The Killing Time Read online

  The Killing Time

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  14 January 1932

  1

  15 January 1932

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  16 January 1932

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  17 January 1932

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  18 January 1932

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  19 January 1932

  42

  26 January 1932

  43

  44

  27 January 1932

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  28 January 1932

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  Epilogue

  Also by M J Lee

  Copyright

  The Killing Time

  M J Lee

  14 January 1932

  The 333th Day of the Year of the Golden Goat

  1

  He nestled his hands into the warm gap between his chest and his arm, curling up so his nose touched his bare knees.

  The pain from his ear had lessened now. All that remained was a long, dull throb. The blood had clotted and scabbed, caking his neck and shoulders.

  One time, he had gently brushed his right ear with his fingertips. One time was enough. The pain had passed through his brain like a scythe through stalks of rice, leaving nothing but stubble in its wake. He wasn’t going to touch it again.

  He shivered.

  It was so cold.

  ‘I want Ah Yee. Where is Ah Yee?’ he whispered to himself through chapped lips.

  The boy remembered the warmth of his maid’s body as she hugged him to sleep, her strong arms pulling him into the pillow of her breasts beneath the cotton nightshirt.

  ‘Where is Ah Yee?’ he repeated, like a Hail Mary given to him by the priest in confession.

  Only this time there was no priest. No holy water. No golden cross on a white-linen-covered altar. Just the sound of his words echoing off the high ceiling.

  He hugged himself tighter, edging his body into the cold corner where the two walls met the floor.

  Opposite, the mattress stank of piss and vomit, lying next to an empty stained chamber pot and an even emptier rice bowl.

  When had he last eaten?

  He couldn’t remember, but his stomach felt as empty as his soul.

  Something moved in the far corner. Two electric-yellow eyes like fog lights in the gloom. A high-pitched squeak. The sound of tiny feet on straw.

  The boy backed even further into the corner.

  ‘Where is Ah Yee? Where is Ah Yee?’ He wailed out loud this time, turning his face into the cold dampness of the wall. His voice hoarse, exhausted from hours of screaming.

  The wet slime kissed his cheek. A damp kiss like that of his aunt with the rubbery lips and the stench of perfume she bought by the crate on her trips abroad.

  Above his head, a small window, its dirty glass covered in dust and cobwebs, let in the dull January light, fighting through the dirt to illuminate the room but losing the battle.

  Another loud squeak from the opposite corner, answered by one closer to him, on his left.

  He buried himself further into the wall, trying to find refuge in its cold embrace.

  How had he got here?

  He forced his mind to go back to the time it had happened. Playing in the park. The warmth of the sun on his back. His Ah Yee holding her hands out for him. Being lifted up and thrown high into the air, only to be caught by a man’s strong arms. The smell of tobacco and sweat and garlic on his breath. The roughness of the jacket against his skin.

  Harsh clothes. Cold clothes. Not like the smooth silk shirts of his father.

  He shivered, curling up even tighter into a ball, trying to get warm. Why couldn’t he get warm?

  He looked at the wall. The words scored into the damp plaster with the sharp point of the iron nail stood out clearly against the green mould.

  Save me.

  Nobody was going to save him.

  Nobody.

  The rats stopped squeaking and scurried away to their deep, dark, safe havens.

  A key turned in the lock.

  15 January 1932

  The 334th Day of the Year of the Golden Goat

  2

  Inspector Danilov tamped the half-finished cigarette against the granite wall of the morgue, putting the dimp in his left-hand overcoat pocket. He no longer threw these fag ends away, either saving them for later or giving them to the beggars who lined the streets of Shanghai. Even more beggars these days, their ranks swelled by refugees from the fighting with the Japanese in the north of China.

  The cigarette had not removed the sweet taste of the opium he had smoked last night. It never did.

  ‘Come on, Strachan, we’d better face our nemesis.’

  The detective sergeant took off his trilby and smoothed back his brilliantined black hair. ‘Nemesis, sir?’

  ‘Greek mythology. The goddess who enacted retribution against those who succumb to pride.’

  ‘Is that how you think of Dr Fang, sir?’

  ‘It’s the only way to think of him. One day we will all end up on his steel table, a Y-shaped incision carved into our chests.’

  ‘Not much to look forward to, sir.’

  Danilov pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the mortuary. He had told Strachan many times not to call him ‘sir’, but the Chinese side of his detective sergeant had found it difficult to obey, deference to one’s seniors being ingrained from an early age: ‘It’s all the fault of Confucius, sir, you should blame him.’

  ‘And when did you start brilliantining your hair?’

  ‘It’s the latest fashion, sir. All the rage. Elina bought me a small tub of Brylcreem.’

  ‘So it’s my daughter’s fault, is it, Strachan?’

  ‘My nemesis, sir.’

  The spotless interior of the mortuary greeted them. White walls, a polished wooden floor, an unmanned reception desk guarding the entrance to Dr Fang’s inner sanctum, where he devoured the bodies of the dead.

