The Master of Rain (34 page)

Authors: Tom Bradby

BOOK: The Master of Rain

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He released her gently and stood. She was leaning forward now, still wiping her eyes periodically with the back of her hand. She looked frail, almost childlike in her vulnerability, a world away from the cynical sophisticate of his first acquaintance.

“What will you do with me?”

“I spoke to someone who knows you well,” he said quietly. “And she said that, of all the Russian girls here, your circumstances were the most impaired.”

“Mrs. Orlov, from the Majestic.”

“What did she mean?”

Natasha lowered her eyes. “I don’t know.”

“If you don’t help me, I cannot help you.”

She looked up, the hurt deep. “No one can help me, Richard.”

“You’re wrong.”

“No I’m not.”

“In what way are your circumstances impaired?”

She shook her head. “Do what you want with me, but please don’t ask me any more questions about it.”

Field felt his mouth tightening. “How did you become one of Lu’s girls?”

“I cannot talk about him.” There was another long silence as Natasha wrestled with herself. “Lena . . .” She stopped.

“Go on.”

“I . . . There was someone new. You asked if there was someone else, and it was true, there was. He . . . Lena did not talk about it, about him.”

“For how long before her death?”

“About two months. She seemed happier, as if something good had finally happened to her.”

“Lu asked her to see someone else?”

Natasha nodded.

“Do you have any idea who it might have been? Did she give you any clues? His nationality, for example, or the type of work he did? Or why Lu would be wishing her to do this?”

Natasha shook her head.

“Does he often ask his women to see other men?”

“He has many women, and many uses for them.”

Field wanted to know, more than he had ever wanted to know anything in his life, whether Natasha had slept with Lu, whether she was forced to lie down and degrade herself beneath that sallow, scarred face, and before he could stop it, he was assaulted by an image of the two of them together, naked, Lu’s portly manicured fingers on her dark smooth skin.

He stood up, stepped over to the door, and looked out of the grille before coming back and resuming his seat. She was sitting demurely, her arms wrapped around her legs, looking at him.

“Natalya Simonov, Lena Orlov, Irina Ignatiev—stabbed so many times, crying out in pain, screaming in agony and terror, but nobody heard them.” He looked at her. “And even now, nobody can hear them.”

She lowered her head again, staring at the bed.

“All Lu’s girls. Who is next, I wonder?”

She did not answer.

“Perhaps it’s you?” he said at length.

She went on staring down.

“Do you have any cigarettes?” he asked.

Natasha straightened, fumbled in her raincoat pocket, and then threw the box toward him.

“Do you want one?”

She shook her head.

Field lit one and inhaled heavily, enjoying the smoke and the way it brought momentary relief from the smell. He looked at Natasha and then stood once more. “I want to get you out of here.”

Caprisi was at the door, his face against the grille. Field wondered how long he had been watching. “Macleod wants a word, polar bear.”

Field stepped out of the cell and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Caprisi pulled him away from the door so that they could not be heard. “Macleod has heard she is in, and he wants her.”

“What do you mean, wants her?” Field’s heart was thumping again.

“He wants her to go down, as a warning to Lu. She’ll get fifteen years and there will be fuck-all Lu can do about it. It would be a demonstration of who’s in charge of the city.”

“No.”

“Steady, polar bear.”

Field trailed the American, his mind whirring as he climbed the stairs.

Macleod was on the phone, standing by the window, but he put the receiver down as Field and Caprisi came in, and moved behind his desk so that he was no longer blocking the light. “Well done, Field . . . Take a seat.”

“We can do better from this girl.”

“I’m sure you can, but this is a decision—”

“Nobody informed me of any decision.”

Macleod frowned. Field saw that Caprisi was imploring him to moderate his tone. “No one has to inform you of anything, Field.” He sat down. “It’s excellent work, though, very quick thinking. The commissioner is pleased.”

“We can do better.”

“If you want to take it up with Granger,” Macleod said, his lips tight now, “then do so.”

Field breathed in deeply, trying to calm himself. He sat down. “It’s not my position to say, I know,” he said, trying to buy himself time. “But this wouldn’t hurt Lu, really, would it?”

“Depends how he feels about the girl. Depends how good a fuck she is.”

Field breathed in heavily again to settle the pounding urgency of his blood. Macleod was fiddling with a stone paperweight on his desk. Field could see that his brusque and decisive manner hid a deep nervousness.

“Lu Huang remains our prime suspect.” Field looked at Caprisi, who was standing between them, his back to the wall. “Shouldn’t we still play for the main goal? This girl may be able to help us.”

Macleod’s face had softened a fraction.

“And if we cannot, in the end, prove that Lu murdered Lena Orlov, then perhaps we could find another way to bring him to court.”

Macleod looked doubtful.

Field sighed, glancing at Caprisi once more. “Lu Huang keeps a ledger,” he said in desperation, catapulting forward a plan that had barely started to form in the recesses of his mind.

Macleod looked at him as if he had gone mad.

“There’s a clue in Lena Orlov’s notes. She said the payments were in the second ledger. Lu is a businessman. Every single transaction must be recorded in a ledger.”

“I’m sure you will begin to make sense at some point,” Macleod said.

