They stood outside the morgue as the traffic raced past, inches away from them. Danilov was finishing one of his roll-ups before entering the sterile cleanliness inside.
Entering the morgue always made him uncomfortable. It wasn’t the presence of dead bodies; he had spent most of his life surrounded by death. It was the contrast between the pristine whiteness of the place and the chaos and dirt a foot away from the door, outside on the streets of Shanghai.
He tamped the cigarette against the wall and placed the end in his pocket. ‘Let’s go in, Strachan, Dr Fang will be waiting for us.’
The detective sergeant followed him as he pushed through the doors. Dr Fang was standing in the middle of the autopsy room, dressed as usual in his uniform of white coat over a tweed suit, with a red bow-tie to set it all off. His face was round and calm, as one would expect from somebody who spent their day inhaling formaldehyde. However, there was a schoolmasterly efficiency about his manner which contrasted with his habit of constantly pushing his glasses on to the non-existent bridge of his nose. The habit of an errant schoolboy. Somehow the two antagonists both inhabited the body of the pathologist.
It was the schoolmaster they met now.
‘You’re late, gentlemen.’
The large clock with its roman numerals was just ticking over to 10.04.
‘I’m busy. There are six customers waiting for my services.’ He pointed to the other metal slabs in the morgue, each of which was covered by a white sheet with a corpse vaguely discernible beneath. ‘I do not like to keep my customers waiting.’
Danilov was tempted to say it wouldn’t matter to them if they were waiting for the next hundred years. But he held his tongue. There was no point arguing with Dr Fang; any words would be like water running off a roof. ‘We’re sorry, Dr Fang, we were unavoidably detained.’
‘Hrrrmph,’ was the doctor’s reply. He pushed his glasses back on to the place where the bridge of his nose should have been, and peered through them at Strachan. ‘Welcome back, Detective Sergeant. How’s the throat?’
Instinctively, Strachan fingered the scar over his Adam’s apple. Dr Fang had performed an emergency tracheotomy on him two years ago. It had left his voice deeper and older, but it had also saved his life. ‘Fine, Doctor. No problems.’
‘Good, I’m glad to hear it. My condolences for your mother. I’m sure she was a fine woman. From Soochow, wasn’t she?’
‘She was born there.’
‘Was she related to Tsai Han Liang?’
Instantly, Strachan bristled at the name. ‘He was her grandfather, Dr Fang.’
‘Hmmm, difficult man but a brilliant scholar.’
‘So I’ve heard, sir…’
‘I remember…’
‘Shall we get on, Dr Fang?’ Danilov was aware of Strachan’s sensitivity with regard to his family. ‘We have so much to do.’
‘Of course, Inspector. We have two bodies to see this morning. You’ll be pleased to hear I found the time to look at the woman from Shanghai General. Only preliminary findings, though. I reserve the right to change my report later.’
‘Of course, Doctor, but examining both at the same time will help immensely.’
Dr Fang sniffed. ‘I thought it might. We’ll look at the body from the Country Club first, shall we?’
Danilov nodded even though he knew the question from Dr Fang needed no answer. They were going to look at whatever the doctor had decided to show them first.
Dr Fang pulled back the white linen cover from the corpse like a magician revealing one of his best tricks. The white skin of the body was covered in thin horizontal black lines where the blood had congealed along the arms and legs, with fewer on the body itself. A large Y section ran down the centre of the corpse, with its two points on either shoulder, ending in the space below the belly button.
Danilov let his eyes wander up to the large gash in the throat. The wound had been cleansed of blood. He could see the ragged edges. This wasn’t a sharp, clean cut like those on the body. It was a vicious slash, as if the killer wanted to do as much damage as possible.
The face above the gash in the throat was serenely beautiful: high cheekbones, arched eyebrows, full, sensuous, bow-shaped lips. A woman’s face on a man.
The plaster of Paris had been removed but pieces of it still adhered to the ear and chin. ‘Who is he, Doctor?’
