Death In Shanghai (12 page)

Over the years since then, he knew what he needed to do. But it had only become clear when he came to China. It was only here that he understood the rightness of his cause. It was only here he knew the Chinese had been practising his justice for millennia. Here, he had come alive like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly. Now, he acted just as he was meant to act. Just as he was guided to act.

He knew who would be next.

***

A small man with a thin, caterpillar moustache stood in front of Sergeant Wolfe’s desk. ‘I’m the interpreter, Mr Huang. You rang for me?’

‘We’ve got a strange one.’ The sergeant pointed to the Giant standing in the corner, examining one of the pockets of his threadbare clothes. ‘Can’t understand a word he says. Thought he might be one of the river people.’

The interpreter began speaking a dialect to the Giant, all sibilant esses and long, slithering sounds. The man replied quickly, again going through his pantomime of pointing and gesturing.

‘You were correct, he’s from the river. His boat is moored at Soochow Creek,’ said the interpreter.

‘Ask him why he’s here.’

The interpreter spoke a few words and received a lengthy speech in return, complete with pointing, waving and a peculiar demonstration of something. Sergeant Wolfe scratched his head.

‘A voluble people, the river dwellers. Storytellers all of them,’ said the interpreter shrugging his shoulders. ‘We could be here a long time.’

‘Tell him to get on with it, I haven’t got all day.’

Once again, the interpreter spoke only a few words to the Giant. This time, the answer still had all the previous gestures and pointing but was considerably shorter. Meanwhile a newcomer entered the reception area and noticed the desk sergeant.

‘Hello, Jim, you seem to be busy today.’

‘George Cartwright. Long time, no see. I thought you’d be skiving off somewhere this time of day. Isn’t it time for your afternoon refreshment?’

‘Funny man, you are. I’d never do that on duty, would I?’ Cartwright stared down at the small interpreter and up to the ragged Giant standing beside him. ‘What you got here then?’

The interpreter took his chance to speak. ‘The man here said it’s about the body, yesterday. The police were asking if anybody saw anything.’

‘Which body?’ asked Cartwright.

‘The one in Soochow Creek. The man wants to see Detective Strallan or something like that.’

‘Probably Strachan, him and Danilov are handling that case.’ Sergeant Wolfe turned to the interpreter. ‘They’re not here now. Ask him to come back later.’

‘Don’t worry, Jim. I said I’d help out on that case. Do you have a room where we can talk quietly?’

‘Take that one, George. Thanks for this, I’ve enough on my plate already with this little lot.’ He indicated the crowd of people who were waiting to see him.

‘You owe me one, Jim. A large one with a splash of water in it.’ Cartwright pointed at the Giant and the interpreter. ‘Come this way and have a chat with Uncle George.’ He winked at Sergeant Wolfe and led them to the interview room.

After they were seated, Cartwright got right down to business. ‘Now then, what’s all this about?’ He had made sure there was as much distance as possible in the confines of the room between himself and the Giant. He’d heard stories in the bars of the terrible diseases some of the river people carried. It was enough to make your toes curl. Better have a few stiff ones after this, just in case.

The Giant kept shifting around on the wooden police chair, obviously unused to sitting on such a hard seat. He turned this way and that, finding some semblance of comfort by putting his right leg up on the chair, jammed against the haunch of his bottom.

A dirty toenail stared right at Cartwright. He tried to look away but kept being dragged back to its hard yellow cap with a thick layer of black beneath. ‘Ask him what he wants,’ he stammered, finally dragging his eyes from the foot and its webbed toes.

The interpreter, who was also sitting as far away from the Giant as he could, let forth a slither of sounds.

The Giant began to reply slowly, gradually gaining pace and expression as he became more involved with his tale.

The interpreter kept up a running commentary. ‘He had got up early that morning…to catch
Lei Man
…it’s a small river fish…lives in the mud…used in
congee
…he sells them to the restaurants on Foochow Street…gets a good price…’

‘He just needs to say what happened, not give his bloody life story.’

The interpreter rapped out another trilling song of dialect. He tapped on the table for effect at the end of his speech. The Giant began to speak again, this time more slowly and precisely.

