The Master of Rain (54 page)
Read The Master of Rain Online
Authors: Tom Bradby
Examining her more closely, he thought she seemed older, more tired and frayed. She looked weary and cynical, her eyes hooded. Field wondered if this was just a reflection of his own disillusionment.
“I’m looking for Natasha Medvedev.”
Mrs. Orlov shook her head.
“Will she be in later?”
The woman maintained her studied disinterest. “I haven’t seen her—not for at least the last few nights.”
“Do you have any idea where she might be?”
“You know where she lives.”
“She’s not there.”
“You know where she might be found.”
Field felt his face reddening. He took a step back, into the doorway. “Do you know of any associates or friends she has in the city?”
Mrs. Orlov shook her head, her manner still frosty.
“Did Natalya Simonov ever dance here?”
She shook her head again.
“Natalya Medvedev?”
Her frown deepened.
“Irina Ignatiev?”
“I do not know these girls.”
Field looked at her for a moment. “Thank you.” He moved to close the door.
“Would you like me to give her a message?”
“No.”
“Shall I say you called?”
“No, it’s . . . No.”
Field ran down the steps, the old anger starting to burn within him.
At Crane Road, Penelope opened the door. “Soldier,” she said as she stepped back, very slightly unsteady on her feet. “How nice.”
Penelope gently coaxed him over the threshold, leading him through to the drawing room, an arm draped over his. She pushed him onto the long sofa in front of the Chinese dresser. It was uncomfortable and, like the room as a whole, felt unlived in. “Geoffrey is out at meetings, but you must relax. You look like you’ve been working too hard.”
Field had told himself he’d come to see Geoffrey and he was therefore, he assured himself, disappointed.
The Chinese servant came in carrying a silver tray with two empty glasses. “This will do,” she said. She took a full bottle of whiskey from the sideboard and poured two drinks.
Penelope was wearing a low-cut silver dress, a long string of pearls hanging around her neck. She looked as if she was about to go out.
She handed him a glass before collapsing onto the sofa next to him. “Chin up.”
Penelope knocked back her drink in one and Field found himself doing the same. It burned his stomach and he groaned quietly, then leaned his head back.
“Tired soldier,” Penelope said.
She moved to her knees in front of him and tugged at the laces on his shoes.
“No, I’m . . .”
“Come on,” she said. “Don’t be silly. It’s about time you relaxed. That’s why you came here, isn’t it? The comfort of family.” She took off both shoes, then whipped off his socks, tickling the bottom of his right foot as he withdrew it.
Penelope refilled the glass and handed it back to him. “Geoffrey is just like this. Doesn’t like to talk about things.”
Field took the glass, looked at it for a moment, then downed it in one again. Penelope followed suit, smiling at him. She held up the empty glass. “To the comfort of family,” she said. “Look at your shoulders.” She put her glass down and moved around behind the sofa. She massaged his neck and back expertly.
“You’re hurt.” She came around to the front. “What happened to you, Richard? Your girl let you down?”
Field didn’t answer. “Do you know Charles Lewis well?” he asked.
“Charlie?”
“Yes.”
“One knows him.”
“Would you say he is the most powerful man in Shanghai?”
There was a mirror opposite, and Field watched Penelope tilt her head to one side, frowning slightly. “I suppose so. I’ve never really thought about it.”
Field’s mind was now so overrun by questions that he shut his eyes again.
“Do you know who killed the Russian girl?” she asked him.
“We’re getting close.”
“Tell me. Who is it?”
Field didn’t answer. He didn’t want to think about it and he knew she was only making small talk.
Penelope released him. She took his glass and refilled it again. She placed a hand against his cheek. “Drink up, soldier.” She poured herself another, too, and they faced each other and drank. “Ooh . . . I feel quite drunk now. Geoffrey hates me drinking whiskey.”
Penelope bent down, her breath warm against his ears. “Relax, Richard. Let it go.”
Field closed his eyes.
“Has she hurt you, Richard? Is that what it is? Has the Russian princess betrayed you? They always do, you know.” He felt the glass against his lips. “Drink, Richard.”
Field stood. “I just need to excuse . . .”
“Upstairs, I’ll show you.” She held his hand.
“Actually, I should . . .”
“Geoffrey will want to see you. You can talk to him about it.”
