Danilov pulled his thin coat around his body. The cold wind of a Shanghai night in November slithered through the fabric and into his bones. It was nothing like a winter in Minsk, though. Here, he could at least reach home without having to plough through drifts of snow.
He walked home every night from the station, absorbing the life and energy of the city. Even at this hour, a few minutes past ten, the streets were still buzzing. The trams clanked down the wide avenues between the plane trees, their power collectors rattling on the overhead lines. Children played, beggars begged and hawkers hawked. But it was the smells he enjoyed most: frying bread, steaming dumplings, roasting chestnuts, sizzling buns, bubbling tea. The smells of Shanghai were a melange of spices and pork, fish and bread, sugar and earth, shit and coal.
Not forgetting the smell of people; one could never miss the smell of the people.
He stepped over a bundle of rags lying in the street. The man, for it was a man, muttered a few words and held out the stump of an arm, the flesh red and livid where the hand no longer was. Danilov dug into his pocket and dropped a few coins into the man’s biscuit tin. They would stave off starvation for a few hours.
Up ahead, the lights of the Wing On Department Store blazed their welcome to all those with money and the desire to be parted from it. A crowd were hanging around outside as usual. Either waiting for someone, or just enjoying the sight of people with money to spend and things to buy.
The vicarious enjoyment of consumption. In Shanghai, one didn’t window-shop, or at least not much. Instead one watched others shop with open mouths and envious eyes. But the envy was not of those who had nothing versus those who had it all. Rather it was envy at not being in the same position. Not being able to buy, not being allowed to consume.
Danilov stopped for a moment to roll a cigarette, watching the watchers. They didn’t move from where they stood. Each new departure from the store was greeted with hungry eyes, all asking: ‘What have they bought?’ Peering at the wrapped-up gifts, attempting to guess what was inside. This was consumption as a spectator sport. Danilov was sure the same people came every night for the spectacle. Perhaps whole families came.
He lit the cigarette and walked on. This would have to be his last cigarette of the evening. His daughter had imposed a strict rule against smoking in the house. One of her many rules. But he didn’t mind. He was happy to be with her. To have her around and near him. Her face, her happiness, her joy swelled his chest with pride.
One day he would find her mother and brother. He had been searching for nearly six years now, since they had been separated after fleeing Russia.
He remembered Cartwright’s criticism of him: ‘the supposedly smart detective who can’t even find his own wife’. But what hurt even more was the truth behind the words. He was supposed to be a great detective. He was supposed to be able to solve any crime. But here he was, after nearly six years, still unable to track down his wife and son.
He took a long drag of the cigarette and walked on. One day he would find them. He knew they were somewhere in Siberia, but where? And why hadn’t his wife contacted him or his daughter? Why had she vanished?
He had tried the usual channels – adverts in newspapers, contacting religious and refugee groups – but still nothing. The only answer was to go there and find her himself. After this killer was stopped, he would ask Rock for time off. Surely the man couldn’t refuse his request?
This case had too many questions and too few answers. Who had committed the murders and why had they copied Allen? Was Li Min behind it all, pulling the strings from his prison cell? Who was Johnstone and why had he fled? Who was the girl? Why was she shouting his name? Who was the man in the Shanghai Country Club?
So many questions, no answers. But Danilov was certain this killer would strike again. This man had a taste for blood and a love of pain and cruelty that was only going to be satiated by more murders and more deaths.
He threw his cigarette in the gutter and began to roll another one. A few yards on, at the corner of the street, an old man sat with his hand held up and the stumps of his legs sticking out in front of him. On impulse, Danilov placed the freshly rolled cigarette in the dirt-creased palm of the man’s hand.
The beggar looked at the thin white tube for a moment, quickly pulled off his hat, popped the cigarette inside, and placed the hat back on his lice-infested head.
‘Xie, xie,’ he finally said and smiled, the red, raw gums shining silver wet between the pale lips.
Danilov hurried on. His daughter would be waiting, her arms folded across her chest in a pose women had adopted for centuries to chastise itinerant men.
