The Murder Game Read online

  The Murder Game

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  Day Two

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  Day Three

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  Day Four

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  Day Five

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  76

  77

  78

  79

  80

  81

  82

  83

  84

  85

  86

  87

  88

  89

  90

  91

  92

  93

  94

  95

  96

  97

  98

  Also by M J Lee

  Copyright

  The Murder Game

  M J Lee

  1

  He chose this one for who she was. Another tick on the soft flesh of Shanghai, sucking its blood, feeding on the bloated carcass of the city.

  But not for much longer.

  She was easy to follow when she left the Black Cat; tracking her through the crowds thronging the Shanghai jungle was no problem.

  She walked slowly, her shoes obviously biting into her heels. Well, why wouldn’t they, after a night dancing with men for money? How could she shuffle monotonously around the wooden dance floor, allowing them to slaver over and paw her, stealing a fleeting squeeze of her buttocks whenever they felt like it?

  The woman had chosen her life and now he would give her a different choice. One that would set her free for ever.

  She raised her arm to stop one of the taxis prowling for customers. It drove straight past her, its ‘for hire’ sign shining brightly through the smoke-raddled air of Shanghai.

  Nobody was going to pick her up tonight.

  Everyone knew she was his.

  Yama had selected her and he did not make mistakes.

  The god had first spoken to him in those lost nights when he lay in the shell hole between the trenches. Alone, surrounded by his friends and his enemies. Dead, all of them.

  He had not listened at first, not understanding the voice and what it was saying. Yama had whispered to him that he was the god’s angel of death, his fierce right arm in the eternal fight against those who had trespassed against the laws of heaven.

  None were to be forgiven. All were to be punished.

  Only years afterwards, when he finally arrived in Shanghai, did he comprehend the meaning of the words.

  Only then had Yama revealed himself in all his glory and power and wisdom.

  Only then did he realise the meaning of his life was death.

  His prey limped on, turning off the main road into the warren of miserable alleys lying behind the facade of elegance and sophistication.

  She kept glancing over her shoulder, becoming skittish in the last few minutes, aware perhaps she was being hunted.

  It didn’t matter. He already knew where she lived. Yama had revealed it to him, just as he foretold everything that was going to happen.

  Nothing mattered.

  He twisted the lead ring he always wore on his little finger. Yama had told him what to do and the god was always right.

  There was a plan. All he had to do was execute it, and her, and the others.

  They were all going to be taken into the cold embrace of the god. The voice had told him exactly what to do. This human tick was simply the first step.

  The girl ahead hurried her steps, glancing backwards over her shoulder.

  Don’t worry, my lovely, your time has come. Don’t hurry to your death.

  Her death, the first.

  His death, the last.

  Danilov was going to die. Yama had planned it all in godlike detail. It was just a question of the right execution.

  The thought sent an avalanche of pleasure down his spine. He had waited so long for this moment.

  Too long.

  He was going to be the judge who sent Danilov to his death.

  He was the Judge of Souls.

  2

  There it was again, the noise behind her, to her left this time. Sally Chen glanced over her shoulder. Was there a shadow back there? Did it move?

  The same noise again. Like the sound of fingers scraping down a blackboard.

  She hurried forward and screamed.

  Her foot had touched something soft, hairy. She looked down. A dead cat lay at her feet, its glassy eyes staring into space. She kicked it aside and hurried on.

  Her whole body ached. The last nine hours fighting off the groping hands of strangers had exhausted her. The endless rounds of feverish dancing, fake drinks, begging for dance tickets and even more feverish whirling to the syncopated beats had made her as skittish as a cat in a room full of dogs.

  There was the sound again, directly behind her this time and closer. She was tempted to bang on one of the doors that lined the lane. But no lights were on and what would she say? A noise had made her scared? They would slam the door in her face, cursing her for waking them up.

  She broke into a run, ignoring the pain in her feet, feeling her breath coming quicker and quicker, her footsteps heavy on the cobbles of the lane.

  The sound was still behind her, louder now, a scraping sound, getting louder.

  It was darker here. Her home was in one of the older lanes; no electric light illuminated the dark corners. Instead, the houses rose on either side, looming over the narrow alleyway.

  She ran round a corner. Something hit her, an arm grabbed her body, fingers closing around the top of her shoulder. She struggled against her attacker, hitting as hard as she could with her fists, kicking out with her legs.

  ‘Miss Chen, Miss Chen, it’s me, Ah Sing, the hot water seller from number twenty-three.’ The old man was cowering in front of her, his arms up to protect his face.

  She stopped, her arms raised above her head, ready to strike hard again.

