Полная версия
City Of Shadows
A family has been found murdered in the heart of 1920s Shanghai. But what could have compelled them to open the door to their killer?
Inspector Danilov has always taken a unique approach to detective work. So, when he’s asked to investigate the violent death of a fellow police officer, killed in action, he doesn’t think twice about turning his attention to a different case altogether: the brutal murder of the Lee family, found massacred in their own home.
How could the deaths of an ordinary family account for a shooting halfway across the city? And what clues lie with the letter found clasped in the dead girl’s hand? Inspector Danilov’s instincts tell him he’s close. But when the investigation reveals deep corruption at Shanghai’s core, Danilov faces a choice: probe further, and expose the evil underbelly of the city? Or shy from duty…and keep the few people he loves safe?
Also by M J Lee
Death in Shanghai
City of Shadows
An Inspector Danilov Thriller
M J Lee
Copyright
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016
Copyright © M J Lee 2016
M J Lee asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9781474046558
Version date: 2018-09-20
M J LEE
has spent most of his adult life writing in one form or another. As a University researcher in history, he wrote pages of notes on reams of obscure topics. As a social worker with Vietnamese refugees, he wrote memoranda. And, as the creative director of an advertising agency, he has written print and press ads, TV commercials, short films, and innumerable backs of cornflake packets and hotel websites.
He has spent 25 years of his life working outside the North of England. In London, Hong Kong, Taipei, Singapore, Bangkok and Shanghai, winning advertising awards from Cannes, One Show, D&AD, New York, and the United Nations.
Whilst working in Shanghai, he loved walking through the old quarters of that amazing city, developing the idea behind a series of crime novels featuring Inspector Pyotr Danilov, set in the 1920s.
When he’s not writing, he splits his time between the UK and Asia, taking pleasure in playing with his daughter, practising downhill ironing, single-handedly solving the problem of the French wine lake and wishing he were George Clooney.
To all my friends that helped write this book. Jon Resnick, Winnie Hsu, Katie Ge, Jonathan Holburt and Fabrice Desmarescaux. I couldn’t have done it without you. And to all the other HQ Digital authors, whose support and friendship means so much, thank you for being there.
To my brother, Michael, and sister, Patricia.
Family means everything.
Contents
Cover
Blurb
Book List
Title Page
Copyright
Author Bio
Acknowledgements
Dedication
DAY ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
DAY TWO
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
DAY THREE
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
DAY FOUR
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Endpages
About the Publisher
DAY ONE
Chapter 1
The girl lay beneath the covers listening to the sounds of the night.
Off in the distance a dog barked. Somewhere closer a woman sang the opening bars of a song from The Peony Pavilion, but soon trailed off into humming the melody. Closer still, a bottle was kicked over in the dark, shattering against the wall of one of the houses in her row.
The girl listened to the sounds of the Shanghai night as she had done every evening for the last six months.
Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.
The pale light of the moon streamed in through a small crack in the curtains where the maid had not closed them properly, reaching across the room to the far door. On the wall, a picture of Jesus, chosen by her birth mother, stared down at her, his hands framing a bright red heart.
Next to the door, her wheelchair was pushed against the wall beside her crutches. Why hadn’t the maid left them closer to her bed?
Since the onset of polio, the girl had been dependent on the kindness of strangers. The first week of fevers, headaches and weakness had been the most frightening. Then the paralysis had set in, just her legs at first, but slowly creeping up her body.
The diagnosis, when it finally came, had been a relief to her father and both his wives. At least they now knew what they were dealing with. It was just a question of time, waiting for her muscles to recover their strength. But always, the fear lurking like a hyena that she would never recover. She would lie here in her bed for the rest of her life, paralysed.
They had moved to this new house a month ago. A healthier area her birth mother had said, a more modern house. She didn’t miss the old neighbourhood, or the sly, insinuating words of her father’s first wife. Here, the sounds were more playful, happier, keeping her entertained each evening. The night soil collectors on their rounds. Her neighbour’s phonograph playing the latest jazz from America. Her brother running up and down the stairs, how she envied him. The rows between her birth mother and her father late in the night. Rows about money, always about money.
It was as if the world was a series of sounds that only she could hear, created just for her.