The interpreter continued, ‘…he was just washing the bow of his boat when he saw two men rowing out to the sandbar.’

‘He was certain it was two men?’

The interpreter asked and a sing-song reply came back from the Giant which even Cartwright recognised was an affirmative.

‘What did the men look like?’

‘He couldn’t see their faces…one was tall and the other was short.’ The Giant used his hands to show the difference in height. ‘The tall one was nearly as tall as him.’

‘How does he know?’

The interpreter asked the question and immediately began translating the answer. ‘Because when they reached the “Beach of Dead Babies” – I think that’s what he called it – when they reached there, the two men stood up in the boat.’

Cartwright was about to ask another question when the interpreter reached across and touched him on his hand. He pulled it away immediately, taking out his large white handkerchief to wipe the spot where he had been touched.

The interpreter carried on anyway. ‘They took something quite large from inside the boat which they threw over the side onto the beach…he thought they were just dumping some rubbish.’

‘At that time in the morning?’

This time the interpreter answered the question without referring to the Giant. ‘On the river, you don’t ask many questions, so nobody tells you any lies.’

The Giant started speaking again. The interpreter translated, ‘…they spent about two minutes over at the beach, leaning out from the boat, arranging their parcel.’

‘He didn’t ask them what they were doing?’

The interpreter’s eyes fluttered to the ceiling. ‘These people don’t. None of their business what anybody else does. They value their lives.’

The Giant carried on.

‘…he says they rowed back to the bank and got into a big car. The bald-headed man drove and the tall one sat in the back.’

‘Bald-headed?’

The interpreter and the Giant demonstrated with his hands. ‘He says the man’s head was totally bald, like a winter melon except his head was pink not green.’ The Giant laughed and both shoulders lifted almost to his ears as he did so. When he had finished, he carried on talking. ‘He then went out with his net just below Garden Bridge to fish for
Lei Man
. When he came back two hours later, the police were everywhere.’

Cartwright glanced up at the clock on the green wall of the room. Nearly five-thirty, time for his evening pick-me-up at Coco’s. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

The interpreter spoke once again. The Giant shrugged his broad shoulders and shook his head.

‘It seems that’s it,’ said the interpreter.

‘OK, thank him for visiting the station today. You know, the usual polite rubbish you people enjoy hearing from each other.’ Cartwright started to get up when the Giant started speaking once more, this time holding his right hand out, palm upwards.

‘He says he wants five dollars,’ said the interpreter.

‘What?’

‘Five dollars. The reward that was promised.’

‘Reward?’

‘For information. The policeman told all the boat people.’

‘I know nothing ’bout any reward. Tell him to come back later. You can get your chit from Sergeant Wolfe.’ Cartwright got up and rushed out of the room. God, he needed a drink.

The interpreter tried to explain about the reward. The Giant did not look a happy man.

***

The local police had closed off the park at all the entrances, but that hadn’t stopped a crowd of sightseers from gathering around the metal railings.

Inspector Danilov drew up in the black sedan driven by Strachan. They had gone back to the station after the interview with the doctor, only to be greeted by the news of the discovery of another body.

‘Afternoon, sir, we’ve closed the gates and sealed off the park.’

‘Well done, Sergeant. Who found the body?’

The sergeant pointed at the plump, well-fed Ah Yi, sitting on a bench just inside the gates. She was shouting and crying to the police in loud Shanghainese. Her young charge sat quietly in his pram, enjoying all the activity going on around him.

‘I have to go home. I’m late. The family will be worried, his parents will sack me,’ she wailed.

‘Stra-chan, interview this woman quickly, then get her a police escort home before she wakes the dead. I’ll deal with the body.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Strachan moved quickly to the woman’s side, kneeling down next to her and touching her softly on her arm. ‘Is this your child?’ he said quietly in Shanghainese. The woman stopped crying and nodded. ‘He’s well behaved. You’ve taught him well.’ She nodded again. ‘We mustn’t get him worried though.’ Again his arm touched hers lightly.

‘No,’ she answered.

