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The mob thinned out even more. He could see the targets up ahead. They were positioned exactly as agreed.
He stepped forward pulling the revolver out of its holster as he did so.
Nobody noticed him, focused as they were on the people leaving the police station.
He levelled the revolver. Pressed the trigger. There was a brief noise. A flash of flame. The recoil jerked his hand upwards. He would have to use less powder next time.
The target fell backwards onto the stairs, dragging the two policemen down.
The screams. The noise. The shouts of the reporters and the photographers and the watchers, all disappeared.
He was in a bright tunnel. Just him and the target.
He stepped forward and fired again. Into the head.
The kill shot.
The revolver flashed. He was using too much powder.
The target lay still, a small round hole in his forehead.
Perfect.
Now to take care of the policeman on the right. A sitting duck, literally. He squeezed the trigger again. A wounding shot, not necessary to kill.
Cowan was looking at him, eyes strident with fear. The man tried to scramble away but he had forgotten the handcuffs that bound him to the prisoner.
He levelled the revolver at Cowan’s head. Time to kill him. Time he was gone.
He pulled the trigger. Another forehead shot.
A click.
He looked at the gun. A misfire. Too much gunpowder, must change the ratio next time.
The reporters were beginning to move now. Time to leave. Cowan could wait.
He slid the revolver back into the holster, feeling the warmth of the barrel through his shirt.
He turned and walked towards Foochow Road.
Move quickly, don’t run. Running suggested fear and a desire to escape. He wasn’t afraid but he wanted to get away.
Behind him, he could hear the screams of chaos.
He turned the corner and crossed the street to a quiet lilong. Twenty yards left along a lane he took off his hat. He turned to check if anybody was following him.
Nobody.
Good.
He pulled the Mandarin coat up and over his head, revealing his uniform beneath. Reaching up to the washing line above his head he hung the coat over it. He would return later to get it back. He hated waste in any job. Waste was inefficiency.
The blue coat had served him well, blending in with the thousands of others just like it on the streets of Shanghai.
He threw the hat away into a rubbish heap at the side of the alley. One of the rubbish collectors would remove it and sell it cheaply. Somebody, somewhere would enjoy the soft feel of the brown felt.
He pulled a dark cap from his trouser pocket, adjusting it so that it sat well on his head.
He was in uniform now. Nobody ever noticed people in uniform. They blended in with everything else on the street, part of the furniture. Some nosey person might remember there was a man in uniform, but they would never be able to describe his face. That was the beauty of a uniform: it guaranteed anonymity.
He did a final check and then walked back towards the police station he had just left.
Invisible again.
Just another person going to see what had happened.
Another uniform in the crowd.
Chapter 15 (#ulink_058277e4-e8c7-5a14-8398-526fd41dd1db)
The clamour outside the window increased. Lightbulbs flashed. The shouts of the reporters above the noise. The lawyer’s voice, calm and collected.
More shouts from the reporters. More flashes. Then a loud bang.
Silence.
Danilov and Strachan raced towards the door.
Two more bangs.
Screams and shouts of chaos. People running. More shouts, shriller now, desperation in the voices.
They hurtled through the double doors. On the steps to the left of them, all was chaos. Men lay close to the ground desperately trying to crawl away. A woman searched for her glasses on her hands and knees. Cameras, notepads, and used bulbs lay strewn down the steps.
At the bottom, two bodies lay next to each other joined by a steel chain. One was on its back, staring up at the sky, the other had rolled onto his side and was moaning loudly, like a bull that had just been gelded.
A photographer was taking shots of the bodies, his flash blinding despite the sunlight.
‘Stop,’ Danilov shouted. Strachan rushed past him and hustled the protesting photographer away.
Danilov stepped over a large brown shoe lying on its side. He walked down the step and knelt down next to Detective Constable Moore. The man was moaning loudly.
He rolled him over and saw blood seeping into the man’s jacket from a wound on his shoulder.
He heard Strachan run back to join him.
‘I confiscated the camera, sir. Might come in useful.’
‘Good. Those ambulance men,’ he pointed to two men dressed in white coats crouched down behind the rear of their vehicle, ‘get them up here to take Moore to the hospital. Quickly, man.’
He stood up and stepped across Moore. The body of Kao lay stretched out on the steps, exactly where it had fallen, arms out wide like the pope blessing the multitudes in St Peter’s Square.
Between the eyes, in the centre of the forehead, a small round hole with a blackened edge disturbed the smoothness of the skin. One eye was wide open, staring into space as if looking for something that wasn’t there. The other was still closed, the bruise around it puffy, yellow and purple.