He reached the gates of their apartment block and stumbled up the brown-tiled stairs to the second floor apartment.
He turned the lock in the door and she was there, waiting for him
‘You’re late. You should have telephoned.’
He took off his hat and coat, hanging them on the stand in the hall, and mimicked her voice. ‘Good evening, Father. Nice to see you, Father. How was your day, Father?’
‘I said all of that stuff an hour ago. You missed it.’ She stood up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Good evening, Father.’
‘Ah, now I feel welcomed.’
He followed her into the living room. She had begun to impose her taste for comfort on him. He wasn’t complaining. Living alone, he had developed a peculiar attraction for austerity, having few items of furniture and no paintings to colour the white plaster walls. She had added colour, a few inexpensive prints from some art gallery, a little too modern for his taste. A new couch and armchairs, the old ones dispatched to the knacker’s yard where they belonged. Three colourful cushions, each one displaying a variation on the Art Deco zig-zags that were all the rage. And on the floor, a deep maroon rug.
The place looked different.
Better.
‘I’m afraid the piroshki aren’t as good as they were an hour ago.’
He smiled at her. ‘Were they edible then?’
‘Not really.’
‘I suppose they are edible now?’
‘Not really. So I went out to get some dumplings from the stall on the corner. I hope you don’t mind. You are late, after all.’
Danilov’s stomach did a hop, skip and jump of delight. He put on a sad face. ‘I was looking forward to some home-cooked food this evening.’
‘I can heat up the piroshki if you like,’ she said brightly.
‘No, no. The dumplings will be fine,’ he said quickly, hoping she wouldn’t notice how quickly.
She did, of course. ‘Don’t worry, you can avoid my cooking this evening. But tomorrow you must come home early, I’m making your favourite.’
‘Draniki?’
‘Of course. I know they won’t be as good as Mother’s but I can try. The dumplings are on the table.’
He sat opposite her and took two dumplings from the steaming mound lying in front of him. She took four. He had never been a great eater, unlike Strachan, never understanding the obsession with food. But recently, he had begun looking forward to the evening with her, sitting across from each other, talking about the cases he was investigating. She had a fine mind, if a little raw and untutored.
The food played its part, he knew. Either stifling conversation if she had cooked. Or enhancing it if she had gone out to buy. Either way, it did not matter. To be with her, to be close to her, was all that mattered.
‘How was your day?’
‘Busy. A murder at the Shanghai Country Club.’
She whistled. ‘An expensive place to die…’
‘Or be killed. The body was in the grounds.’
‘How did it get there?’
‘We don’t know. Yet.’
‘How is Strachan?’
He watched her face. This was a new interest in his detective sergeant. ‘Bearing up. He’s gone back to the station.’
She sat back in her chair. ‘Oh Father, how could you? The man has just lost his mother and you have him working all hours.’
‘It’s for the best. Once burnt by milk, a man will blow on cold water.’
‘The world can’t be explained in Russian sayings.’
‘For me, it can.’ He took another three dumplings; the mixture of pork and chives in a soft pillow of dough was wonderful. He realised how hungry he was. She had stopped eating.
‘The man should be at home, mourning his loss and rebuilding his life.’
‘The best way to mourn his loss is to dig himself deeply into work.’
‘Like you did.’
He remembered those years without Elina. ‘Like I did.’
‘Work isn’t the cure for everything, Father.’
‘That may be true, Lenchik, but it is the cure for Strachan.’ He finished the dumplings in his bowl. ‘Save the rest for breakfast?’
She nodded.
‘Shall we finish our game?’
She nodded again. ‘I’ve been looking at the board and I’m sure I can beat you this time.’
‘It’s my move, isn’t it?’
She nodded for the third time.
‘Knight to king’s bishop three.’
She threw her hands up in the air. ‘You can’t do that, Father.’
‘Do what?’
‘Make a move without looking at the board.’
He tapped the side of his head. ‘But it’s all up here, Lenchik. It’s always up here.’