Read The Master of Rain Online
Authors: Tom Bradby
The Master of Rain (39 page)
“And you trust them?”
“Yes,” Field said without hesitation. “Completely.”
“You shouldn’t. Everyone is corrupt here.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re young.”
“So are you.”
She didn’t answer.
“Parts of the force are corrupt, but not the unit that I’m dealing with.” Field pulled up his chair and leaned onto the table. “We believe Lu has overreached himself. He has become complacent and Lena’s murder was a challenge to the integrity of the force. We know we can break his hold on the city. I can take you away from here. When this is done.”
“When it is done?”
“When this is done,” he went on, “we will go away, somewhere better.”
“To Venice, perhaps.”
He hesitated, not sure whether she was mocking him. “If you like.”
“As a little girl, I dreamed of Venice.” She looked up at him. “Have you been to Venice, Richard?”
Field shook his head. “No.”
“Would you like to go?”
“Yes. My . . .”
She waited for him to go on.
“My sister also. It was a dream.”
“Then she is a romantic, too.” Natasha’s smile was fragile and hesitant. “What is it like, do you think?”
“My sister loved art. Florence, Venice. Even the thought of it was an escape. The idea of it.” He stared out of the window. “It was how we imagined life if money was no object: long hot days and hazy, languid sunsets over still water and the shouts of the boatmen.” When he turned back, Field saw the deep longing in her eyes.
“You would like to live in Venice?” she asked.
“I would like to live in Venice.”
“We could live there together.”
As she smiled at him, he tried to stop his stomach from somersaulting again.
“We could sleep in late and then have wine in the piazza—it is the right word?”
“It’s the right word.”
“And we could watch the sunset over the lagoon and then lie out and watch the stars.”
Field didn’t know what to say.
“Mama and Papa took their honeymoon in Venice. Papa was at military school in St. Petersburg and Mama only a schoolgirl; they met and married one month later and then went to Venice.” She looked at him. “Papa always talked of it. He used to take out photographs of the lagoon, and one of Mama, and there would be tears in his eyes. He told me how they had planned to go back, one last time, even as she was dying.” Natasha shook her head, tears in her own eyes.
Field reached for her hand, but she withdrew it.
“What do you dream of, Richard?”
He looked at her. “I dream of you.”
She stared at the table in front of her. “Then it must remain a dream.”
“Natasha . . .”
“My life is not my own.”
“There must be—”
“An escape?” She stared at him. “Don’t you think I have tried?”
“Dreams are what keep us alive.”
“When I was a girl,” she said, “my father took me to the circus. There was a hall of mirrors.”
“Yes.”
“There are no dreams here. Only illusions.”
“Then we can go somewhere else.”
“Where?” Her eyes narrowed. “Where do I belong now? Nowhere, and nowhere more than here. I have no passport, no money.”
“I can help.”
“No one can help.”
Field stared at her. His heart was thumping again.
“No one can help me. There is nowhere we can go. But I will do what you ask. I will try to help you.”
“Natasha . . .”
“Please. You may contact me by letter to tell me what you wish me to do. I will telephone when I am summoned to his house, but please do not come to the apartment again.”
“What about last night?”
“Richard . . .” Her eyes pleaded with him. “Last night was . . . it was not just for you.”
Natasha glanced across the road and suddenly stood. Field followed the direction of her gaze. Sergei was outside his apartment on the far side of the street, staring at them.
“Wait.”
“No.”
She walked away.
Field stood, then sat back down as she hurried past the window.
He lit another cigarette and smoked it. Sergei had gone.
Field left some money on the table and walked across the road. He climbed Sergei’s gloomy stairwell. At the top he knocked and waited.
Sergei opened the door a few inches. He was in a long white nightgown.
“Just getting in from work, Sergei?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been talking to yet another of your compatriots who has told me nothing, but if you speak to Lu, Sergei, you can tell him I’ll get to one of you in the end.”
“I have nothing to do with Lu.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.”
Sergei shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You looked very . . . close.”
Field stepped forward. “Want to see how close I can get?”
Sergei tried to shut the door, but Field pushed it open and barged his way in, forcing the Russian back to the center of the room. “You’re frightened of Lu, like the Medvedev woman and the rest of them.”
Sergei’s head drooped. “I’ve been working all night.”
Field looked at him, relieved. He did not think Sergei had seen anything that could have compromised them.
Thirty-one
F
ield walked into the station slowly and stood in the center of the lobby on the ground floor. He looked about him, as if taking in his surroundings for the first time.
ield walked into the station slowly and stood in the center of the lobby on the ground floor. He looked about him, as if taking in his surroundings for the first time.
A dial above the lift swung to indicate it was descending. He glanced up at the clock. It was half past seven.
Field stepped forward and surveyed the curved dome of the ceiling with its gables and ornate stonework. This was a grand building, but it felt gloomy and neglected, designed for a greater purpose than it had achieved.
Field hesitated before hitting the button for his own office on the fourth floor.
The room was empty, the frosted glass grudgingly letting in the daylight. Field walked to his desk, his footsteps noisy on the parquet floor. Yang had left two notes:
Stirling Blackman called.
And:
Penelope Donaldson telephoned—three times.
Beside them, half hidden beneath a small mound of paperwork, Field noticed two envelopes. The first was addressed to him in neat, tiny handwriting. It was from the account monitoring manager at the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank, number 12 the Bund, Shanghai. The letter inside had been typed.
