Tom Bradby - The Master Of Rain

Field walked into the station slowly and stood in the center of the lobby on the ground floor. He looked about him, as if taking in his surroundings for the first time.

A dial above the lift swung to indicate it was descending. He glanced up at the clock. It was half past seven.

Field stepped forward and surveyed the curved dome of the ceiling with its gables and ornate stonework. This was a grand building, but it felt gloomy and neglected, designed for a greater purpose than it had achieved.

Field hesitated before hitting the button for his own office on the fourth floor.

The room was empty, the frosted glass grudgingly letting in the daylight. Field walked to his desk, his footsteps noisy on the parquet floor. Yang had left two notes: Stirling Blackman called. And: Penelope Donaldson telephoned-three times. Beside them, half hidden beneath a small mound of paperwork, Field noticed two envelopes. The first was addressed to him in neat, tiny handwriting. It was from the account monitoring manager at the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank, number 12 the Bund, Shanghai. The letter inside had been typed.

Dear Mr. Field, it read. One of my senior clerks responsible for handling new clients has drawn my attention to the state of account. I enclose balance for your convenience.

We aim to provide very best service for very best customer and I esteem an honor if you would in future contact me directly if need assistance.

Yours very respectfully,

Chen, C.W.

Field held up the thin sheet of paper attached. Under his account number were two lines:

New credit: $600.

Account Balance: $1,012.

The other envelope was from Jessfield Properties Limited, Jessfield Road. It advertised a property on Foochow Road, close to the racetrack, set back from the street, with elegant facilities. Three reception rooms, charming, well-kept garden, tennis court, and spacious veranda.

Field folded it and slipped it into the bin. He picked up the first letter and tucked it into his pocket. He got up and headed back to the lift.

The sixth-floor corridor was dark. Maretsky was not yet in his office, but Field did not have long to wait. Maretsky bustled along a few minutes later, not noticing him until he had the key in the lock. “You again,” he said.

Field followed the Russian inside. He closed the door behind him and waited until Maretsky had lifted himself onto the high stool in front of his desk.

“I need a map,” Field said.

“I believe stores-”

“One of Lu’s women is caught red-handed distributing Bolshevik propaganda.”

“No pun intended, presumably.”

“She faces a minimum fifteen-year sentence and may be able to help with an investigation into a series of murders-”

“Natasha Medvedev. I have warned you, Field.”

“At times she appears to be… coming over. But then we lose her again. I think she’s terrified that she may be the next victim.”

“Perhaps she isn’t terrified only for herself.”

“Who else?”

“Does she have a child?”

“No.”

“Brother? Sister? Father? Mother?”

“No.”

“Or so she says.” Maretsky stared at him through dirty round glasses. “For a Russian, certainly, the penalty will be death, for all connected.”

“So when they talk about impaired circumstances…”

“They mean points of influence. Loved ones. I would say she has a child.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible.”

Field straightened. He paced to the other side of the tiny room and back again. He looked at the picture of Lu Huang presenting a check to the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage. “So if she appears,” he said, “to want, somehow, to break away from him…”

“You are in love with her.”

“No.”

“Don’t be a fool, Field. You can’t say I haven’t warned you.”

“You misunderstand.”

“She’ll manipulate you, if she has not already.”

“To what end?”

“To his end. She belongs to Lu, Field. Please listen to me. About this you don’t yet understand as much as you should.”

“And it’s impossible to break this?”

“Yes.”

“So his control is absolute?”

Maretsky sighed. “Not absolute, no. He does not control you. You are here without family-at least, only an uncle that even Lu might balk at challenging. If you do not give any hostages to fortune…” Maretsky cleared his throat. “He will try to buy you, of course, through his operatives in the force. Through the cabal. Perhaps he has already.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will when the time is right. And you probably do already, even if you won’t admit it to yourself.” He shrugged. “The woman, Medvedev, is trapped, so it is possible that she is not manipulating you; possible, of course, that in a wild moment she toys with the idea of escape, of romance, of being her own woman. But if that is the case, Field, then the dangers for you both are greater still.”

Maretsky sighed deeply, reached over, and took a buff-colored folder from the top drawer of his desk. “Come on.” He held the folder up. “Against my better judgment, I have helped you. Let’s go downstairs to Crime.”

Maretsky had set out the three pictures from the folder on the coffee table in front of Macleod’s desk downstairs. Caprisi had his arm around Field’s shoulder in a gesture of easy comradeship.

Field found the pictures difficult to look at.

The first woman was in a position strikingly similar to Lena Orlov’s. She was handcuffed to a brass bed, the sheet rumpled, her body half-turned. She wore a black garter belt and stockings but was otherwise naked, her breasts and nipples small. Like Natasha, she had strong, well-toned arms, one of which was thrust across her stomach, as though in a last-ditch attempt to shield herself from the knife. There were perhaps ten or fifteen stab wounds in her breasts and belly. This girl’s hair was long, like Natasha’s, her face turned away from the camera.

Natasha. Natasha would look like this. For a moment Field had to fight to prevent himself from being sick.

The second woman had short, straight, black hair. She was completely naked. She wasn’t handcuffed, and her body lay flat on the bed. The last photograph was of Lena Orlov.

“Which do you think was first?”

Neither of them answered, reluctant to turn this into a game.

Maretsky pointed to the one without handcuffs. “This woman. This is Irina. She was, I believe, a prostitute out-and-out, not a tea dancer.” Maretsky paused, a chubby finger to his lips. “Murdered at home, not in the brothel, so an outside arrangement. Neighbors saw and heard nothing. Didn’t know her, never spoke to her, rarely saw her. So they say. That is, so the French detectives say.”

“One of your contacts?” Macleod asked.

Maretsky did not answer.

“The French did not try to solve the murder?” Macleod went on.

“It would appear not,” Maretsky said.

“This girl, the first one, belonged to Lu also?” Caprisi asked.

Maretsky shrugged. “How can we know, when the French do not pursue these things? A grubby apartment-not one of his regular girls, I shouldn’t think, but I’ll talk about this in a minute.” He looked at the photograph. “The second girl, the one with the long hair, was Natalya Simonov, also a prostitute. Like Lena, she was handcuffed. There was more… scene setting. What’s the point here?”

“Irina was not dressed up,” Caprisi said. “Not handcuffed.”

“Yes.” He put his finger on Irina’s picture. “Irina was the beginning, I think. It feels-to me, it feels rushed. There is no scene setting, no planning, it is just a sudden, violent act.” Maretsky pointed at the other two photographs. “Afterwards, he gets to Natalya and then Lena, and by now he knows what he wants. Now he is more confident, in control, more able to exactly dictate how he wants the evening to unfold.”