glanced at his watch. ‘She should have been here half an hour ago. I thought I was going to get the cold shoulder for being late again.’

The waiter returned with the glasses and a wine cooler filled with ice. He opened the champagne with a satisfying pop and filled three glasses to the brim. Richard lifted his and said, ‘Let’s drink to my good news.’

‘Good news?’

‘I’m going to be married.’

All the glasses froze in mid-air, except Richard’s. He drank his champagne in one long swallow, and reached for the bottle to pour himself another glass.

Margery was the first to react. ‘Married? To whom?’

‘Elsie, of course. She doesn’t know yet so keep it a secret. I’m going to ask her tonight. The band is primed to play our favourite song.’

‘It’s a bit sudden, isn’t it? You’ve only known her for a few months. And Susan only passed away last year,’ said Alfred.

Margery’s glass slammed on the table. ‘Don’t be a bloody fool, Richard. You know nothing about her.’

‘I know I love her. That’s enough for me.’

‘But she’s an actress ’

‘Yes and a bloody good one too, so you keep telling me, Alfred. But let’s not talk about it now. It’s a done deal, I’ve made my mind up. Rien ne va plus.’ He took the bottle from the ice bucket and poured the champagne, filling his glass right up to the rim.

They danced a little. Drank another bottle of Belle Epoque. Argued about Elsie again. Danced some more. And had yet another bottle of Belle Epoque. The dance floor was becoming a little less crowded, the band a little more subdued. All three of them had gradually slipped into a lassitude that comes from too much to drink and too little to say.

It was Alfred who broke the ice. ‘She’s not coming.’

‘Perhaps she heard you were going to ask her to get married,’ said Margery.

‘You’re drunk, Margery. Go home.’

‘No, Alfred, I’m not drunk. Just getting started actually.’

‘She’s probably just a little tired. Gone straight home I expect. I’ll go to see her tomorrow morning,’ said Richard swallowing the last of his champagne.

‘I thought you were off to Nanking tomorrow?’

‘I’ll put it off. Father will be angry but I can handle him.’

‘Do you want me to go to the theatre tomorrow?’

‘Alfred, always keen to see little Elsie, aren’t you?’

‘Margery, you’re drunk.’

‘But tomorrow I’ll be sober and you’ll still be trailing after Elsie like a lovelorn lamb.’

‘Margery, that’s enough.’ Richard’s voice was sharp and cutting.

Margery raised her glass. ‘Let’s have another bottle of bubbly for the road. Just one more won’t hurt. To celebrate Richard not getting engaged tonight.’ Margery drained it and fell forward onto the table, her hair resting on the remains of a plate of Lobster Thermidor.

‘I think it’s your turn to take her home,’ said Alfred.

‘I’ll do it. Don’t worry about the theatre tomorrow, I’ll handle it. She’s my fiancée, after all.’

‘Not yet she isn’t,’ said Alfred.

Richard stared at him through the blur of champagne. He couldn’t quite work out what he meant.

***

Strachan found the registry of doctors filed behind the desk of Miss Cavendish. It was dated 1927, he would have to ask her if there was a more recent copy. He knew she would be annoyed with him for taking it, but he didn’t care. It was more important to give Danilov his report tomorrow morning, rather than later in the day. He would soften her up with a box of chocolates from Loewenstein’s. He knew she had a particular weakness for nougatine.

He took the registry back to his desk and switched on the light.

‘Working late, Strachan?’ asked one of the night shift officers. He didn’t know his name.

‘Need to get this finished for Danilov by tomorrow. The Soochow Creek murder.’

‘You’re working for him? Poor bugger. Daft as a brush that one is. And Russian. Can’t trust ’em. You should try to get into Charlie Meaker’s team in Hongkew. Cushy number that is. Charlie knows how to play the game.’

‘I’ll remember. Thanks for the tip.’

‘And you might try Serendipity at Easter.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Another tip.’

Strachan frowned, still confused.

‘The Easter races. I’d put a few dollars on if I were you.’

‘Thanks again. I’ll remember.’ He opened the registry hoping the detective would take the hint.

‘You’ll be working all hours with Danilov. Never lets a body have a moment’s peace that one.’ The detective walked away to get himself a cup of coffee from the canteen.

Strachan opened the registry, scanning the specialisations of all the listed doctors. These were just the ones trained in Western medicine, there was no registry of traditional Chinese medicine. If there were, it would be a book of more than 1,000 pages. He would have to concentrate on the Western doctors.