The face itself looked as though it was at peace, removed from the terrors of life. So different from the last time Danilov had seen it in the cells beneath the station, illuminated by the flickering flame of a lighter.
Danilov knelt down. A small trail of dark liquid had trickled from the corner of the smiling mouth. A large patch of wet, wine-dark blood stained the front of his shirt.
He reached out to touch the blood but stopped himself at the last moment. Dr Fang would want an untouched body, no need for him to become an amateur pathologist.
Strachan had returned with the ambulance men and was lifting Moore’s body onto a stretcher, but the right arm was still attached to the body of Kao.
‘Where’s the key?’
‘Check the fob pocket of his waistcoat, Strachan, most coppers keep it there.’
Strachan’s fumbling fingers searched in the pocket. His eyes remained fixed on the body of Kao lying next to Moore.
‘Look what you are doing, Strachan.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He forced his eyes away and delved deeper into the pocket. A small compact shape was buried deep in the fabric.
‘You were right, sir.’ He unlocked the handcuffs and helped the moaning Moore onto the stretcher. The ambulance men carried him down the steps, his moans increasing as they jolted his shoulder against the bare canvas.
He beckoned for Strachan to kneel down beside him. The young detective stepped forward, his eyes never leaving the face of the dead man.
‘What do you make of it, Strachan?’
‘He’s dead, sir.’
‘A blind man with blinkers could have worked that out. What else?’
Strachan stared at the dead man’s face. He twisted his head to the left like an artist sizing up a model for an insightful portrait. When he spoke, it was hesitating. ‘The expression on his face, sir, it doesn’t seem right.’
‘Very strange, isn’t it? Like he was smiling at his killer as he was shot. Look at the hands.’
Strachan stood up again and stared down at the body. ‘He’s got his hands raised, sir. Like he was surrendering.’
‘Yes, maybe. The shot was good. Professional.’
‘A kill shot, sir.’
‘Nobody gets up and walks away from those. It looks the same as the one that killed Mr Lee.’ He stood up and took a last lingering look at the body. ‘Get it down to Dr Fang at the morgue. Let’s see what he can tell us.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Danilov breathed in a deep lungful of Shanghai air.
His nose wrinkled as he scanned the watching faces of the crowd. ‘Sweet potatoes. It’s strange, but there’s always the smell of sweet potatoes at every death I investigate.’
Strachan tapped him on the arm and pointed to a hawker stirring the charcoal beneath a large iron wok. The man lifted the lid. The overpowering sweetness of the aroma of roasting drifted across the crime scene.
For a moment, Danilov was back in the Minsk of his youth, hearing the chants of the priests, seeing the bright flash of the chains of the incense burner, smelling the sweet aroma, seeing the dead body of his father lying in the casket, arms crossed in front of him.
He rubbed the scars on the back of his hands. He mustn’t let himself be distracted. Not now, now he needed to concentrate.
Then he was back in the present, surrounded by a crowd of people that had gathered to see what was happening, all staring at him and the body lying on the pavement.
‘Round up all the coppers you can and clear the area. Make sure these reporters are taken into the station. We need to question them.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Move these people back, they’re getting in the way of the crime scene.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do it now.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And get the body over to Dr Fang. We need the autopsy as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And make sure we get pictures of the body before Dr Fang’s men move it.’
Strachan held up the camera he had confiscated from the press photographer.
‘Well, don’t just stand there looking pleased with yourself. Get a move on.’
‘Right away, sir.’
Danilov looked down once more on the serene face of Kao. Shame such peace had to come with death. The once white shirt, soiled with blood, sweat and the dirt of the cell walls, clung to his body. Around his right wrist, a set of handcuffs was still fastened, slightly different in size and colour from the set that had been attached to Moore. Shinier, almost new, with thicker steel links and a heavy lock.
Kao must have been handcuffed to two policemen as he was being led away. Moore and one other. Who could the other man have been?
He looked up and saw Strachan organising the uniforms to herd the reporters and photographers into the station. The lawyer was protesting loudly, arguing as Strachan gently backed him towards the open double doors at the top of the steps.
He looked down at the body lying sprawled at his feet, an open pair of handcuffs still attached to one arm.
Danilov picked up the handcuffs. A small key fell from the lock and tumbled to the steps, landing with a metallic clink on the hard concrete.
He looked around the scene once more and then it struck him. ‘Where was Cowan?’
Chapter 16 (#ulink_40f19614-4d58-5135-888a-a90d05354676)
Danilov sat alone in the empty detectives’ room. The others were out helping Strachan with the gentlemen of the press.
