Inspector Danilov tamped the half-finished cigarette against the granite wall of the morgue, putting the dimp in his left-hand overcoat pocket. He no longer threw these fag ends away, either saving them for later or giving them to the beggars who lined the streets of Shanghai. Even more beggars these days, their ranks swelled by refugees from the fighting with the Japanese in the north of China.
The cigarette had not removed the sweet taste of the opium he had smoked last night. It never did.
‘Come on, Strachan, we’d better face our nemesis.’
The detective sergeant took off his trilby and smoothed back his brilliantined black hair. ‘Nemesis, sir?’
‘Greek mythology. The goddess who enacted retribution against those who succumb to pride.’
‘Is that how you think of Dr Fang, sir?’
‘It’s the only way to think of him. One day we will all end up on his steel table, a Y-shaped incision carved into our chests.’
‘Not much to look forward to, sir.’
Danilov pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the mortuary. He had told Strachan many times not to call him ‘sir’, but the Chinese side of his detective sergeant had found it difficult to obey, deference to one’s seniors being ingrained from an early age: ‘It’s all the fault of Confucius, sir, you should blame him.’
‘And when did you start brilliantining your hair?’
‘It’s the latest fashion, sir. All the rage. Elina bought me a small tub of Brylcreem.’
‘So it’s my daughter’s fault, is it, Strachan?’
‘My nemesis, sir.’
The spotless interior of the mortuary greeted them. White walls, a polished wooden floor, an unmanned reception desk guarding the entrance to Dr Fang’s inner sanctum, where he devoured the bodies of the dead.
A shiver ran down the inspector’s spine wearing hob-nailed boots. Danilov hated this place, its pristine cleanliness an affront to the dirt, dust and decay that was the norm for Shanghai. Outside, everything was chaotic and crazy, whereas here, all was quiet and ordered.
The silence of death.
The door behind the reception desk opened and Dr Fang stood there beckoning them forward. ‘You’re late, and I have three more clients to examine before dinner. So many refugees on the streets can’t survive the cold weather. Come along, look sharp.’
The voice was definitely English: educated, patrician, arrogant, confident. Beneath the white coat, a red polka-dot bow tie stood out against an elegantly cut green tweed suit and stiff white collar.
The pathologist looked at them both over the top of his glasses. ‘Danilov, it’s you again. I shall have to arrange a bed for you if you spend any more time here.’ The voice was warmer now, friendlier.
‘On one of the post-mortem tables?’
‘Of course not, Detective Sergeant Strachan. Those are reserved for my clients. Why would I waste a table on Inspector Danilov?’
‘It was a joke, sir.’
‘Save the jokes for the mess, Detective Sergeant. This is a morgue, not the music hall.’
Dr Fang closed the door. Six shiny aluminium tables in two rows of three lay in front of them, each with a body-shaped mound covered by a white sheet.
‘How’s the voice, Strachan?’
‘Still the same, Dr Fang.’
The pathologist reached out and lifted Strachan’s chin to reveal the Adam’s apple with its prominent red scar in the centre. ‘I should have made the incision smaller, you know. Not my best work.’
Four years ago, Dr Fang had saved Strachan’s life by performing an emergency tracheotomy.
‘Excellent news about the voice, though. The depth adds a certain gravitas to your demeanour. Useful in a man of your profession, I should think.’
Danilov coughed. ‘If we could begin the autopsy, Dr Fang… ’
The pathologist pushed his glasses back up to the non-existent bridge of his nose. ‘Of course, Inspector,’ He hurried over to the middle table on the top row, picking up his notes from their place on the white sheet.
‘Now, let me see. Yes, I remember this, a most interesting case. Brought in last night. But you’re not down as the investigating officer, Danilov.’
‘It’s Inspector Sheehan’s case, but he’s been called away to the Volunteers. Short notice.’
‘More problems with the Japanese?’
Danilov shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t know and he didn’t care. Politics was none of his concern; he’d had enough in Russia. He just investigated murders, and there were enough of those in Shanghai to keep any copper busy for years. But unfortunately, politics had a habit of creeping into everything, even murder.
