reached forward to open the large silver box in front of him. Inside was a choice of cigarettes: Turkish for smokers who loved a rich aroma, American for the sophisticated and, of course, British Woodbines for those who had acquired the habit in the trenches. Danilov took a Turkish cigarette, lighting it with the onyx lighter that lay next to the cigarette box.
So it was going to be one of those meetings, he thought. Boyle had a particular style: no offer of a seat was going to be a dressing down. A seat and a cigarette was a ‘quiet’ chat. A seat and a cigar was an understanding that Boyle wanted something that only the person blessed with the cigar could provide. All the police dreaded the seat and the glass of whisky, for that meant the miscreant was going to be transferred to some obscure job in the nether reaches of the police universe where the offender would spend the rest of his life arresting dog eaters and night soil collectors.
Danilov inhaled the rich earthy smoke of the Turkish. Fine tobacco, a little elegant for his taste but still a fine smoke.
‘Or would you like a cigar?’ Boyle opened the other wooden box that lay on the table, revealing a selection of the finest Havanas and Dominicans.
‘Thank you, sir. A coffin nail is fine for me.’
Boyle chuckled. ‘Coffin nails. That’s what we used to call them during the war. Long time ago though. Lost a lot of good men, too many.’ He blew a long cloud of blue smoke out into the office. ‘You didn’t fight, did you, Danilov?’
‘No, sir, I was in the Imperial Police in Minsk. We weren’t sent to the Front.’
‘I was a Captain, Manchester Regiment, you know. The scum of the Earth from the back streets of Hulme but damn fine men, if you get my meaning.
‘I understand, sir.’
Boyle stared into mid-air. Above his head, a print of a Chinese street scene hung at a slight angle. Hawkers sold food from banana leaves placed on the ground. People wandered through examining the wares. On each building, Chinese characters blared the names of the proprietors of the shops.
Not a traditional choice for a head of detectives, thought Danilov. He stubbed his cigarette out in a bronze ashtray already full of stubs.
The movement seemed to pull Boyle out of his remembrance of the past. ‘Jolly good. I’ve asked you here today for a couple of reasons, Danilov. Firstly, how was the body that you found this morning?’
‘How was it? Dead, sir, extremely dead.’
‘Suicide?’
‘No. Not unless this one decided to kill herself by slashing her stomach and thighs to the bone, tying her wrists with stone weights, rowing out to a sandbank and then jumping into Soochow Creek. No, sir, I think suicide is out of the question.’
‘Shame that. I had Meaker on the phone. He thought it was, but as it was on our side of the creek, he was going to leave it to us. He seemed rather pleased at the idea.’
‘Inspector Meaker is entitled to his opinion, sir, but it’s not a suicide. Far from it. Murder I’m afraid. A brutal one as well.’
Boyle shuffled the papers in front of him. ‘Well, get it over with as quickly as you can. Upstairs gets its whiskers in a curl when Europeans are murdered. The murder of European women particularly seems to excite them. Got to maintain our prestige. The Chinese depend on us maintaining order. Without it, where would we be? Solve it quickly, Danilov.’
‘The body is on its way to the pathologist now, sir. Dr Fang will do his usual thorough job.’
Boyle harrumphed and lifted a piece of paper from the top of his pile. ‘There’s one other thing that requires a delicate touch. You did rather well with the Bungalow Murders last year and that awkward affair with the American Consul in ’26. As for your time with Scotland Yard, well, enough said.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Danilov recognised when he was being buttered up. ‘But my two years in London were wasted. We never found the anarchists we were looking for.’
‘At least it meant you could polish your English. You speak it better than most of my English chaps.’
‘Thank you again, sir.’
‘As I was saying, you handled those delicate situations rather well. The thing is, we’ve had a strange note from the French. The French Head of Detectives actually, a Mr…’ he glanced down at the paper he was holding ‘…a Mr Renard.’
‘Is it the note that’s strange, sir, or the fact that the French have sent it?’
‘It’s both, Danilov. Last time we talked to them was spring last year, when we had that little problem with the communists. Anyway, a meeting has been set up for tomorrow morning with him. Usually, I’d go myself but I’ve got a Council session and it can’t be postponed. Can’t stand the frogs anyway. Had enough of them in the war. Far too dramatic for my tastes. Quite like the language though, became quite good at it, even if I do say so myself. Damn fine wine too, if my memory serves me right.’
‘Where is the meeting, sir?’
‘Oh yes, that would help wouldn’t it?’ He scanned the note quickly, his lips moving as he read the words. ‘Ah, here it is, Avenue Stanislaus Chevalier at 10 am. Their HQ, it would seem.’
Danilov took out his notebook and wrote down the details.
‘Do report to me afterwards, Danilov. Can’t have those frogs sending you off on a wild goose chase. Une poursuite de l’oie sauvage, if I remember my French.’
‘A better translation, sir, might be un ballet d’absurdités or more simply une recherche futile.
‘Well, that’s as may be. French never was my strong suit.’ Boyle closed the cigarette case, always a sign that the meeting was over. ‘Clear this blonde case up quickly, Danilov.’
‘I’m going to see the pathologist right away, sir.’
‘Good. It’s probably just a lovers’ quarrel that’s gone too far.’
‘It went too far, sir, of that I am sure, but it’s more than a lovers’ quarrel. I believe it’s far darker and more dangerous than that.’
***
Inspector Danilov returned to his desk after the interview with Boyle. He stood in front of it for a long time, realising that something was wrong. The ink bottle was in a different place, and the pencil was half an inch out of alignment. He reached down and put them back exactly where they should have been.
Behind him, he could hear the muffled sniggers of the other detectives.
‘Wha’s up, Danilov, somethin’ not right?’ This was from Cartwright, a detective with the imagination of a bull and the wit of a dinosaur. ‘Out of whack, are we?’
Danilov turned back and addressed Cartwright, but actually talking to all of them. ‘I’d rather you didn’t touch anything on my desk in future.’
‘Always so prim and fuckin’ proper aren’t we? I thought you Russians were rougher and tougher, like the girls in Blood Alley.’ More sniggers from the
