Tom Bradby - The Master Of Rain

“Maybe it’s not you she’s thinking about.”

Field frowned. “What do you mean?”

The American looked up from his food. “She’s looking at your face thinking that she’s devoted her whole life to you and now you’re gone. So the anguish is for her, not for you.”

“How do you know that?” Field said quietly.

Caprisi shook his head. “I’ve already said enough.”

“You can’t say one minute that we’re friends and then leave us knowing nothing about each other.”

“What I like about you, Field, is that you’re the best of British-solid and uncomplicated-so don’t-”

“You think I am, but you don’t know. Solid maybe, I’d like to think so. Uncomplicated? I’m not so sure.”

There was a long silence. Caprisi stared at his food as though it were suddenly the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. When he looked up, Field saw something in his eyes that spoke of a loss that was beyond words. Field knew that look.

“My wife’s name was Jane and we were childhood sweethearts. My father owned a hardware store and Jane’s family lived in the house opposite, just across the street. As kids, we used to wave at each other at night.” Caprisi looked down again. “We started dating.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We got married and it always felt right. In a way nothing has since. We had a boy…” He seemed about to say the name but was unable to manage it. “He was a good kid.” Caprisi looked up, shaking his head slightly, his lips tight and his eyes narrowed as he fought to contain his emotions. “He was a great kid. Affectionate… Jane wanted a big family, but we couldn’t… you know, we only had our one boy. It was okay, we had each other, we’d always said that, you know, even before we got married, we said if we couldn’t have kids, that would be all right, because we were in it for each other.” Caprisi shook his head again. “It’s too cute. I should come up with a better story.”

Field did not know what to say.

“Have you ever been in love, Field?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then you never have been.” Caprisi sighed. “We had what both our parents had, and it was all we wanted and the boy was a blessing. He was a God-given extra. Do you believe in God, Field?”

“No.”

“There’s nothing out there, just darkness?”

“I don’t know what’s out there, but I don’t think it’s God.”

“Jane would have tried to convince you. She was a believer. The little boy was so loving, it made everything all right, you know? It was okay that there would be no more. We’d come to accept it, that he would be enough, that that was it. We were a family.”

Caprisi was gazing at a point over Field’s shoulder. The silence stretched between them.

“We went to a party. A christening. It was bootlegged, of course, and I always went for the whiskey. Jane hated that, but I guess it helped me. I guess it helped me not to think too much about work, about what was going on in the city… It wasn’t until I got here that I realized Chicago wasn’t the only place justice and truth are in pretty short supply…” His voice trailed off. “She didn’t want me to drive, but I insisted. We argued; she gave in. She didn’t want to fight about it, she said. Not worth fighting about.” He looked at Field, his face a mask of pain. “I got out without a scratch.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Everyone’s sorry.”

“I know, but…”

“You’re satisfied now?”

Field didn’t answer and Caprisi sighed. “That was unfair. I’m the one who should be sorry.” He leaned forward. “It seems to me that everyone I’ve trusted in has been taken away.”

“You don’t have to protect me, Caprisi.”

The American looked at him for a long time and then smiled gently. “Yes I do.” His expression hardened. “You need to be tough on her, Field.”

Field didn’t answer.

“I’m sure you will be.” He pushed his tray away. “She’s not a child and I should think she’s experienced at manipulating people. She was caught doing something that could see her in prison for a long time. If she has information, make sure you get it out of her.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

Field stared at his hands. “It’s not wrong to be searching for something better, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

Field looked up again. “I’ve never had what you had. I’m sorry you lost it-truly sorry-but I’ve never had anything like that. In all my childhood, I have to really struggle to remember one happy day or moment. Everything was so… pressurized. We existed under this cloud that was my father’s anger, and the first moment I ever felt free of it-happy-was the day the liner that brought me here docked on the Bund. I got off, breathed that polluted air, saw the grand buildings of the waterfront, and, more than anything, I wanted to put everything I had ever known behind me and start again.”

“It’s all right to want something better, just don’t look for it in the wrong place. Be patient. It will come.”

Field stood.

“And you need to find out why she’s Lu’s girl. Don’t take no for an answer.”

The cells were like everything that was wrong with the worst parts of Shanghai. The smell of the sewers, damp, and decay, undiminished by any kind of flow of air, created a cocktail that assaulted his nostrils the moment Field opened the big steel door and began to walk down the stone steps.

Caprisi’s remorse and guilt came with him. Field had wanted to talk about love, and about what he felt now, but he knew what he had to say would appear ludicrous to anyone but himself.

He hesitated. What would her reaction be, here?

“Natasha Medvedev,” he told the duty sergeant. “Came in about forty minutes ago.”

The Chinese officer took out his pen and looked up expectantly.

“Field. S.1.”

“She was signed in as C.1. Chen.” He pointed at Chen’s name, detective number, and signature alongside Natasha’s name.

“Correct. We arrested her together, but this is now an S.1 matter.”

The man looked doubtful. Field thought how absurd it was that the mistrust between the two elite departments of the force had grown to the point at which ordinary uniformed officers were wary when there was any point of contention.

“It’s a joint Crime and Special Branch investigation,” Field said. “I’m working with Caprisi.”

He signed in. He put the pen down and straightened his jacket as the door ahead of him was opened and he was handed the key to her cell. He stepped into the gloom, hesitating as the iron door was slammed shut behind him. It was a couple of degrees cooler down here, but he slipped his jacket off and loosened his tie.

A man in the cell to his right began to cough and didn’t stop, his lungs racked by convulsions, before giving way to wheezy, uneven breathing.

Field’s footsteps were noisy on the stone floor.

Natasha’s cell was at the end of the corridor. She was sitting on her bed, with her feet pulled up and her head on her knees, face down. Field watched for a second through the grille and, when she didn’t look up, put the key in the lock, opened the door, and stepped in.

He waited, hands in his pockets. There was an open drain in the corner, next to the tin bucket that was supposed to be used as a toilet. The smell here was much worse than outside.

She lifted her head, spinning her hair back and away from her face. Field saw fear, not defiance, in her eyes. He pulled over a chair. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

“I think you will do what you want.”

Field put his jacket over the edge of the mattress. His polished shoes looked out of place.

Natasha was still wearing her raincoat, but she’d taken her shoes off and he found himself staring at her feet. Her toes were unusually long, their nails painted dark brown, or perhaps green.