Dr Fang took the hint. ‘Let’s proceed, shall we?’ With the practised legerdemain of an accomplished magician, he lifted the white sheet into the air to reveal the body displayed on the table.
Danilov stared at the young corpse lying on the cold steel: grey, stiff, lifeless.
‘A young male, approximately thirteen years of age. No name, so we shall call him John Doe for the present.’
Danilov didn’t hear the doctor’s words. The young boy’s eyes were open, staring out into a world he would never see again.
‘Chinese ethnicity, I would say, not Japanese or Korean. And from the overall lack of pigment in the skin, a boy who had not spent much time outside in the sun.
Beneath the open eyes, the face had been slashed across the cheeks and nose, the raised ridges of the cuts opening out to show pale pink meat and the white of the jawbone. Danilov counted the slashes. Seven in total, each one deep and slicing, carved into the young face.
‘If you look at the hands, you will see a lack of calluses or abrasions. These are a scholar’s hands, not those of a worker.’ Dr Fang raised and twisted the arms to show the soft underside of the palms. ‘See here, Inspector… Inspector.’
Danilov dragged his eyes away from the young boy’s mutilated face.
‘The hands haven’t seen hard work at all. But there is a black ink stain on the right index finger. A scholar, I think.’
‘I understand, Dr Fang. Strachan, we need to check the missing persons register. And while you’re at it, ring round the local schools, see if anybody has been reported absent.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Strachan wrote in his notebook.
Danilov found his eyes returning to the boy’s face. This lad was the same age as Ivan, perhaps a bit younger. The same innocence of a life wasted. The image returned of his son’s open casket, the stench of incense, the wailing of his wife, the chanting of the priests, the smoke rising slowly in the cold air of the Orthodox church, illuminated by shafts of multicoloured light from the stained-glass windows.
He shook his head to try to clear it. Mustn’t go there. Not now, not here. ‘The slash marks on his face… ?’ he heard himself saying.
‘Those? Most interesting.’ Dr Fang shifted his body to peer into the face of the young boy. His hand came up and touched the skin, widening one of the slashes so the meat and bone became visible. ‘Deep and deliberate, I would say, performed with a sharp instrument. This boy wasn’t stabbed but sliced across the face slowly.’ The doctor demonstrated, his arm moving with all the care of a surgeon making an incision.
‘Why do you say that, Doctor?’
‘The wounds are not jagged or frenzied, neither do they stop and start again. See, they are one smooth stroke like a butcher preparing the skin of a pig to make crackling. If this were an act of rage, the wounds would be at different depths and angles.’ Once again Fang demonstrated, striking and slashing the boy’s face with an invisible knife. ‘These wounds are deliberate and considered.’
‘There are no others on the body?’
The doctor pushed his glasses back onto his nose. ‘None. The only other mark is this.’ He pointed to a large strawberry-red mark at the point where the clavicle met the shoulder. ‘A birthmark, I would hazard. Should help you with identification.’
Strachan scribbled away in his notebook.
‘And before you ask, there is no evidence of sexual assault. No tears or bruising around the anus or genital area.’
‘So only the face was mutilated?’
‘It would seem so, Inspector.’
‘Why?’ asked Strachan.
‘I think it is your job to find that out, Detective Sergeant. I simply examine the results of a killer’s handiwork, not try to find out his motivations.’
Strachan’s face reddened.
Danilov coughed. ‘Thank you, Doctor. Anything else we should know?’
‘Four more things might be of interest.’ The doctor, a nuanced actor, paused for a beat to let the news sink into the brains of his audience. ‘The first is that these mutilations were committed post mortem. They weren’t the cause of death.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
The pathologist looked at Strachan as if his professional integrity had been brought into question. ‘Shall I use the precise medical language or the layman’s terms, Detective Sergeant, when I explain it to you?’
Danilov interrupted the challenge. ‘Please explain it in layman’s terms, Doctor. For me… ’ he added.