She knew she was supposed to get up every day to exercise her wasted muscles, but she preferred lying here in her bed. Twice a week, she had to go for hydrotherapy at the hospital on Bubbling Well Road.
She resented the pitying looks of the people as the maid pushed her in the wheelchair. Pity edged with relief that it was her in the chair and not them.
Even the nurses cut her with their words when she visited the hospital.
‘Here you are, Miss Lee. I’ll help you up.’
Or: ‘Take my hand, you’ll need it if you want to get dressed.’
And the worst: ‘You pee now. I’ll stand here and wait until you’ve finished.’
She hated them all, but more than anything else, she hated her mothers, both of them.
The one who had given birth to her, her father’s second wife, was the worst. She beat her on the legs and arms every day to get rid of the ghosts she said were infesting her body. At first, the blows were not too hard, a tap with a wooden paddle to the soft part of the calf. But as her illness worsened, so the blows became harder, until she screamed from the pain. Her mother constantly telling her she was only doing it for her own good.
And the other, her father’s first wife, who kept insinuating in her sly way that this illness was a punishment from the gods. A punishment that, one day, would also take her brother. At least they had left her behind in the old house, to stew in her barren bitterness.
God, she hated both of them. One day she would be up and walking again. No need for the wheelchair or the crutches. She would run up and down the stairs every day, just for the hell of it. And, when she was strong enough, she would run away from this house.
She heard two sharp raps on the door of the courtyard. Who could be visiting them at this time of the night? She hadn’t heard anybody walk up the street.
Her brother shouted something, but she couldn’t make it out. What had he said? She heard his feet running out to open the door. A few indistinct words were spoken, followed by the slow creak of hinges as the door opened.
She would have to tell father that it needed oil.
Another sound.
She lifted her head from the pillow, straining to hear. There it was again. Fainter, this time, coming from the back of the house, where the kitchen was. A sharp tap, the crack of glass as it fell to the floor.
She listened intently, straining her neck muscles to hold her head upright off the pillow.
The window was opening, a scrape of something on the ledge. A soft bump on the tiled floor of the kitchen.
Where was the maid? Why didn’t she ask who was there?
More words in the courtyard. Her brother speaking. A man answering him. A stifled shout. Then, a sound she had never heard before like the gurgle of a frog, but cut off, strangled.
Where was the maid?
A startled cry from the hallway. It sounded like her mother shouting at her father during one of their arguments, but the voice was different. Too high. Too sharp. Too surprised. Then, the clatter of shoes running up the stairs. Shoes with sharp little heels. Not the soft felt slippers of the maid.
Where was the maid?
She turned her head towards the door. Something was going on downstairs. Something wasn’t right. She willed her body to move, straining it to sit up, urging it to get out of bed.
But nothing happened. Her head collapsed back on the pillow.
A loud bang. A heavy weight fell on the landing below her door.
She expected to hear more shouts from her mother. The loud screech of her voice with the rounded trill of its Peking accent.
But she heard nothing.
Silence in the house.
She focused on her bedroom door. The moon still streamed in through the crack in the curtains. A dog was barking in the house two doors away.
She listened for more noises in the house, but all she could hear was her own breathing.
Something was wrong. Where was the maid? Where was her father?
A soft sound on the stairs. A creak as weight was placed on a step. The third step from the top. It always creaked when somebody stood on it.
There was the creak again. Two people coming up the stairs.
She could hear their footsteps now. Remorseless, one after another, coming closer to her door.
Whispering.
Two men’s whispers. She couldn’t hear what they were saying.
The footsteps stopped outside her door.
Whispers again. A language she’d never heard before. Words she didn’t understand.
The round wooden handle of her door began to turn. She buried her head beneath the covers, pulling them over her.
Please don’t come in here. Please don’t. I’ll be a good girl. I’ll say my prayers every night and be good to my mother. I promise. I promise.
The door cracked as it opened. More whispers in the strange language. She stayed beneath the covers and closed her eyes. Perhaps, if she pretended to be asleep, they would go away.
Please let them go away.
Soft steps across her room towards the bed.
Please let them go away. I’ll be good from now on, I promise.
A hand pulled the covers off her. She opened her eyes and stared into a small mousey face with a sharply pointed chin. She knew that face. She had seen that face before. What was he doing here?
