LITMIR.BIZ

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for their crimes.’

      ‘It’s not that, Lenchik, I just want…’

      ‘You just want to find Mama. I know. You’ve told me a thousand times.’ She sneered. ‘The great detective who can’t even find his own wife. How that must stick in your throat.’

      His heart sank and his head followed. Did she resent him that much? Or was it a stronger emotion, a more Russian emotion, contempt and hate?

      He planned to spend the rest of the day with her. They would play a little chess, the only time they could sit opposite each other without her silence coming between them. It was as if the logic of chess was a shared moment, full of the possibility of more shared moments.

      And maybe, just maybe, he would be able to ask her a few more questions.

      The phone began to ring in the living room. A long, insistent ring that begged to be answered.

      Danilov ignored it.‘Lenchik, I just want to bring our family together again. Like the old days in Minsk.’ He recognised the desperation in his own voice. He hadn’t seen his wife or son for four years now. The only clue to their whereabouts was his daughter, and she was telling him nothing. Why?

      She turned her back on him and continued to clean the stove. ‘You’d better answer the telephone.’

      ‘The only people who ring me are from the office.’

      The phone rang again and again.

      ‘You’d better answer it,’ she said, slightly more softly this time.

      Another ring, this time longer and more insistent.

      Danilov got up and walked into the living room. He picked up the ear piece and spoke into the receiver. ‘Danilov.’

      ‘It’s Strachan here, sir. Sorry to bother you on your day off, but I thought you’d better know…’

      ‘Know what, Strachan? Come to the point, man,’ Danilov snapped.

      ‘There was a murder last night, sir. Actually, four murders in a lane off Hankow Road.’

      ‘That’s my beat. Why wasn’t I informed?’

      ‘I don’t know, sir. I’m at the station now, and I’ve just found out. Inspector Cowan took the case.’

      Danilov sighed and thought of his daughter and their chess game. ‘I’ll be at the station in half an hour. Make sure Cowan doesn’t do anything stupid before I get there.’

      ‘I don’t know about that, sir, but he’s already made an arrest.’

      ‘Cowan doesn’t usually move that sharply. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

      ‘I’ll wait for you, sir.’

      The telephone went dead in Danilov’s hand. He replaced the receiver back on its cradle. The long upright telephone reminded him of a chalice in one of the churches of his youth in Russia, except it was made from black Bakelite, not gold.

      He walked across the sitting room and put on his old brown brogues, an even older macintosh and his battered hat with its oil-stained lining, mahogany with wear.

      In the kitchen, his daughter was still hunched over the dishes, her arms covered in soap and suds.

      ‘I have to go to the station. Perhaps, we can play chess when I come back this evening?’

      For a moment, she stopped washing dishes, and her head lifted slightly.

      He wanted to go across to her and wrap her in his arms as he had done when she was a child. A hug that said it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, just you and me and now.

      But he didn’t. He just stood there.

      She went back to the dishes, scrubbing the cream pottery as if her life depended on it.

      He looked across at the chess board, lying on the table, its pieces untouched, unmoved. ‘Good bye, Elina,’ he called as he opened the front door.

      There was still no answer.

       Chapter 4

      Strachan was waiting for Danilov outside the station, eating a jian bing he had just bought from the hawker’s stall on the street, an infamous trap for hungry policemen.

      ‘No breakfast, Strachan?’

      ‘Had it this morning, sir, this is just a snack to keep me going till lunchtime.’

      Danilov watched as Strachan took another bite, bending forward to prevent any of the chili sauce from dripping on his suit. Despite all the food he consumed, his half-Chinese detective sergeant was as lean as a Borzoi.

      ‘Had yours, sir?’

      ‘Had my what?’

      ‘Breakfast. Got to have breakfast in the morning. Gets the day off to a great start, my mother always says. Wouldn’t let me leave home without it.’

      Danilov thought about the burnt syrniki prepared by Elina. ‘You might call it breakfast, Strachan. On the other hand, you might call it something else.’

      He walked up the steps to the double doors that guarded the police headquarters. ‘You didn’t call me in to talk about breakfast, Detective Sergeant,’ he said over his shoulder.

      ‘No, sir,’ said Strachan, wiping the crumbs from his face with the back of his hand, dropping the remains of his snack on the floor and running after his inspector. ‘Four murders last night in a lane off Hankow Road. A family, name of Lee.’

      ‘Why wasn’t I called?’

      ‘I don’t know, sir. Inspector Cowan told me he was handling the case.’

      ‘Cowan couldn’t handle a knish.’

      ‘A what, sir?’

      Danilov ignored the question and approached a tall Sikh in a blue turban who guarded the gate that led to the interior of the station. ‘Quiet today, Sergeant Singh,’ he said looking back at the crowd in the foyer.

      ‘Wait till this afternoon, Inspector.’

      He walked down the corridor and entered the detectives’ office. The group of detectives standing together in the corner fell silent.

      A tall ginger-haired who had spoken to Strachan earlier, broke off from his story and said, ‘Good morning, Danilov. Thought it was your day off?’

      A couple of the detectives smirked.

      ‘Could I speak with you, Inspector Cowan, in private?’

      Cowan looked around him. ‘I’m sure the lads wouldn’t mind hearing what you have to say, would you, lads? Tinkler? Davies?’

      There were a few mutters in response from the group.

      Danilov hung his hat and coat on the stand that was next to the door. ‘There was an incident last night near Hankow Road.’

      ‘Yes.’ Cowan folded his arms across his chest. The rest of the detectives were looking from one to the other like spectators at a tennis match.

      ‘Four murders. A family.’

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘Why wasn’t I informed? It’s my area.’

      Cowan came to stand in front of him. ‘I don’t report to you, Danilov. You’re not my boss.’

      ‘You should have telephoned me.’

      ‘Didn’t know your number.’

      Danilov pointed to the notice board. A list of detectives, with their addresses and telephone numbers clearly marked, was pinned up on the green baize.

      ‘I

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