rel="nofollow" href="#ulink_07ea0e41-bc07-5213-b104-3a999ede289c">Chapter 5
Danilov stood on tiptoes to peer into the cell. Yellow light crept through the grill. Inside a figure huddled in the corner, his face hidden in the shadows.
‘Open the door, please, Sergeant.’
‘I don’t know if I can, sir, it…’
Danilov stared at the duty sergeant. He had come straight down to the cells after leaving Cowan and the other detectives in the office. Their laughter as he went out the door still echoed in his head. He had told Strachan to stay upstairs. No point in involving him in this unpleasantness too. ‘Open the door, Sergeant,’ he said quietly.
The sergeant began to protest again, looked at Danilov’s eyes and posture, then pulled a large bunch of keys from his belt. They rattled as he selected the right one for cell three, inserted it into the lock, turning it twice.
He stepped back without opening the door. Danilov looked through the key hole once more before entering. A long time ago in a similar cell beneath a small police station in Minsk, he had entered a cell without checking where the prisoner was. He still had the scar on the top of his head as a reminder. An old Russian idiom popped into his head: the scabby sheep scares the whole flock. How true, how true.
The loud creak of unoiled hinges sang in the dark cell. The prisoner tried to bury his head further into the brick walls, hiding from whoever had entered.
‘My name is Inspector Danilov.’
There were a few mumbled words of reply that Danilov couldn’t understand and the same movement into the wall.
‘You can leave us, Sergeant.’ Danilov said, without taking his eyes from the bundle of clothes huddled in the corner.
‘But sir, I’m not…’
‘Leave us.’
Reluctantly the sergeant left the cell. Danilov heard his footsteps receding down the corridor. No doubt, he would be going to report Danilov to his superior. So be it. A small price to pay for speaking to this man alone.
He moved to the corner of the concrete bed and sat down. The man edged away from him, pressing his body into the far corner. A tall man, curling himself into a foetal ball.
Danilov took out his tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette. Even in the dim light of the cell, his fingers knew exactly what to do. He brought the edge of the paper up to his mouth and licked it. ‘Would you like a cigarette? Only hand-rolled, I’m afraid. But the best Virginia from Jacobson’s.’
A hand snaked out and took the cigarette. Danilov pulled a lighter from his pocket and flicked the wheel. Instantly, the cell was flooded with light, the glaze of its brown brick walls reflecting the flame of the lighter.
The prisoner shrank back into the wall.
‘Sorry, I didn’t realise how bright this was.’ Danilov closed the lid of the light and adjusted the wheel beneath the flame. He flicked the wheel and a smaller, less bright flame flickered. The cell was illuminated again, but less harshly. Danilov could see the back of the prisoner’s head now, his hair matted with sweat. For a second the man hesitated then put the cigarette in what was left of his lips and mouth.
Danilov brought the flame up to the prisoner’s face. The white tube of the cigarette stood out like a long thin maggot against the red and purple of the lips. Blood oozed from the side of his head, dribbling down onto his chin and shirt. The mouth was a bloody mess, with a few gaps where teeth had once been.
Danilov lit the end of the cigarette and the man inhaled, coughing and gasping as he did so. The rest of his face was in even worse condition. The nose was bent at an angle resting against the left cheek, while, beneath one eye, a vivid purple egg of a bruise looked like it would burst at any moment, showering blood everywhere. The other eye was closing, a thick black line like a calligraphy stroke the only indication of its existence.
The man coughed once more, his chest rasping, trying to suck in air.
‘Lie down. You’ll feel better if you lie down.’
The man shook his head, throwing a drizzle of blood-stained spittle onto Danilov’s jacket.
‘What’s your name?’
The man tried to speak through his split lips. Danilov couldn’t understand a word.
‘I’m sorry, could you say that again?’
The man collapsed in another round of coughing, blood splattering on the floor of the cell. Without looking up, he composed himself and though rasping breaths, he said, ‘Kao. Kao Ker Lien.’
The rasping continued as Kao tried to breathe, sucking in air through his torn mouth.
Then he spoke, the words unintelligible.
Danilov leant forward. ‘What did you say?’
The man paused and seemed to concentrate his whole body into the words that were coming out of his mouth. ‘Didn’t do anything,’ he enunciated slowly.
The effort seemed to exhaust him. He fell forward, fighting to get some air into his lungs.
Danilov caught him and cradled the man’s body, laying him gently on the hard concrete of the bed.
‘Didn’t do anything. Didn’t kill them. Didn’t do anything,’ Kao said over and over again as he lay there, the words coming out through bubbles of blood and spit.
Danilov stood up and banged on the cell door. ‘Sergeant.’
The duty sergeant appeared in a few seconds from his hiding place just around the corner.
‘Get this man to the hospital immediately.’
‘Can’t do that, sir. Not without Chief Inspector Boyle’s permission. He’s been charged. Can’t leave here.’
‘He’s going to die unless you do something.’
The sergeant stared at the prisoner lying prostrate on the bed, mumbling over and over again through his broken mouth.
‘I need the Chief’s permission, sir. Regulations.’
Danilov raced out of the cell and up the stairs at the end. ‘I’ll see about bloody regulations.’
‘You can’t go in, Inspector.’ Miss Cavendish looked up from painting her nails a bright scarlet to match her lipstick.
‘I’m sorry, I must.’
She got up from behind her desk and stood in his way. Miss Cavendish was the gatekeeper to Boyle’s office, protecting the sanctum from trespass or unauthorised entry, both criminal offences in her eyes.
‘I need to see him immediately.’
Miss Cavendish played with the string of pearls
