Death In Shanghai by M J Lee

The room was elegant in an understated way. A light green carpet, four comfortable armchairs, lighting from two tall lamps. On a side table, a stack of magazines threatened to topple over. Danilov glanced at the magazines. Some were in English, some in Chinese, all were over a year old.
    ‘Can I help you?’
    ‘We would like to see Dr Lamarr.’
    ‘Do you have an appointment?’ She was looking in the desk diary. From where he was standing, Danilov could see it was empty.
    ‘I’m afraid Dr Lamarr is busy today. Can I make an appointment for you?’
    Danilov walked up to the desk, standing as close to it as he could so his body loomed over the petite nurse. ‘I would like to see Dr Lamarr now. Please tell him the police have an appointment.’
    The nurse quickly closed the desk diary and got up. ‘I’ll see if he’s available.’
    She tapped gently on another glass door, waited for a quiet ‘Enter’ and went in.
    When she was gone, Danilov went behind the desk and opened the diary. He leafed through the appointments for the last week. There were six names that appeared two or three times each, all written in neat handwriting. The desk itself was beautifully arranged, everything in its place and a place for everything.
    The nurse appeared in the doorway. ‘The doctor will see you now.’
    Danilov closed the diary and walked into the next room, passing the nurse on his way in. If looks could kill, I’ve just been stabbed a thousand times, he thought.
    If the waiting room had been comfortable, Lamarr’s office was opulent. But opulence that whispered money quietly rather than shouting obscene wealth from the rooftops. A wealth that shows its ostentation through a lack of ostentation.
    Danilov admired the precision of everything. The desk was exactly where it should be. A leather couch was just the right shade of brown. The chair beside it at exactly the right angle, comfortable yet stylish. All was clothed in soothing, muted colours to relax even the most nervous patient. The only block of colour was behind the desk. A Kandinsky perhaps, he thought. Evidence again of taste. And of wealth. Lamarr’s practice must be extremely lucrative despite the lack of patients.
    The good doctor was sitting behind his desk, wearing a clinician’s white coat. He was writing in a notebook. Danilov noticed the fluid script and the beautiful mauve ink.
    Lamarr looked up as if he had just noticed there were some people in his office and he needed to talk to them. A disturbance of little consequence.
    ‘Hello there, my receptionist didn’t get your names.’
    ‘We didn’t give them,’ answered Danilov bluntly. ‘But this is Detective Constable Stra-chan and my name is Danilov, Inspector Danilov of the Shanghai Municipal Police.’
    ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ An avuncular smile crossed the fleshy lips of the doctor. Danilov could see the skin was pale and shiny around his face, glossy almost, as if a fragile coat of oil had been applied just before they entered.
    ‘Do sit down, gentlemen.’ Lamarr indicated two comfortable chairs in front of the desk. ‘How can I help you?’
    ‘I wonder if you have ever seen this person.’ Danilov took a picture of the victim and passed it over the desk to Lamarr. He glanced at it briefly before putting it back down.
    ‘I have seen this person.’
    ‘His name?’
    ‘I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information, gentlemen.’ The same avuncular smile appeared again on the doctor’s lips. ‘As you are no doubt aware, such information falls under doctor–patient confidentiality.’ He opened his arms in the classic ‘I’m awfully sorry but there’s nothing I can do’ pose. Again, a smile crossed his lips.
    Danilov was looking down at the hat in his hands. When he spoke, it was quietly. ‘Doctor Lamarr, I don’t understand.’
    ‘I’m sorry if I haven’t made myself clear. You must understand my patients have a right to privacy.’
    ‘I understand that. What I don’t