Tom Bradby - The Master Of Rain

“Field,” Macleod said. Field stopped and turned. “You playing rugby tomorrow?”

“Yes, I believe so, sir.”

“Granger has been telling everyone you’re a find.”

“He’s never seen me play.”

“You’re fit?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?” Macleod was smiling.

“I’m sure.”

“Caprisi, make sure you break this boy’s leg.” Macleod took a step toward Field and stretched his arms above his head. “He’s good, you know, for a Yank.”

“So everyone says.”

Field sensed the tension as soon as he entered the ten o’clock briefing. It was held in a large, gloomy room behind the duty sergeant’s counter on the first floor. Field took a seat at the back behind Caprisi, at a desk almost identical to the ones they’d had at school, even down to the graffiti. Someone had carved in big letters: Smith for fucking Pope. There was graffiti etched into the dark wooden panels beside him, too, paint on the walls above peeling off in large chunks. There were no pictures or adornments of any kind and the two fans hanging down on long metal poles from the ceiling stood idle. Field had never seen them work. Whatever the police budget was being spent on, it wasn’t building maintenance. The whole building had an aura of decay about it.

The old clock between the frosted glass windows at the end of the room was tilted to the side, but still showed that the briefing was late again.

Field leaned against the wooden panel and closed his eyes, losing himself in the hubbub around him.

He was jostled and turned to see a group of officers in full protective gear coming through the door. Sorenson, a small, surly, dark-haired man from Ohio, took off his heavy metal jacket and let it drop to the floor with a loud thud, then stacked it and the helmet against the back wall along with his machine gun. He had been unfriendly during Field’s attachment to the incident room here in Central, and didn’t bother to acknowledge him as he shoved his way into a seat next to one of the Chinese officers on the far wall.

Caprisi lit a cigarette and then, without looking around, threw the packet over his shoulder onto Field’s lap.

Captain Smith walked in. He clipped Caprisi over the head playfully with a buff-colored folder on his way to the lectern. He was tall-six feet two or three-with a narrow face and white hair. Like most of the men in the room, he was in blue summer uniform, the silver badge on his lapel above his name tag highly polished. He ran his fingers along his nose. “All right, gentlemen.” He was looking at the file in front of him. “I’m going to let Mr. Granger begin today.”

Granger had been standing quietly in the doorway and now ambled forward, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. As he took Smith’s place at the lectern, he half closed his eyes against the smoke, which drifted up toward the ceiling.

“Borodin is back in town,” he said with an obvious distaste for the communist agitator. “He’s been in the south to organize the Reds down there and make sure the funding is getting through, but he arrived back at Central Station last night.” He cleared his throat. “There is only one strike at the moment, over in Pudong, but be on the lookout for any information you can pick up. I will be doing the rounds of the other stations, but we believe they will be targeting Central for leaflet handouts and quick impromptu rallies. He’ll be using students to do the dirty work. We want to respond swiftly and I hardly need remind you what happens when the mob gets out of hand.” He looked around the room. “So make it a priority. Of course, the Municipal Council is very anxious that we keep up last year’s tough line.” Granger took another drag of his cigarette. “Any questions?”

Apart from a couple of coughs and feet scuffing the floor, the room was silent.

“All right,” Smith said, stepping forward. “Sorenson led a team out on the armed robbery this morning at a jeweler’s shop on Boone Road that you will probably have heard about. It looks like our friends in the Green Gang again, but they’re improving their speed; they were long gone by the time we got there. They wore masks, so no IDs from the old couple in the shop, but we did get a license plate, B4563. Please make a note of that.”

Field watched the uniformed officers around him writing the number down in their books.

“We’ve also got a kidnapping this morning. Bubbling Well Road, next to the Italian consulate. Young boy, about eleven, dark hair. Father’s quite high up in Fraser’s. Chinese, obviously. Not sure why they’ve reported it. I’m sure they’ll pay up in the end. No message in the paper yet, but probably the Green Gang again. There’s a picture of the boy pinned to the back wall there, so take a look at it on the way out. Now… there was a Russian girl murdered yesterday in the Happy Times block on Foochow Road.” Captain Smith was smiling as he said this and there was a jeer from the men. Sorenson whistled at the back. “I give you Detective Caprisi.”

Caprisi got up and walked to the front as the men continued to cheer and whistle. He wasn’t smiling when he turned and faced them.

“The Russian girl’s name,” Caprisi said, having waited for them to stop, “was Lena Orlov. She was tied up, stabbed almost twenty times. There does not appear to have been a sexual assault.”

“He couldn’t get the handcuffs undone,” Sorenson said. There was a guffaw of laughter.

Caprisi ignored it. “Has anyone ever heard of anything similar… not murder, but violence against Russian girls…”

“I’ve got a thousand,” Sorenson said. “A thousand cases.”

“I’ve got two,” someone else added, and there was another guffaw of laughter.

“The flats belong to Lu,” Caprisi said, his mood souring further. “So do the women in it. The doorman was taken away and executed yesterday, and everyone else in the neighborhood claims not to have seen a thing.”

Field noticed that Maretsky had come in and was leaning against the back wall, also scowling. Field assumed he’d heard the laughter.

“Chen and I are dealing with any direct leads,” Caprisi went on. “Along with Richard Field from S.1. But we want to hear about anyone who could give us a sense of this falling into a pattern.”

“I’ll raise you two thousand,” Sorenson said. “Two thousand Russian tarts being slapped about… two thousand cases… no, three thousand…” There was more laughter, and Field watched Maretsky turn and walk out, his face a picture of disgust.

“Try not to be an Ohio boy all your life, Sorenson,” Caprisi said easily as he thrust his hands in his pockets and walked back from the lectern.

“That’s it,” Smith said. Chairs and desks scraped across the floor as everyone got to their feet and began talking. Sorenson stood and picked up his jacket and helmet. He hadn’t shaved this morning, his short hair and bullet head making him look like a convict. “You’ve never used handcuffs?” he asked Caprisi.

“Sure, Caprisi was fucking her,” Prokopieff said, standing up next to Sorenson. “Little Russian girl, little bit of pain…”

“You should keep a hold of the keys, old man,” Sorenson taunted.

“I was fucking her, too, of course,” Prokopieff went on. “She danced at the Majestic, right? The spoiled little princess screamed.”

Caprisi stood still, his head tilted to one side, staring at the floor. Prokopieff took a step closer, towering over the American. He was a huge man, with the body of a wrestler, short, spiky hair, and a bulbous nose above big lips.

“Back off, Prokopieff,” Field said quietly.

The Russian turned to stare at him. “Ah, the new boy.” Everyone was looking at Field now. “You couldn’t even find your dick in a storm, or maybe… I see now… Good for you, Caprisi, just like Slugger, just like old-”