‘And make sure we get pictures of the body before Dr Fang’s men move it.’
Strachan held up the camera he had confiscated from the press photographer.
‘Well, don’t just stand there looking pleased with yourself. Get a move on.’
‘Right away, sir.’
Danilov looked down once more on the serene face of Kao. Shame such peace had to come with death. The once white shirt, soiled with blood, sweat and the dirt of the cell walls, clung to his body. Around his right wrist, a set of handcuffs was still fastened, slightly different in size and colour from the set that had been attached to Moore. Shinier, almost new, with thicker steel links and a heavy lock.
Kao must have been handcuffed to two policemen as he was being led away. Moore and one other. Who could the other man have been?
He looked up and saw Strachan organising the uniforms to herd the reporters and photographers into the station. The lawyer was protesting loudly, arguing as Strachan gently backed him towards the open double doors at the top of the steps.
He looked down at the body lying sprawled at his feet, an open pair of handcuffs still attached to one arm.
Danilov picked up the handcuffs. A small key fell from the lock and tumbled to the steps, landing with a metallic clink on the hard concrete.
He looked around the scene once more and then it struck him. ‘Where was Cowan?’
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.
Danilov pushed through the door leading to the reception room.
Immediately, the noise in the room tripled. The press were surrounding the Chief Inspector and Sergeant Wolfe, shouting and waving their arms.
Flashbulbs exploded. Young reporters jostled old hands. Elbows and voices were raised.
A tall, well-dressed Chinese man bent over a much shorter photographer to shout in Shanghainese, ‘We want to get out, now.’
Above it all, but part of it, Chief Inspector Boyle was trying to maintain order. ‘One at a time, one at a time,’ he shouted over and over again in English. ‘You all need to be interviewed and then you can go.’
For a moment, the crowd of reporters quietened down as the interpreter repeated what he had said in Mandarin and Shanghainese. Before he had finished speaking, the shouting began again, but louder, more insistent.
Danilov walked over to the Sikh Sergeant. ‘Where’s the usual crowd?’
‘Scared off by the shooting, sir. They believe the ghost of the dead man is still around here somewhere, waiting to take human form, so they won’t be anywhere near the station today. They’ll be back tomorrow, you mark my words. What are we going to do with this lot?’
‘Start by herding them into the interview rooms.’
‘Easier to herd cats.’
Boyle was shouting again, standing on top of the desk, flapping his arms like a flightless bird trying to take off.
‘Listen to me,’ he shouted. ‘A man has been murdered on the steps of Central. You are all potential witnesses.’ He turned and pointed at Danilov. ‘This inspector is in charge of the investigation. He will interview you as quickly as possible and then you will be free to go.’
As the interpreter was translating his words into Mandarin and Shanghainese, Boyle stepped down from his platform.
He walked over to Danilov, leaning in to whisper in his ear. ‘Solve it quickly, Danilov.’
‘I’ll start right away. Interview the reporters. Somebody may have seen something.’
‘I doubt if they’ll tell you anything.’
‘How did they get here so quickly?’
’Beats me. Even the bloody walls have ears. Sometimes, the press finds out I’ve scratched my arse before I do.’
Boyle walked past Danilov, heading back to the safety and security of his office.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘For what? Just solve it quickly, Danilov.’ He was about to escape from the madness in the reception area when he turned and pointed his finger at the inspector. ‘Don’t go anywhere near the Lee murders. That’s an order. Cowan can finish the paperwork when he comes back.’
‘But Chief Inspector…’
‘But me no buts, Inspector. Find Kao’s killer.’ He walked back to Danilov, speaking through clenched teeth, his anger like a black cloud above his head. ‘Do you realise how embarrassing this is for the Shanghai Police? A man, a suspect, shot dead on the steps of the station. Scandalous.’ The Chief Inspector raised his voice. ‘My bloody head is on the chopping block. And I don’t like being bloody Anne Boleyn.’
The reporters, photographers and assorted hangers-on had fallen silent, all staring at the Chief Inspector. Then the shouting and mayhem began again.
Boyle leant in and whispered harshly in Danilov’s ear. ’Just find the killer. Quickly.’