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She turned her back on him and continued to clean the stove. ‘You’d better answer the telephone.’
‘The only people who ring me are from the office.’
The phone rang again and again.
‘You’d better answer it,’ she said, slightly more softly this time.
Another ring, this time longer and more insistent.
Danilov got up and walked into the living room. He picked up the ear piece and spoke into the receiver. ‘Danilov.’
‘It’s Strachan here, sir. Sorry to bother you on your day off, but I thought you’d better know…’
‘Know what, Strachan? Come to the point, man,’ Danilov snapped.
‘There was a murder last night, sir. Actually, four murders in a lane off Hankow Road.’
‘That’s my beat. Why wasn’t I informed?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I’m at the station now, and I’ve just found out. Inspector Cowan took the case.’
Danilov sighed and thought of his daughter and their chess game. ‘I’ll be at the station in half an hour. Make sure Cowan doesn’t do anything stupid before I get there.’
‘I don’t know about that, sir, but he’s already made an arrest.’
‘Cowan doesn’t usually move that sharply. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’
‘I’ll wait for you, sir.’
The telephone went dead in Danilov’s hand. He replaced the receiver back on its cradle. The long upright telephone reminded him of a chalice in one of the churches of his youth in Russia, except it was made from black Bakelite, not gold.
He walked across the sitting room and put on his old brown brogues, an even older macintosh and his battered hat with its oil-stained lining, mahogany with wear.
In the kitchen, his daughter was still hunched over the dishes, her arms covered in soap and suds.
‘I have to go to the station. Perhaps, we can play chess when I come back this evening?’
For a moment, she stopped washing dishes, and her head lifted slightly.
He wanted to go across to her and wrap her in his arms as he had done when she was a child. A hug that said it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, just you and me and now.
But he didn’t. He just stood there.
She went back to the dishes, scrubbing the cream pottery as if her life depended on it.
He looked across at the chess board, lying on the table, its pieces untouched, unmoved. ‘Good bye, Elina,’ he called as he opened the front door.
There was still no answer.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_7887b5b9-538b-5f53-8bb2-f90a395e57f6)
Strachan was waiting for Danilov outside the station, eating a jian bing he had just bought from the hawker’s stall on the street, an infamous trap for hungry policemen.
‘No breakfast, Strachan?’
‘Had it this morning, sir, this is just a snack to keep me going till lunchtime.’
Danilov watched as Strachan took another bite, bending forward to prevent any of the chili sauce from dripping on his suit. Despite all the food he consumed, his half-Chinese detective sergeant was as lean as a Borzoi.
‘Had yours, sir?’
‘Had my what?’
‘Breakfast. Got to have breakfast in the morning. Gets the day off to a great start, my mother always says. Wouldn’t let me leave home without it.’
Danilov thought about the burnt syrniki prepared by Elina. ‘You might call it breakfast, Strachan. On the other hand, you might call it something else.’
He walked up the steps to the double doors that guarded the police headquarters. ‘You didn’t call me in to talk about breakfast, Detective Sergeant,’ he said over his shoulder.
‘No, sir,’ said Strachan, wiping the crumbs from his face with the back of his hand, dropping the remains of his snack on the floor and running after his inspector. ‘Four murders last night in a lane off Hankow Road. A family, name of Lee.’
‘Why wasn’t I called?’
‘I don’t know, sir. Inspector Cowan told me he was handling the case.’
‘Cowan couldn’t handle a knish.’
‘A what, sir?’
Danilov ignored the question and approached a tall Sikh in a blue turban who guarded the gate that led to the interior of the station. ‘Quiet today, Sergeant Singh,’ he said looking back at the crowd in the foyer.
‘Wait till this afternoon, Inspector.’
He walked down the corridor and entered the detectives’ office. The group of detectives standing together in the corner fell silent.
A tall ginger-haired who had spoken to Strachan earlier, broke off from his story and said, ‘Good morning, Danilov. Thought it was your day off?’
A couple of the detectives smirked.
‘Could I speak with you, Inspector Cowan, in private?’
Cowan looked around him. ‘I’m sure the lads wouldn’t mind hearing what you have to say, would you, lads? Tinkler? Davies?’
There were a few mutters in response from the group.
Danilov hung his hat and coat on the stand that was next to the door. ‘There was an incident last night near Hankow Road.’
‘Yes.’ Cowan folded his arms across his chest. The rest of the detectives were looking from one to the other like spectators at a tennis match.
‘Four murders. A family.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why wasn’t I informed? It’s my area.’
Cowan came to stand in front of him. ‘I don’t report to you, Danilov. You’re not my boss.’
‘You should have telephoned me.’
‘Didn’t know your number.’
Danilov pointed to the notice board. A list of detectives, with their addresses and telephone numbers clearly marked, was pinned up on the green baize.
‘I never look at that, too much trouble. And anyway, I was duty officer last night.’
Danilov advanced towards Cowan. ‘But it’s my area. Regulations state clearly that officers should be informed when incidents take place in their area.’
‘An incident took place in your area.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve just informed you. Regulations satisfied.’
‘That’s right, I heard you, Gordon,’ said Tinkler.
