‘It appears our friends wanted to make a statement.’ The glass pane of the door had been boarded up where the window had been smashed.
Strachan tried the door of C.J. Dawtry, Undertakers. ‘A new lock, sir. Probably installed by the forensic people.’
‘You’ll have to break in, won’t you?’
‘If you say so, sir.’ Strachan flexed his shoulders, grabbed the door handle, leant backwards, then jerked forward with the point of his shoulder driving into the door around the lock.
The door sprung open and the detective sergeant followed it, landing on the red carpet of the reception area.
Danilov stepped into the room. ‘You really will have to learn how to do that properly, Strachan. It’s effective, but inelegant.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll practise being more elegant, sir.’
The inspector wiped his finger along the edge of the reception table. It was covered in a fine white dust. ‘At least the fingerprint boys seem to have done a thorough job.’
Strachan was examining the wax skeleton in the coffin. ‘Looks lifelike, sir. Gives me the willies.’
‘Another one of your American phrases, Strachan?’
The detective sergeant nodded. ‘I think so, sir.’
‘Picked up in your American penny dreadfuls?’
‘Actually, they’re ten cents, sir.’
‘A waste of your hard-earned money, Strachan.’ He walked through to the laying-out room in the rear. The door to the back room was wide open. ‘That must be where the body was found hanging. Do we have any pictures from the report?’
Strachan rifled through the pages in the folder. Meaker must have worked hours to get all this done. He found the crime scene pictures and handed them to Danilov.
‘Good, the photographers have done their job too.’ He held up one of the pictures against what remained of the frame against the wall. ‘There were no pictures taken with the body in situ?’
‘None, sir. Chief Inspector Rock moved the body before the photographers arrived.’
‘Hmm,’ was Danilov’s only response. ‘Do you have pictures of the victim?’
Strachan dug into the file, bringing out another set and handing them to the inspector. Danilov held one up to the light. A crease formed between his eyebrows and he moved closer to the light in order to see better. ‘I know this man, Strachan.’
‘It’s C.J. Dawtry, sir, the undertaker.’
‘No, it isn’t. It’s a Russian thug called Victorov. He was the boyfriend of one of Allen’s first victims.’ He frowned again. ‘Allen is killing everybody he knows helped with his capture. It’s his revenge.’
‘But I thought you said the American had nothing to do with the investigation, sir?’
‘He didn’t, Strachan. And perhaps that’s what is important about him. Why he had to die.’
‘I don’t understand, sir.’
Danilov sighed. ‘Allen knows I look for patterns in the crimes I investigate. Perhaps he wanted to disrupt me, play a game, force me to discount a pattern because it didn’t fit one crime.’
‘Playing with your mind, sir.’
‘Another appalling Americanism, Strachan. Accurate but appalling.’
Danilov handed the photographs back to Strachan. The inspector began to walk around the room, examining the empty coffins. ‘At last, it is becoming a little clearer, Strachan.’
‘It is, sir?’
‘It is, Strachan. We’re close now. But what worries me is we haven’t had a message from Allen recently.’
‘Nobody has gone missing, sir.’
He stopped. ‘Not true, Strachan. We are not aware anybody is missing. But nonetheless, he could have taken someone.’ He started walking around the room again, touching the wooden coffins with his hands and examining the lids.
‘Are you looking for something, sir?’
‘Something is missing, Strachan. A message from the killer. It should be here.’
Strachan began to search the coffins too. They seemed to be perfectly normal; a variety of woods and shapes, all lined with silk.
Strachan ripped away the silk from inside one of the coffins. Bare wood stared back at him.
The inspector suddenly stopped. ‘Strachan, tell me, what was the first thing the Chief Inspector, Meaker and Cartwright did when they came in here?’
Strachan checked the case notes once again. They were extremely detailed. ‘They came through the door over there, sir. It was closed and the room was dark. They switched on the light straight away.’
‘That’s it. Strachan, can you turn off the light?’
Strachan flicked the switch. The room instantly went grey, the only light coming in through the open door.
‘Close the door too.’
The door shut with a loud click. The room was pitch black. Danilov could hear his own breathing. Soft, shallow breaths, controlled and unhurried.
A soft green glow was coming from the lid of one of the coffins. Danilov walked over and looked at the green words written in fluorescent paint on top of the lid.
‘A Princess from the Ice did roam,
A new city to find a home,
Her ladies despite their tears
Did become her little ears
A sporting circle was her suggestion
Unquiet meals make ill digestion.’
‘What does it mean, sir?’
‘It means the killer has another victim, Strachan. A Russian victim this time.’
‘Where are they being held, sir?’
‘The fifth line would appear to tell us, Strachan. Let’s go back to the station. I have a hunch I want to follow up.’
Strachan pointed to the words written on the coffin. ‘What shall I do with this, sir.’
‘Get the photographers to take a shot of it.’
‘I’m not sure they can shoot in the dark, sir.’
‘Tell them to find a way. A bad workman blames a bad saw.’
‘Another Russian idiom, sir? I’ll let them know. I’m sure they’ll understand them as much as I do.’
‘One day, I’ll explain the meaning to you, Strachan. Until then, ignorance is bliss.’
‘More Shakespeare, sir?’
‘I’m shocked, Strachan. “Where ignorance is bliss, tis folly to be wise.” It’s Thomas Grey.’