his trouser pocket, adjusting it so that it sat well on his head.
He was in uniform now. Nobody ever noticed people in uniform. They blended in with everything else on the street, part of the furniture. Some nosey person might remember there was a man in uniform, but they would never be able to describe his face. That was the beauty of a uniform: it guaranteed anonymity.
He did a final check and then walked back towards the police station he had just left.
Invisible again.
Just another person going to see what had happened.
Another uniform in the crowd.
The clamour outside the window increased. Lightbulbs flashed. The shouts of the reporters above the noise. The lawyer’s voice, calm and collected.
More shouts from the reporters. More flashes. Then a loud bang.
Silence.
Danilov and Strachan raced towards the door.
Two more bangs.
Screams and shouts of chaos. People running. More shouts, shriller now, desperation in the voices.
They hurtled through the double doors. On the steps to the left of them, all was chaos. Men lay close to the ground desperately trying to crawl away. A woman searched for her glasses on her hands and knees. Cameras, notepads, and used bulbs lay strewn down the steps.
At the bottom, two bodies lay next to each other joined by a steel chain. One was on its back, staring up at the sky, the other had rolled onto his side and was moaning loudly, like a bull that had just been gelded.
A photographer was taking shots of the bodies, his flash blinding despite the sunlight.
‘Stop,’ Danilov shouted. Strachan rushed past him and hustled the protesting photographer away.
Danilov stepped over a large brown shoe lying on its side. He walked down the step and knelt down next to Detective Constable Moore. The man was moaning loudly.
He rolled him over and saw blood seeping into the man’s jacket from a wound on his shoulder.
He heard Strachan run back to join him.
‘I confiscated the camera, sir. Might come in useful.’
‘Good. Those ambulance men,’ he pointed to two men dressed in white coats crouched down behind the rear of their vehicle, ‘get them up here to take Moore to the hospital. Quickly, man.’
He stood up and stepped across Moore. The body of Kao lay stretched out on the steps, exactly where it had fallen, arms out wide like the pope blessing the multitudes in St Peter’s Square.
Between the eyes, in the centre of the forehead, a small round hole with a blackened edge disturbed the smoothness of the skin. One eye was wide open, staring into space as if looking for something that wasn’t there. The other was still closed, the bruise around it puffy, yellow and purple.
The face itself looked as though it was at peace, removed from the terrors of life. So different from the last time Danilov had seen it in the cells beneath the station, illuminated by the flickering flame of a lighter.
Danilov knelt down. A small trail of dark liquid had trickled from the corner of the smiling mouth. A large patch of wet, wine-dark blood stained the front of his shirt.
He reached out to touch the blood but stopped himself at the last moment. Dr Fang would want an untouched body, no need for him to become an amateur pathologist.
Strachan had returned with the ambulance men and was lifting Moore’s body onto a stretcher, but the right arm was still attached to the body of Kao.
‘Where’s the key?’
‘Check the fob pocket of his waistcoat, Strachan, most coppers keep it there.’
Strachan’s fumbling fingers searched in the pocket. His eyes remained fixed on the body of Kao lying next to Moore.
‘Look what you are doing, Strachan.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He forced his eyes away and delved deeper into the pocket. A small compact shape was buried deep in the fabric.
‘You were right, sir.’ He unlocked the handcuffs and helped the moaning Moore onto the stretcher. The ambulance men carried him down the steps, his moans increasing as they jolted his shoulder against the bare canvas.
He beckoned for Strachan to kneel down beside him. The young detective stepped forward, his eyes never leaving the face of the dead man.
‘What do you make of it, Strachan?’
‘He’s dead, sir.’
‘A blind man with blinkers could have worked that out. What else?’
Strachan stared at the dead man’s face. He twisted his head to the left like an artist sizing up a model for an insightful portrait. When he spoke, it was hesitating. ‘The expression on his face, sir, it doesn’t seem right.’
‘Very strange, isn’t it? Like he was smiling at his killer as he was shot. Look at the hands.’
Strachan stood up again and stared down at the body. ‘He’s got his hands raised, sir. Like he was surrendering.’
‘Yes, maybe. The shot was good. Professional.’
‘A kill shot, sir.’
‘Nobody gets up and walks away from those. It looks the same as the one that killed Mr Lee.’ He stood up and took a last lingering look at the body. ‘Get it down to Dr Fang at the morgue. Let’s see what he can tell us.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Danilov breathed in a deep lungful of Shanghai air.
His nose wrinkled as he scanned the watching faces of the crowd. ‘Sweet potatoes. It’s strange, but there’s always the smell of sweet potatoes at every death I investigate.’
Strachan tapped him on the arm and pointed to a hawker stirring the charcoal beneath a large iron wok. The man lifted the lid. The overpowering sweetness of the aroma of roasting drifted across the crime scene.
For a moment, Danilov was back in the Minsk of his youth, hearing the chants of the priests, seeing the bright flash of the chains of the incense burner, smelling the sweet aroma, seeing the dead body of his father lying in the casket, arms crossed in front of him.
He rubbed the scars on the back of his hands. He mustn’t let himself be distracted. Not now, now he needed to concentrate.
Then he was back in the present, surrounded by a crowd of people that had gathered to see what was happening, all staring at him and the body lying on the pavement.
‘Round
