Tom Bradby - The Master Of Rain

“How’s Chen?” Field asked.

“He’s fine. We should go and see him this morning.”

“We were lucky.”

Caprisi didn’t answer.

“Granger must have called Lu,” Field said.

“We’ve been over that.”

Field took out his letter from the bank and pushed it across the table.

Caprisi read it. “They certainly want you.”

“This is the cabal paying money into my account to get me used to the idea, correct?”

“Correct.”

“So they tempt me with the money before they make an approach.”

“I don’t know, but I’d say they want you badly, probably because of your social connections. That’s why it’s so much dough.”

“What should I do?”

“Do nothing.”

“Shouldn’t I give it back?”

“To who?” Caprisi leaned his elbows on the table. “Field,” he said, “tell me you don’t really believe that this woman isn’t fucking her boss.”

Field looked at his partner and saw the warmth in his eyes.

“This isn’t a great moment to be losing touch with reality.”

“No. I understand that.”

“There are thousands of good-looking Russian broads in this city, so don’t do anything foolish, understand?”

“You don’t think it’s possible to free anyone from his clutches?”

“I doubt it.”

They smoked in silence. Caprisi blew rings and watched them rise toward the ceiling.

Field suddenly felt dog-tired. He stubbed his cigarette out. “So are we going to do door-to-door inquiries on Avenue Joffre and try to find out where these women lived?”

“Probably.”

“They have to be connected, don’t they?”

Caprisi nodded. “I think so.”

“I’ve asked Immigration to check their lists,” Field said. “They must have a note of the girls’ addresses. Even if they’re not up-to-date, they’d provide a starting point. We could go down and speed things up.”

“I was thinking of the Russian church,” Caprisi said. “If nothing else, both women would have been buried there, right?”

Field nodded, feeling brighter.

“There would have to be some paperwork with a last residential address.”

Field said, “Lena Orlov was from Kazan, so is Natasha. We know Irina was, too. They all attended the New Shanghai Life for at least one meeting. Is that coincidence? And why do we have no record of a Natalya Simonov? Sergei claims not to have known any of them well, and yet I’m certain he knows exactly who they are. I think Natasha does, too.”

“It may end up being my pleasure to beat it out of Sergei.”

Field smiled. “I’m there first.”

“Have you seen Granger this morning?”

“Not yet.”

“From now on”-Caprisi smiled at his colleague again-“try not to give him any idea of our movements.” The American got up and patted him on the back. “I see the suit has taken a beating.”

“Oh… yes. Got caught out in the rain. Sorry.”

“It’s your suit, Field.”

Field led the way out of the canteen, the swinging doors banging shut behind them. Caprisi drew level with him on the stairs. “Make sure your girl plays ball.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I say that because she’d better play ball.”

“Or what?”

“Or I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes.”

“Why not?”

The American sighed. “Macleod wants to win this time. I wouldn’t want to be the reason he doesn’t.”

They walked up the next flight, side by side, in silence.

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.”

Outside, Field leaned against the wall by the stairwell, out of sight of the lobby, and sank down until he was sitting on the step.