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Authors: Tom Bradby

BOOK: The Master of Rain
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“A doctor.”
“Did you and Lena ever talk about the revolution?”
He shook his head.
“What do you think of the new Soviet Union?” Field asked.
Sergei looked from Field to Caprisi and back again, suspecting a trap. “Bolshevism is not the answer.”
“And what is?” Field smiled encouragingly at him.
“My views are my views.”
“Were they the same as Lena’s?”
The Russian didn’t answer.
Field smiled again. “You surely don’t believe the current situation here is tolerable.”
Sergei regarded him warily.
“I mean, if there has ever been a case for the redistribution of wealth, this is it, isn’t it? Here, in this city, with so many families sleeping—dying, even—on the streets.”
“I see inequality, but I’m not a Bolshevik.”
“A reformer, then?”
Sergei nodded.
“You’d like better conditions for the workers. Shorter hours, better pay.”
Sergei sucked his teeth nervously.
“Do you think the system can be reformed, or does it have to be changed entirely?”
“I don’t live in the Settlement.”
“Have you attended meetings at the
New Shanghai Life?”
The Russian frowned. “No.”
“Can you explain why Lena was doing so? After all, her father was an army officer.”
“I’m not a Bolshevik.”
Field paused. “I never said that you were.”
“Their hearts were not in it.”
“Their hearts?”
“Lena . . . Natasha.”
“Why were they doing it?”
He shook his head.
“Presumably they were gathering intelligence for Lu?”
Sergei sneered. “No one would ever tell them anything.”
“Then why was Lu paying for their apartments?”
He smiled again. “They are women.”
“So it’s about sex?” Caprisi asked.
“Isn’t everything?”
Caprisi stood. “We’ll want to speak to you again.” He walked toward the door. “And next time, you’re coming down to the Settlement.”

 

Outside, Caprisi lit up first, inhaling deeply and running his hand through his hair. He paced to and fro by the car, occasionally glancing up at the window above the Siberian Fur Shop. Field scanned the signs in Russian script outside the shops that stretched away down Avenue Joffre. They were all small concerns—one selling Shanghai borscht, another a hairdressing salon, a third specializing in wedding dresses.
“Jesus, you get yourself worked up,” Caprisi said.
Field didn’t answer.
“I thought you were going to hit him.”
Field put his cigarette to his lips. He couldn’t see Sergei in the shadows behind his window, but he knew the Russian was there. “I don’t like it when women aren’t treated right.”
“Then maybe you should go someplace else.”
Field sighed. “My father hit my mother, all right? I don’t like the way Sergei talks.” He tried to change the subject to cover his embarrassment. “Did Lu not know she was coming down here? Is that why Sergei is so nervous?”
Caprisi resumed his pacing, then leaned back against the side of the car. “I can’t see Lena taking that sort of risk.”
“Unless she was desperate to have something—anything—that stopped her feeling like a whore.”
The American looked up at Field. He flicked his cigarette away into the street.
“Is that why Lu killed her?” Field asked.
Caprisi shrugged, then shook his head. “I doubt it.”
Fourteen
C
aprisi instructed the driver to take a detour down the Nanking Road and wait for him alongside the Wing On store.
Field opened the window an inch or two as the American got out. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and undid the top button of his shirt, holding it away from his body to try and dry the large patches of sweat. He took off his holster and placed it on the seat beside him, then pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.
“Hot,” the driver said, smiling.
“Yes.” Field wondered how old he was. It was hard to tell. The average life expectancy for a Chinese was only twenty-seven, and many of them looked old before their time.
“Summer . . . hot!”
Field nodded and grinned, fanning his face theatrically. Then he reached for his cigarettes and got out.
The banners above him swayed gently as two trams passed each other in the center of the street, but the air was still. A buxom, middle-aged woman walked out of the Wing On with an armful of boxes and headed for a gleaming Buick. Her driver leaped out of his seat to open the back door for her, and a small Pekingese escaped, yapping around her feet as she settled herself on the cream buckskin seat.
A Chinese woman thrust a baby toward the open door. The driver pushed her to the ground, swearing loudly, then spitting on the pavement.
Field made to intervene, but thought better of it. He lit up as he watched the beggar retreat to the side of the store.
Unusually, she appeared to be on her own, so he reached into his pocket, walked over, and pushed a one-dollar piece into her hand. She was young, her eyes expressionless. It was a moment or two before he realized that the baby she was holding was dead.
Field turned back to the car. His breathing had quickened. The driver was shaking his head. Field threw away his cigarette and took refuge in the car again. He leaned against the side window and closed his eyes.
Caprisi pulled the door open and clambered in. He was carrying a brown paper bag. “Central,” he said, tapping the driver on the shoulder.
“Get what you wanted?” Field asked.
“Sure.” Caprisi paused. “When we get back, you’ll go and see if there is a file on Sergei, right?” The American looked at him, his gaze level. “You know, about back there. I hear what you say, and I understand about your father and I’m sorry, but Lena was a prostitute, you know.”
“So it doesn’t matter?”
“I didn’t say that. I just don’t think it is a good idea to get so worked up about it.”
Field looked out of the window again. “You care about it.”
“But I’m looking at you all hunched up in there, with bunched fists, looking like you’re going to kill that little fucker.”
Field didn’t answer.
“You won’t survive in this city if you make everything personal.”
Field looked at him but didn’t respond.

