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Chapter 3

Danilov stared out over the creek and onto the now empty ‘Beach of Dead Babies’. The sun was just going down over the post office on the other bank, casting an orange haze over the river.

‘I always like to come back to the scene of the crime afterwards, Stra-chan. It lets me see at it as the murderer knew it, without the crowds and the rest of the watchers.’

Life in the creek carried on as usual despite the excitement of that morning. The sampans wobbled in their ungainly way up to the Whampoo or down into the interior. The wharves bustled with sweat and energy as cargo was unloaded from the lighters that served the ships in the harbour. The young boy still sat on the prow of the boat playing with his dog, the tether attached to his foot.

The waves continued to lap the shores of the ‘Beach of Dead Babies’, where just eight hours before a body had lain with its belly slit open.

The hawker, with his fragrant pot of sweet potatoes, had vanished though, gone to ply his trade somewhere else.

‘It’s quiet, sir.’

‘It is if you ignore all the bustle and noise of the river.’

‘I meant compared to this morning.’

‘That’s the point, Stra-chan.’ He rolled a cigarette with tobacco from his tin. ‘I can see it as it was when the murder was committed.’ He brought the cigarette up to his mouth and took a long drag, coughing as he exhaled, clearing his lungs. ‘But of course, this wasn’t the primary murder scene. The body was carried here.’

Strachan stared out into the river. A sampan swam past the ‘Beach of Dead Babies’, almost touching the edge of the sandbank.

‘See the sampan, how close it gets to the area where the body was found?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Our victim didn’t just float there. It was carried out to the “Beach of Dead Babies”. Somebody must have seen it being taken there.’

‘I asked the local river people. Of course, nobody saw anything. But I’ve put the word out. Perhaps somebody will come forward.’

‘Remember there were no rat bites. It means the body hadn’t been in the creek for long. Thirty minutes at the most. Ask people if they heard or saw anything from 5.30 am to 6.00 am.’

‘I’ll get the local sergeant on it, sir.’

‘Make sure people know there is a reward for information. Five dollars should be enough.’

‘More than enough, sir.’ A lighter chugged past, its thin funnel sending out acres of grey smoke that stank of half-burned coal. Strachan flipped open his notebook, checking what he had written earlier that morning. ‘The victim’s body was weighted down with stones and placed on the sandbank.’

‘Interesting, you say “placed”, Stra-chan, because it was “placed”. We were meant to find it. The creek is one of the most open places in Shanghai, with constant river traffic. The body was bound to be found. In both senses of the word. The killer weighted it with stones so we would find it there. He didn’t want it to be washed down into the Whampoo. Why did he do that? What’s he trying to tell us?’ He exhaled a long stream of cigarette smoke and coughed again. A glob of spit formed in his mouth.

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘But that’s what we have to find out, Stra-chan. That’s what they pay us to find out.’

‘I thought they pay us to find the killer, sir.’

‘We won’t be able to do that until we know why he does what he does, Stra-chan.’ He rolled another cigarette with tobacco from his tin. ‘I wonder why it’s called the “Beach of Dead Babies”.’

‘I asked the locals, sir. They told me it’s because of the local currents. All the unwanted babies placed in the river inevitably end up there.’

‘Like Moses.’

‘Exactly, sir. The river people adopt the male children as their own.’

‘And the girls?’

‘Apparently, they get taken to the orphanage, sir. Girls are just extra mouths to feed.’

‘Thank you for that, Stra-chan, remind me never to introduce you to my daughter.’ As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Danilov knew he had made a mistake. He looked away, pretending to examine the wharves behind them. It was nearly four years since he had last seen her. Four years on April 26th. Strachan was still staring at the ‘Beach of Dead Babies’. Perhaps, he hadn’t noticed? Time to get him working. ‘The doctor said our victim was a male with a female appearance.’

‘I believe there are a few clubs catering for those sorts of tastes, sir. I could check them out. Show a few photographs around once they come back from processing.’

‘That’s a start. Check the registry of doctors. This man was already showing female characteristics, maybe he was already seeing a physician. Did you notice the absence of body hair?’

‘Could have been shaving, sir.’

‘Hair continues to grow after death. Yet there was none.’

‘I’ll get onto it when we go back to the station. I was also thinking about the Chinese characters carved into the chest.’

‘And?’

‘I suppose it means we are looking for a Chinese killer, sir.’

‘You suppose wrong, Stra-chan. Anybody can write or copy a character, even you.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Let me do the supposing, Stra-chan, you just concentrate on the facts.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Next steps are, you will follow up on the doctors and the boatmen. I would like your report on my desk by tomorrow morning.’

‘I’ll do it before I leave this evening, sir.’

‘Good, then you can accompany me to meet our Frenchman tomorrow morning.’

‘As long as we don’t have frog’s legs for breakfast, sir.’