  ‘Sorry if I startled you. I’m on my way to start the boilers.’

  She stared into the old man’s face. It was Ah Sing. The old man often poured her tea on her way out to work.

  He stepped backwards, keeping an eye on her all the time. ‘You’re pretty good with your fists. You could be the next Huang Fei Hung, fight the British maybe, nearly killed me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ah Sing,’ s
he stammered. ‘Thought I heard a sound, behind me.’ She glanced back over her shoulder again.

  Nothing.

  ‘You shouldn’t be walking home alone. Not at this time.’

  She grabbed a few deep breaths of smoke-scented air to calm herself. ‘I’m fine, Ah Sing. My place is just over there.’

  ‘Do you want me to walk with you?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ll be fine. The noises of the night…’ Her voice trailed off as she realised how ridiculous she sounded.

  ‘I’ll watch while you go in.’

  She walked along the lane to her front door. Ah Sing was still standing there, looking at her. She unlocked the door at the front, turning back to wave goodbye, but Ah Sing was gone.

  Her heels clattered on the wooden stairs as she climbed to her apartment. She fumbled in her pocket for the other key and opened the front door.

  Why wouldn’t it open?

  She pulled the key out, checked that it was the right way up and pushed it into the lock again

  Finally, it clicked. She pushed open the door and hurried in, slamming it behind her, slotting the deadbolt into place. Her flatmate could bang on the door when she came home… if she came home.

  At last, Sally Chen was safe. She leant with her back to the door, breathing heavily. ‘Should have taken a taxi, hang the expense, the streets aren’t safe any more,’ she said out loud to herself, her voice echoing in the empty room.

  A faint glow came from the kitchen.

  Perhaps her flatmate hadn’t found a man to take her home after all. ‘Ah Mei, are you there?’ she asked tentatively.

  No answer.

  She stepped forward. The faint glow was brighter now. ‘Ah Mei, are you home?’

  Again, no answer.

  Why had Ah Mei left a light on in the kitchen? She knew it cost money. Why did she waste so much money?

  She walked towards the kitchen. The light flickered. Ah Mei must have left the stove burning. She would talk to her tomorrow, tell her off for her extravagance when they had so little to spare.

  She pushed open the kitchen door. It wasn’t the stove at all. It was a single candle burning on the table, its flame flickering in the breeze.

  Why had Ah Mei lit a candle?

  It was the question troubling her as the hand came over her mouth and she sucked in the first few breaths of formaldehyde.

  3

  She was so easy to trap, a young moth attracted to an innocent light. Why were they all so stupid?

  He removed his mask as he prepared her body for the test. She wouldn’t wake up now for a long while. An injection in the crook of her arm before he had taken her from the apartment had transported her to the land of Morpheus for another four hours.

  The choice he would give her would soon clear her head, though. A choice he would force all of them to make. The ultimate irony; they would have a choice he had never been allowed.

  Until the voice spoke to him and he finally understood why he had been chosen.

  He removed her shirt and skirt. Such cheap material, doused with an even cheaper perfume, fighting desperately to smother the odour of sweat and losing miserably. And then there were her partners. Those odious men, dripping charm and condescension, as they pulled their purchased dancers closer to their bodies, hugging the flat chest through the flimsy material.

  How did she survive? How did she face the nightly parade of paws and stubbed toes and sweaty palms and tobacco-soaked breath?

  He shuddered. ‘Needs must, I suppose.’

  Just as his needs must be satisfied. But his need was on a much higher plane than hers. He must cleanse the world. That’s what Yama had told him to do.

  And he must start here, today.

  He took out his knife and incised the Chinese characters into the woman’s neck. She moaned and grunted through the morphine, but stayed unconscious.

  He stepped back and looked at his knifework. Not bad, neatly done, just as Yama had told him.

  The newspapers, with their typical appeal to the baser human emotions, had called him the Character Killer. But all that was in the past; now was the time for revenge.

  He had waited so long for this moment. Hours lying on the old boat with its stench of fish, patiently biding his time as the wounds on his chest healed. The scars from Danilov’s bullets still red and vivid on the skin.

  Afterwards, the slow recovery, followed by the intense pain of the cosmetic surgery to change his face. He liked his new look, the rakish moustache giving him a touch of Douglas Fairbanks’ swagger and charm.

  He had a new job now. He couldn’t go back to his old profession. His previous life was dead and out of its corpse Yama had created a new being. The job was beneath him, of course, barely using a tenth of his talents. But it did allow him all the time he needed to put his plan into action.

  He had laid the foundations, built the trap, created the snare. He knew Danilov, knew his weaknesses, where and what to exploit. There would be no mistakes this time. Yama had told him exactly what to do.