 

There was a file on Sergei Stanislevich. Like Lena and Natasha, he was from Kazan on the Volga and had attended meetings at the
New Shanghai Life.
Field was flicking through the contents when Prokopieff came in. The Russian nodded at him. “The Lentov file,” he told Danny. Field noticed he hadn’t bothered to fill out any paperwork.
Prokopieff leaned back against the desk, crossing his legs. He was wearing long black leather riding boots that looked to have been standard issue for the Cossack officer he said he’d once been. Field realized he was no longer prepared to take anything at face value.
“Where did you learn to punch like that?” the Russian asked.
“School.”
“You punch like a boxer.”
“I was a boxer.”
Prokopieff smiled. “I would stay away from Sorenson. He’s not happy about his jaw.”
Field didn’t answer.
“How is the prostitute?”
“Still dead.”
The Russian shook his head. “Grow up, Field. That’s what happens to little Russian princesses. They get fucked, and then they get dead.”
“You don’t talk like a Cossack officer.”
Prokopieff didn’t react.
Field stood and put the file back down on the desk. “Stanislevich.” Prokopieff clicked his tongue. “Mr. Nobody. You think it was him?”
“No.”
“Put it down to an angry client.”
“Because she was a prostitute, or because she was a Russian?”
Prokopieff looked at Field sourly. “Because she doesn’t matter.”
“And what if there have been others . . . if there will be others?”
The Russian leaned forward, and Field could smell the alcohol on his breath. “It’s an English expression: you make your bed, you lie in it.” He laughed. “You fuck in your bed, you get fucked in it.”
Field knew that Prokopieff was trying to provoke him, but it was still a struggle to tear himself away. He walked to the door and closed it quietly, resisting the temptation to slam it. He took control of himself with each step down to the first floor, where Caprisi had said they would find Chen.
As Field passed, two scantily dressed Chinese girls were being booked by the duty sergeant.
Caprisi was talking to Chen by the entrance to the toilet on the far side of the room, and they both nodded as Field approached. The bench beside them had civilian clothes hanging along it, and the floor was covered with wooden truncheons, which a clerk had obviously been sorting through. Each one had a leather strap, though most had been broken. Four machine guns and a couple of steel helmets had been stacked on top of the iron lockers in the corner.
The place smelled and felt like the changing rooms at the spartan boarding school Field had attended in Yorkshire.
Chen beckoned them both into the toilet, shutting the door behind them and checking that each cubicle was vacant before retreating to the sinks at the far end. The sun streamed through the window, illuminating the side of Chen’s face.
Field thought that most people would probably consider the Chinese detective handsome. He had a square jaw, short dark hair, and steady eyes. He exuded a quiet strength.
Chen touched his ears to indicate why they had come in here. “One of the neighbors,” he said quietly. “A building opposite. An old Chinese, lives on his own. Says he never sleeps. He saw a black car, probably Chevrolet, come up about four
A.M.
Bodyguards get out street side, but he can’t see who goes in—it’s dark and the car blocks his view. One hour, then whoever it is leaves, car goes off. He sees the girl Natasha come in before this—about three.”
“As she said,” Caprisi added.
“But not Lena. She is inside all night.”
“No other visitors?”
“He cannot say. He’s not always watching. When he is bored, he watches the street. Especially Happy Times. He knows the girls are Lu’s.”
“He didn’t see anyone else?”
“He didn’t say he saw anyone.”
Caprisi frowned and shook his head. “But
four
o’clock. Krauss said she died at one, if not before.”
“Maybe Krauss is wrong.”
Caprisi slammed his fist down on one of the washbasins.
“Prokopieff tailed me there,” Chen said. “How fucking stupid does he think I am?”
Caprisi’s frown deepened. “He tailed you?”
“From here. I went on foot, down Foochow, and he was there . . . sticking out . . .”
“Did he want you to see him?”
Chen shrugged.
“All right,” Caprisi said. “This feels to me like we’re going down the same road that led us into trouble before with the opium dens. Wherever possible, we have to work together. If we leave this building to do anything, we should try always to be together, and armed.”
The door opened and a uniformed Chinese officer walked in. He was young—just a constable—and he nodded at Chen respectfully.

 

Caprisi took Field down to the car but wouldn’t tell him where they were going. They drove through the French Concession and out toward the edge of the old Chinese town before going on foot. The day had lost its heat, but not yet its light. Dust kicked up by the human traffic hung beneath the curved rooftops of the buildings that lined the narrow lane along which they walked.
They turned into a still-narrower alley, passing tiny shops with carved, inlaid wooden shutters, beneath paper lanterns that had not yet been lit. They could hear the sound of a flute, and ahead of them a group of small boys was playing in the dirt. The smell of human excrement made Field gag.
They turned into a tailor’s shop. Every inch of space had been used to the full. A dummy stood in the middle of a square cutting table. There was a mirror on the far wall and only just enough room to stand. Caprisi was smiling. “The best tailor in Shanghai. We’re going to get you out of that suit.”
“I . . .”
“You can pay me back.”
The old man smiled and held up his tape measure. A young boy stood beside him, his face expectant, and Field felt it was churlish to complain. He allowed himself to be measured while Caprisi talked to the man in rapid Shanghainese. As he watched and listened, he realized how little experience he had with the local people, beyond his day-to-day police work or his living quarters at Carter Road. He admired the ease with which Caprisi slipped into conversation with them.

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