They drove in silence over Garden Bridge, the only noise the rhythmic sweep of the wipers making a vain attempt to keep the windscreen clear. The rain, which had been threatening for a week, sleeted down Soochow Creek, dripping from the metal stanchions that arched over the water and flooding the roadway. Beneath the bridge, the creek flowed like brown sludge, studded with the flotsam and jetsam washed down from inland China. An open sewer in the heart of Shanghai.
On both sides, at the entrances to the bridge, the Shanghai Volunteers had built sandbagged posts to guard the crossing. Three men, armed with rifles, stood in the cold rain outside the defences, their uniforms covered by damp dark green ponchos.
Danilov broke the silence. ‘These weren’t here yesterday.’
‘They’ve gone up on all the major bridges. Inspector Sheehan probably built them. I heard he was in the Royal Engineers during the war.’
‘You’re not in the Volunteers, Strachan?’
‘Won’t have men like me, sir.’ It was said matter-of-factly, but Danilov heard the deep sense of hurt beneath the words.
‘Did you apply?’
‘No point. They won’t accept my application. They will say, “Sorry, old chap, no places at the moment.” Or “Wait till we form a new company for Eurasians, then you can apply.”’
As they passed Broadway on the right-hand side and Tiendong Road on the left, the area began to change character. The conspicuous mix of Western and Chinese elements in the main part of the International Settlement gave way to a different, more alien culture: Chinese characters and the Western alphabet were replaced by Japanese kanji. Restaurants with red lanterns illuminating their doorways gave way to tiny izakaya with blue-cloth noren protecting the entrance. The red, white and blue of the British flag was superseded by the scarlet sun against a white background.
Even the streets were cleaner, the chaos and jumble of Chinese roads replaced by order and cleanliness. Despite the rain, Japanese women carrying waxed umbrellas, dressed in traditional kimonos and wooden sandals, swept the pavements outside their shops, collecting the waste in neat wicker baskets.
This was still the International Settlement, but it was a different place. An alien place.
Danilov immediately noticed another difference. ‘There are no beggars.’
‘The Japanese residents moved them on, sir. Apparently they cluttered up the streets.’
They turned left along Woochang Road. On either side now, the streets were predominantly Japanese, as if the car had been picked up by an airship and dropped in the middle of Tokyo.
‘I sometimes come to eat here with Elina. The sukiyaki is wonderful, especially in winter.’
Danilov didn’t answer.
They turned sharp right.
‘The building site is up here on the left, sir.’
Strachan edged the Buick to the side of the road, provoking loud, expletive-laden shouts from a pair of rickshaw drivers who had to veer sharply out of the way.
Danilov opened the door and stepped out. Instantly, the coal-sodden smell of a cold Shanghai afternoon hit him. At least the air was the same in this part of town.
Up ahead, the busy crossroads in front of Hong Kew market was packed with carts, donkeys, rickshaw drivers, hawkers shouting their wares, trucks and trailers. In the middle of it all, two Sikh policemen wrapped in dark-blue overcoats were trying to bring a semblance of order to the chaos, but failing miserably.
On the right, a group of travelling players had attracted an audience around them, blocking half of the street. Above the assembled shaven heads of the crowd, a woman was balancing on a chair, held aloft by a ladder of three men, her sodden clothes dripping onto her supporters. The performance continued despite the rain, despite the cold, as it did every day of the year.
Danilov loved the streets of Shanghai even on a cold, wet winter’s day. Each road exhibited a human pantomime of sadness and joy, poverty and wealth, despair and happiness. Often, when a case became too complicated or the prolonged silence of his wife too much, he simply walked the streets, each step of his journey clearing his mind of its fog.
He turned through 360 degrees to take in the surrounding neighbourhood. It was thoroughly Japanese, a tiny corner of Tokyo in a foreign land.
‘What’s that, Strachan?’ he said, pointing to an ornate building.
The detective sergeant peered past the railings surrounding the building site to the large brick-built structure towering over the scene. ‘It’s the Japanese Club, I think, sir.’
Danilov stepped away from the car towards the building site. The wooden fence surrounding it was covered in a multitude of posters advertising the latest films, political demonstrations, performances of shentan opera and Noh theatre, and a variety of nightclubs.
Next to the entrance, an unblemished poster depicted a wolf dressed in Japanese uniform holding a samurai sword, about to lop off the head of a Chinese beggar, whose begging cup was extended upwards.
‘What does it say?’ asked Danilov.
‘There are only five characters, sir. The beggar is obviously China asking for the return of Manchuria. I think it’s from one of the student groups criticising what they see as the begging attitude of China’s leaders to the Japanese. The want us to be more aggressive. It’s quite savage. Not very respectful.’