Stirling Blackman called.
And:
Penelope Donaldson telephoned—three times.
Beside them, half hidden beneath a small mound of paperwork, Field noticed two envelopes. The first was addressed to him in neat, tiny handwriting. It was from the account monitoring manager at the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank, number 12 the Bund, Shanghai. The letter inside had been typed.
Dear Mr. Field,
it read.
One of my senior clerks responsible for handling new clients has drawn my attention to the state of account. I enclose balance for your convenience.
it read.
One of my senior clerks responsible for handling new clients has drawn my attention to the state of account. I enclose balance for your convenience.
We aim to provide very best service for very best customer and I esteem an honor if you would in future contact me directly if need assistance.
Yours very respectfully,
Chen, C.W.
Field held up the thin sheet of paper attached. Under his account number were two lines:
New credit: $600.
Account Balance: $1,012.
The other envelope was from Jessfield Properties Limited, Jessfield Road. It advertised a property on Foochow Road,
close to the racetrack, set back from the street, with elegant facilities. Three reception rooms, charming, well-kept garden, tennis court, and spacious veranda.
close to the racetrack, set back from the street, with elegant facilities. Three reception rooms, charming, well-kept garden, tennis court, and spacious veranda.
Field folded it and slipped it into the bin. He picked up the first letter and tucked it into his pocket. He got up and headed back to the lift.
The sixth-floor corridor was dark. Maretsky was not yet in his office, but Field did not have long to wait. Maretsky bustled along a few minutes later, not noticing him until he had the key in the lock. “You again,” he said.
Field followed the Russian inside. He closed the door behind him and waited until Maretsky had lifted himself onto the high stool in front of his desk.
“I need a map,” Field said.
“I believe stores—”
“One of Lu’s women is caught red-handed distributing Bolshevik propaganda.”
“No pun intended, presumably.”
“She faces a minimum fifteen-year sentence and may be able to help with an investigation into a series of murders—”
“Natasha Medvedev. I have warned you, Field.”
“At times she appears to be . . . coming over. But then we lose her again. I think she’s terrified that she may be the next victim.”
“Perhaps she isn’t terrified only for herself.”
“Who else?”
“Does she have a child?”
“No.”
“Brother? Sister? Father? Mother?”
“No.”
“Or so she says.” Maretsky stared at him through dirty round glasses. “For a Russian, certainly, the penalty will be death, for all connected.”
“So when they talk about impaired circumstances . . .”
“They mean points of influence. Loved ones. I would say she has a child.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible.”
Field straightened. He paced to the other side of the tiny room and back again. He looked at the picture of Lu Huang presenting a check to the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage. “So if she appears,” he said, “to want, somehow, to break away from him . . .”
“You are in love with her.”
“No.”
“Don’t be a fool, Field. You can’t say I haven’t warned you.”
“You misunderstand.”
“She’ll manipulate you, if she has not already.”
“To what end?”
“To his end. She belongs to Lu, Field. Please listen to me. About this you don’t yet understand as much as you should.”
“And it’s impossible to break this?”
“Yes.”
“So his control is absolute?”
Maretsky sighed. “Not absolute, no. He does not control you. You are here without family—at least, only an uncle that even Lu might balk at challenging. If you do not give any hostages to fortune . . .” Maretsky cleared his throat. “He will try to buy you, of course, through his operatives in the force. Through the cabal. Perhaps he has already.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will when the time is right. And you probably do already, even if you won’t admit it to yourself.” He shrugged. “The woman, Medvedev, is trapped, so it is possible that she is not manipulating you; possible, of course, that in a wild moment she toys with the idea of escape, of romance, of being her own woman. But if that is the case, Field, then the dangers for you both are greater still.”
Maretsky sighed deeply, reached over, and took a buff-colored folder from the top drawer of his desk. “Come on.” He held the folder up. “Against my better judgment, I have helped you. Let’s go downstairs to Crime.”
Maretsky had set out the three pictures from the folder on the coffee table in front of Macleod’s desk downstairs. Caprisi had his arm around Field’s shoulder in a gesture of easy comradeship.
Field found the pictures difficult to look at.
The first woman was in a position strikingly similar to Lena Orlov’s. She was handcuffed to a brass bed, the sheet rumpled, her body half-turned. She wore a black garter belt and stockings but was otherwise naked, her breasts and nipples small. Like Natasha, she had strong, well-toned arms, one of which was thrust across her stomach, as though in a last-ditch attempt to shield herself from the knife. There were perhaps ten or fifteen stab wounds in her breasts and belly. This girl’s hair was long, like Natasha’s, her face turned away from the camera.
Natasha. Natasha would look like this. For a moment Field had to fight to prevent himself from being sick.
The second woman had short, straight, black hair. She was completely naked. She wasn’t handcuffed, and her body lay flat on the bed. The last photograph was of Lena Orlov.
“Which do you think was first?”
Neither of them answered, reluctant to turn this into a game.
Maretsky pointed to the one without handcuffs. “This woman. This is Irina. She was, I believe, a prostitute out-and-out, not a tea dancer.” Maretsky paused, a chubby finger to his lips. “Murdered at home, not in the brothel, so an outside arrangement. Neighbors saw and heard nothing. Didn’t know her, never spoke to her, rarely saw her. So they say. That is, so the French detectives say.”
“One of your contacts?” Macleod asked.
Maretsky did not answer.
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