  This woman was just the first move. The endgame was when Danilov took his own life, five days from now.

  The man realised he was getting ahead of himself. Stay in the now, he cautioned himself. Concentrate on what must be done at this moment.

  His old life was dead but his killer was still alive.

  Not for long.

  He noticed a blue vein through the transparent pale skin of her thigh. Blood pumping through the veins carrying life and energy to her soul.

  It was time to give her the choice she had to make. To put her soul to the test.

  She was a pawn in a game that could only end with one outcome.

  The death of Danilov.

  4

  Through the teeming rain, the squad of uniformed police carried the coffin to the graveyard from the hearse. Drops formed on the peaks of their caps, dripping on to their blue-serge shoulders. Strachan had insisted his mother be buried in the same grave as her husband, his father, in Siccawei cemetery.

  Detective Inspector Danilov stood next to his detective sergeant in front of the open grave, leaving the police pall-bearers space to manoeuvre the coffin into position. Coir matting covered the base of the grave with two wings flowing out of the rectangular hole. At the side, a hill of dirty brown clods of soil lay glistening in its skin of rain.

  The soil of Shanghai, the city of Danilov’s redemption and of his sorrow.

  The service had been brief and economical. A short address by the Commissioner of Police, a eulogy from the vicar, a few hymns, sung out of tune by an aged choir, accompanied by an even older organist. The mourners, dressed in black to match the colour of the sky, marched out to the graveyard led by the young vicar.

  Only two people looked different from the rest. True to his mother’s tradition, Strachan was dressed in white from head to toe. White shoes, white trousers, white sackcloth shirt. His shoulders were hunched over, his head down, staring at the dark earth beneath his feet.

  Only one other mourner looked like him; Strachan’s Uncle Chang. He had come dressed in the traditional white sackcloth and hood, looking like a refugee from some Ku Klux Klan movie by D.W. Griffith. Nobody else from Strachan’s family attended, the banishment decreed so many years ago by a grandfather disappointed with her marriage to a foreigner still in place at her death as it had been during her life.

  Only Uncle Chang had disobeyed the grandfather’s edict, the man who did exactly as he wanted, without fear of anybody else, the Mandarin’s seal he carried a powerful force even in a Republican world.

  Now she lay in a wooden coffin, shot to death by a killer intent on removing all knowledge of his crimes. Strachan should never have asked his mother to help shelter the only witness in her home. But Danilov knew such regrets were pointless. You can never change the past, as he himself knew so well.

  The rain swept down from the louring, grey skies, drowning everything in a sludge of dirty, coal-stained water. The forest of black umbre
llas following the coffin assembled around the grave.

  Danilov touched Strachan’s arm, gently urging him forward.

  Together with Uncle Chang, they moved next to the grave as the coffin was lowered into the ground by the police pall-bearers. Opposite, the priest from St Andrews intoned, ‘May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.’

  The man was young and nervous, a tremolo in his voice and his glasses already steaming up. He tugged at the side of his dog collar to release the sweat forming beneath his shirt as he spoke.

  Danilov knew Strachan didn’t believe in the Western God, but he had gone through with the usual rites. His mother expected it of him. The duty of a child to a parent.

  Danilov looked over at the slender figure of his daughter across the abyss of the grave. The girl, noticing his stare, gave him a single nod in return. It was a very Russian reaction, withholding emotion in the presence of others, holding back what was felt. She reminded him so much of his wife; the way she tilted her head, the hair swept back from her forehead, the small smile dangling at the edge of her lips as if she knew a secret but wasn’t revealing it to anybody, least of all him.

  One day he would find his wife and son, bring them all together again. Six years was a long time to be separated but he would reunite them all, if it was the last thing he did in life.

  Up above, a lark trilled its song in the rain. A battleship-grey sky set off the stark lines of the plane trees around the graveyard. The black umbrellas solid against the wavering drizzle. Danilov could feel the cold damp seep through his new suit, the one his daughter had made him buy for the funeral. The hard edge of the new collar on the white shirt chafed against his neck.

  The vicar had finished speaking. All the mourners were looking at Strachan, waiting for him to make the first move. Danilov nudged him on the arm again. The detective sergeant started as if woken from a dream. He looked at Danilov through red-rimmed, tired eyes, before stepping forward to pick up a lump of dark earth, dropping it on to the coffin, where it landed with a soft thud on the brass nameplate.

  At the head of the grave stood a marble stone, stained by pastel green, white and yellow lichen.

  Sacred to the loving memory of

  Hamish Alexander Strachan

  Police sergeant, father and husband.

  A brave man who gave his life for Shanghai.