Danilov was a queer fish, the others were right. Such a prim and proper man, different from the other White Russians he had met. But as they were all madams, ex-Tsarist soldiers, conmen or call-girls, he knew his knowledge of them was limited. But did Danilov have to be as frosty as an arctic winter?

He wasn’t used to such treatment. Of course, a few of the English had been difficult at first, looking down at him because he had a Chinese mother, but they usually came round when they found out his father had been a copper.

He never talked about him to any of them, but he knew the story was well known in the station. His father had been called to a robbery in the middle of his beat. Three hoodlums raiding a jewellery shop just off Haig Road. Before he had even taken his pistol from its holster, he was dead, shot through the heart.

That day always stayed in his memory. He was just seven years old. Strange people filled all the rooms of the house on Amoy Street. His mother was wailing in the bedroom. He tried to comfort her, to stop her crying, but he couldn’t. He didn’t even find out why she was crying until later.

He still missed his father. It was like an ache that was always going to be there, deep within him, missing the warmth of his body when he came home in the evening. Always missing that warmth.

He’d joined the police as soon as he was old enough, passing through the training course with flying colours. His mother was disappointed, she wanted him to go to University and become an architect but he knew this was what he wanted to do. It had been difficult at first. The English police had been wary of him whilst the Chinese just shunned him. But he had soon won the English over, drinking, fighting and taking down the bad guys as well as any of them. The Chinese were harder but their love of food helped. None of them could resist his mother’s soup.

The detective came back from the canteen carrying two steaming mugs of coffee. ‘You’re gonna need one of these if you’re working with Danilov. Never stops, that one.’ He placed a mug down in front of Strachan.

‘I know what you mean. Look at this.’ He pointed to the directory. ‘He wants a report on his desk tomorrow morning.’

‘Rather you than me.’ He went back to his desk, sat down and opened his newspaper to the sports pages.

Strachan began to scan the registry, turning the pages quickly as he read the doctors’ names and their particular fields. One entry caught his eye. Dr Teuscher, specialising in the psychiatry of sexual disorders. He wrote the address and the details down in his notebook.

But what to do about the traditional Chinese doctors? Perhaps he could ask Uncle Chang?

His uncle was the only member of his mother’s family who had kept in touch with her after the marriage to his father. The rest of the family had treated her as if she didn’t exist. She was no longer invited to family gatherings for grandfather’s birthday or Chinese New Year. No longer welcome in the family home in Wuxi with its single peach tree in the courtyard. No longer a member of the family.

She would be waiting for him to come home now. Every night, when he returned, she would get up and bring him his bowl of soup, sitting by his side as he ate it. There were no servants, there hadn’t been for a long time. He had often asked her to get a maid from the country to help her with the washing and cooking, but she had refused. It seemed her penance for marrying his father was to spend the rest of her life cooking, cleaning and caring for his son.

He returned to the registry of doctors. Another entry caught his eye. Dr Ian Halliwell, an American, newly arrived from New York, and specialising in genito-urinary infections. Well, he would certainly be kept busy in Shanghai. He added the doctor to his notebook. He took a sip of the coffee, but it was already cold. What time was it? He glanced up at the clock on the wall. 10.15. Just a few more pages to go.

On the second to last page, he found another entry that was in the right area. Dr Lamarr, sexual dysfunction with particular reference to androgyne conditions. He wrote down the address. The clinic was not far from where the body was found, on Yuanmingyuan Road.

Interesting. He wondered if there were a connection.

He heard the clock chime eleven as he finished the last page of the registry. Enough for tonight. Time to go home, drink my soup and tell Mother about the day. He would miss out some of the details though. He didn’t think his mother would enjoy the story of a body almost severed in two, belonging to a man pretending to be a woman.

***

Danilov opened the door of his apartment in Medhurst Gardens. It was small with one bedroom, an attached living room and bathroom, and servant quarters. There were no servants though. He didn’t need looking after.

He switched on the light. The bright whiteness of the walls always stunned him. He walked in, took off his hat and coat and hung them behind the door. The living room was bare. There was an old leather sofa which he occasionally sat in to read, facing an even older fire that was never lit, even in the depths of winter. If it was cold, he just kept his hat and coat on in the flat. Above the fire was his sole possession, a clock. He had bought it with his first salary from the police. The ticking was a constant reminder that life without his family was continuing. The only other furniture was a small table with a telephone, installed by the police commissioner to ensure he was always available. In the two years he had lived here, it had rung just once.

