The Master of Rain (59 page)

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Authors: Tom Bradby

BOOK: The Master of Rain
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“What’s in the file?” Field asked.
Macleod shook his head. “Nothing of importance.”
“Nothing to do with the case?”
“No . . . something else.”
Field stared at him. “Caprisi left some notes.”
“Notes on what?”
“Retirement funds,” Field lied. “Dirty secrets.”
“Better keep hold of them, then.”
“Yes, I’d better.”
“You’ll never know when you might need them.”
“Quite.”
Macleod put the file under his arm. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Field switched off the light and stood, so that they faced each other across the darkened room. “A good night for you, in one sense,” he said.
Macleod hesitated, fingering his chain.
“You’ll certainly be commissioner now. You get your chance to clean up the city.”
“Caprisi was a good man, Field.”
“Yes. The best.”
“Brave but stupid.”
“He wouldn’t join your club?”
Macleod’s chain snapped. There was a
chink
as his gold crucifix hit the floor. He bent down slowly to pick it up. “In deference to your uncle, Field,” he said, “I’m going to let you leave. You have until noon tomorrow.”
Field watched as Macleod turned, walked calmly to the end of the room and into the lift.
He sat down again, remaining still as it descended.
Forty-nine
F
ield saw the light of a candle flare briefly in Katya’s kitchen window. He waited for the door to open. The moon was brighter now, leaving only the fringes of the garden in shadow. A dog barked and was swiftly answered by others nearby.
Field knocked again.
“Ivan, Katya, it’s me. Please, I must speak to her.”
Ivan opened the door. He had put the candle out, his face ghostly in the moonlight.
“I must find her.”
“She has gone.”
“Gone where?”
He shook his head.
“I’ve been given an ultimatum. I must find her quickly.”
“She has gone.”
“Gone home?”
“Not home.”
“Then where?”
Ivan shook his head.
“Is Katya here?” Field heard a rustle and saw movement behind him. “Katya. For God’s sake, please help me.”
“She has gone,” Katya said, her voice firm. “We do not know where she is.”
Field pushed the door suddenly, forcing both of them back. Ivan stumbled. Katya was by the stove, beneath a row of saucepans, and Field could see the fear in their faces. “I know she’s here,” he said, but could tell immediately that this was not true. “Where is she?”
“We do not know.” Katya was tired.
“Where can I find the boy?”
Katya shook her head.
“Please, there is no time.”
Katya clasped her hands across her chest, and Field recognized the fatigue of people who have known fear too often and for too long.
“I must leave the city by noon tomorrow. There is a chance for her
. . . tell
her. The last chance. For her and the boy. Otherwise, they will both die here—you know it and she must, too. Tell her I will meet her in the cemetery at dawn. If the answer is no, then I will accept it.”
Field took a step back. They closed the door slowly, without answering him, their eyes fixed on his. For a few moments he stood in the darkness, praying that she would come.

 