On the next floor up, the slamming of a door. Heavy boots running up the uncarpeted stairs to the top floor. Her father’s footsteps.
The man ran out of her room, closing it behind him. She lifted her head off the pillow. More footsteps running up the stairs. A door on the top floor slammed shut.
A loud shout. Again, she didn’t understand what they were yelling. Something foreign, like the words her doctor spoke at the hospital. Harsh words, hurtful words.
Someone was banging on a door upstairs, shouting once again in a loud voice. The sound of a door being kicked, once, twice, flying open, knocking against the wall.
A shout from her father. She knew it was her father’s voice. Then a bang, muffled, less sharp than before.
Heavy footsteps stomping across her ceiling. She followed them until they reached the window upstairs, right above her bed.
Another bang.
Something falling heavily, hitting the ceiling with a loud thud.
She wanted to scream, to shout out for someone to save her. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She tried again, but all she heard was a gagging noise in her throat.
Her body was rigid beneath the covers. Should she try to get away? She lifted her head above the sheets. Her wheelchair and crutches were still propped against the far wall. Why had the maid put them over there?
Steps on the staircase, coming down, getting closer, getting louder.
The handle of her door turned again.
The door opened a crack, throwing a sharp shaft of light onto the wall, illuminating her crutches.
Please don’t come back. You don’t belong here.
The shadow of a man was thrown into the room. He was standing in the doorway. She could see no features on his face, just a darkness and the sharp outline of a pointed chin. But she knew it was him, the man she had seen before.
She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out. It was as if her voice was now as paralysed as her body.
The shadow moved into the room.
She closed her eyes tight.
The footsteps on the carpet were getting closer to her bed.
Keep your eyes closed. Pretend you’re asleep. Perhaps he will go away and leave you alone.
She opened her eyes.
The round end of a piece of metal was staring straight at her. Wisps of blue smoke escaped from it, sinuous strands rising into the air. The smell was sweet and heavy, like the morning after Chinese New Year when the stench of the firecrackers hung over Shanghai.
A hand with dirty nails was holding the metal, pointing it straight at her, coming closer with every second.
The other man in the doorway silhouetted against the light from the hallway. More words in the language she didn’t understand. The small man turned and said something.
They were talking about her. She knew they were talking about her.
Her eyes darted left and right. How could she let them know who he was?
Then she saw the letter lying on the table, next to her bed. She grabbed it while the men were talking and crushed it tightly into a small square in her palm.
She closed her eyes again. She prayed like she had been taught by the nuns at her school before the illness, mumbling the words over and over again.
Blessed Virgin Mary, pray for us.
Blessed Virgin Mary, pray for us.
Blessed Virgin Mary, pray for us.
The men finished speaking. Through her mumbled words, she heard his breathing. Short, sharp bursts of breath, as if he had been running.
She couldn’t help herself, her eyes opened again. The metal cylinder began to come closer, lowering, pointing directly at her now. The metal eye getting larger with every step.
‘Sleep well, child,’ he said in Chinese.
They were the last sounds she ever heard.
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?’
Chapter 3
Inspector Danilov’s daughter placed the plate of syrniki in front of him. The food was slightly charred at the edges and gave off a strange orange glow.
She had decided that he needed to eat more regularly, and part of this new healthy regime was a home-cooked breakfast, just like his wife used to make back in Minsk.
Except she didn’t cook like her mother. She cooked like a poet with a vivid imagination; everything was overdone and overwrought.
‘Thank you, Lenchik. It looks delicious.’
There was no answer. Since coming home she had gradually lapsed into an uncommunicative silence, but he would keep trying. ‘Is it a new recipe?’
Again, no answer. She turned back to the stove and took her own plate.
She sat down opposite him. Inspector Danilov saw the puzzled look on her face and that slight tilt of her head to the left. A movement she had made even when she was three years old, explaining to him why her doll had made such a mess on the floor.
Was she pretty? He couldn’t judge. A father can never judge his own daughter.
He stared at the syrniki. What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. He tucked into the food with gusto. The strange texture fought with the leftover taste of the opium he had smoked the night before, creating a bitter mixture in his mouth.
He fought the urge to gag and closed his eyes, imagining he was eating a dish from the Princess Ostrapova’s cafe.
