severed in two, belonging to a man pretending to be a woman.
***
Danilov opened the door of his apartment in Medhurst Gardens. It was small with one bedroom, an attached living room and bathroom, and servant quarters. There were no servants though. He didn’t need looking after.
He switched on the light. The bright whiteness of the walls always stunned him. He walked in, took off his hat and coat and hung them behind the door. The living room was bare. There was an old leather sofa which he occasionally sat in to read, facing an even older fire that was never lit, even in the depths of winter. If it was cold, he just kept his hat and coat on in the flat. Above the fire was his sole possession, a clock. He had bought it with his first salary from the police. The ticking was a constant reminder that life without his family was continuing. The only other furniture was a small table with a telephone, installed by the police commissioner to ensure he was always available. In the two years he had lived here, it had rung just once.
He didn’t like the flat. In fact, he hated it. But he stayed because he wasn’t there often, only returning to sleep each evening, like a bear returning to its cave. In this case, an empty, white cave.
He walked into the bedroom. The single bed was neatly made from this morning. Beside it was an old, rickety table with a light and a chess set. He switched on the light and removed a white pawn from the board. ‘You are going to be in trouble, Mr Allen,’ he said out loud to the white walls.
He had first met Allen at the promotion board two years ago. They had discovered a mutual love for chess and had been playing by correspondence ever since. He knew Allen was in Intelligence, anybody connected with Special Branch had to be, but that was none of his concern. All he cared about was Allen’s next move. Checkmate was just four moves away unless he was very careful.
He took off his brown jumper, folding it carefully on the rattan chair at the end of the bed. He sat down and removed his shoes. His fingers were slightly stiff, his left shoulder aching. He no longer had the energy or the joie de vivre of his youth. Where had all the years gone, he wondered?
He opened the door of the bedside table and took out a tray. On it was an opium pipe made from bamboo with an ivory bowl, a spirit lamp, silver lighter, small ebony box and a silver pin, all placed neatly in their usual positions.
He took the lighter and lit the spirit lamp on the tray. The flame spluttered briefly before glowing brightly, throwing a shadow on the wall of the bedroom. He picked up the pin and rolled the pea-sized ball of opium in the flame, heating it all over. He watched the shadow changing shape on the wall as the opium ball reacted with the flame.
The first breath of the opium filled his lungs. Immediately, a soft wave of ease, like being caressed by an eel, flowed across his body. He exhaled, smelling the sweet, ashy fragrance of the opium freshen the stale room.
Another mouthful of smoke, seeing the little ball of opium flare briefly before going out and returning to black ash. The smoke again filled his lungs and a renewed sense of ease filled his body. Less intense this time, but still there, still flowing into every cell and dancing around, relaxing every fibre of his being.
He placed the pipe next to the chess set and lay back on the bed. Images of his wife and children flashed through his mind.
A white dress, cinched at the waist, sun setting behind his wife’s shoulder, silhouetting her hair.
A dance, music playing, her body held at arm’s length, her head back, laughing.
A child sitting on a table in the kitchen, jumping down and running to greet him, nothing but joy on her face.
Waving goodbye at the station, her tears, his children shouting, him leaving to go to Moscow.
How he missed them. Their hugs, their joy, their love. Would he ever see them again?
The fleeting images softened. Filtered light through the leaves of birch and needles of pine. He was at home again, running through the forest, discovering a natural pool, diving deep within in it, feeling the chilling warmth of the water. Then the wriggling energy of his son beside him, just learning how to swim and moving with all the grace of a hippopotamus. His beaming smile wondrous at defying the attempts of the water to keep him in its embraces. Afterwards, teeth chattering like the heels of a Spanish dancer, they smelt the sweet aroma of hot chocolate beside a pine-scented fire, and devoured the warm soup of piroshki.
Home.
Softness.
Sleep.
No more worries.
No more nightmares.
Not tonight.
***
In the dark basement of a building not far from the life and bustle of the Bund, Elsie Everett screamed her lungs out for most of the night.
Nobody heard her.
February 23rd 1928.
The 32nd day of the Year of the Earth Dragon.
Inspector Danilov and Detective Constable Strachan stopped in front of the ornate stone building on Avenue Stanislaus Chevalier. They could have been in front of any building in any department of France. Two Doric columns soared to a heavy tiled roof, punctured by three mansard windows. Two sitting lions guarded each side of the elegant entrance. The whole place had the aroma of suburban France; cooking chicken, red wine, rosemary and garlic.
It was only the presence of Annamese constables, flowing in and out of the tall oak doors, that destroyed the image of rural France.
They walked up the granite steps and approached a gendarme sitting behind a bleached walnut desk. ‘We have an appointment with Major Renard.’ said Danilov.
‘And who shall I say is calling?’ replied the gendarme in fluent, if accented, English.
‘Inspector Danilov of the Shanghai Municipal Police and Detective Constable Stra-chan.’
Strachan winced visibly as he heard his name pronounced by Danilov.
‘Certainly, Inspector, this fonctionnaire will take you to the office. Please follow him.’
The fonctionnaire was Annamese, dressed in an eighteenth-century costume of brightly coloured satin waistcoat and trousers, accessorised with a white powdered wig. Following closely behind him, they walked up sweeping marble stairs. On either side, pastoral scenes of an idyllic France, with pretty shepherdesses guarding placid sheep, decorated the walls. They passed under a low arch etched with ‘Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité’ in strident gold letters. A long corridor stretched before them.
‘A bit different from our HQ,’ whispered Strachan.
‘The French always have a hint of the baroque in their public buildings. It’s meant to intimidate the masses,’ said Danilov.
‘It’s certainly working.’
They passed heavy wooden doors on either side of the corridor. All of them were closed with no sounds coming from within. The silence of the building was interrupted by the echoes of their boots on the marble floor and the soft shuffle of the slippers of the fonctionnaire, a slipping, sliding sound that slithered off the walls.
Danilov tried to make less noise as he walked, but he couldn’t. The nails embedded in the heels of his boots clattered against the floor with every step.
Eventually, they reached the end of the corridor. The fonctionnaire knocked softly on a double door that stretched all the way to the ceiling.
‘Entrez.’
The fonctionnaire opened one side and stepped back, allowing them to enter first.
In front of them, two immense sash windows filled the room with light. Behind an ornate desk sat a young Frenchman in what appeared to be a military uniform. He