He didn’t like the flat. In fact, he hated it. But he stayed because he wasn’t there often, only returning to sleep each evening, like a bear returning to its cave. In this case, an empty, white cave.

He walked into the bedroom. The single bed was neatly made from this morning. Beside it was an old, rickety table with a light and a chess set. He switched on the light and removed a white pawn from the board. ‘You are going to be in trouble, Mr Allen,’ he said out loud to the white walls.

He had first met Allen at the promotion board two years ago. They had discovered a mutual love for chess and had been playing by correspondence ever since. He knew Allen was in Intelligence, anybody connected with Special Branch had to be, but that was none of his concern. All he cared about was Allen’s next move. Checkmate was just four moves away unless he was very careful.

He took off his brown jumper, folding it carefully on the rattan chair at the end of the bed. He sat down and removed his shoes. His fingers were slightly stiff, his left shoulder aching. He no longer had the energy or the joie de vivre of his youth. Where had all the years gone, he wondered?

He opened the door of the bedside table and took out a tray. On it was an opium pipe made from bamboo with an ivory bowl, a spirit lamp, silver lighter, small ebony box and a silver pin, all placed neatly in their usual positions.

He took the lighter and lit the spirit lamp on the tray. The flame spluttered briefly before glowing brightly, throwing a shadow on the wall of the bedroom. He picked up the pin and rolled the pea-sized ball of opium in the flame, heating it all over. He watched the shadow changing shape on the wall as the opium ball reacted with the flame.

The first breath of the opium filled his lungs. Immediately, a soft wave of ease, like being caressed by an eel, flowed across his body. He exhaled, smelling the sweet, ashy fragrance of the opium freshen the stale room.

Another mouthful of smoke, seeing the little ball of opium flare briefly before going out and returning to black ash. The smoke again filled his lungs and a renewed sense of ease filled his body. Less intense this time, but still there, still flowing into every cell and dancing around, relaxing every fibre of his being.

He placed the pipe next to the chess set and lay back on the bed. Images of his wife and children flashed through his mind.

A white dress, cinched at the waist, sun setting behind his wife’s shoulder, silhouetting her hair.

A dance, music playing, her body held at arm’s length, her head back, laughing.

A child sitting on a table in the kitchen, jumping down and running to greet him, nothing but joy on her face.

Waving goodbye at the station, her tears, his children shouting, him leaving to go to Moscow.

How he missed them. Their hugs, their joy, their love. Would he ever see them again?

The fleeting images softened. Filtered light through the leaves of birch and needles of pine. He was at home again, running through the forest, discovering a natural pool, diving deep within in it, feeling the chilling warmth of the water. Then the wriggling energy of his son beside him, just learning how to swim and moving with all the grace of a hippopotamus. His beaming smile wondrous at defying the attempts of the water to keep him in its embraces. Afterwards, teeth chattering like the heels of a Spanish dancer, they smelt the sweet aroma of hot chocolate beside a pine-scented fire, and devoured the warm soup of piroshki.

Home.

Softness.

Sleep.

No more worries.

No more nightmares.

Not tonight.

***

In the dark basement of a building not far from the life and bustle of the Bund, Elsie Everett screamed her lungs out for most of the night.

Nobody heard her.

February 23rd 1928.

The 32nd day of the Year of the Earth Dragon.

Chapter 5

Inspector Danilov and Detective Constable Strachan stopped in front of the ornate stone building on Avenue Stanislaus Chevalier. They could have been in front of any building in any department of France. Two Doric columns soared to a heavy tiled roof, punctured by three mansard windows. Two sitting lions guarded each side of the elegant entrance. The whole place had the aroma of suburban France; cooking chicken, red wine, rosemary and garlic.

It was only the presence of Annamese constables, flowing in and out of the tall oak doors, that destroyed the image of rural France.

They walked up the granite steps and approached a gendarme sitting behind a bleached walnut desk. ‘We have an appointment with Major Renard.’ said Danilov.

‘And who shall I say is calling?’ replied the gendarme in fluent, if accented, English.

‘Inspector Danilov of the Shanghai Municipal Police and Detective Constable Stra-chan.’

Strachan winced visibly as he heard his name pronounced by Danilov.

‘Certainly, Inspector, this fonctionnaire will take you to the office. Please follow him.’

