built in the new Art Deco style with white concrete exteriors, porthole windows and the simple straight lines that promised sophisticated elegance without the stuffy clutter that he remembered from the Russia of his youth.
Strachan came running up. ‘Sorry, took me a while to find a place, sir.’
Danilov didn’t reply, he just walked through the gate.
The guard raised his head from his bowl for a second before lowering it once again, continuing to remorselessly shovel the rice from his bowl to his mouth, before either mysteriously vanished into thin air.
A long lane stretched in front of the detectives, with branches off to the side every thirty metres. ‘It’s number 349. It should be on the left.’
They walked along looking at the numbers. The first row on their left held 101 to 126. They looked down the alley. A long tier of terraced, three-storey houses, all facing South, stretched to another alley at the end. Each door led to a small internal courtyard, then onto the main entrance to the house. There was a mirror image of the alley on the right-hand side of the lane.
‘It’s much further on, sir.’
‘I worked that out for myself, Strachan.’
They walked on in silence, passing the next alley, much smaller and thinner, which led to the back doors of the houses.
They had walked past five of these rows before Strachan spoke again. ‘I’d like to live here one day, sir. The new style, much cleaner and better than my old place.’
‘Looking to move up in the world, Detective Strachan? You’ll be after my job next.’
‘No, sir, I didn’t mean that,’ he said hurriedly, ‘it’s just that you have to have something to aim for in life.’
‘And your aim is “Prosperous Peace Lane”, is it?’
‘I could do worse, sir.’
‘Indeed you could, Detective Sergeant Strachan. Or you could do better.’
They both stopped in front of a sign on the wall. ‘335 to 353. It’s down here, sir.’
‘Your first piece of detection today, Strachan, well done.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Lead the way, Detective.’
Strachan walked into the alley counting off the doors.
‘It’s here, sir.’
They stopped in front of one of the courtyard doors. On it was a large red paper with bright gold characters, pasted across the centre where the two sides met.
‘I presume that says something like “Police. Crime Scene”.’
‘Actually, sir, it says, “Happy Prosperous New Year”. I think Inspector Cowan and his team must have run out of sealing paper and used a New Year greeting instead.’
‘Very enterprising. Break the seal, Strachan.’
The detective reached up to tear down the long strip of red paper, but as he did, he saw that it had already been cut with a sharp knife. ‘Sir, I think you should look at this.’
Danilov signalled Strachan to be quiet and pushed open the door. They both stepped over the stone entrance. Inside, the courtyard was empty except for a large potted palm in the corner. Danilov, followed by Strachan, strode across the courtyard in four steps and stopped in front of the main entrance of the house. The Inspector reached for the round metal door knob and turned it. The door began to open, creaking loudly. They both stopped, surprised by the loud screeching noise. Up above, they could hear the sounds of banging on the walls.
On the wooden floor, the chalk outline of a small body was still visible. Next to the outline a long dark pool of what appeared to be dried blood stained the wooden boards.
Danilov stepped over the chalk outline and crept up the stairs, searching for the source of the sound.
On the next landing, they were greeted by another chalk outline, this time slightly larger. Danilov placed his finger across his lips. Strachan drew his pistol, holding it close to his face.
They climbed up to the next landing. The banging noises were getting louder now. They could hear something else too, the sound of a man’s voice, swearing loudly in Chinese.
Danilov pointed to the door at the top of the stairs in front of them. The noise seemed to be coming from inside. He walked closer, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead. The banging stopped.
Heavy steps across the room and the door flew open, revealing a stocky figure silhouetted in the doorway, in his hand the black shape of a large demolition hammer.
Danilov shouted, ‘Police, stay where you are.’
The man reacted immediately, throwing the hammer at Danilov. It hit him on the shoulder, knocking him backwards against the banister.
The door slammed. Strachan was already at Danilov’s side.
In the room, the sound of glass crashing on the wooden floor.
‘I’ll be fine.’
Strachan leapt up and over Danilov and ran to the top of the stairs.
He pushed at the door, but it was locked. He stepped back and drove his shoulder into the centre. It shuddered but held firm. He stepped back again and this time, kicked hard against the join where the lock and the frame of the door met.
The door splintered. He kicked again and again. And again.
The door crashed open.
Strachan ran into the room. It was empty. In front of him, another chalk outline of a body, and above it a broken window. He ran to it, carefully avoiding the chalk on the floor, and looked out.
Nothing. Just the back of the neighbour’s house.
A tile scuttled down the roof and crashed into the courtyard of the house next door.
He leant forward and looked upwards and behind him. The small, stocky man was inching slowly across the ridge line, his feet either side of the decorative tiles.
Strachan shouted. ‘Police. Halt or I fire.’
The man glared back at Strachan. Quickly, he dropped down on all fours and vanished from view.
Strachan put his revolver back in its holster. He kicked out the remaining glass in the window, noticing that one of the shards was streaked with blood. He grabbed each side of the frame and stepped up to crouch in the window.
Don’t look down, he thought. Whatever you do, don’t look down.
He looked down.
Immediately, he leant back into the empty window frame away from the drop. Jesus, he thought, it’s at least sixty feet to the ground.
He took a deep breath and peered over the edge again. Closer to eighty feet. What am I doing?
He inched his way through the mansard window and onto the slate roof, keeping hold of the frame all the time.
Don’t look down. Don’t look at the ground.
He took one step up the slates and then another, still holding onto the top of the mansard. The ridge of the roof was ten feet above him. Behind the ridge, the scuffling sounds of the man scrabbling across the roof on the other side.
He stood up straight, letting go of the window frame. Immediately, he could feel the wind through his hair. He held his arms out to his sides and began to inch up the roof.
Don’t look down. Whatever you do, don’t look down.
The ridge at the top was only six feet away now. He was getting closer. He began to feel more confident, shuffling his feet forward a little further each time.
Take it slowly, Strachan, softly does it.
At