  A shiver ran down the inspector’s spine wearing hob-nailed boots. Danilov hated this place, its pristine cleanliness an affront to the dirt, dust and decay that was the norm for Shanghai. Outside, everything was chaotic and crazy, whereas here, all was quiet and ordered.

  The silence of death.

  The door behind the reception desk opened and Dr Fang stood there beckoning them forward. ‘You’re late, and I have three more clients to examine before dinner. So many refugees on the streets can’t survive
the cold weather. Come along, look sharp.’

  The voice was definitely English: educated, patrician, arrogant, confident. Beneath the white coat, a red polka-dot bow tie stood out against an elegantly cut green tweed suit and stiff white collar.

  The pathologist looked at them both over the top of his glasses. ‘Danilov, it’s you again. I shall have to arrange a bed for you if you spend any more time here.’ The voice was warmer now, friendlier.

  ‘On one of the post-mortem tables?’

  ‘Of course not, Detective Sergeant Strachan. Those are reserved for my clients. Why would I waste a table on Inspector Danilov?’

  ‘It was a joke, sir.’

  ‘Save the jokes for the mess, Detective Sergeant. This is a morgue, not the music hall.’

  Dr Fang closed the door. Six shiny aluminium tables in two rows of three lay in front of them, each with a body-shaped mound covered by a white sheet.

  ‘How’s the voice, Strachan?’

  ‘Still the same, Dr Fang.’

  The pathologist reached out and lifted Strachan’s chin to reveal the Adam’s apple with its prominent red scar in the centre. ‘I should have made the incision smaller, you know. Not my best work.’

  Four years ago, Dr Fang had saved Strachan’s life by performing an emergency tracheotomy.

  ‘Excellent news about the voice, though. The depth adds a certain gravitas to your demeanour. Useful in a man of your profession, I should think.’

  Danilov coughed. ‘If we could begin the autopsy, Dr Fang… ’

  The pathologist pushed his glasses back up to the non-existent bridge of his nose. ‘Of course, Inspector,’ He hurried over to the middle table on the top row, picking up his notes from their place on the white sheet.

  ‘Now, let me see. Yes, I remember this, a most interesting case. Brought in last night. But you’re not down as the investigating officer, Danilov.’

  ‘It’s Inspector Sheehan’s case, but he’s been called away to the Volunteers. Short notice.’

  ‘More problems with the Japanese?’

  Danilov shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t know and he didn’t care. Politics was none of his concern; he’d had enough in Russia. He just investigated murders, and there were enough of those in Shanghai to keep any copper busy for years. But unfortunately, politics had a habit of creeping into everything, even murder.

  Dr Fang took the hint. ‘Let’s proceed, shall we?’ With the practised legerdemain of an accomplished magician, he lifted the white sheet into the air to reveal the body displayed on the table.

  Danilov stared at the young corpse lying on the cold steel: grey, stiff, lifeless.

  ‘A young male, approximately thirteen years of age. No name, so we shall call him John Doe for the present.’

  Danilov didn’t hear the doctor’s words. The young boy’s eyes were open, staring out into a world he would never see again.

  ‘Chinese ethnicity, I would say, not Japanese or Korean. And from the overall lack of pigment in the skin, a boy who had not spent much time outside in the sun.

  Beneath the open eyes, the face had been slashed across the cheeks and nose, the raised ridges of the cuts opening out to show pale pink meat and the white of the jawbone. Danilov counted the slashes. Seven in total, each one deep and slicing, carved into the young face.

  ‘If you look at the hands, you will see a lack of calluses or abrasions. These are a scholar’s hands, not those of a worker.’ Dr Fang raised and twisted the arms to show the soft underside of the palms. ‘See here, Inspector… Inspector.’

  Danilov dragged his eyes away from the young boy’s mutilated face.

  ‘The hands haven’t seen hard work at all. But there is a black ink stain on the right index finger. A scholar, I think.’

  ‘I understand, Dr Fang. Strachan, we need to check the missing persons register. And while you’re at it, ring round the local schools, see if anybody has been reported absent.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Strachan wrote in his notebook.

  Danilov found his eyes returning to the boy’s face. This lad was the same age as Ivan, perhaps a bit younger. The same innocence of a life wasted. The image returned of his son’s open casket, the stench of incense, the wailing of his wife, the chanting of the priests, the smoke rising slowly in the cold air of the Orthodox church, illuminated by shafts of multicoloured light from the stained-glass windows.

  He shook his head to try to clear it. Mustn’t go there. Not now, not here. ‘The slash marks on his face… ?’ he heard himself saying.

  ‘Those? Most interesting.’ Dr Fang shifted his body to peer into the face of the young boy. His hand came up and touched the skin, widening one of the slashes so the meat and bone became visible. ‘Deep and deliberate, I would say, performed with a sharp instrument. This boy wasn’t stabbed but sliced across the face slowly.’ The doctor demonstrated, his arm moving with all the care of a surgeon making an incision.

