City Of Shadows. M Lee J
killer than your mother.’
‘You should see her strangle a chicken from the market.’
‘Thank you, Strachan, remind me never to eat your mother’s chicken. We need to get back to the station. Now.’
‘Shall I wait for forensics, sir?’
Danilov thought for a moment. ‘No, come with me. They can handle everything themselves. I think Mr Kao is in grave danger, Strachan, and not just from the Cowans of this world.’
He waited on the street, blending in with all the reporters, photographers and assorted hangers-on who were attracted like flies to dung whenever something happened in Shanghai.
It was a good place to hide.
In amongst people. It was the only time he didn’t feel lonely. Here. In a crowd. Waiting.
The butt of the revolver rubbed against the skin of his chest. He loved this moment. The time before the world erupted around him in a storm of chaos.
He knew it was going to happen.
He was the only one who knew.
The idea gave him satisfaction. He had come to this job early in his life. A young man, born in the city with nothing to offer but his brains and the ability to kill.
His first job had been at twelve, smuggling a gun through a police checkpoint and passing it to an assassin, the man hired to kill a politician in the foyer of a council chamber. He had watched him do the job. Three bullets the killer had used. So wasteful. Even worse, the politician had lived to fight on.
He wasn’t going to make that mistake today.
He would be professional. He had learnt from the mistakes of others not to make mistakes himself. Every single detail of each of his jobs was written down and safely hidden from prying eyes.
His diary of murder.
What he had for breakfast. How he felt. The weather. The time of day. The atmosphere before the shooting. The pain and surprise on the victim’s face. His escape route. The depression afterwards.
Twenty-three separate entries.
This was going to be the twenty-fourth.
He had operated as part of a team. He had killed alone. He had used a knife. A gun. Poison. And once a garrotte.
He hadn’t enjoyed using a garrotte. The victim had shit himself as he was dying. The stink had lingered around his nostrils for days like a drowning man clings to a lifebuoy.
He would have to drown somebody one time. To test it out as a means of killing. He imagined that it was the same as the garrotte only wetter.
He had learnt to plan everything. The method. The time. The place. An escape route. The shoes he would wear. The changing area. He always changed his clothes as soon as he could. He didn’t like the smell of death.
Planning a murder was everything.
It was why he was so popular as an operative with Mr Zhang. It was why he received so many jobs. It was why he did what he did. Professionally.
He was a professional as much as any lawyer, accountant or engineer. His skills were in demand. His knowledge needed. His abilities respected. He didn’t lack for jobs. They found him.
He realised long ago after the fourth killing that he didn’t work for money but for the perfection of it all. The perfect murder. One day, he would make it happen.
What was the perfect murder?
When nobody realised a crime had been committed. Nobody was looking for a victim. Nobody looking for a killer. And yet, a victim was dead.
This job was unique. He had not been paid for it, but strangely, he didn’t mind. This time, he had to rush the planning, only receiving the call that the man was coming out thirty minutes ago.
But he was sure it was long enough. The opportunity was too good to miss. A chance to kill two birds with one stone.
Or, in his case, four bullets.
The location added a frisson of danger. An emotion that he enjoyed when it was under control. And when it was finished, all the ends would be neatly tied in a bow.
Not by him, but by the police themselves.
There had been four murders and now their killer was dead. His death witnessed by the police themselves.
The simple beauty of it enthralled him.
A neatly packaged story for the people to devour. Better to celebrate the excitement of someone’s life and death in the pages of the newspapers than remember the boring mundanity of their own.
He didn’t take any old job. There had to be something of interest in it. Something that challenged him. Killing was easy. Any country bumpkin could kill. But to kill well, to know that the correct victim had been targeted, to get away – there was skill in that.
A test of his skills.
Afterwards, he would vanish. As he always did.
He noticed a stir in the mob of reporters and photographers ahead of him.
He took a deep breath. Calming himself. Focusing his mind on the job in hand.
Danilov and Strachan pushed their way through the crowd of reporters, photographers and assorted sightseers to get back into the station.
Sergeant Wolfe was standing guard at the entrance.
‘What’s happening, Sergeant?’
‘They’re just about to take the prisoner to the hospital, Inspector. The doctor insisted. Had a proper fight with Cowan about it too. Chief Inspector Boyle had to order him to do obey the doctor. He wasn’t keen, said the prisoner was malingering.’
At last, thought Danilov, at least Kao will be looked after now. He looked towards the press of reporters outside the doors. ‘The mob is baying for blood, Sergeant.’
‘The scum of the earth, they are. Would sell their own mothers for a story.’
The clamour outside the station grew louder.
‘They are using the side door?’
The Sergeant nodded. ‘I thought it better, Inspector. Easier for the prisoner to get to the ambulance.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant, at least one man is thinking today.’
Like a flock of birds moving as one body, the mob of reporters suddenly surged towards the right, shouting noisily as they did.
‘It looks like they are bringing him out now, Inspector. The vultures are descending on their prey,’ said the Sergeant.’
As soon as they left the safety of the police station, the mob of reporters surged forward.
‘Did