The fonctionnaire was Annamese, dressed in an eighteenth-century costume of brightly coloured satin waistcoat and trousers, accessorised with a white powdered wig. Following closely behind him, they walked up sweeping marble stairs. On either side, pastoral scenes of an idyllic France, with pretty shepherdesses guarding placid sheep, decorated the walls. They passed under a low arch etched with ‘Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité’ in strident gold letters. A long corridor stretched before them.

‘A bit different from our HQ,’ whispered Strachan.

‘The French always have a hint of the baroque in their public buildings. It’s meant to intimidate the masses,’ said Danilov.

‘It’s certainly working.’

They passed heavy wooden doors on either side of the corridor. All of them were closed with no sounds coming from within. The silence of the building was interrupted by the echoes of their boots on the marble floor and the soft shuffle of the slippers of the fonctionnaire, a slipping, sliding sound that slithered off the walls.

Danilov tried to make less noise as he walked, but he couldn’t. The nails embedded in the heels of his boots clattered against the floor with every step.

Eventually, they reached the end of the corridor. The fonctionnaire knocked softly on a double door that stretched all the way to the ceiling.

‘Entrez.’

The fonctionnaire opened one side and stepped back, allowing them to enter first.

In front of them, two immense sash windows filled the room with light. Behind an ornate desk sat a young Frenchman in what appeared to be a military uniform. He got up, walked around his desk and approached them with his hand stretched out.

‘Inspector Danilov, I presume?’

‘It’s good to meet you, Major Renard.’

The officer laughed. ‘I’m not Major Renard, I’m his assistant, Lieutenant Masset.’ They shook hands and he indicated a pair of chairs, placed against the wall. ‘Major Renard will see you in a moment, Inspector. He’s a very busy man. Can I get you some coffee?’

‘Thank you but no. We’ve drunk enough coffee to float the Ile de France this morning.’ Danilov took his seat against the wall and proceeded to roll himself a cigarette. The Lieutenant returned to his chair behind the desk and continued with his paperwork. Behind him, a large ormolu clock, with two naked cherubs holding up the face, ticked loudly.

As he rolled his cigarette, Danilov looked around the room. The furnishings were decorated in the style of fin de siècle France. As if they had been purchased thirty years ago and remained in this room ever since. The ceiling was at least fifteen feet high, and had a rounded corbel that was peculiarly French. Another painting of rural France dominated one wall, while the other had a large, faded tapestry of a hunting dog surrounded by autumn foliage.

The clock behind the Lieutenant ticked remorselessly on.

Lieutenant Masset abruptly stood up. ‘Major Renard will see you now.’ Danilov checked his watch. Twelve minutes since the time they had entered. A pre-arranged time to keep guests waiting, he thought. How typically French; just like the headmaster of a school, keeping the errant pupils waiting for their punishment.

The Lieutenant walked to another pair of double doors that stretched up to the ceiling, opening both of them to reveal a room three times larger than the antechamber. At the end, a small French gentleman sat behind an immense oak desk.

The Lieutenant guided them across a thick oriental carpet and past cabinets containing exquisite Sèvres porcelain. They were directed to sit in two wooden chairs placed in front of the desk. Major Renard did not get up.

‘I presume you do not speak French, Inspector. Major Renard does not speak English so I will translate. Forgive me if I make any errors.’

Major Renard stared at both of them. He was small with an elegant goatee, combed and manicured into a silvery point. His white hair was brushed back to reveal a high forehead. His eyes were perched above a long, beak-like nose that dominated his face. When he spoke, Danilov was surprised to hear a high, excitable squeak rather than the deep voice he was expecting. The contrast was very disconcerting, like discovering the bull one had hired to service a field of cows was only interested in other bulls.

After a long speech in French, the Lieutenant began talking in his accented English. ‘The Major had asked for Chief Inspector Boyle to attend this meeting. You are not him. You are not even English.’

‘The Chief Inspector sends his apologies. Unfortunately, given the short notice, he is indisposed at this time.’

The Major grunted at this without it being translated.

‘I am Inspector Danilov and this is my assistant, Detective Constable Stra-chan.’

Again, the Major launched into a long speech in French. ‘The Major supposes that you will have to do but he is surprised the English Head of Detectives does not give this matter the attention it deserves,’ the Lieutenant translated.

‘It would be difficult to give it any sort of attention without knowing what it was.’ This time the Major turned to Masset for a translation. There was a brief discussion between the two of them before the Lieutenant continued. ‘To save the Major’s valuable time, he has authorised me to give you an outline of the matter.’

