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Authors: Tom Bradby

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Chen nodded. Caprisi shrugged. “You thinking of becoming an accountant?”
Field looked down the street. “I used to be, in a way.”
“In what way?”
“I used to do my father’s books.”
Caprisi snorted. “You want to bust Lu for not paying his taxes?”
Field smiled. “Lena’s notes suggest that payments were recorded in ‘ledger two.’ ”
“Correct.”
“I’ve just read an interview with Lu. He boasts about what good records he keeps of all those who owe him money.”
Caprisi nodded. “Getting to the point . . .”
“He obviously has to record all details of shipments and so on. He must also keep track of whom he bribes and for how much. Lena must have seen those records. The interview says that he keeps these records at home. He wouldn’t need to lock them in a safe all day; entries are being made all the time, and no one is going to steal them. The French are no threat and the house is like a fortress. It’s better guarded than a bank. The only people who have access are his women.”
They didn’t answer him.
“If most of his actions are criminal, then most of those records will provide
proof
of criminal action.”
“As you know, Field, he lives in the Concession.”
“Yes, but supposing we could get hold of them? Supposing there was the political will to mount a prosecution? It shouldn’t take much for the Municipal Council to decide he’s got too big for his boots.”
“Who says there is the political will?”
Field decided to drop it, but he could see he’d got Caprisi thinking.
“You should talk to Macleod,” the American said. “But you answered your own question. How would we ever get a look at them in the first place?”
They finished their cigarettes. “Is Macleod as dour as he sometimes appears?” Field asked.
“He’s Scottish.”
Field smiled. “I know, but that’s not necessarily—”
“He wants to clean up Shanghai, then go home and be a minister of the Kirk.”
“Do you think he’ll succeed?”
“I’m sure the church will have him.”
“No, I mean—”
“I know what you meant, Field.” Caprisi smiled. “What do you think?”
Field didn’t answer immediately. “Nothing is impossible.”
“Quite right,” Caprisi said, mocking him. “This is almost part of the empire, after all.”
Field grinned. “Fuck off, Caprisi.”
They worked for another twenty minutes before Field found what he was looking for. It was a brief paragraph on page two of the
Journal
of May 2. He kept his finger on it as he tried to translate. “The body of an
. . . entraîneuse . . .
entertainer was discovered last night by gendarmes in Little Russia. She is believed to have been stabbed to death at home.” Field looked up.
Caprisi pulled the newspaper across the table. He pinched his nose between his fingers as he glanced at the print, leaving a smear of black ink.
“They don’t even give her name,” Field said.
“Make a note of the date,” Caprisi said. “There’s a station in Little Russia which would have received the first call. You should go down there tomorrow. Forget the French CID, they’ll tell us nothing. See if you can find out more details—how many times she was stabbed, was she handcuffed?” Caprisi looked at him. “I don’t need to tell you what to ask. Better that you go alone. Think up some excuse to have a quick look through the report cards for that period.”

 