  ‘Why do you say that, Doctor?’

  ‘The wounds are not jagged or frenzied, neither do they stop and start again. See, they are one smooth stroke like a butcher preparing the skin of a pig to make crackling. If this were an act of rage, the wounds would be at different depths and angles.’ Once again Fang demonstrated, striking and slashing the boy’s face with an invisible knife. ‘These wounds are deliberate and considered.’

  ‘There are no others on the body?’

  The doctor pushed his glasses back onto his nose. ‘None. The only other mark is this.’ He pointed to a large strawberry-red mark at the point where the clavicle met the shoulder. ‘A birthmark, I would hazard. Should help you with identification.’

  Strachan scribbled away in his notebook.

  ‘And before you ask, there is no evidence of sexual assault. No tears or bruising around the anus or genital area.’

  ‘So only the face was mutilated?’

  ‘It would seem so, Inspector.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Strachan.

  ‘I think it is your job to find that out, Detective Sergeant. I simply examine the results of a killer’s handiwork, not try to find out his motivations.’

  Strachan’s face reddened.

  Danilov coughed. ‘Thank you, Doctor. Anything else we should know?’

  ‘Four more things might be of interest.’ The doctor, a nuanced actor, paused for a beat to let the news sink into the brains of his audience. ‘The first is that these mutilations were committed post mortem. They weren’t the cause of death.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  The pathologist looked at Strachan as if his professional integrity had been brought into question. ‘Shall I use the precise medical language or the layman’s terms, Detective Sergeant, when I explain it to you?’

  Danilov interrupted the challenge. ‘Please explain it in layman’s terms, Doctor. For me… ’ he added.

  The pathologist pushed his glasses up again. ‘The first indication is the cleanliness and regularity of the incisions. If the boy had been alive as they were made, the knife would have twisted and the cut become irregular and ragged when he moved.’ The doctor demonstrated with one of his scalpels. ‘These are as straight as if done by a butcher.’

  Fang looked at Strachan. ‘What’s more, if the wounds had been made ante mortem – before death – the edges immediately under the skin would have a red, haemorrhagic appearance and there would be more blood. See here.’ He pointed to one of the gaping wounds. ‘The colour is a pale yellow, indicating a post-mortem action after the heart stopped beating.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor.’

  ‘If Detective Sergeant Strachan doubts my professional expertise, I can take a sample of the mast cells and check them under a microscope?’

  ‘Not necessary, Doctor. I’m sure Strachan would never doubt your skill as a pathologist.’

  ‘Never, sir,’ said Strachan archly.

  Danilov scratched his nose. In the cold weather his skin became like the Sahara, a problem he always faced in Minsk. ‘These mutilation
s, what purpose did they serve?’

  ‘The short answer is I don’t know, Inspector, but this young boy was dead long before they were made.’

  Danilov thought for a moment. He was desperate for a cigarette to get rid of the stench of formaldehyde that suffused the morgue, making him drunk on its fumes. ‘You said there were three other things we should know.’

  The doctor reached out and pushed the boy’s head to the left, revealing the side that had been hidden from Danilov. Where there should have been an ear, only a bloodied hole remained, covered with ragged strands of skin.

  ‘The right ear has been removed. This was done ante mortem. Shall I explain how I know this, Detective Sergeant?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Doctor.’

  ‘Good. I would say at least two days before the death, but I can’t be certain of the exact time. The body was found yesterday evening at six o’clock. From the Glaister equation of body temperature, I would estimate he had been killed anything from eight to twelve hours previously.’

  ‘You can’t be more precise?’

  ‘Not possible, I’m afraid. I examined him as soon as he was brought here. Rigor mortis had already set in, but it can be affected by the ambient temperature.’

  ‘The body was discovered outside, at a building site,’ said Strachan, flicking through the crime scene notes.

  ‘He was found resting on his side before they moved him, according to my men,’ said the doctor.

  ‘That’s right, lying on his right side with the arm beneath the body.’

  ‘Which means he wasn’t killed at the building site, but moved there. See, the livor mortis.’ Fang pointed to the pinky-bluish skin, like a Plimsoll line, along the boy’s back. ‘The blood has pooled all along here. This body lay on its back for a long time after death.’

  Danilov raised an eyebrow in Strachan’s direction. ‘The victim wasn’t killed at the building site. Thank you, Doctor.’

  Fang lifted the boy’s hand, elevating the fingers. ‘Under the fingernails I found a cream powder. Of course, I’ll check with the lab to confirm, but I would say this is common or garden building plaster.’

  ‘From a wall?’ asked Strachan.

  ‘Probably, but I can’t say for certain.’

  Danilov scratched his dry skin again. ‘What the doctor is suggesting, Strachan, is that the boy was imprisoned somewhere before he was murdered. A room or cell covered in plaster rather than bare brick walls.’