The Master of Rain (41 page)

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Authors: Tom Bradby

BOOK: The Master of Rain
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Caprisi stopped. “I know what it’s like, Field.”
“What?”
“I told you, I once had it all. I can see a man in love. But please trust me: you’ve picked the wrong woman. You’ll find someone else.”
“Have you?”
Caprisi looked at him. “It’s different for me,” he said, and Field saw the aching loneliness in his eyes.

 

Only Yang was in the S.1 office and Field exchanged nods before retrieving the notebook from his desk. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the way she looked at him seemed to contain more than the usual hint of interest.
He heard Granger before he saw him. “Field.” The tone was imperious. “Just the man. Come in.”
The telephone rang, and Granger answered it, motioning to Field to take a seat. As Field watched the man’s hand gripping the heavy black receiver, an idea took shape in his mind. He got up, indicating that he would be back. Prokopieff gave him an expression of mild surprise as he walked down the center of the office.
Field gathered speed down the stairs and almost punched through the swinging doors into the lobby, his footsteps echoing across the hallway beyond. If Granger had telephoned Lu before they’d been ambushed at the factory, then the switchboard would have logged the call.
There were two people in the switchboard room, a plump Chinese woman in a brown cardigan and a tiny man beyond her. The woman had her back to him. “Trying to connect you.”
Field glanced down at the large notebook in front of her. The man was noting down the details of a call. The woman frowned and took her headphones off.
“All telephone calls placed through this exchange are logged, correct? I need to see the logbook for last night, please.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“Field, S.1.” He showed her his card.
“But this is an internal matter. I would need permission.”
“I’m afraid there is no time for that.” Field reached over and pulled across the red book. He flicked through the pages. “This is new. Where’s yesterday’s?”
She was flustered. The man eyed them nervously as she pulled her chair back and opened the drawer.
Field took the new book. “Now I need a number for Lu Huang at 3 Rue Wagner. If you haven’t got it, call the external operator, please.”
She hesitated.
“Hurry, or I will have to get Granger down here and he won’t like that.”
While she put her headphones back on, Field flicked through the pages. During the day there had been hundreds of calls, but by teatime the volume had dwindled. He looked over as she wrote a number down on her pad, then scanned the entries between five and six.
He put the logbook in front of her, his finger marking the point, the blood pumping through his head. “Did you write this?”
She nodded. He could tell he was frightening her.
“It says Caprisi, correct?”
“Extension 2082. Detective Caprisi, yes.”
“Caprisi?”
“Detective Caprisi, yes.”
“It must be a mistake.”
She didn’t respond.
“It must be a mistake.” He took a deep breath. “You put through his call to Lu Huang?”
She nodded.
“You recognized Caprisi’s voice?”
She hesitated. “I think so, yes.”
“You think so, or you did?”
“I did, yes.”
“You recognize everyone’s voice?”
“I’ve worked here ten years, sir. I do, yes.”
“So it was Caprisi.”
“That’s what he said.”
“You asked for his name and that is what he said.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Caprisi is English, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No he’s not. He’s American.”
She was flustered. “That’s right.”
“So it was or wasn’t Caprisi?”
“He said it was.”
“And his accent was American?”
“Yes, sir.” She looked as if she would burst into tears.
“You must have made a mistake.”
“No, sir . . . no. I listened to the first few seconds. A Russian gentleman answered the telephone and he said, ‘Caprisi, yes.’ I remember.”
“All right,” Field said quietly. “All right.”
Thirty-three
O
utside, Field leaned against the wall by the stairwell, out of sight of the lobby, and sank down until he was sitting on the step.
He stared at his battered, scuffed shoes. He hated his damned shoes, hated the poverty of the past and the unexplained wealth of the present. He hated himself for wanting friendship and love and being weak enough to seek it in the wrong places.
He placed his head in his hands, his eyes closed.
“God,” he whispered. He felt tired. He could not raise his head.
Field heard footsteps on the stairs and knew that he should move, but could not.
They stopped close by. “You all right, polar bear?”
With an effort, Field raised his head. Caprisi was looking at him, concerned.
“Had some bad news?”
Field sighed. “In a way.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
“Not really.”
Caprisi smiled. “Then we’d better get going.”
Field watched him walk away, then stood, took off his jacket, and adjusted his holster. He followed the American out onto the stone steps. The dark cumulus had been replaced by a limitless azure sky and scalding heat.
They climbed into the back of the Buick.
Field assumed that they were going to the Russian church, as Caprisi had suggested earlier, but the driver continued on past its distinctive spires to Route Père Robert and the imposing modern stone building that housed the Hôpital Ste.-Marie. He parked by the wide, circular veranda at the front. Field squinted as he stepped out into the sunlight.
“All right?” Caprisi said as they entered the cool hallway.
“Fine.”
“You seem tense.”
“I’m fine.”
Caprisi shrugged, leaving it.
They stood before the reception desk. With its black-and-white-checkered floor and swaying tropical plants, the hospital reminded Field of the police stations they’d visited in the Concession.
The French receptionist directed them up the wide stone steps to the floor above. They passed two nurses in starched white uniforms helping a man in pajamas with a broken leg and then another lying on a makeshift bed, fast asleep. The landing was tall and airy, enormous windows on their right open to the barely perceptible breeze.
Chen’s room was at the far end of the building. He was asleep. A tiny woman sat by his bed, her head bent. As soon as she saw Caprisi, she stood, bowed, and began to speak with machine-gun rapidity in Shanghainese. Field understood enough to know that she was thanking Caprisi and that he was trying to say it was nothing.
Chen suddenly awoke and spoke sharply to her, and she bowed once more, eyes down, and darted from the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Chen pushed himself up. He pulled the pillows up behind him. The windows were large in here, too, the whiteness of the walls and sheets making Field squint again.
“I’m sorry for my wife,” Chen said. “She is most grateful.”
Field nodded, not understanding what she was grateful for.
In the silence that followed, Caprisi took out his cigarettes, lit one, and then tossed the packet to Chen.
“Better not,” he said. “The nurses.”
“French nurses,” Caprisi said. “You lucky bastard.”
Chen smiled.
“How is it?” Field asked.
Chen nodded.
Field wondered how much Chen knew of Lu Huang and what exactly Caprisi had meant about them growing up together. “I guess you’ll need a long rest,” he said.
“Not long.”
“A long rest,” Caprisi repeated.
“Not long.”
“If you think we can’t get along without you, you’re wrong.”
“I’m not wrong.”
Caprisi smiled again. “You’re an obstinate bastard.”
“We must survive.” Despite his determination, Chen was clearly still weak. He kept closing his eyes and letting his head rest against his pillow before remembering they were there and snapping them open again.
Eventually, he did drift off to sleep and they let themselves out.
Chen’s wife was sitting on a bench in the corridor. Caprisi spoke to her briefly, but her gratitude began to embarrass him, so he touched her shoulder and they went down to the main hall.
“I guess,” Field said as they emerged into the sunshine, “the commissioner does take care—”
Caprisi looked at him sharply.
“It’s not the cheapest hospital,” Field said.
“The commissioner doesn’t pay for a thing.”
Field frowned.
“Are you all right?” Caprisi asked again.
“You’ve asked me that already.”
“You keep staring at me like I just fucked your sister or something.”