Caprisi’s driver pulled up opposite the Soviet consulate, and they crossed the road, light drizzle drifting into their faces as they walked alongside the tall wire fence. The building looked deserted.
Beyond the perimeter were two Chinese shops, one selling spices, the other hardware, a narrow staircase in between providing access to the cramped, damp offices of the
New Shanghai Life.
A corridor, with piles of the magazine stacked all along one wall, led into a small room with five or six desks. Two typists sat in one corner, hammering away.
Everyone turned to look at them. Two men cut short an animated discussion behind a wood and glass partition. Field recognized Borodin immediately. He was a tall, lean, well-built man with a hawkish face and closely cut dark hair.
“Can I help you?” he asked from the doorway, his English spoken with a faint American accent.
Field, who was closest, led the way down between the desks. He produced his identification. “Richard Field, S.1. My colleagues, Detectives Caprisi and Chen, are from the Crime Branch.”
Borodin was as tall as Field but leaner. He reminded Field a little of Granger, with his well-cut three-piece suit and polished shoes, but he was an aggressively angular man, his face hostile and suspicious. “No crime has been committed here. This is a legitimate magazine to try to counter the propaganda your newspapers put out about the new Soviet regime.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Field said easily.
“I must ask you to leave, or we will have no choice but to register a diplomatic protest.”
“I wasn’t aware this was diplomatic territory.”
“I must ask you . . .”
“Please, Mr. Borodin.”
The Russian stopped.
“A Russian girl has been murdered. We believe she worked here from time to time.”
Borodin stepped back to allow them through the partition, his face still suspicious. A thin, intellectual-looking man with round glasses stood from behind the desk and proffered his hand, but not his name. He was the spitting image of Sergei.
Chen moved to the back of the room. Caprisi and Field leaned against the glass, opposite Borodin. The walls were lined with more copies of the magazine, except the section behind the editor’s desk, which was covered with pictures of Russian leaders. Field noticed there was not one of Trotsky—just Stalin, in the center, surrounded by Kamenev, Zinoviev, and Lenin.
“Do you recall Lena Orlov?” Field asked.
The editor was staring at his desk, and Borodin, who was clearly going to be the spokesman, tilted his head thoughtfully to one side. Field was beginning to see why Granger detested this bespoke revolutionary. “Orlov?”
“Medium height, blonde, quite pretty,” Caprisi said.
“From Kazan,” Field added.
Borodin shrugged. “Perhaps she came to a meeting.”
“Just one?”
“Many people attend. There are many people who do not accept the version of the new Russia put forward by your newspapers.”
“So she came once?”
“Sure.”
“What about Natasha Medvedev?”
Borodin shrugged again, as if not recalling the name.
“You would remember her,” Caprisi said. “Tall, thin, strikingly beautiful.”
“There are many beautiful Russian girls here, Officer.”
“So we understand,” Field said. Borodin stared at him. “What about Sergei Stanislevich?”
Borodin shook his head. Field turned to the editor. “What about you?”
“I’m always at the meetings,” Borodin said.
“You’ve just been in the south.”
“I am happy to speak for the staff.”
“Then you didn’t know Stanislevich?”
Borodin shook his head.
“You must keep details of those who attend your meetings, names, addresses—”
“Of course we do not.” Borodin looked horrified. “So that you can harass anyone who wishes to counter the propaganda that you—”
“Yes,” Caprisi said. “I think we get the message.”
“Stanislevich, Medvedev, and Orlov all come from Kazan on the Volga,” Field said. “They attended meetings here—and yet they claim not to have known each other well.”
Borodin was frowning.
“Stanislevich says he didn’t know either of the women in Russia.”
“Do you know everyone in London, Officer?”
“No, but—”
“Nor do I in Moscow.”
“Emigrés spend time together,” Chen said, his voice quietly menacing. “These people knew each other well, and you remember them.”
Borodin stared at the Chinese detective, trying to intimidate him and failing.
Caprisi sighed and straightened. There was no point in continuing this interview. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Borodin,” he said.
As they reached the bottom of the stairs and emerged into the drizzle again, Caprisi said, “This
fucking
city.” He took out his cigarettes, looking across at the consulate. “No one is going to say a fucking thing.”
Field was silent. The image of Natasha Medvedev hugging her sister and father in front of their home was imprinted on his mind. He recalled the easy warmth that showed in their faces and body language—perhaps, he thought, because it was so at odds with his own experience of family life. He could not match the woman in the picture with the one who could put up with the dour extremism of the office they had just left.
After they had got back into the car, Field leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes, recalling his father’s face with complete clarity and then his mother’s—the two of them kneeling in church on Sunday.
Instead of anger, Field felt only a deep, painful sorrow that life had not somehow turned out differently. It was true, he thought, that they were not bad people, just fallible beings, bowed down by the weight of expectation; his father ashamed of his business and social position, expecting and demanding more of himself than had ever really been possible; his mother wanting more from the love she had sacrificed so much for than he had been able to give.
For a moment Field felt at peace, but the anger at his father soon returned. Expectation was not a burden placed upon you by others; it was a choice you made for yourself. His mother had not made excessive demands; she’d just wanted some sign of the love she’d sacrificed her relationship with her own parents for, because otherwise what was the point in her life?
Expectation was a choice you made. If Albert David Field had demanded less of himself and put less pressure on all of them, then happiness would have been within reach. They had all been punished because he viewed himself as a failure, a judgment based on criteria that mattered to no one but himself.
By the time Field had finished with this train of thought, he hated his father all over again.

 

Rugby was usually a game for the winter in Shanghai, as it was in Europe. Field had not really considered this until he arrived in the changing room at the police academy. As he pulled on his black shorts and thick woolen socks, he remembered Caprisi saying that it was supposed to be an endurance test, a trial of strength between the two competing branches of the force. Last year an overweight Italian had collapsed in the heat and been carried from the field unconscious.
Field didn’t recognize at least half the men in this room, and realized most of them had been drafted in from outside the force, to improve the odds. He introduced himself to a burly Irishman from Belfast who turned out to be one of the managers of the Cathay Hotel and, Field assumed, a friend or acquaintance of Granger’s.
He laced his boots, then walked through to the shower area and poured himself some water from the purified jug in the corner. He washed his hands and looked in the mirror, grateful that he’d had his dark hair cut very short the previous week. The clean-cut face that stared back at him hadn’t changed much, though he felt he’d aged more in the last few months than in the previous five years.
He wondered what was going through Natasha’s mind as she attended Borodin’s meetings. What he hated most about the Bolsheviks, and about extremists in general, was their overwhelming certainty.
The tunnel emerged at the bottom of a wooden stand and Field turned to see Granger sitting with his wife about three rows up, wearing a trilby and a dark brown trench coat. Granger beckoned him over and Field turned, his boot studs making him unstable on the stone steps.
“Caroline, this is one of my new boys,” Granger said, standing and taking off his hat. “Field, this is my wife.”
The woman smiled. She reminded him of Penelope Donaldson, but was broader and plumper, her face and smile warmer. She had black bobbed hair and wore vivid lipstick and a bright red dress. She was a vibrant and, judging by the gold bracelet on her wrist, wealthy woman. Field wondered who the blond girl in the Cathay Hotel had been.
“Good luck,” Granger said, his voice low as he turned and saw Macleod rounding the far corner of the stand. “And watch the Yank.”
Field walked back down the steps and out onto the pitch. He nodded to Macleod as he passed, without any visible sign of response. The grass was thin, the earth beneath it hard.
The man from Belfast was throwing the ball to one of his colleagues, and Field jogged over to join them in the far corner. No one from the opposing team had yet emerged.

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