Read Online Midnight in Peking: How the Murder of a Young Englishwoman Haunted the Last Days of Old China by Paul French - Free Book Online
Authors: Paul French
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one among many—most of the passengers appeared to be foreigners, at least in the first-class carriages at the front of the train.
Then he saw him. He would have known the man was a policeman regardless of race or nationality. It was Dennis’s bearing: erect, purposeful, exuding authority even in civilian clothes—a dark, worsted double-breasted suit, starched white collar, black tie and coat, ubiquitous fedora. Shoes so polished you could almost see your face in them. It helped that Dennis was tall, standing a good few inches above anyone around him, Chinese or foreign. At six feet himself, Han nonetheless pushed his shoulders back involuntarily.
The DCI, familiar with the uniform of the Peking police, strode towards Han, and the two men appraised each other. Han was powerfully built, with close-cropped hair, angular cheekbones, and a longer chin and a sharper, more highly bridged nose than many Chinese. Dennis, while taller than Han, was somewhat gangly beneath his winter coat, but he had enough brawn to deal with anyone troublesome. He had slightly outsize features—a thick brow, long nose, large hands, large ears. Everything about him stamped him as a man of authority.
‘DCI Dennis?’
‘Colonel Han.’
‘I have a car. Shall we?’
‘Indeed.’
They walked through the ticket barrier, where the railway functionary was smart enough to know when not to demand a man’s ticket, and strode out under the archway at the entrance, across to a parking area occupied by a few cars and a host of rickshaws. Dennis had only a small suitcase. Han’s driver, a young constable, jumped out of the police Chevrolet and opened the back door for the men.
‘To your hotel?’ Han asked.
‘Straight to work, I think.’
On the way to Morrison Street, Han briefed the British officer on the results of the autopsy, admitting to Dennis what he would later admit to journalists: he had as yet found no important clues. The two men agreed that in the absence of such they should follow procedure and reconstruct the victim’s last days: start with the last known sighting of Pamela and work back carefully but swiftly. Murder investigations had to move fast, or they ground to a shuddering halt. Trails ran cold, witnesses disappeared, the killer escaped.
And then of course there was Han’s twenty-day limit, not to mention the number of anonymous tip-offs and crank calls already received, which proved that the Peking rumour mill had swung into action. That morning, after a few hours’ sleep on the foldout cot he kept in his office, Han had recalled all available constables for duty, cancelled leave across the board and issued instructions for everyone to take to the streets and look. Look for what? Look for blood. Find the blood, and they’d find the killer
.
So commenced the formal investigation into the murder of Pamela Werner.
Detective Chief Inspector Richard Harry Dennis—Dick to the boys—was just shy of forty, a butcher’s son from West Ham on the fringes of London’s East End. His mother was reputedly from a well-to-do family, one of the stodgily respectable lower middle class of the Edwardian decade. As a young man, Dick Dennis found the world plunged into World War I. He rushed to join up. He was fit, smart, and somewhere along the way he had picked up good French, so he signed up with the newly formed Royal Flying Corps and flew over the battlefields of France. He was shot down in 1917, invalided out and sent home, his war over.
In 1920, perhaps missing the action, the discipline, the uniform, he joined the Metropolitan Police, where he rose to the rank of detective sergeant, stationed at Paddington on the edge of the West End, and then at Scotland Yard. He married, and a son—Richard junior—soon followed. But the marriage collapsed. Dennis married again in 1930, this time mildly scandalously, to his son’s nanny, an East End woman named Virginia whom he always called Violet. Richard junior thought she was his
Then he saw him. He would have known the man was a policeman regardless of race or nationality. It was Dennis’s bearing: erect, purposeful, exuding authority even in civilian clothes—a dark, worsted double-breasted suit, starched white collar, black tie and coat, ubiquitous fedora. Shoes so polished you could almost see your face in them. It helped that Dennis was tall, standing a good few inches above anyone around him, Chinese or foreign. At six feet himself, Han nonetheless pushed his shoulders back involuntarily.
The DCI, familiar with the uniform of the Peking police, strode towards Han, and the two men appraised each other. Han was powerfully built, with close-cropped hair, angular cheekbones, and a longer chin and a sharper, more highly bridged nose than many Chinese. Dennis, while taller than Han, was somewhat gangly beneath his winter coat, but he had enough brawn to deal with anyone troublesome. He had slightly outsize features—a thick brow, long nose, large hands, large ears. Everything about him stamped him as a man of authority.
‘DCI Dennis?’
‘Colonel Han.’
‘I have a car. Shall we?’
‘Indeed.’
They walked through the ticket barrier, where the railway functionary was smart enough to know when not to demand a man’s ticket, and strode out under the archway at the entrance, across to a parking area occupied by a few cars and a host of rickshaws. Dennis had only a small suitcase. Han’s driver, a young constable, jumped out of the police Chevrolet and opened the back door for the men.
‘To your hotel?’ Han asked.
‘Straight to work, I think.’
On the way to Morrison Street, Han briefed the British officer on the results of the autopsy, admitting to Dennis what he would later admit to journalists: he had as yet found no important clues. The two men agreed that in the absence of such they should follow procedure and reconstruct the victim’s last days: start with the last known sighting of Pamela and work back carefully but swiftly. Murder investigations had to move fast, or they ground to a shuddering halt. Trails ran cold, witnesses disappeared, the killer escaped.
And then of course there was Han’s twenty-day limit, not to mention the number of anonymous tip-offs and crank calls already received, which proved that the Peking rumour mill had swung into action. That morning, after a few hours’ sleep on the foldout cot he kept in his office, Han had recalled all available constables for duty, cancelled leave across the board and issued instructions for everyone to take to the streets and look. Look for what? Look for blood. Find the blood, and they’d find the killer
.
So commenced the formal investigation into the murder of Pamela Werner.
Detective Chief Inspector Richard Harry Dennis—Dick to the boys—was just shy of forty, a butcher’s son from West Ham on the fringes of London’s East End. His mother was reputedly from a well-to-do family, one of the stodgily respectable lower middle class of the Edwardian decade. As a young man, Dick Dennis found the world plunged into World War I. He rushed to join up. He was fit, smart, and somewhere along the way he had picked up good French, so he signed up with the newly formed Royal Flying Corps and flew over the battlefields of France. He was shot down in 1917, invalided out and sent home, his war over.
In 1920, perhaps missing the action, the discipline, the uniform, he joined the Metropolitan Police, where he rose to the rank of detective sergeant, stationed at Paddington on the edge of the West End, and then at Scotland Yard. He married, and a son—Richard junior—soon followed. But the marriage collapsed. Dennis married again in 1930, this time mildly scandalously, to his son’s nanny, an East End woman named Virginia whom he always called Violet. Richard junior thought she was his
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