The Lieutenant brought his thumb, index and middle fingers together and blew as if moistening them before turning the pages of a book. Danilov thought it was a very interesting idiosyncrasy. The action of a clerk, rather than of a policeman.

‘This is a very difficult situation. There have been murders.’

‘Murder is unfortunately fairly common in all parts of the city. It is a problem we are facing all the time,’ said Danilov.

‘Monsieur, this is different. These are particularly brutal murders.’

The Lieutenant let his words lie on the table between them. The Major embarked on another long speech in French.

The Lieutenant continued speaking, but it was obvious to Danilov he was no longer translating. ‘In the French Garde Municipale, we believe the murderer comes from the International Settlement.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘A witness saw the murderer’s car leaving the scene of the crime. It had a number plate from your district.’

‘What was the number?’

‘The witness couldn’t remember. It all happened so fast you understand. He just knew the car was from the International Settlement.’

‘How can we assist the Garde Municipale?’

Lieutenant Masset blew on the ends of his fingers. ‘When I explain the murders to you, Inspector, then you will understand.’

Danilov leant back in his hard-back chair. The Major began another long speech in French. But before he could get into the flow of his speech, Danilov interrupted him.

‘Je comprends que cette situation est vraiment importante, Monsieur le Chef, comment pourrait la Police Municipale de Shanghai vous aider?’

Both the Lieutenant and the Major watched him in silence. Eventually, Major Renard said in English, ‘Your French is quite good, Monsieur.’

‘As is your English, Monsieur le Chef. Now we’ve got that out of the way, how can we help?’

The Major nodded at Masset. ‘We expect you to find the murderer and return him to us so that he may be put on trial. The honour of France is at stake.’

‘The honour of France?’

‘One of the victims was an official of the French government, killed without mercy. This ’orrible murder must not be left unpunished.’ The Major pronounced ‘horrible’ in a very French way.

‘And the other victim?’

‘A Russian prostitute. A woman of no consequence in society, but nonetheless we believe the murders are related.’

‘Why?’

‘Lieutenant Masset will give you all the details but there was one feature that appeared in both murders. They both had Chinese characters carved into their bodies.’

Danilov looked across at Strachan. ‘We are also investigating a similar death in the Settlement at the moment. A killing without mercy. Could I see your case notes?’

‘Masset will give them to you. The killing may be just be another vicious gang war over opium but–’

‘We doubt it,’ interrupted Masset.

The Major glared at him. He tapped the table three times with a well-manicured fingernail. ‘You must understand, monsieur, when one of our officials is attacked, the nation of France itself is under attack.’

‘We will do everything in our power to help find the murderer.’

The Major pulled the end of his white goatee, sharpening it into a point. ‘I do not need to remind you of the consequences of failure, do I, Inspector?’

‘No, sir, you don’t.’

‘Good. Find him and deliver him to us.’ Once more, the Major tapped his desk three times, then waved his feminine hands. Masset stood up immediately.

Danilov understood that the interview was over. ‘Thank you for your time, Major. We will catch this man.’

There was no answer. Just another wave of the hands.

Chapter 6

‘Can I help you, sir?’ The old concierge stretched his arm, blocking the narrow back entrance to the theatre.

‘I’m looking for Miss Everett,’ said Richard.

‘You and everybody else. Didn’t turn up last night. Not good, not good at all. The artistes always turn up. Once we had Mr Mayhew here, wonderful actor, magnificent Lear. He turned up with a broken leg one day. Still went on. Had to do the heath scene in a chair but he did it anyway. What a trouper, if you catch my drift.’ He tapped the side of his nose with his finger. ‘Can’t say the same for Miss Everett though.’

‘I was supposed to meet her last night…’

‘I thought I’d seen you before, but there are always so many chaps waiting for the girls, I can’t tell ’em apart. Here’s Mr Trevelyan, the director. Miss Everett is not in his good books, if you catch my drift.’

‘You’re looking for Miss Everett?’ The director was a bulky, florid man with red-veined cheeks and a large spotted handkerchief sitting like a toadstool in his top pocket. ‘Aren’t we all. She was supposed to be here last night at six o’clock for rehearsals. Didn’t make those and didn’t make the show either. Miss Davenport had to take her place. Heavy calves, Miss Davenport. Doesn’t have the lightness of foot for the part.’

‘I was supposed to meet her last night after the show. She didn’t turn up.’