‘I was rather hoping you were going to tell me, Inspector. Shall we call him John Doe until a more accurate name has been discovered?’
Danilov nodded.
Dr Fang spoke aloud as he wrote in his file. ‘Name: John Doe. Age: unknown.’ He looked up from his notes, pushing his glasses back up towards his forehead. ‘Cause of death was a single trauma to the throat, severing the aorta, trachea and Adam’s apple. He died almost instantaneously.’
Danilov looked at Strachan. ‘Time of death?’
‘Hard to say. Ambient temperature affects the rate of decomposition and the onset of rigor mortis. But I would say at least eight hours before he was brought in to the mortuary.’
‘And the wounds on the body?’
‘I counted one hundred and eighty-three separate cuts to the arms, hands, legs and feet and one deep cut to the throat. They were clean, sharp scores cause by a thin knife, scalpel or razor blade.’
‘Have you seen anything like this before, Doctor?’ Danilov knew this was a leading question but he had to get the doctor to give his opinion.
The doctor scratched his head. ‘Sometimes, we see similar cuts in knife fights caused by cutthroat razors, but never this many. I know where you’re heading with this, Inspector. Is it similar to the murder eighteen months ago of Elsie Everett?’
He held up another file lying next to the body.
‘I’ve checked my notes from that autopsy. The position, depth and angle of the cuts are similar, although there are more this time. The cut across the throat is exactly the same, probably committed with the same, or a similar, blade. I believe we discovered the previous murder was committed on a hill of knives. This man,’ he pointed at the corpse with his pen, ‘was almost certainly killed in the same way.’
‘A copycat killer?’
Dr Fang pushed his spectacles back on to the bridge of his nose. ‘I couldn’t possibly say, Inspector. That is in the realm of speculation, and…’
‘You only deal in facts,’ interrupted Strachan.
‘Quite correct, Detective Sergeant. Facts and facts alone.’
‘Are there any other facts you have found in your examination, Doctor?’
Again, Dr Fang pushed the black-framed glasses back towards his forehead. A smile crept across his face like a cat stalking a small bird. ‘Four facts you might find useful, gentlemen.’
There was a pause as Dr Fang waited for encouragement. Danilov understood the good doctor was a master at dramatic tension. An actor who revelled in being onstage, bathed in the limelight. ‘Please let us know what they are, Doctor.’ He fed the man his cue.
The doctor leant forward and moved the victim’s head with his gloved hand. ‘See here, gentlemen, on the neck below the ear…’ He pointed with his pen once more. ‘Two characters carved in the skin. I noticed them when I removed the plaster of Paris.’
‘What do they say, Strachan?’
‘They are the characters for France, sir, the country’s name.’
‘Not “retribution” or “justice” like before?’
‘No sir, definitely not.’
‘But implicit in the character for France is the word law or justice, is it not, Detective Sergeant?’
‘Yes, Dr Fang.’ He turned back to the inspector. ‘Fa Guo is France. “Fa” is the homonym for law or justice.’
The doctor smiled as if giving a lecture to a particularly stupid group of first-year medical students. ‘A homonym is a word that sounds the same but may be pronounced differently. In Chinese, we often use wordplay based on the similar sounds of words and their characters.’
‘Are these the only characters carved on the body, Doctor?’
‘As far as I have discovered, Inspector.’
Danilov nodded again.’And the other facts?’
‘Discoveries might be a better term. The second discovery was that a cast of plaster of Paris covered the face. Common or garden stuff, found in any hospital or pharmacy. Made competently and applied to the face with some care.’
‘Why do you say it was applied carefully, Doctor?’
‘See the eyes? The skin beneath them is extremely sensitive and two eyepads were placed there to protect it and the eyes.’
‘Any fingerprints?’
‘I doubt it, Inspector; the pads looked clean. However, I have sent them to the lab for testing.’
