‘I think this is where the constables found her, sir.’ Strachan pointed to an embankment beside the Soochow Creek, opposite Wenchow Road.
‘You think or you know, Strachan?’
The detective sergeant kicked himself. He should know better than to use imprecise language with Danilov. ‘I’m certain this is where they found her, sir.’
‘Which direction did she come from?’
Strachan pointed back along Sinza Road. ‘From over there, sir.’
It was quiet for a Wednesday morning. A few people were crossing the road, gingerly stepping over the tram tracks. Rickshaw drivers trotted past, their vehicles piled high with cloth and other material, rather than passengers.
Strachan noticed Danilov’s eyes following the rickshaw drivers. ‘There are five cotton mills beside the upper reaches of the creek, sir.’
Danilov nodded. ‘And what’s that?’ He pointed to a large white concrete tower dwarfing the merchant houses lining the road. Danilov recognised the new Art Deco style immediately by the cleanliness of its lines and almost Egyptian look of the square motifs decorating the rounded sides and top.
‘It’s the new Water Tower, sir. It’s not open yet but will soon supply all the local area with fresh water.’
‘Or as fresh as water ever gets in Shanghai, Strachan.’
‘The water’s good here, sir, best in the city.’
Danilov grunted and began walking back towards Sinza Road. ‘If this is the way she came, Strachan, how long had she been running?’
‘The constables didn’t know, sir.’
They stopped at a T-junction. Opposite them, Sinza Road continued past the Water Tower. Myburgh Road swooped in from their left to form an open area in the centre. Cars, trams, rickshaws, carts and people danced around each other, somehow failing to make contact.
‘How did she run through this junction without anybody stopping her?’
‘I’ll ask at the rice merchant on the corner, sir. He may have seen something.’ Strachan ran off.
Danilov stood in the middle of the hustle and bustle of Shanghai, calmly rolling a cigarette. The people of the city went about their business, ignoring the man standing at the corner of the street. A few rickshaw drivers peddled slowly past him, hoping against hope he would raise his hand and ask to be taken somewhere. Factory chimneys over in Chapei belched out dark brown smoke which drifted across the city to join the clouds of coal dust, petrol fumes and oil vapours from a million woks.
Danilov added to the miasma with three rings of tobacco smoke, each ring slowly dissipating to mingle with the rest of the poisonous gas that was loosely called the air of Shanghai. He was just finishing his cigarette as Strachan returned.
‘The merchant saw a girl running through here yesterday evening, sir, around the same time as the police spotted her.’
‘Why didn’t he stop her?’
‘Thought she was from the refuge around the corner, sir. Nothing to do with him.’
‘Refuge?’
‘The Sinza Refuge. A home run by missionaries. It’s where the courts send women who have nowhere else to go, sir.’
‘Well, let’s take a look, shall we?’