City Of Shadows. M Lee J
‘Why did you do it?’
‘Why did you kill them?’
Cowan and Moore stood either side of Kao, holding his body upright between them. Despite being hunched over, the prisoner still towered above them, his arms handcuffed to them on either side and a blanket half-covering his head. Cowan was pushing Kao down with his free hand so that the reporters could not see the bruises that were still livid on his face.
His lawyer had protested that he should be carried to the ambulance, but Cowan had forced him to walk through the crowd. ‘He can still walk. Nothing wrong with him,’ was his blunt answer.
Three uniformed policemen walked ahead of them, clearing a path through the crowd. The lawyer stopped at the top of the steps. Immediately a small group of reporters separated from the large pack and surrounded him.
The lawyer raised his arms. ’Gentlemen, I’m sure Mr Kao will give a statement when he’s ready.’
‘Did he kill the Lee family?’ shouted one reporter.
‘As you can see, gentlemen, Mr Kao was assaulted during his arrest by the Shanghai Police. He is now being taken to hospital where his injuries will be treated by doctors.’ He stopped speaking and rushed to join his client. The pack of reporters and photographers followed him. ‘But did he murder the Lee family?’ another reporter shouted over the mob.
The policemen pushed the press back, using their arms, elbows and shoulders to forge a path. The reporters gave way reluctantly, still shouting their questions at the lawyer and his client. Lightbulbs flashed, illuminating the scene in a blaze of light, followed by an incoherent barrage of shouted questions.
‘Why did you kill the family?’
‘Four people dead, how do you feel?’
‘Was it a property deal gone wrong?’
‘Did you murder them?’
Cowan and Moore gripped the prisoner tightly, staying close to the constable clearing the way in front.
Kao kept his head down, forced to do so by Cowan’s hand pressing on his neck, stumbling forward, his chest heaving with every painful step.
The policemen were joined by others from the station, who elbowed the reporters to the side, creating a tunnel to the waiting black Dodge at the kerb.
A figure stepped in front of them. A shot like the stamping of a foot against a sheet of metal. Kao Ker Lien was thrown backwards against one of the policemen, his hand reaching up to grab his chest, before falling heavily on the steps, dragging Cowan and Moore down with him.
For a second, the mob of reporters was stunned into near silence.
One more shot. Then another, followed by a loud click.
The reporters screamed, trying to get away from the deadly noise as quickly as they could, tripping over legs, dropping cameras and notebooks and pens.
Policemen went down, bludgeoned out of the way by the scared reporters. People ran everywhere, desperately seeking cover from the sound of the shots.
A woman, caught in the mad rush, was struck by the hard edge of a flashbulb holder. The light went off, catching her in its light as she fell onto the hard concrete.
Those who had fought in the war simply threw themselves down on the ground looking to escape the gunfire, hugging the pavement as if it were a long-lost lover.
One reporter, braver or more stupid than the rest, picked himself up and walked gingerly to the three bodies lying on the ground. He tripped over a camera on the floor, setting off the flash once again, illuminating the scene with a harsh explosion of light.
His eyes were momentarily blinded, but he stumbled forwards, his sight gradually clearing. In front of him, Moore sat moaning, holding his right arm as blood oozed from the shoulder. Beside him, Kao lay on the steps, his arms spread and his eyes wide open, a small hole sitting between them. To his left, Cowan was curled up in a ball, trembling.
The reporter looked back at the body in the middle. He thought for a moment that it had an extra eye. Then he realised what it was and, and from somewhere deep within him, there escaped a shrill keening shriek.
Lightbulbs were going off. Reporters were shouting.
Up ahead, the crowd jostled each other.
He checked his position. Perfect.
He stepped forward from behind the ambulance. The crowd of reporters were thinning out in front of him, pushed out of the way by the policemen.
The cold metal of the butt solid in his fingers. There were six bullets loaded in the Smith & Wesson. He would not use them all. No need.
The mob thinned out even more. He could see the targets up ahead. They were positioned exactly as agreed.
He stepped forward pulling the revolver out of its holster as he did so.
Nobody noticed him, focused as they were on the people leaving the police station.
He levelled the revolver. Pressed the trigger. There was a brief noise. A flash of flame. The recoil jerked his hand upwards. He would have to use less powder next time.
The target fell backwards onto the stairs, dragging the two policemen down.
The screams. The noise. The shouts of the reporters and the photographers and the watchers, all disappeared.
He was in a bright tunnel. Just him and the target.
He stepped forward and fired again. Into the head.
The kill shot.
The revolver flashed. He was using too much powder.
The target lay still, a small round hole in his forehead.
Perfect.
Now to take care of the policeman on the right. A sitting duck, literally. He squeezed the trigger again. A wounding shot, not necessary to kill.
Cowan was looking at him, eyes strident with fear. The man tried to scramble away but he had forgotten the handcuffs that bound him to the prisoner.
He levelled the revolver at Cowan’s head. Time to kill him. Time he was gone.
He pulled the trigger. Another forehead shot.
A click.
He looked at the gun. A misfire. Too much gunpowder, must change the ratio next time.
The reporters were beginning to move now. Time to leave. Cowan could wait.
He slid the revolver back into the holster, feeling the warmth of the barrel through his shirt.
He turned and walked towards Foochow Road.
Move quickly, don’t run. Running suggested fear and a desire to escape. He wasn’t afraid but he wanted to get away.
Behind him, he could hear the screams of chaos.
He turned the corner and crossed the street to a quiet lilong. Twenty yards left along a lane he took off his hat. He turned to check if anybody was following him.
Nobody.
Good.
He pulled the Mandarin coat up