The director shrugged his shoulders and sighed. ‘So you were stood up too. Typical. A girl gets infatuated with some man and her standards drop quicker than her knickers. Well, if you see her, tell her not to come back. She’s been replaced by Miss Smith.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Between you and me, she was getting a little past it anyway. They all have a sell-by date those sort of girls. And hers had been sold a long time ago.’

‘So she didn’t come here yesterday evening?’ Richard persisted.

‘That’s what I’ve been telling you, my dear. Didn’t see a hair of her once pretty little head. I hope she enjoys her little fling because the final curtain has been lowered on her career. The only place that will have her now is Little Piddling rep, on a Wednesday night, in the middle of February.’

‘But she said she was coming here. We were at the Astor…’

‘Drinking again, was she? I warned her about that. Ages actresses dreadfully does the booze. The skin never recovers, you know.’ He glanced at the clock in the concierge’s office. ‘Is that the time? I must be off to see Harold about his shimmy in the third act.’ The director looked at Richard and his voice changed, adding an edge to his words. ‘If you see Miss Everett, tell her not to come back. She’s been sacked. Given the elbow. Shown the curtain. Danced her last chorus. She won’t be paid either. We don’t pay those who let us down, do we, Mr Harcourt?’

‘No, we don’t, sir,’ the concierge said smiling.

‘Anyway, I have a dance number waiting. Goodbye.’

With a little wave, the director flounced off into the darkness of the theatre.

Richard took out his pocket book and quickly wrote a note for Elsie. ‘Would you be good enough to give Miss Everett this, if you see her?’

The concierge took the note, leaving his hand extended, palm upwards.

‘Oh yes, of course.’ He gave the man a dollar.

‘Thank you kindly, sir. Very generous. But between you and me, I don’t think we’ll see her again. There was another gentleman who used to hang around here waiting for her. If I were you, I would forget Miss Everett. Not your type at all, if you get my drift.’ And once again, he touched his finger to the side of his nose.

The concierge pocketed the dollar and returned inside his shed guarding the theatre door.

At the bottom of the alley, a hawker was selling newspapers. In his hand was a copy of the North China Daily News with a large headline:

WOMAN’S BODY FOUND IN CREEK

Richard shivered as if someone had just walked over his grave.

***

‘Both occurred in the last eight days?’

Lieutenant Masset nodded. ‘We found the second body three days ago, over towards the old Chinese city, on the borders of our Concession. At first, we thought they were gang related.’

‘What changed your mind?’

‘They lack the simple brutality of a gang killing. With the gangs, it’s either a shot to the head or long, painful torture, followed by dumping the body in the street. Both are there to set an example. To discourage the others, as you English are fond of saying.’

‘It’s actually to “encourage” the others, and it was used first by a Frenchman,’ said Strachan.

Danilov held his hand up for silence. ‘But you think something else is happening?’

The Lieutenant again brought his three fingers up to his mouth and blew on them. ‘It’s almost as if the bodies had been put on show. Like an art gallery. We were meant to find them, to see them, as they had been displayed.’

Danilov reached into his pocket and pulled out his tobacco tin. He took one of the papers from the tin and laid it on the table, adding a few strands of tobacco. Then he closed the tin, placing it on its side on the edge of the table, adjusting the angle until it matched the lip of the wood. That felt better. The tin was in perfect alignment. ‘Tell me about the bodies,’ he said.

Masset opened the case file. ‘The first victim was one of our resident magistrates, a lawyer by training, Monsieur Flamini. The body was found on the steps of the courthouse, hands tied behind his back. He had been strangled. That was eight days ago.’

‘He could have been killed by a gang. Perhaps he had jailed one if their members,’ said Strachan.

‘That is true,’ agreed Masset, pausing for a moment for effect, ‘but why was the body frozen? As hard as ice it was. The weather has been cold recently but not cold enough to freeze a body.’ Lieutenant Masset stared into mid-air. ‘I’ll always remember the way the man’s lips were parted from his teeth. Pulled back in a snarl like a scared dog.’

He took out a silver case and lit a cigarette. The aroma of Turkish tobacco filled the room. ‘It was a grimace, the look of a man who had seen something terrible at the point of his death.’ Masset took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘I was at Verdun, Inspector, and I’ll tell you, I never saw anything like the look on the magistrate’s face.’

