Danilov stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. ‘Let’s take a look, Lieutenant.’
***
Lieutenant Masset led them through a maze of corridors in the basement of the building. Here, the richly painted walls of the floors above had been replaced by rough grey brick. It many areas it was badly finished as if the builders couldn’t be bothered with any surface that their bosses were unlikely to see.
Danilov realised that not many people were invited down to this part of the building.
‘I think it’s this way, Inspector.’
They passed an open room filled with junk from past investigations. It was all piled in the room in one heap, without any thought for filing or organisation. Danilov looked inside and shuddered.
‘I think it’s in here.’ Lieutenant Masset pointed to another room across the corridor. He opened the door and switched on a light. A bare bulb hung from a black and white flex in the middle of the room. Danilov could see that it was just half-filled with junk, evidence from investigations and props from a Christmas party. A lack of cobwebs indicated that most of these things had been left here recently.
‘It should be in the corner.’
He picked his way around the remains of a lion’s head. The kind used by the martial arts troupes at Chinese New Year when they dance their blessing of good fortune on a business or shop. The body of the lion was nowhere to be seen.
Masset removed a dust sheet. Underneath was a wooden barrel. Its appearance was nothing out of the ordinary. Just another wooden barrel, used to store wine or vinegar, about four feet tall and with the classic round waist and tapered top and bottom.
Nothing about it indicated that it had once stored the body of a dead Russian prostitute.
Strachan coughed. ‘This makes our filing system look modern, sir.’
Danilov raised his hand. ‘This is the barrel in which she was found?’
Lieutenant Masset nodded.
‘What happened to the pig’s blood?’
‘It was poured away in order to retrieve the body’
‘Was it saved? Or filtered to see if anything was trapped in it?’
Lieutenant Masset shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. The first constables on the scene thought she was still alive. They poured it away and tried to revive her.’
‘But your pathologist said she had been dead for at least two days.’
‘We can’t fault them for enthusiasm. And anyway, the coroner may have been wrong. He wasn’t certain of the exact time of death. The warmth of the pig’s blood had affected the onset of rigor mortis.’
Danilov grunted. He walked over and examined the barrel. In the thin light of the bulb hanging from a flex in the ceiling, he could just make out the red stains down one side of the barrel. ‘Did the pathologist notice anything else?’
‘As I told you, he thought she was alive when she was put in there. The top of the barrel had been sealed with pitch. A small air pocket above the blood may have allowed her to breath for a short while. Not long. Gradually, she would have used up the air and…’
‘Drowned.’ Strachan was writing in his notebook. He stopped and lifted his head. Both men were staring at the barrel.
‘Not a pleasant death,’ whispered Lieutenant Masset.
Danilov ached for a cigarette. Anything to get him out of this cellar and away from the tomb of his fellow Russian. ‘I think we’ve seen enough.’ He turned to go and stopped. ‘Lieutenant Masset, do you still have the lid of the barrel?’
‘It’s somewhere around here, I think.’ He scanned the ground at his feet. The lid was propped up against the lion’s head. Masset picked it up and handed it to Danilov.
It looked like a normal lid, around twenty inches across. At the edges a thick layer of pitch or tar had created a black ring that stuck to the top and side.
‘The pitch would have made the seal airtight. She must have used up all the air that remained in the barrel before gradually sinking into the pig’s blood,’ said Masset. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat boudin noir again.’
Danilov turned the lid of the barrel over to look at the underside. He could see traces of red staining the wood where the blood had lapped against the lid. He walked over to the centre of the room, avoiding the evidence from the countless other cases strewn on the floor. He examined the underneath of the lid, tilting it left and right under the harsh light.
There was something, Scratches, faint marks against the grain of the wood. ‘Stra-chan, come here. Your eyes are better than mine. Look at that.’
Strachan rushed over and took the lid, holding it up to the light. ‘There seems to be something scratched on the lid, sir. Two words, I think.’ He tilted the lid so that the light shot obliquely across it. ‘The first letter is an “H”, sir. Then, there’s an “A”.’ He brought the lid closer and then moved it away, squinting with his eyes as he did so. ‘Then there seems to be a “T” and an “E”. Spells HATE.’
‘Thank you, Stra-chan, even I can work that one out.’
‘The next line is not so clear. An “A”, I think. Then an “L” and maybe another “L”. But the last letter is very faint, sir. It’s hard to see down here, sir.’
‘“HATE ALL” That is interesting,’ said Danilov.
‘A message from the killer, sir?’
‘It looks like it, doesn’t it, Stra-chan? Lieutenant Masset, you didn’t notice these scratches?’
The Lieutenant shrugged his shoulders once more. ‘We thought they were marks from the makers. Not important.’
‘I think you were wrong.’ Danilov put his hat back on his head. ‘Let’s get out of here. I need the fresh air of a smoke.’
Chapter 7
‘Come, Stra-chan, we’re close to Moscow cafe.’
They walked down the crowded streets of the French Concession. Despite the cold, both sides of the road were a hive of activity. Hawkers sang the praises of their wares. Gamblers, wrapped up in jackets and mufflers, surrounded the mahjong tables on the pavement, watching and understanding every nuance of the play. Shoppers dawdled at shop windows, admiring the latest trinkets imported from France. Chauffeurs chatted, sharing a smoke as their idling cars pumped exhaust into the street.
‘We need to examine the lid of the barrel more closely, Stra-chan.’
‘Lieutenant Masset said he would send it over just as soon as he had cleared it with Major Renard.’
Danilov threw his cigarette into the gutter. ‘Bureaucrats. They have nothing better to do than to give themselves permission to do nothing. Why can’t they just leave me to get on with the investigation?’
Strachan kept silent. They crossed the street opposite a Russian Orthodox church, its golden dome glistening in the haze of the morning sunshine. Danilov turned down one of the lanes off the main road and entered a narrow lilong on the right, past a watchman in front of his grate, snoring loudly. He pushed through a glass door and stepped into the warm fug of a cafe.
The room was small, no more than six tables. On their left, two chess players lifted their heads, annoyed at the interruption. Ahead of them, a large copper samovar hissed a jet of steam and hot water.
A small, elf-like woman approached them. She had fine, almost porcelain features and moved with the elegance of a dancer from the Kirov. ‘Good morning, Pyotr Alexandrevich, what a pleasant surprise.’
‘Good morning to you, Elena Ivanova.’ Inspector Danilov stepped aside to reveal Strachan standing behind him. ‘May I present to you Detective Constable Stra-chan. This is Princess Elena Ivanova Ostrepova.’
‘I’m pleased to meet you, Detective.’
The Princess held out her hand. Danilov expected Strachan to kiss the hand or at least shake it heartily. Instead, he leaned forward and just touched the tips of the elegant fingers.
She turned to Danilov. ‘This detective has such good manners, not like the last one you were with.’