‘Most certainly not, Stra-chan. It will be a strong coffee and a croissant in the French Concession. Frog’s legs would only be served for luncheon or dinner.’

‘It was a joke, sir.’

‘I see you have an English sense of humour.’

‘I picked it up at school, sir.’

‘Well, put it down when you are with me, Stra-chan, is that clear?’

Strachan looked out over the river. For the second time that day, he gave the same response. ‘As the Soochow Creek, sir.’

***

Her head ached. She shook it to try and clear the fuzziness.

Where was she? Another night drinking too much? She tried to remember what happened but nothing would come. She had got into a taxi but then…?

She tried to lift her arm to brush away the hair from her eyes, but it wouldn’t move. She tried again. It was like both her arms were gripped around the wrists by coarse, hairy fingers.

She shook her head once more and looked down. Both her arms were strapped to a wooden chair with lengths of thin rope. Twisting left and right, she leveraged her body against the back of the chair and twisted her arms. The ropes cut into her wrists, drops of fresh blood flowed down her hands and onto her leg.

Tears ran down face. Her head lolled forwards. Memories flashed into her head. Leaving the Astor, Getting into a cab. A bald head. Driving around Shanghai. Stopping. Bitten fingers. A red livid scar across the top of his head. Reaching for her. A cloth over her mouth. Darkness.

How did I get here? Why me? A great wracking sob seized hold of her chest. Her head lolled forward again, the tears dripping down onto her dress where their warmth and wetness seeped into the fabric.

She tried to rock the chair backwards and forwards, but it wouldn’t move. It was made from solid, thick wood, bolted to the floor. Like an electric chair without the current, she thought bitterly.

She lifted her head and peered into the gloom that surrounded her. Not much to see, just a drab brownness that seemed to be walls. From them, a dark, dank smell like the earth of a graveyard suffused with the stench of fish, drifted towards her.

She felt the wood of the chair arm beneath her fingers. There were marks there. Something hard buried in the wood. She picked at it, digging it out. There was a crescent moon of opaque whiteness on the tips of her fingers. What was it? She felt its sharp edges and realised straight away.

A fingernail.

She screamed and struggled against the ropes. Got to get free. Got to get out of here. The ropes clung to her wrists, tightening their grip.

Who’d taken her? Why was she a prisoner? She hadn’t done anything wrong in Shanghai. What were they going to do with her? Another sob wracked her chest and more tears flowed down her cheeks.

A shroud of self-pity enveloped her. All she wanted was her turn in the limelight. She shouldn’t have been here at all. Diane had been chosen for the part. But she had an accident on the Underground. Elsie had tried to save her but…it was too late. Everybody creates their own luck, don’t they? It just wasn’t Diane’s day or her part. She deserved what happened. And Elsie deserved her chance as an actress. One of them had to be disappointed. It just wasn’t going to be her.

She struggled again against the ropes. They seemed to become tighter. She stopped, exhausted.

Her head sank onto her chest. I wonder if they are white slavers? Like those people she’d read about in the Sunday papers. One of them had seen her on the stage and kidnapped her to sell into slavery as the mistress of a Chinese warlord. Or maybe the moll of a famous gangster? But why tie her up here? In the newspaper reports, the star had been kidnapped, imprisoned in the lap of luxury, waited on hand and foot by a charming manservant. But she was tied to an old chair in a dark, dank place which stank of rancid fish and putrid earth.

She twisted her head to one side. For some reason, she sensed a presence. ‘Who’s there?’ The words harsh against the darkness.

Nobody answered, but she knew somebody was there. Over to her left, in the midst of the blackness, there was something even darker. She stayed very still and controlled her breathing, taking a quick intake of air and holding it, listening for any noise.

Silence.

But there it was, on the left, the soft whisper of someone else breathing. Deep, controlled breathing.

She fought against the ropes. Once again, they seemed to get tighter the more she struggled to wrench herself free. ‘Who’s there? I know somebody is there.’

Still no answer.

Above her head, a single bulb hung from a black flex in the ceiling. The light didn’t penetrate to the gloom that enveloped the rest of the room. She realised the only thing it illuminated was her. Finally, my own spotlight, she thought bitterly.

She stopped struggling and listened again. She was sure she heard soft breathing from the depths of the darkness. ‘I know you’re out there,’ she shouted, using her theatrical voice to project more confidence than she actually felt.

There was movement. A chair being scraped back, someone standing. Then she caught the memory of a smell. The sweet, delicate aroma of a scent. Where had she smelt that before?

Footsteps coming towards her. No, the echoes of the room were playing with her hearing. They were moving off to her right. The creak of an old door opening, no light coming through the entrance though. The click of a switch. She was in darkness. Alone in the darkness.

She screamed and screamed and screamed, but nobody came.