 

Once inside the car, Field offered to pay half of Chen’s medical costs, but Caprisi just shook his head curtly and continued to stare out of the window.
His mood seemed suddenly as somber as Field’s.
“Do you know Lu?” Field asked.
“In what way?”
“Was our interview the other day the first time you’ve had any direct dealings with him?”
“More or less.” Caprisi thought about it. “Yes it was. Why?”
“No reason,” Field said.
They stepped through the gate of the Russian church a few minutes later and walked down a stone path, past the dark gravestones, with their extravagant gold lettering.
Inside, the church was dark, the air heavy with the smell of incense. Their footsteps on the flagstone floor echoed around the dome above them. The altar was covered in a white satin cloth, upon which a gold cross stood between two oil paintings. The first was of the Virgin Mary with her infant son; the second showed Christ on the cross. The atmosphere of the place was both opulent and forbidding, in stark contrast, Field thought, to the deprivation of a significant proportion of its congregation.
It made him think of his father. At least he had practiced what he preached. Generosity to others—outside the family—was, Field supposed, one of his few redeeming features.
A priest in a long black robe and beard appeared from behind a pillar and walked toward them. He wore square glasses.
“Good morning,” Caprisi said.
The man nodded.
“You speak English?”
He shook his head.
“Vous parlez français?”
Field asked.
“Bien sûr.”
Field glanced at his colleague.
“Nous sommes policiers, et nous enquetons sur les morts . . . non, les meurtres des femmes Russes. Deux femmes. Irina Ignatiev et Natalya Simonov.”
Field enunciated the names with exaggerated care.
“Nous pensons . . . nous croyons qu’elles sont . . . enterrées ici, les deux. Vraiment, oui?”
The priest shrugged.
“Si elles habitaient ici, il suit, je crois qu’elles seraient enterrées ici—oui?”
“Exactement—ou d’ailleurs?”
“Natalya etait mouri le premier mai; Irina un mois avant. Nous avons besoin de leurs addresses—vous avez les papiers, je crois?”
“Bien sûr.”
The priest studied them for a moment and then quietly turned away. Field felt unreasonably tense and thought that Caprisi was, too.
“You explained?” the American asked.
“He has the papers. He seems cooperative—he’s just gone to look them up.”
Field wanted to smoke but thought it would be inappropriate here.
After about ten minutes the priest returned, walking with his head down, as if deep in thought.
“Mais non—Irina, elle, je me souviens, je me souviens faire les papiers, mais ils n’existent plus. Pardon.”
“Les papiers sont . . . disparus?”
“Il m’apparait que oui.”
“Translate, please,” Caprisi said.
“He remembers Irina, but her papers have gone.”
“Mais, vous vous souvenez de l’ecrire?”
“Oui.”
“Vous vous rappelez l’addresse d’Irina?”
“Non.”

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