“Every single transaction,” Field went on. “Legitimate and otherwise. What are the shipments referred to in Lena Orlov’s notes? If they are not legitimate, as we strongly suspect, then who is being paid, how, and where? A Fraser’s company is doing the shipping.”

Macleod was alert now. “How do you know about this ledger? There’s a file upstairs?”

Field hesitated. “Yes,” he lied.

“Granger has opened a file? Have you got it?”

“No.”

“Can you get it?”

“I doubt it.”

“Why not?”

“It seems to have vanished.”

“But you’ve seen it?”

“Yes.”

“It talks about criminal transactions being recorded?”

“All transactions.” Field considered the logic of what he was saying for a moment. “I’m sure they are not noted as criminal transactions, but we might be able to prove a link between a crime and the payoffs associated with it.”

Macleod walked back to the window. He leaned against the dark wooden frame, fingering his chain.

“It would provide concrete evidence of—”

“I’m not stupid, Field.” Macleod turned, staring out of the window at a thick cloud of black smoke that was drifting over the rooftops. “Would he really note down criminal transactions in black and white?”

“The majority of his transactions are criminal. Every business needs to keep a record of—”

“It’s a hostage to fortune.”

“He’s safe in the French Concession and the house is a fortress.”

“The woman should still go to jail.” Macleod turned back. “Medvedev, whatever her name is. That would be a signal, not just to Lu but to his associates, that when we catch people, they go to prison and he cannot protect them.”

“Natasha has access to his house. She is summoned down there.”

Macleod thought about this. “Where is this ledger kept?”

“In his bedroom, we think.”

“The murder inquiry is too important. If Lu remains the primary suspect, then—”

“It remains the focus of our efforts.” Caprisi turned to his boss. “Field is saying that these ledgers serve a dual purpose. They could help us with the inquiry, by not only giving us an indication of what exactly these shipments are, and who else is in on the deal, but also providing a whole new avenue for prosecuting Lu.” Caprisi paused. “If the girl is frightened enough of prison, and is willing to work for us, then she could prove useful in a number of ways.”

Macleod snorted. “She’s one of his women. She’s not going to work for us.”

“Field thinks she will.” Caprisi looked at him.

Macleod tapped his fingers against the paperweight and then began to drum them on his desk, before getting up and looking out of the window again, sucking in his stomach and hitching up the waistband of his trousers. “All right,” he said, “but make sure she understands. She should be in bloody prison.”

Field stood, trying to hide his relief. He walked out ahead of Caprisi, but Macleod called him back. “I hope you don’t think I’m being harsh,” he said, closing the door behind the American. “I appreciate the work you’re putting in.”

Field nodded.

“I know it’s difficult, this not being your department, but we do appreciate your efforts.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Things are a bit difficult at the moment, but it will be worth it in the end. You understand?”

Field nodded.

“You’re not offended?”

Field smiled. “No.”

“Good. Good man.” Macleod pulled the door open with one hand and rested the other briefly on Field’s shoulder.

Twenty-seven

T
he process took longer than Field had thought. The Chinese sergeant refused to let Natasha go without someone from C.1 signing her out and wouldn’t budge even when Field got angry. Caprisi was nowhere to be found, and in the end Field had to summon Macleod to the phone, to tell the desk officer to do as he was asked.

He didn’t want to bother with arranging a car, so they got a rickshaw outside and crammed in together. He was conscious of the fact that their legs were touching. She made no attempt to move away.

Natasha let him into her flat. She slipped off her raincoat and stood in the middle of the room. She wore a simple, dark blue dress, cut close. Its hem rose above her knee as she ran her fingers through her hair.

“Do you want something to drink?” Her voice was an octave lower.

“No thanks.”

“Tea?”

“No.”

“You want something to eat?”

“No, I had lunch . . . of sorts.”

“You don’t think I can cook? Most Russian girls can’t. Lena couldn’t boil an egg when she came here. But my mother died when I was a little girl, and sometimes I used to cook for my father.”

“Perhaps sometime . . . you could cook me something.”

She smiled for the first time today and it lifted his spirits. “I’d like that.”

“Perhaps tonight.”

“Perhaps.”

Field did not know if that was a yes or a no. “But
you
must be hungry. Please don’t let me stop you.”

“I can wait.”

Natasha sat down, indicating that he should do the same, but the atmosphere had changed now.

“I hope you’re not thinking that your freedom comes without cost.”

She looked at her shoes. When she raised her head, Field saw that she was smiling.

“What’s so funny?”

“You are funny. I’m watching you wrestle with yourself.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Do you want me, Mr. Field, or will you reject me? Which of you will win?”

“I’m doing my job.”

“Of course you are.” She stood, walked to the mantelpiece, and took down a packet of cigarettes. She lit one and then sat back down, her dress riding up her thigh.

Field’s throat felt dry.

“Is it because you think I belong to him? Does that disgust you?”

“You do have to help me.” Field no longer trusted his voice, which sounded as if it belonged to someone else.

“I don’t have to do anything.”

He stared at her. “Have you ever seen the inside of a Shanghai prison?”

“No.”

“I doubt you’d survive a month.”

“Perhaps you’d be doing me a favor.”