Boyle took another long drag on his cigarette.
‘You can’t let this prisoner die, sir. There’s a lot more going on here. It just doesn’t feel right. I feel that…’
‘We’re to run this station based on your feelings, Danilov?’ asked Boyle.
‘No, sir. But what if this prisoner died in custody? Shouldn’t he go on trial? It’s our duty to see him in court.’
‘Where he can be sentenced to death? Better to let him die now and save ourselves the trouble,’ sneered Cowan.
Boyle’s fist slammed down on the table. ‘Enough. Send the doctor to see him. If the doctor agrees, then we send him to hospital.’
‘But it could take an hour for the doctor to arrive…’
‘Keep an eye on him until then. Make sure he’s comfortable. Let me know if his condition worsens.’
‘But, sir…’ stammmered Danilov.
‘That’s my decision, Danilov.’ He turned and faced Cowan. ‘We want this man to stand trial for his crimes, not die in our cells. An example for all. Do you understand me?’
A glance from Cowan across to Danilov. This time, the malice in the look was obvious.
‘I understand, sir.’
‘That will be all.’
Cowan left the office, rattling the glass in its frame as he closed the door.
‘As for you, Danilov, this is Cowan’s case. Stay out of it. Is that clear?’
Danilov could feel the tension in the detectives’ office as soon as he stepped through the door.
He sat down at his desk. His pens, telephone, and desk pad were nowhere to be seen. The games had already started.
The other detectives stood in the corner of the room, staring malevolently at him.
Strachan leant across. ‘Shall I get some new stationery from Miss Cavendish, sir?’
‘Don’t bother, Strachan.’ Danilov took out his tobacco pouch and rolled another cigarette. God how he hated these games. Children all of them with not a brain cell between them.
‘Did you find out anything else about the case, Strachan?’
Strachan looked over at the group of detectives surrounding Cowan as he rang for the doctor. ‘Not much, sir. Four murders; a man, his wife and two children, all from the same family, killed in their home last night. I managed to talk to one of the photographers.’ He handed over a brown envelope. ‘These are from the crime scene, sir. Apparently, the call came in at 9.47 pm. Moore took it.’ He indicated another policeman standing off to one side, not a member of Cowan’s group. ‘They took half an hour to find Cowan. Moore wanted to call you, but Cowan said no. He decided to investigate the case himself.’
‘When did they arrest Kao?’
‘This morning, sir. Cowan received a tip-off from an informant.’
Danilov lit the roll-up, watching the end flare in the flame of the lighter. ‘He moved quickly. Not like Cowan at all.’
‘Hear the noise, sir?’ Strachan gestured towards the window. ‘The gentlemen of the press. All waiting for Kao.’
Danilov sucked in the sweet smoke of his cigarette. Immediately his body relaxed and he felt a mild tingle, tremor through his bones. Even after years of smoking, he never tired of this moment when, for a brief second, the terrors of the day were forgotten.
‘How is he?’
‘Who, sir?’
‘The prisoner, Kao.’
‘He’s sleeping. One of the constables is sitting with him in a cell. And a lawyer has turned up.’
‘Really? Kao didn’t strike me as a man who knew any lawyers. Who called him?’
‘That’s the point. They think you did, sir.’ Once again, Strachan indicated the group of detectives who were still staring at them, anger etched into every line on their faces.
The clamour from the reporters outside the window grew louder.
‘Get your coat, Strachan.’
‘We’re going out, sir?’
Danilov took the brown envelope off his desk. ‘Kao is being looked after, the best way we can help him is to find out more about these murders.’
‘But I thought it was Inspector’s Cowan’s case?’
‘Not any more. Get a move on.’ Danilov was already going out of the door. Strachan grabbed his hat and coat off the stand and rushed after him.
‘This case smells higher than a troop of Cossacks. I’m not going to let a man die just to keep Cowan happy. Not today. Not any day.’
‘Do you want me to drive, sir?’
‘No, I’ve asked an elephant to do it. Don’t ask stupid questions, Strachan.’
‘No, sir. Not today, sir.’
The Lee family home was in a new estate just off Hankow Road. Inspector Danilov rolled a cigarette while he waited for Strachan to park the car. Around him, the Chinese residents bustled in and out of the lane, glancing surreptitiously at this strange foreigner standing in front of their homes. The guard sitting in his little shed ignored him, preferring to shovel his rice from his bowl into his mouth.
Danilov looked up at the Chinese characters above the doorway with their English translation clumsily painted beneath: ‘Prosperous Peace Lane’. Well, it certainly wasn’t peaceful for the Lees, he thought.
The address of the house was officially known as 349, Lane 7, Hankow Road. He much preferred the efficiency and order of this address, so far from the aspirational dreams of the middle class where ‘Morally Righteous Estate’ was next door to ‘Filial Piety Lane’. ‘Eternal Rectitude Alley’ was found in ‘Eternal Haven Estate’. And his favourite: ‘Bright Future Street’ lurked in ‘Forever Past Estate’.
He was sure they meant something profound in Chinese, but their English translations came across as faintly ridiculous.
‘Prosperous Peace Lane’ was a home for this new class, people who had made some money but still weren’t part of the elite yet; three-storey houses built in the new Art Deco style with white concrete exteriors, porthole windows and the simple straight lines that promised sophisticated elegance without the stuffy clutter that he remembered from the Russia of his youth.
Strachan came running up. ‘Sorry, took me a while to find a place, sir.’
Danilov didn’t reply, he just walked through the gate.
The guard raised his head from his bowl for a second before lowering it once again, continuing to remorselessly shovel the rice from his bowl to his mouth, before either mysteriously vanished into thin air.
A long lane stretched in front of the detectives, with branches off to the side every thirty metres. ‘It’s number 349. It should be on the left.’
They walked along looking at the numbers. The first row on their left held 101 to 126. They looked down the alley. A long tier of terraced, three-storey houses, all facing South, stretched to another alley at the end. Each door led to a small internal courtyard, then onto the main entrance to the house. There was a mirror image of the alley on the right-hand side of the lane.
‘It’s