There were no lights on above the front veranda of the house in Crane Road, but Field did not know where else to go. He rang the bell.
He was about to turn away when he heard the familiar shuffle inside, and a sober, tired-looking Geoffrey opened the door. “I thought it would be you,” he said.
“I’m sorry. It’s late, I know.”
“Come in.” Geoffrey beckoned him over the threshold, placing a paternal hand on Field’s shoulder. “We hoped you’d come back. Penelope is still up. We’ve had to sedate Caroline. Out of the question for her to stay at home. Come on through.” Geoffrey caught sight of the wound on his arm. “Christ, man, have you not been to the hospital?”
Field said, “I think it’s all right.”
“Of course it’s not.”
Geoffrey took hold of him and led him through the house. He eased him onto the sofa opposite Penelope. She looked up, her eyes red, a glass of whiskey in her hand.
“The boy’s not been to hospital,” Geoffrey said quietly. “Tell Chang we need antiseptic, clean water, and bandages.”
Penelope got up. She did not acknowledge Field or meet his eye and seemed to be moving as if in a dream. Geoffrey followed her, unsure she was even capable of such a simple task, and he came back in alone, a bowl in one hand and some dressings in the other.
Field tried hard not to wince as the wound was cleaned.
“It’s a good thing you came here,” Geoffrey said as he pushed a swab into the wound. “It’s only a nick, but would have turned nasty. Infections set in fast in this heat.”
When he’d finished, Geoffrey wound a bandage slowly around the top of Field’s arm and secured it with a safety pin. Field watched his face, which was a study in concentration.
“You did this in the war,” he said quietly.
“Many times.” Geoffrey stood. “You’ll be fine,” he said, misinterpreting him. “I’ve dealt with a thousand worse.”
Field nodded. “Macleod is behind it all.”
Geoffrey frowned. “You’ll need a drink.”
Field didn’t answer, but watched his uncle shuffle to the walnut sideboard and take out two glasses.
“The group of officers in the force who work for Lu is called the cabal, and Macleod is its head,” Field said.
“Macleod?”
“Yes.”
“Impossible. He’s as straight as a die.”
“He’s told me I have until noon tomorrow to leave Shanghai.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Macleod is in Lu’s pocket. Caprisi and I were coming close to unraveling the connection between the Orlov murder and the drug shipments—shipments that go through Fraser’s factories.”
“Fraser’s?”
“We think Charles Lewis has been operating a massive opium smuggling operation. Lu provides the opium, Lewis the transport. The opium is hidden in sewing machines or other mechanical products and shipped into Europe. Lewis was being given some of the girls Lu keeps as a favor, and Lu’s men would clean up after Lewis had . . . finished with them.”
Geoffrey’s face had gone white. “Charles Lewis?”
“Yes.”
“You have evidence of this?”
“We are very close.”
“That’s what tonight was about?”
“Yes.”
“What about Granger?”
“Eliminating a rival.”
Geoffrey drew on his cigarette, then looked out toward the veranda, deep in thought. “It’s preposterous. Do you have any idea how rich Charlie Lewis is?”
Field nodded.
“His grandfather founded Fraser’s, and he is certainly the richest man in Shanghai. He presides over a huge empire. The idea is absurd. He has less need of any illegal scheme than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“We know he likes to abuse girls. He likes to be violent to the women he sleeps with.”
“What evidence do you have?”
“We are very close to finding a relative of one of the dead girls whom we believe will be able to positively identify Lewis as her killer.”
“Who is this?”
Field didn’t answer.
“Is there any direct evidence of Macleod’s corruption or of the activities of what you call the cabal?”
Field sighed.
“Then you must go.”
“I’m not going to run away.”
“This is not London, Richard, or New York or Paris. We cannot always win the battle, but we must win the war. I cannot go to the council about Lewis or even Macleod without cast-iron evidence, and you have none. Macleod will certainly be the new commissioner now, whatever I say, unless we have something concrete to block his promotion.” Geoffrey sighed. “Your investigation has rattled cages clearly, but if Granger and your colleague have been killed, then I’m afraid there can be no further discussion. Go to Hong Kong. Get on a ship. We can arrange for you to join the police there for a time.” Geoffrey shook his head slowly and sat down wearily on the sofa opposite. Field noticed, as he bent down, that his uncle had a small bald patch on the dome of his sandy head.
“Can’t Macleod be arrested?”
“On what evidence?” Geoffrey arched his hands, then raised them to his chin. “You’re the policeman, Richard. You tell me what evidence you have.”
Field looked at his reflection in the polished top of the coffee table. “I have responsibilities.”
“Nonsense.”
“A girl.”
“A Russian?”
“Yes.”
“Natasha Medvedev.”
Field felt his heart thumping again. “How did you know?”
“Penelope said you’d formed an attachment. I’ve seen her sing at the Majestic.” Geoffrey’s face was hard. “You have no responsibilities to her or anyone else, Richard. Don’t be a fool. You must go. If you involve yourself with this woman any further, then none of us will be able to help you.”
Field’s mind was spinning. Geoffrey stood and went and got the decanter of whiskey from the walnut sideboard. He refilled both glasses and then lit another cigarette. He sat heavily. “Russian girls have a habit, Richard, of not being everything that they seem.”
“I know that.”
“You wouldn’t be the first to be deceived.”
Field nodded, without meeting his uncle’s eye.
“Natasha Medvedev is a beautiful girl. So many are.” Geoffrey inhaled deeply on his cigarette. “I’m sure her story is tragic. They all are.” Field looked at his uncle. “The fact is, you will not be able to save her from herself.”
“I have no choice.”
“It’s love, I suppose.”
Field didn’t answer, staring at the light dancing in the golden liquid in his glass. He looked up. “I’ve no right to ask this, but could you get her a passport and the correct papers?”
Geoffrey stared down at his hands. Field became convinced that he would say no. “Do you have her full name?” he asked.
“Natasha Olga Medvedev.”
Geoffrey pushed himself to his feet and shuffled over to the sideboard, searching for a pen and paper.
“Date of birth?”
“April 1, 1900,” Field said, inventing it.
Geoffrey turned toward him, suddenly smiling. “I’ll see what I can do, but on one condition. There can be no debate about this. You must clearly understand the nature of this city and your predicament. You must leave tomorrow on the first ship available. I will do what I can for the girl, but I now wish you to put her out of your mind. Is that clear?”
Field did not respond.
“There must be no misunderstanding, Richard. You can do nothing further for this girl. You must leave at once.”
Fifty
F
ield walked to the race club and squatted in the shadows beneath the clock tower. He did not know where else to go, and from here he could watch her apartment. There were no lights on up there. A family was sleeping alongside him, huddled together. The father, who was awake, watched him solemnly as the hours ticked past. Field thought of the family Caprisi had been helping and wondered what would become of them.
He remembered the ball at the race club he had attended with Penelope.
At about four o’clock a newspaper seller began to set up on the street corner, and Field stepped out of the shadows and bought a copy of the
North China Daily News.
The headline screamed “Bloody Friday.” He walked down to a gas streetlamp away from the Happy Times block and held the paper up to the light. Most of the articles were devoted to Patrick Granger
—one of the finest public servants Shanghai has ever seen.
There was a short report on Caprisi, alongside his police ID photograph. The article described him as a detective from Chicago, who’d come to Shanghai
after killing his wife and young son in a drunken road accident.
Field wondered where they’d got such detailed information. From Macleod, presumably, twisting the knife even after the American’s death.
Field folded the newspaper and checked how much money he had with him. He managed to scrape together twenty dollars.
He stepped back into the shadows, turned away from the family, took out his revolver, and checked that all the chambers were loaded. He had no further ammunition. He did not believe it was safe to go back to Carter Road.

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