Danilov turned to Strachan. ‘Follow up. Make sure the lab doesn’t drag its feet.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Make-up was applied to the body after death. That’s the third discovery if you are keeping count, Detective Sergeant Strachan. Not all over, just in parts across the upper chest, the arms and the legs, covering some of the cuts. A foundation cream and powder. Again, I’ve sent some samples to the lab.’
‘Why would the killer cover some of the body with make-up?’ Danilov asked.
‘That is for you to find out, is it not, Inspector?’
‘It is, Doctor, it is indeed. And your fourth discovery?’
The doctor became excited once again. ‘Ah, this is the most interesting. I only found it when I broke the fingers. You’ll remember the hands were clasped when the man was brought in; rigor mortis had already set in. I found this in his grip.’ With a pair of tweezers he held up a white pawn.
‘It looks like something from a chess set,’ said Strachan.
‘I see you have kept up with your board games, Detective Sergeant. It is indeed a pawn from a game of chess. Made from wood, oak by the look of it, but I’m sure your people will tell you more.’ Dr Fang smiled, pleased he had surprised the detectives. ‘Shall we move along to our second body, the woman from the hospital?’
Danilov nodded, his eyes fixed on the white pawn.
The doctor moved to the next table in the row. Danilov and Strachan followed him. Again, he removed the white cloth covering the body with a theatrical flourish.
Danilov looked at the face. The bandages had been removed and the hair brushed back off the forehead. ‘I know this woman.’
Both Strachan and Dr Fang stared at him.
‘She helped with the investigation into the Lee murders. She told me where Gordon Cowan was hiding.’
Dr Fang picked up a file from near the head of the victim. ‘Can you tell me her name?’ His pen was poised over the form.
Danilov searched his memory. ‘Sally Chen, I think it was. A taxi dancer from Canton. No family in Shanghai. She was the girlfriend of Inspector Cowan. They lived on Chao Fong Road.’
‘Thank you, Inspector.’
Danilov looked at her face, remembering a vivacious girl who complained of her tired feet and long hours. Now her body lay here on the slab in a mortuary, surrounded by other corpses. All that remained of the woman’s life and energy was blood and muscle and bone. He remembered something his mother used to tell him long ago. ‘A man is a flame, the woman a glow.’
There was no glow left here; the light that had shone from this woman was long gone.
‘Shall I carry on, Inspector?’ Dr Fang interrupted his reverie.
Danilov stopped staring at her face. He wanted to smoke but knew it wasn’t allowed in the morgue. ‘Please do, Doctor.’
‘Good, we have a name. Sally Chen. Age?’
Danilov shook his head.
‘Age unknown.’ The doctor placed his file beside the head of the dead woman. ‘There are similar cuts and marks to our victim from the Country Club, but this woman had far more. Two hundred and eighty-five as far as I can tell. Even with my attention to detail, I may have missed some of the finer incisions.’
‘What was the cause of death, Doctor?’
‘Sepsis, if I’m not mistaken. See the purple blotches on the skin. A classic symptom.’
‘Sepsis?’
The doctor sniffed and pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. ‘Septicaemia. First observed by Hippocrates in the fourth century, and then described as blood rot by Avicenna. You would more commonly refer to it as blood poisoning, Detective Sergeant. But that term is a misnomer as there is no poison involved.’
‘How did she get this sepsis, Doctor?’
‘I don’t know. Usually, the wounds become infected with an endotoxin, the blood stream transports the infection, the body goes into shock, liquid forms in the lungs and the organs began to shut down. Multiple organ failure ensues. In this woman, the kidneys probably failed first, followed by the heart.’
‘The hospital doctor thought she died of a heart attack.’
Dr Fang pushed his glasses back on to the bridge of his nose, where they slid down immediately into their usual position. ‘Hospital doctors often see the end result, rather than the root cause.’
‘Not a nice way to go.’
The doctor sniffed again.’No death is pleasant, Detective Sergeant.’
‘How did the wounds become infected, Doctor?’