He took another drag on the cigarette. ‘And we found a ten dollar note frozen in the man’s hand, his fingers gripping it tightly. Our pathologist thought he had been alive when he was frozen.’

‘Could I see the body?’

Masset shook his head. ‘It has already been returned to his family. I believe it is on its way back to France.’

‘That is disappointing.’ Inspector Danilov looked down at his hands. ‘Had Monsieur Flamini been threatened in any way?’

‘Not that we know. He had been a magistrate here for four years. He was known as diligent in his work. A wife and two children in France. A mistress in Shanghai but that is common, is it not? Even among the English.’ Masset shrugged his shoulders in a way only the French know how. ‘We checked all his recent cases to see if someone with a grudge would want him killed but he handled property related work rather than criminal law. There was a suggestion of small irregularities in some of the recent property cases that came up before him. But nothing could be investigated or proven. If we arrested every official for “small irregularities”, we would have none left to do the work.’

Again he shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was when the pathologist undressed Monsieur Flamini that he found the strangest piece of evidence. There were Chinese characters carved into his chest. The characters for “vengeance”.’

Danilov took the Lieutenant’s lighter and lit the cigarette he had been holding in his fingers. He inhaled deeply and blew out a long stream of blue smoke. ‘Now, that is interesting.’ He glanced across at Strachan. ‘And the second murder?’

‘A Russian prostitute. Not high class and not a street walker. Just another Russian prostitute.’ Masset stopped speaking, suddenly realising that the inspector in front of him had the surname Danilov.

‘Just another Russian. Please carry on, Lieutenant.’

‘She was found outside the abattoir close to the old Chinese city on Rue Albi, floating in a barrel of pig’s blood. For making boudin noir, you know.’

Danilov nodded to encourage the Frenchman to continue.

‘According to our pathologist, Dr Legrand, she was alive when she was put in the barrel. He found blood in her lungs and trachea.’

‘How did she die?’ asked Strachan.

‘She drowned. According to our pathologist, she had been lying in the barrel of blood for at least two days before she was found.’

Danilov took another drag on his cigarette. ‘Her time of death?’

‘He couldn’t be certain. The warmth of the pig’s blood you see…’ Lieutenant Masset stopped talking. He blew on his fingers once more and then continued. ‘Her hands had been tied with a thin rope. There was one other thing. She also had Chinese characters carved into her chest. But this time, they were different. They were the characters for “damnation”.’

‘Were the characters carved in the same style?’

Lieutenant Masset shrugged his shoulders once more. ‘I think they were, but I can’t be sure. I didn’t spend a lot of time with the body. You’ll find the coroner’s report in our case files.’

‘Thank you, Lieutenant Masset, I’ll read it.’

‘We have no real leads to the killer. To be frank, our detectives are more used to managing brothels and opium dens than investigating murder.’ He brought his fingers up to his mouth and blew on them. ‘You seem to be very interested in these murders, Inspector. Why?’

Inspector Danilov stubbed out the end of his cigarette and immediately rolled another. The office was now a warm fug of blue smoke, the whispers of fumes caught in the bright light from the sash windows.

‘We may have a similar murder ourselves. A young woman, or should I say a young man, found in Soochow Creek, his body nearly cut in two, his stomach and genitals slashed to ribbons.’

‘You think they’re connected?’

Danilov shrugged his shoulders, copying the Frenchman, but not achieving the same Gallic elegance. ‘I’m not sure, but they do show similarities: hands tied, Chinese characters carved into the chest. And it is strange that all three murders should occur within such a short space of time. If it were the usual gangland squabbles, we would see shootings and very public displays of revenge. These killings, brutal though they are, seem very personal.’

He took another long drag on his cigarette. ‘A message from the killer to the world, perhaps. Could I see the body of the second victim?’

‘I’m afraid not. Nobody came to claim her, so she was cremated according to French law. It’s one of the few areas in which we are remarkably efficient.’

‘Then her clothes may give us some clues.’

‘She was naked when she was discovered.’ Masset thought for a moment. ‘We still have the barrel in which she was found. It’s in the cellars beneath here.’

Danilov stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. ‘Let’s take a look, Lieutenant.’

***

Lieutenant Masset led them through a maze of corridors in the basement of the building. Here, the richly painted walls of the floors above had been replaced by rough grey brick. It many areas it was badly finished as if the builders couldn’t be bothered with any surface that their bosses were unlikely to see.

Danilov realised that not many people were invited down to this part of the building.

‘I think it’s this way, Inspector.’

