Читать книгу City Of Shadows - M. J. Lee - Страница 12

Chapter 2

Detective Sergeant Strachan strode up the steps of Central Police Station and pushed through the double doors.

As soon as he entered, he was hit by a wall of sound. Two half-naked rickshaw drivers were arguing with each other in a dialect he didn’t understand. A woman was wailing in the corner, bemoaning the loss of her little boy. A group of hawkers were pushing and shoving each other, and, in turn, being hustled by a Sikh guard into the corner with shouts of I mi te, I mi te in Indian-accented Shanghainese.

At the centre of the mayhem, as calm as the eye of a storm, was Sergeant Wolfe, perched behind his desk, above it all.

Strachan elbowed his way through the crush to the Sikh sergeant who guarded the entrance to the interior. It was one of the times he loved most. The sense that he knew what was going on behind these closed doors whilst the rest of Shanghai remained ignorant.

His father had brought him here before he was killed. Proudly showing him where he worked and what he did. Strachan had sat on the knee of the desk sergeant, played with the beards of the Sikhs, listening to the arguments in all the languages of China; Mandarin, Shanghainese, Chiuchow, Hakka, even the sing-song tones of the excitable Cantonese. He remembered some of the words even to this day. Being able to say, ‘Good morning’ in eight different dialects amused him.

His father loved being a policeman, walking the beat, sorting out the problems on his patch. Strachan had listened to all his stories when he came home in the evening, sitting by the fire. The tales of cheating merchants, kidnappers, burglars, con-men, pickpockets, street fighters, and card sharps were his bedtime stories. It was inevitable that one day he would join the police, even though his mother, in her Chinese way, had tried to persuade him against the idea.

‘It’s not the profession of a good boy. Become an accountant or a lawyer instead.’

‘I don’t want to be an accountant or a lawyer.’

‘Get an education first and then decide.’

He had done as she wished. Went to St John’s University, got his degree and then decided.

She wasn’t happy but knew he had made his mind up. ‘You’re just like your father. Stubborn as a Yangtse boatman.’

He took that as a compliment.

The Sikh sergeant closed the door behind Strachan, and he experienced the familiar surge of excitement. He was here, where it was all happening, where death and glory, life and sadness, truth and lies stalked the corridors. Even after five years in the force, he still enjoyed the same thrill every time he stepped through that door. The divide that separated the world of normal people and his world; the underworld.

He pushed through the gate and walked down a short green-walled corridor. The only light came from a single dim bulb hiding behind a frosted-glass sconce. A door on the right was stencilled with the words Detective Office in thick block letters. He opened it. Immediately the group of detectives in the corner fell quiet and stared at him.

‘He’s here, lads. Danilov’s little chum.’

The voice came from a ginger-haired detective seated at a desk on one side of the group. . Strachan ignored him.

‘And where’s the great detective today? Solving another devilish plot?’ The group of detectives sniggered.

Strachan faced them. They all stopped laughing. ‘It’s his day off. He deserves one day to himself.’

‘He deserves one day to himself,’ mimicked the ginger detective. ‘Shame he missed the murders last night, wasn’t it?’