The pathologist pushed his glasses up again. ‘The first indication is the cleanliness and regularity of the incisions. If the boy had been alive as they were made, the knife would have twisted and the cut become irregular and ragged when he moved.’ The doctor demonstrated with one of his scalpels. ‘These are as straight as if done by a butcher.’
Fang looked at Strachan. ‘What’s more, if the wounds had been made ante mortem – before death – the edges immediately under the skin would have a red, haemorrhagic appearance and there would be more blood. See here.’ He pointed to one of the gaping wounds. ‘The colour is a pale yellow, indicating a post-mortem action after the heart stopped beating.’
‘Thank you, Doctor.’
‘If Detective Sergeant Strachan doubts my professional expertise, I can take a sample of the mast cells and check them under a microscope?’
‘Not necessary, Doctor. I’m sure Strachan would never doubt your skill as a pathologist.’
‘Never, sir,’ said Strachan archly.
Danilov scratched his nose. In the cold weather his skin became like the Sahara, a problem he always faced in Minsk. ‘These mutilations, what purpose did they serve?’
‘The short answer is I don’t know, Inspector, but this young boy was dead long before they were made.’
Danilov thought for a moment. He was desperate for a cigarette to get rid of the stench of formaldehyde that suffused the morgue, making him drunk on its fumes. ‘You said there were three other things we should know.’
The doctor reached out and pushed the boy’s head to the left, revealing the side that had been hidden from Danilov. Where there should have been an ear, only a bloodied hole remained, covered with ragged strands of skin.
‘The right ear has been removed. This was done ante mortem. Shall I explain how I know this, Detective Sergeant?’
‘That won’t be necessary, Doctor.’
‘Good. I would say at least two days before the death, but I can’t be certain of the exact time. The body was found yesterday evening at six o’clock. From the Glaister equation of body temperature, I would estimate he had been killed anything from eight to twelve hours previously.’
‘You can’t be more precise?’
‘Not possible, I’m afraid. I examined him as soon as he was brought here. Rigor mortis had already set in, but it can be affected by the ambient temperature.’
‘The body was discovered outside, at a building site,’ said Strachan, flicking through the crime scene notes.
‘He was found resting on his side before they moved him, according to my men,’ said the doctor.
‘That’s right, lying on his right side with the arm beneath the body.’
‘Which means he wasn’t killed at the building site, but moved there. See, the livor mortis.’ Fang pointed to the pinky-bluish skin, like a Plimsoll line, along the boy’s back. ‘The blood has pooled all along here. This body lay on its back for a long time after death.’
Danilov raised an eyebrow in Strachan’s direction. ‘The victim wasn’t killed at the building site. Thank you, Doctor.’
Fang lifted the boy’s hand, elevating the fingers. ‘Under the fingernails I found a cream powder. Of course, I’ll check with the lab to confirm, but I would say this is common or garden building plaster.’
‘From a wall?’ asked Strachan.
‘Probably, but I can’t say for certain.’
Danilov scratched his dry skin again. ‘What the doctor is suggesting, Strachan, is that the boy was imprisoned somewhere before he was murdered. A room or cell covered in plaster rather than bare brick walls.’
‘Quite correct, Inspector, though I have no empirical evidence to bring me to that conclusion.’
‘But we may infer it.’
The pathologist nodded cautiously. ‘There is one final thing you should know, Inspector.’
‘What?’
Dr Fang smiled. ‘You haven’t asked me the cause of death yet.’
They both waited. It was Strachan who broke the silence. ‘What was the cause of death?’
‘This young boy was strangled. To be precise, he suffered manual strangulation. The hyoid bone is broken and there are signs of petichiae in the whites of the eyes. More obviously, one can see thumb and finger marks on the sides of the neck. Not a pleasant way to die.’
‘None of them are, Doctor.’
‘But this one is extremely personal, Inspector. Our victim, whatever his name is, will have been looking straight into the eyes of his killer as he died.’