Tom Bradby - The Master Of Rain

The younger nun came in with a tray. As she placed a cup in front of Field, she smiled shyly at him.

“Thank you, Sister Jane,” the older woman said sharply.

Field waited until she had gone. “I see that Lu-Mr. Lu-is coming to visit the children.”

“We are grateful that he finds the time.”

“Of course. I assume-well, he was an orphan, so he must like to see children being better cared for than he was.”

Sister Margaret did not answer. Her eyes rested steadily upon Field’s face, her expression still guarded, before it slipped far enough to betray a blend of resignation and something else-moral compromise perhaps. Field felt a cloud of depression begin to envelop him. He had hoped Maretsky was wrong and that the situation here was not as debased as he had suggested.

“Lu sometimes finds children a home?” Field asked.

“Sometimes, yes. He very kindly found two of the young boys homes earlier this year.”

“Expatriate parents?”

“Chinese, I believe. They were Eurasian boys.”

Field looked down. He wanted to relieve his frustration and anger by shouting at her.

“Are you all right, Mr. Field?”

He sipped his tea. “Yes, thank you.” He cleared his throat again. “Lu-Mr. Lu-picks out the children himself on these visits?”

Sister Margaret hesitated. She dropped her gaze. “Yes.”

Field swallowed hard. He could not be certain how much she knew beyond doubt, how much she suspected and tried to block out.

“The parents are happy? They have worked well-the adoptions, I mean?”

“We do our best here, Mr. Field, but, of course, the boys were excited to leave.” She shrugged. “Mr. Lu kindly made the arrangements and the boys were thrilled-of course, they were.”

Field hesitated. He imagined two young boys darting down the corridor outside, bursting with happiness at the thought of the better life they believed awaited them beyond the gate on Avenue Joffre. He could see Lu Huang’s portly fingers as he habitually opened and closed his right hand. “They’re happier now?”

“I believe so, yes. Mr. Lu kindly keeps us in touch with their progress.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“You’re a policeman, Mr. Field, so perhaps you can appreciate the true nature of this city.”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Without the orphanage these children would have perished long ago. All of them. Without our benefactor there would be no orphanage.”

Field looked at her. For a moment, believing that she was completely aware of the extent and scope of her Faustian pact, he felt like throwing up.

“Alexei Simonov.” Field saw immediately that Sister Margaret knew the boy. “Mr. Lu-or his men-brought him here and asked you to give him shelter?”

Sister Margaret did not answer.

“The mother…”

“It is a tragedy,” she said.

“Of course.” He allowed himself a mournful pause.

Sister Margaret raised her hand. “We have had five Russian children in one year,” she said, spreading her fingers.

“Five.”

“Suicide is against God’s will.”

“Yes.”

“But it is still a tragedy, of course.”

“Of course, yes.”

Field reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out the photograph he’d kept in his desk. He stood and handed it to Sister Margaret. “This is how Natalya Simonov committed suicide, Sister.”

Her face went white. After a few moments she handed it back. She did not catch his eye.

“Would it be possible for me to speak to the boy?”

“Out of the question.” She shook her head.

“It’s just that-”

“Out of the question.” She shook her head again, in case she had not sufficiently emphasized this point. “He has been traumatized.”

Field looked out of the window at the boys still playing football in the yard.

“He is not here, Mr. Field.”

“Supposing that the boy did turn out to have family, after all, then he would-”

“We are past that point, Mr. Field. Alexei must be allowed to begin his life again. Mr. Lu has his best interests at heart and he was most clear on this point. No one is to see the boy.”

“It is touching to hear that Mr. Lu takes so much time to consider the welfare of individual orphans when he must be such a busy man.”

She glared at him.

“Sister, Natalya Simonov was stabbed about fifteen times in the vulva and the lower part of her stomach.” He looked her in the eye.

Sister Margaret’s face was sheet-white again.

“We think Alexei saw his mother’s killer. We believe he is the only person who can positively identify him before he does this”-Field held up the photograph-“to another woman.”

Sister Margaret’s lips tightened. “I cannot allow it,” she said. “I cannot.”

The children had stopped playing football on the far side of the yard. They were drinking water and splashing it on their faces. Their hair was damp with sweat. Their uniforms seemed to sparkle in the sunlight, a green cross at the center of each shirt. They sat down against the far wall, talking among themselves.

Field reached for a notepad and took out his father’s pen. “This is my number. I leave it up to you.” He handed her the piece of paper and left the office.

Field stopped when he reached the central hallway. He could hear the sound of his breathing. A door opened behind him and he turned to see Sister Margaret walking in the opposite direction. He watched her until she reached the far end of the corridor. She did not look round.

The hallway was silent again.

Field half turned and saw that some of the children were watching him silently. There were four of them, all young Chinese or Eurasian boys. They did not move, their gazes solemn.

Field walked out through the entrance hall and into the bright sunshine.

There was a car waiting on the far side of the street, about fifty yards to his left. He watched it for a few moments before setting off, but the car didn’t follow him.

Once he’d turned the corner, he stopped beneath the shade of a sycamore tree and leaned back against the iron railings of a large house. He shut his eyes. He’d never felt so tired.

When he opened them again, he looked at his watch, then fumbled in his jacket pocket for Prokopieff’s old surveillance notes. He glanced over them, then put them away and began to walk.

It took him only a few minutes to reach Lu’s house, but he looked at his watch again to be sure of the time. It was twelve-thirty. If Lu’s routine had not changed, he would leave at one o’clock.

Field stood beneath the trees opposite the house before deciding that he was too conspicuous and retreating a few yards.

He took out a cigarette, but then put it back in the packet.

He looked up at the bedroom window. He fought against the idea that she was a willing-even an enthusiastic-prisoner. He thought of her apartment and her elegant clothes and the look that had crept across her face as she had forced him away.

The door opened. Lu’s bodyguards came down the steps and surrounded the car. As the blond one, Grigoriev, scanned the street, Field turned quickly and walked away. He kept on going until he was round the next corner, then spun around and came back, keeping in the shadow of the trees.

Field watched as Lu came down the steps with a girl of about thirteen or fourteen. He had a brief glimpse of her frightened face before she was pushed into the back of the car. Lu moved slowly, Grigoriev supporting him as he came down the last step.

Natasha was not with him. Field felt his shoulders sag with relief.

The bodyguards climbed into the car or onto the running boards, and the car moved off in the direction of the Bund. Field looked at his watch again. It was one o’clock exactly.