Читать книгу City Of Shadows - M. J. Lee - Страница 26

Chapter 16

Danilov sat alone in the empty detectives’ room. The others were out helping Strachan with the gentlemen of the press.

He laughed to himself. Such an English description, ‘gentlemen of the press’. The press he knew were rabid dogs rather than gentlemen, willing to sacrifice everyone and everything in pursuit of a byline.

He could hear them outside in the reception area shouting and complaining, baying together.

Above the noise, Boyle was bellowing, trying to control the mob, followed by the higher register of the interpreter, repeating the orders in Mandarin and Shanghainese.

He rolled another cigarette.

But what was the story here? A family had been murdered in cold blood and now their killer had been shot on the steps of the police station. Why?

Was it an escape attempt gone wrong? Probably not. Kao had been shot between the eyes and in the chest. Not caught in crossfire.

So why kill an innocent man? And why not let the man go on trial to prove his innocence? If he were found guilty, he would be turned over to the Chinese authorities and executed. End of story.

Why kill him here? On the steps of a police station? To shut him up? Stop him talking? Or was he just a fall guy, a patsy to take the rap for somebody else?

A sharp tap on the glass of the door and it opened. A postman popped his head around the corner, saw Danilov sitting alone at his desk and held up a sheaf of letters.

‘Miss Cavendish. Down at the end of the corridor.’

The postman nodded, smiled and closed the door.

Danilov lit his cigarette, taking a long, cooling drag and feeling the mellow smoke fill his lungs. He exhaled three perfectly formed smoke rings and watched them drift up to the beige ceiling.

But if Kao was innocent, as he had claimed, who had killed the Lee family? And where was Cowan? Why had he run away after the killing of his prisoner?

Boyle was shouting even louder now, desperate to make himself heard. He should go out and help, if only to stop the infernal noise.

He stood up and stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette, adjusting the black pen one more time until it was exactly horizontal.

Too many questions. Always too many questions.