‘Take your time, Strachan, there’s no need to rush. They’ll be waiting for us.’
Strachan took his foot off the accelerator. The Ford they had borrowed from Inspector Fairbairn was far more powerful than their usual Buick. ‘Who’ll be waiting, sir, and where are we going?’
Danilov didn’t answer, preferring to stare out of the window instead. Pingliang Road was unusually quiet. The factories had closed that morning and the markets, normally a hive of buzz and activity, only had a few desultory shoppers picking through the cabbages, slabs of fatty pork hanging on silver hooks, and rows of chickens in tiny cages waiting to have their necks broken.
By the time they reached the junction with Yangtsepoo Road, near the tramway car sheds, they understood why. A company of Japanese marines in their dark-blue uniforms, white helmets and white leggings blocked the road as they marched into town, rifles on their shoulders, bayonets fixed. Guarding them on either side were two Rolls-Royce armoured cars, their rounded turrets and threatening machine guns sweeping the road in front.
Strachan stopped the car, waiting for the marching men to pass. ‘Looks like they’ve just landed, sir.’
He pointed past the Nippon Yusen Kaisha wharf building to the dock. More men, stripped to the waist despite the cold of winter, were hauling a howitzer into position, attaching it to the rear of a truck. In the river, two Japanese warships, one a cruiser, were floating at anchor, their gun barrels uncapped, pointing directly towards the Chinese section of town.
A Japanese officer marched past, his sword slapping rhythmically against the outside of his thigh. He eyed Strachan aggressively, staring at the detective sergeant as if he were a mortal enemy.
‘This is not looking good, sir.’
‘Ihanaga is carrying out his threat,’ Danilov mumbled under his breath.
‘What was that, sir?’
‘Drive to the Japanese Naval Depot, Strachan. Take the back roads through the Jewish area; we don’t want to get stuck behind this lot.’
The end of the column marched past. Strachan pulled out into Yangtsepoo Road, then swung immediately right down Muirhead Road, behind the police quarters.
‘Used to live here when I was training, sir.’
No answer.
Strachan carried on driving, down Tungshan Road and Yalu Road, past the municipal abattoir. Danilov sat silent next to him. Staring out into the distance. How had he missed the clues? They had been so obvious. And because of his mistakes, a young boy lay dead, his father bent on exacting revenge on the population of Shanghai.
They drove past Hong Kew police station. Here, the Japanese marines were even more numerous, squatting by the road, smoking, chatting loudly or sharpening their bayonets. Two more armoured cars poked their dull metal bonnets from the side streets, waiting for orders.
They crossed into the extended settlement and turned right along Szechuan North Road. The change was obvious from their last visit, war materiel parked at the side of the road: marines, small howitzers, trucks, motorbikes and sidecars, more marines, ammo boxes, shell caissons, naval officers running here and there, marshalling men and stores.
The energy was palpable, the sense of anticipation like an electric current in the air.
Nobody paid any attention to the small Buick with two men in it as they drove past. There was far more important work to be done.
Strachan reached the barrier in front of the naval depot. A sentry, rifle and bayonet far taller than himself, came out from his post and waved them through the barrier.
‘Do you mind telling me what’s going on, sir? What are we doing here?’
Danilov pulled at his bottom lip with his index finger and thumb. ‘We are meeting the killer of the children, Strachan.’