They passed an open room filled with junk from past investigations. It was all piled in the room in one heap, without any thought for filing or organisation. Danilov looked inside and shuddered.

‘I think it’s in here.’ Lieutenant Masset pointed to another room across the corridor. He opened the door and switched on a light. A bare bulb hung from a black and white flex in the middle of the room. Danilov could see that it was just half-filled with junk, evidence from investigations and props from a Christmas party. A lack of cobwebs indicated that most of these things had been left here recently.

‘It should be in the corner.’

He picked his way around the remains of a lion’s head. The kind used by the martial arts troupes at Chinese New Year when they dance their blessing of good fortune on a business or shop. The body of the lion was nowhere to be seen.

Masset removed a dust sheet. Underneath was a wooden barrel. Its appearance was nothing out of the ordinary. Just another wooden barrel, used to store wine or vinegar, about four feet tall and with the classic round waist and tapered top and bottom.

Nothing about it indicated that it had once stored the body of a dead Russian prostitute.

Strachan coughed. ‘This makes our filing system look modern, sir.’

Danilov raised his hand. ‘This is the barrel in which she was found?’

Lieutenant Masset nodded.

‘What happened to the pig’s blood?’

‘It was poured away in order to retrieve the body’

‘Was it saved? Or filtered to see if anything was trapped in it?’

Lieutenant Masset shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. The first constables on the scene thought she was still alive. They poured it away and tried to revive her.’

‘But your pathologist said she had been dead for at least two days.’

‘We can’t fault them for enthusiasm. And anyway, the coroner may have been wrong. He wasn’t certain of the exact time of death. The warmth of the pig’s blood had affected the onset of rigor mortis.’

Danilov grunted. He walked over and examined the barrel. In the thin light of the bulb hanging from a flex in the ceiling, he could just make out the red stains down one side of the barrel. ‘Did the pathologist notice anything else?’

‘As I told you, he thought she was alive when she was put in there. The top of the barrel had been sealed with pitch. A small air pocket above the blood may have allowed her to breath for a short while. Not long. Gradually, she would have used up the air and…’

‘Drowned.’ Strachan was writing in his notebook. He stopped and lifted his head. Both men were staring at the barrel.

‘Not a pleasant death,’ whispered Lieutenant Masset.

Danilov ached for a cigarette. Anything to get him out of this cellar and away from the tomb of his fellow Russian. ‘I think we’ve seen enough.’ He turned to go and stopped. ‘Lieutenant Masset, do you still have the lid of the barrel?’

‘It’s somewhere around here, I think.’ He scanned the ground at his feet. The lid was propped up against the lion’s head. Masset picked it up and handed it to Danilov.

It looked like a normal lid, around twenty inches across. At the edges a thick layer of pitch or tar had created a black ring that stuck to the top and side.

‘The pitch would have made the seal airtight. She must have used up all the air that remained in the barrel before gradually sinking into the pig’s blood,’ said Masset. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat boudin noir again.’

Danilov turned the lid of the barrel over to look at the underside. He could see traces of red staining the wood where the blood had lapped against the lid. He walked over to the centre of the room, avoiding the evidence from the countless other cases strewn on the floor. He examined the underneath of the lid, tilting it left and right under the harsh light.

There was something, Scratches, faint marks against the grain of the wood. ‘Stra-chan, come here. Your eyes are better than mine. Look at that.’

Strachan rushed over and took the lid, holding it up to the light. ‘There seems to be something scratched on the lid, sir. Two words, I think.’ He tilted the lid so that the light shot obliquely across it. ‘The first letter is an “H”, sir. Then, there’s an “A”.’ He brought the lid closer and then moved it away, squinting with his eyes as he did so. ‘Then there seems to be a “T” and an “E”. Spells HATE.’

‘Thank you, Stra-chan, even I can work that one out.’

‘The next line is not so clear. An “A”, I think. Then an “L” and maybe another “L”. But the last letter is very faint, sir. It’s hard to see down here, sir.’

‘“HATE ALL” That is interesting,’ said Danilov.

‘A message from the killer, sir?’

‘It looks like it, doesn’t it, Stra-chan? Lieutenant Masset, you didn’t notice these scratches?’

The Lieutenant shrugged his shoulders once more. ‘We thought they were marks from the makers. Not important.’

‘I think you were wrong.’ Danilov put his hat back on his head. ‘Let’s get out of here. I need the fresh air of a smoke.’

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