‘A dirty knife or razor, perhaps, but that would be speculation, Inspector.’
‘Could the hospital have saved her?’ asked Strachan
‘That is an imprecise question, Detective Sergeant, and, as you are well aware, I’m not in the habit of dealing in suppositions or hypotheses.’
Strachan stared at the body of the young woman lying still on the stainless-steel table. ‘Just facts, nothing but facts.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Are the cuts the same or similar to our victim in the Country Club?’
‘I would say they are the same or similar, Inspector.’
‘So both crimes could possibly have been committed by the same man?’
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. ‘You could think that, Inspector. I couldn’t possibly say.’
‘One other question, Doctor. Given your professional experience and your acquaintance with these victims and with Elsie Everett, were the murders committed in the same manner?’
‘Thank you for your exact wording of the question, Inspector.’ Dr Fang looked at the corpse and across at the other body. ‘Given those parameters, I believe all three victims were killed in the same manner.’
‘But that can’t be. You shot Allen, sir, on Garden Bridge.’
Danilov sighed. ‘The good doctor has only stated that the murders were committed in the same manner, Strachan, not that they were committed by the same man.’
‘Exactly, Inspector.’
‘Is there anything else you discovered, Doctor?’
Dr Fang leant over and moved Sally Chen’s head to the right. Danilov could see two characters incised just below the ear.
‘The characters say America, sir’
‘The country?’
‘Yes, sir – literally “the beautiful country”.’
Danilov stared into the lifeless face of Sally Chen. He remembered her beauty and vivacity, her bobbed hair a symbol of the joy, gin and jazz that was Shanghai. But not any more. The eyes were lifeless. The skin pale and dull. And the playful smirk had vanished to be replaced by the rictus of death, the lips pulled back from the teeth. ‘Were the characters created by the same instrument as those on the Country Club victim?’
‘As a pathologist, I can only say the characters were created with a similar instrument. But as a student of Chinese, I would say it was written by the same hand. Or rather, it was carved by the same hand. See how neat the strokes are, almost as if they had been copied from a textbook.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. Anything else you can tell us?’ The smell of formaldehyde was beginning to irritate Danilov.
The doctor lifted up one of the girl’s lifeless arms. ‘See here, the marks of the rope. She was bound at one point. The wrists show deep bruising where she struggled against her restraints.’ He put the arm down. ‘There are also rope marks on her palms,’ he said, turning over the hands for Danilov to see, ‘the inside of her thighs and her ankles.’
Danilov could see the marks clearly on her legs. Livid, blue marks, lying along the inside of the thigh and along the inside of the ankles.
‘The marks don’t go around her thighs or legs. They are only found on the inside.’
‘Were they inflicted pre-or post-mortem?’
‘Pre-mortem, Inspector. See the bruising is livid, going from purple into blue.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. As ever, your examination has been precise and informed.’
The doctor smiled, pushing his glasses back on his nose. ‘It reminds me so much of the killings nearly two years ago. But there are differences; it’s not quite the same.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. Let us know if you find anything else.’
The doctor nodded and turned to lift the shroud covering another corpse, beginning to work on it immediately.
‘Let’s get out of here, Strachan. I need a cigarette.’
They left the mortuary and walked into the lobby of the morgue. Here, at least, the smell of formaldehyde wasn’t as strong.
‘I might join you, sir.’
‘You don’t smoke.’
‘I’m thinking of taking it up, sir. To help me think.’
They pushed through the large double doors on to the street. ‘Well, you can buy your own.’
A flash of light in their faces. The pop of a bulb exploding. The metallic ching of a shutter.
‘Has the Character Killer made a comeback, Inspector?’
‘Who did he murder?’
‘Who’s the girl?’
A pack of journalists surrounded them like braying hounds around an exhausted fox, circling for the kill.
‘No comment, gentlemen,’ Danilov shouted as he pushed through the pack of reporters.
How had they learnt of the murder?