‘I should have been informed the moment the incident was known to you.’
Cowan’s arms went down and he took a step towards Danilov. ‘Listen, Danilov, you’re not the only bloody detective in this office, understand? Just ’cos you’ve made a few arrests doesn’t make you God bleedin’ almighty.’
‘I should have been informed immediately.’
The tall man towered over Danilov. The angrier he became, the more pronounced was his Scottish accent.
‘Listen, Danilov, I don’t like ye or your kind, understand? Ye may have got rid of poor Meaker and had Cartwright sent to the Badlands, but ye dinnae scare me.’ A large finger poked Danilov in the chest.
Danilov noticed that the knuckles of Cowan’s right hand were red and bleeding. In three places, the skin had been removed completely, revealing the pink, red flesh beneath.
‘And besides…’ A smile appeared on Cowan’s face. He looked over his shoulder at the other detectives before turning back to face Danilov. ‘…I’ve already arrested the murderer.’
Danilov stood at the centre of the detectives’ room. He pulled at the flap of skin that lay between his eyebrows. ‘You have somebody in custody?’
‘You’re damn bloody right, I have somebody in the nick. Already coughed to it too, hasn’t he?’
‘He’s confessed?’
‘To all four murders. Did it for the money. A robbery gone wrong, that’s all it was. Don’t have to be a great detective to work that out.’ He turned and walked away back to the other detectives who congratulated him, patting him on the back.
‘I want to see him.’
Cowan swung around. Another smile slowly spread across his face. ‘See who you like. I’ve got him. He’s confessed. End of story. He’s my collar.’ Again the arms folded across the chest.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_07ea0e41-bc07-5213-b104-3a999ede289c)
Danilov stood on tiptoes to peer into the cell. Yellow light crept through the grill. Inside a figure huddled in the corner, his face hidden in the shadows.
‘Open the door, please, Sergeant.’
‘I don’t know if I can, sir, it…’
Danilov stared at the duty sergeant. He had come straight down to the cells after leaving Cowan and the other detectives in the office. Their laughter as he went out the door still echoed in his head. He had told Strachan to stay upstairs. No point in involving him in this unpleasantness too. ‘Open the door, Sergeant,’ he said quietly.
The sergeant began to protest again, looked at Danilov’s eyes and posture, then pulled a large bunch of keys from his belt. They rattled as he selected the right one for cell three, inserted it into the lock, turning it twice.
He stepped back without opening the door. Danilov looked through the key hole once more before entering. A long time ago in a similar cell beneath a small police station in Minsk, he had entered a cell without checking where the prisoner was. He still had the scar on the top of his head as a reminder. An old Russian idiom popped into his head: the scabby sheep scares the whole flock. How true, how true.
The loud creak of unoiled hinges sang in the dark cell. The prisoner tried to bury his head further into the brick walls, hiding from whoever had entered.
‘My name is Inspector Danilov.’
There were a few mumbled words of reply that Danilov couldn’t understand and the same movement into the wall.
‘You can leave us, Sergeant.’ Danilov said, without taking his eyes from the bundle of clothes huddled in the corner.
‘But sir, I’m not…’
‘Leave us.’
Reluctantly the sergeant left the cell. Danilov heard his footsteps receding down the corridor. No doubt, he would be going to report Danilov to his superior. So be it. A small price to pay for speaking to this man alone.
He moved to the corner of the concrete bed and sat down. The man edged away from him, pressing his body into the far corner. A tall man, curling himself into a foetal ball.
Danilov took out his tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette. Even in the dim light of the cell, his fingers knew exactly what to do. He brought the edge of the paper up to his mouth and licked it. ‘Would you like a cigarette? Only hand-rolled, I’m afraid. But the best Virginia from Jacobson’s.’
A hand snaked out and took the cigarette. Danilov pulled a lighter from his pocket and flicked the wheel. Instantly, the cell was flooded with light, the glaze of its brown brick walls reflecting the flame of the lighter.
The prisoner shrank back into the wall.
‘Sorry, I didn’t realise how bright this was.’ Danilov closed the lid of the light and adjusted the wheel beneath the flame. He flicked the wheel and a smaller, less bright flame flickered. The cell was illuminated again, but less harshly. Danilov could see the back of the prisoner’s head now, his hair matted with sweat. For a second the man hesitated then put the cigarette in what was left of his lips and mouth.
Danilov brought the flame up to the prisoner’s face. The white tube of the cigarette stood out like a long thin maggot against the red and purple of the lips. Blood oozed from the side of his head, dribbling down onto his chin and shirt. The mouth was a bloody mess, with a few gaps where teeth had once been.
Danilov lit the end of the cigarette and the man inhaled, coughing and gasping as he did so. The rest of his face was in even worse condition. The nose was bent at an angle resting against the left cheek, while, beneath one eye, a vivid purple egg of a bruise looked like it would burst at any moment, showering blood everywhere. The other eye was closing, a thick black line like a calligraphy stroke the only indication of its existence.
The man coughed once more, his chest rasping, trying to suck in air.
‘Lie down. You’ll feel better if you lie down.’
The man shook his head, throwing a drizzle of blood-stained spittle onto Danilov’s jacket.