‘Just tell me what you saw and then we’ll drive you and the boy home.’ He tickled the boy under his chin. The young child responded with a large smile, his eyes vanishing into the fleshy cheeks.

In between gasps for breath, she began to talk, Strachan encouraging her with little nods of the head.

Danilov scanned the park. It was caught in that wonderful time between winter and summer, the buds beginning to show on the trees and signs of life bursting through the brown earth. It was a time he loved in Minsk, when the crocuses were pushing through the hard ground, little fingers of green with blue highlights, thrusting themselves into the world.

Over to his left, an English lawn stretched to a wooden bandstand. Its wooden stage lay empty and forlorn, just memories of hot summer nights and waltz music to keep it warm in winter.

The crowd behind him, four or five deep in some places, had gone silent, straining to hear the testimony of the Ah Yi as she talked to Strachan.

Another crowd, another public spectacle.

Danilov lifted his nose to the breeze. There it was again, the lilting scent of incense in the air. Again, he was taken back to a church in Minsk, walking down the aisle with his new bride-to-be, the chants of the monks a counterpoint to the echoes of his footsteps, a priest in ornate golden robes and white flowing beard waiting for them at the altar.

He turned around quickly and scanned the faces of the crowd behind the iron railings. Young and old, round and gaunt, short and tall, European and Chinese, they all stared at the plump Ah Yi giving her statement.

And there he was. The hawker with his cauldron of charcoal and sweet potatoes, reaching for his paddle and stirring the white embers in the base. The aroma of incense wafted through the air again.

The sergeant touched Danilov’s arm. ‘It’s this way, sir.’ He led him down a narrow path, past a magnolia tree in full blossom, round a corner and there she was.

‘Please wait here, Sergeant.’

She was lying on a park bench dressed in a light pink camisole, a vivid splash of red glistening on her chest. Her hands were neatly crossed in front of her and her eyes were open.

Blue eyes. Cornflower-blue eyes. The same as Henry Sellars. They had a peculiar lack of life in them, like glass eyes lying on a tray in an ophthalmologist’s shop.

He moved closer. He could see red lines scarring her arms and legs. Sharp, slicing cuts that contrasted with the great red gash that used to be her throat. But something seemed wrong to him. She wasn’t as posed as Henry Sellars had been.

He walked back to the sergeant. ‘Has anybody touched the body?’

The sergeant looked down. ‘I’m sorry, sir, one of the lads touched her face to see if she was dead. I’m afraid she fell over onto her side. We didn’t want to move her.’

Danilov lifted his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. Would they never learn? Well, the damage was done now. ‘Please inform Dr Fang that another body will be coming to the morgue today. If he could look at it as soon as possible…’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And ask Detective Constable Stra-chan to join me as soon as he has finished.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The sergeant marched back towards the gates. Danilov scanned the park again. A pretty place, quiet but open. There would be people here at all times of the day. Why take the risk to be seen? And why were the bodies displayed so openly? What message was the killer trying to send?

Perhaps that wasn’t the right question. ‘Ask the right questions and they will eventually lead you to the solution.’ He remembered his training from the Imperial Police Academy, Muller, the old instructor, always intoning, ‘To find the right answer, look for the right question,’ in his German accent.

He had not asked the right questions yet.

A cough announced someone was behind him. ‘What is it?’

Strachan stepped forward. ‘The woman found the body at 4.30 pm, sir. She had just come to the park with her child for a stroll before dinner. The boy ran away from her. She chased after him and thought he was talking to a woman on the bench. It was only as she got close that she realised the woman was dead.’ Strachan glanced down at the body lying on the bench. ‘Strange though, she said the woman was sitting upright. She was clear about that. She said it was just like the woman was taking a tea break on the bench.’

‘Hmmm, nobody else reported seeing her?’

‘Nobody so far. The local police cleared the park so we don’t know who was here when she was found.’

‘Ask around, will you? Perhaps they are still watching from over there.’ He pointed towards the crowd of sightseers, which had almost doubled in size now, new watchers attracted like ants to a cube of sugar. ‘Stra-chan, get statements from the local coppers who arrived on the scene. They may have noticed something.’