LITMIR.BIZ

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of the press. Imprisoning me in this station when I have a deadline to keep.’ The reporter’s already florid face became redder as he smashed his fist down on the table.

      ‘You are helping us with our inquiries, Mr Thomas. I’m sure the press are always happy to do their civic duty,’ answered Danilov as patiently as he could. Dealing with the press had become tiring, they had such an inflated sense of themselves. This was his tenth interview and he wished it were his last. So far, none of the reporters had seen anything. None of the cameramen had taken any photographs of the killer.

      ‘Not when there’s a deadline, we aren’t. I’ve missed the afternoon edition already, and your bloody sergeant won’t let me use the phone.’

      ‘Ty Russkiy?’

      ‘I was born in Russia, but I left long ago, Inspector, unlike yourself. And I would prefer to speak English. Such a more sophisticated language, don’t you think?’

      ’No, I don’t. Your family name?’

      ‘Turgachev. My father anglicised it to Thomas. He liked the sound.’ The smug, rather handsome face relaxed into a smile.

      ‘My name is Danilov, Pyotr Alexandrevich. Unlike you, I am proud of my Russian heritage. Where did your family come from?’

      ‘Moscow. But enough of the happy families, Inspector. Can I go now?’

      Danilov wiped his face with the clean handkerchief his daughter had placed in his pocket that morning. ‘Do I have to remind you that a man was shot dead, and another lies injured in hospital?’

      The reporter sat back and folded his arms across his chest.

      ‘Can you tell me what happened this morning?’

      ‘A shooting took place outside a police station and you’re asking me what happened? Typical.’

      ‘Just describe to me what you observed.’

      The reporter sighed loudly. ‘I didn’t see much. Kao came out of the station handcuffed to the policemen. His lawyer was with him.

      ‘What happened next?’

      ‘I couldn’t see anything. There was so much jostling. All the photographers were looking for their shots, reporters were shouting. I think the lawyer tried to say something, but I couldn’t hear what it was.’

      ‘And then...?’

      ‘The police pushed us out of the way. I fell backwards and then I heard a shot.’

      ‘Just one shot?’

      ‘I don’t know, it was chaos. People running away, desperate to get out of there.’

      ‘What did you do?’

      ‘I dropped down to the floor. Safest place in a gunfight.’

      ‘So you didn’t see anything?’

      ‘No, I was more interested in saving my life. You don’t think about anything else.’

      ‘Did you see the shooter?’

      Alexander Thomas closed his eyes, reliving the scene in his mind. ‘No, there were too many people in the way.’ He opened them again and looked down at the cup of tea sitting on the table in the interview room. ‘I had my face buried into the steps. Tried to hide from the shots. I crawled away from the noise.’

      ‘What happened next?’

      He looked up and his voice became stronger. ‘I was on the floor, trying to get away. There was shouting and screaming. But then, above all of it, I heard two more shots and a loud click.’

      ‘A loud click?’

      ‘A gun misfiring. Inspector, did you ever fight in the war?’

      ‘No, I was in the Imperial Police in Minsk. We weren’t called up.’

      ‘Imperial Police?’

      ‘The Tsar’s police. Before he was shot.’

      The reporter smiled. ‘Interesting. A career copper. You must find the Shanghai Police difficult to work in, being a professional.’

      ‘What’s the point you are trying to make, Mr Thomas?’

      ‘The point is, Inspector, when bullets start flying, there are no more heroes. You take care of number one. None of that knight in shining armour crap. That’s just so much bollocks. You get down and stay down till it’s all over, and the birds start singing again, glad you’re still alive.’

      ‘One person wasn’t alive.’

      Thomas finished his tea and grimaced at the sour taste in his mouth. ‘Your prisoner. He’s probably lying on a slab at this very moment with Dr Fang hovering over him like a leech on warm flesh.’ The reporter picked up his cigarettes from the table and put them in his pocket. ‘Can I go now?’

      ‘If you think of anything else, please let us know.’

      ‘There is one thing, Inspector.’

      Danilov looked up from his notebook.

      ‘Why was Mr Kao’s face covered in bruises? And why was he being taken to a hospital? Something smells very rotten here. I’ll get to the bottom of it, whatever I have to do. That’s a promise, Inspector.’

       Chapter 19

      Elina Danilov put on her new coat. It was dark and drab, not like the fur she had worn in during her time in Harbin, but it would do. She checked herself in the mirror. A 17-year-old with eyes that had seen too much for one so young stared back at her. It didn’t matter. That was all finished now. She was safe here, safe at last.

      She remembered when she met her father again. It was in Tsingtao at the awful Welfare Home for Young Women run by a missionary with eyes like holes in snow.

      He had stood in front of her with his hand held out. Her own father greeting her with a handshake. She didn’t know what to do, so she reached out and took his hand in her own, feeling its cold skin against hers.

      Before she knew it, he had picked up her bag and was ushering her off to the station. On the journey to Shanghai, he just asked her questions, interrogating her like a witness to a crime. Asking over and over again: What had she done? Where had she gone? What had happened next? Where was her mother? Always where was her mother?

      She brushed a thread from the coat with the ends of her fingers. She didn’t tell him what she had done. She couldn’t tell him. Not now, not ever. So she had skipped over the details and invented others. But she knew he wasn’t convinced. Better to remain silent to say as little as possible. How could she trust him after what he had done, leaving her, her brother and his wife alone in Minsk? How could she trust any man after what happened? Better to rely on the one person she had in this world.

      Herself.

      She looked around the apartment before she left. God, she hated these white walls. There was no warmth, no life in them. The walls of a prison. She had done nothing to make the apartment more comfortable. There was no point, her father would never notice.

      She checked that all the dishes had been done; washed and dried, and placed back in the cupboard above the sink. The living room had been swept clean with the cushions on the settee plumped up. She never went into her father’s bedroom, but she knew it would be as clean and as spartan as ever.

      ‘Everything in its place and a place for everything,’ her father had always said to her as a child, sharp green eyes staring down into her face. She had been a little scared of him then, especially when he wore his Imperial Police uniform with its shiny stars and brightly polished boots.

      Luckily her mother had been the opposite; warm, friendly and with a laugh that would shake the world with its joy. How had two such different people ever fallen in love? She didn’t

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