‘Us? asked Danilov with a raised eyebrow.
Before Strachan could answer, a small man dressed in an off-green uniform rushed out from a tiny shed beside the door, halted in front of Danilov, brought his heels together and saluted smartly. ‘Liang, report far dute.’ There followed a long speech in Chinese, which Strachan translated.
‘He says his name is Private Liang Ah Soo, ex-Chinese Expeditionary Force, from Chekiang province, Huchow county, Longshan village. He’s an old soldier. One of the Chinese who sailed to the Western Front in 1916. He considers it an honour to be speaking to an officer of the British Crown again.’
‘Spare me the details of his ancestry, Strachan, and explain to him that I’m just a lowly copper. Did he find the body of the boy?’
Strachan questioned the man. ‘He did, sir. Yesterday afternoon at exactly six o’clock. He always comes back at this time after taking his break.’
The man saluted once again. His face broke into a broad smile, a solitary brown tooth sitting in a line of pink gums.
‘Can he show me where he found the body?’
The man saluted once more and then marched over the broken ground to the left-hand side of the building site. After passing a stack of rose-coloured bricks and a pallet of cement bags, he stopped in front of a neat pile of wooden planks and joists. The wood was still green and unseasoned, giving off an aroma of fresh pine and bleach.
Strachan brought out the photographs and showed the first one to the man.
‘He says this is how the body was when he found it.’
‘Did he move it or touch it?’
Strachan translated. The man shook his head vigorously.
‘Then how did he know there was a body beneath the tarpaulin?’
Again the broad smile crept across the man’s face. The skin around his eyes wrinkled, swallowing them in its embrace. He began talking in a sing-song voice, heavy with the dialect of Chekiang.
Strachan translated, trying to slow the man down as he spoke. ‘He lifted the tarpaulin and peeked beneath. He knew the boy was dead. Saw a lot of death in France, he says. He was a member of the burial details scouring no-man’s-land after the battles, digging temporary graves.’
Danilov stepped forward to examine the wood. ‘There was no blood here?’
The man spoke again, with Strachan translating. ‘Hardly any blood on the wood, apparently, just a few smears. He was surprised. His boss ordered him to clean what there was off with bleach this morning. They want to use the wood for building, sir.’
‘Nothing goes to waste in Shanghai, Strachan.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Sheehan should have put a constable here to make sure the crime scene wasn’t disturbed.’
‘Perhaps he didn’t have time, sir.’
‘Don’t excuse incompetence, Strachan. Ask the man if he saw anything or anybody suspicious yesterday.’
Strachan asked the question in Shanghainese. The man shook his head.
‘Nothing, sir. It was a normal day. The boss brought a few of the little buggers to see the site. He wants to sell the building to them.’
‘Little buggers?’
‘His name for the Japanese, sir.’
Danilov stepped back and looked around. In the building opposite, one window overlooked the murder scene. Had anybody been looking out of the window? ‘Strachan, let’s have a chat with the people inside the Japanese Club.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Strachan made it obvious that he was checking his watch.
‘I do know the time, Strachan.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Come on, we won’t be long. My son isn’t going anywhere.’
Danilov started to stride towards the entrance. Before he could go three steps, his arm was grabbed by the old soldier. There followed a long speech with much pointing and gesturing.
‘He says he tried to tell the other officer but the man was in a hurry. His uniform did look like a soldier’s, though, unlike yours, sir.’
‘What other officer? What uniform?’
‘I think he means Inspector Sheehan. He must have been wearing his Volunteers uniform when he came to the crime scene.’
‘What did he try to tell the officer, Strachan?’
The man grabbed Danilov’s arm again, chattering constantly, and led him to the fence behind the stack of wood. High up on it was painted a symbol. A stylised image of an arch in a flattened circle, the crossbeam flaring into two pointed ends.
‘He says this wasn’t here yesterday afternoon before the murder. He only noticed it after he called the police. He tried to explain to the officer but he didn’t seem to be interested.’
‘Get the photographer and the scene-of-crime people here immediately, Strachan. I want the symbol photographed, the paint swabbed and the whole area fingerprinted again.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Sheehan’s report was a waste of time. Let’s do it properly.’
The old soldier stepped forward, licked his index finger, reached up above his head and touched the symbol. Danilov could see that a smear of the brownish-red paint had come away from the wood onto the tip of his finger.
The man walked back to Danilov holding his finger aloft, chattering away all the time in his thick Chekiang brogue. Standing in front of the inspector, he tasted the smeared finger with the tip of his tongue.
‘He says this isn’t paint, sir. It’s blood.’