She was still holding his hand, leading him up the stairs, and then they were in her room and she was turning, slipping the dress from her shoulders, so that she was naked from the waist up, wearing nothing but a garter belt and stockings below.
Her mouth was warm and sweet, despite the whiskey, her skin soft. She reached down and took hold of him through his trousers, releasing her grip only to brush against him, moving her hips from side to side.
He staggered, trying to pull away, but her grip was strong. “I know you came for this,” she hissed. She kissed him with sudden ferocity as she unbuttoned his fly.
Penelope sank to her knees and took him into her mouth. He could feel her tugging at his trousers, taking her lips from him only long enough to free them, the wetness soothing as she took him to the base of her throat. She stood again, unbearably close as she took off his holster and unbuttoned his shirt.
She led him back toward the bed and lay down, legs slightly apart, so that he could see the pink lips glistening beneath the dark hair. She took his head and guided it there, the smell of her filling his nostrils. He tried to pull away, but she grabbed his hair savagely and pulled his face toward her own, taking hold of him and forcing him into her.
Penelope suddenly pushed him over again, onto his back. Her nipples were erect and she put a hand over his and pulled it to her breast. She pressed down against him, so that he found himself grunting, half in pain, half in anger.
His remorse was instant. Field waited perhaps ten seconds, but as soon as she was off him, some of his semen dripping back onto his stomach, he stood up and wiped it away with his shirt.
He put his shirt on, not caring how squalid that felt.
Penelope sat up, clutching her knees, resting her head on them and looking at him, her hair across her face. “Everything is not as it seems.”
“Isn’t it?” he said as he tried to pull his trousers on. “I suppose you’re going to tell me your husband doesn’t make you happy.”
“The world isn’t always simple.”
“Well, it is to me.”
“You don’t have to blame yourself.”
He stopped and looked at her. “One of the things my father—my lower-middle-class father, the disgrace to the family—one of the things he always said was that you should take responsibility for your own actions.”
Field thought about the way Penelope had draped her arm affectionately over her husband’s shoulder on the first night they’d all met up.
“You don’t have to be chippy, you know. I don’t care about all that.”
“All what?”
“The family.”
“Great. Fine.” He did up the buttons on his shirt.
“Don’t blame yourself, Richard,” she said, sitting up on her elbow and looking at him, the sheet falling away from her breasts. “No one will know.”
“No one will know,” he repeated. “I will know.” He stood. “It was a mistake.”
She glared at him. “A mistake?”
“A mistake, yes.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Don’t tell me you think it wasn’t.”
“Just a mistake, that’s it?”
Field sighed.
“This is why you came here, and don’t you deny it.”
“Fine.”
Her face was small and angry as she thrust it toward him. “You were intent on fucking me the moment you came through that door.”
“It wasn’t a mistake, then.”
“You were trying to get even, is that it?”
“I’m going to go.”
“Determined to get back at the family because—”
“Oh please . . .”
“Well, you’ve succeeded. Are you happy now?”
“It has nothing to do with—”
“Your girl. Is that it?”
“Look . . .”
“I can see it in your face: it’s the Russian princess. Another bloody Russian princess.”
Field frowned.
“Oh, don’t worry, Richard, she’ll find out. I’ll make sure of that and then your love will wither on the vine.” Her eyes flashed. “You’re all the same: you think you can get away with it, but you can’t.”
Field raised his hand, suddenly tired and wanting to leave with the minimum possible rancor. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“What will she think when she knows?”
“I’m sorry if I upset you.”
Her anger disappeared in an instant. Her smile was sickly sweet. “Do you want me to get Chang for you?”
“I’ll get a rickshaw.”
“Will you give me a kiss, Richard?”
“Penelope, please . . .”
“You just fucked me, Richard. Be polite, if nothing else.”
He walked forward and leaned over. She kissed him with an open mouth, briefly grasping the back of his neck. “I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you,” she said.
Field hesitated. He looked at the gold Buddha beside her, then walked away.
“Richard?”
He didn’t stop.
Field went to the Happy Times block and stood beneath the line of trees, but there were no lights on the top floor.
He tried to walk away, but got only a few paces before he turned back.
He moved quickly through the light and shadow, the heat of the night bringing sweat to his brow as he climbed the stairs again to the darkened hall. He knocked, quietly calling her name, but there was no answer.
Forty-five
T
he first glimmer of dawn awoke him and Field lay still, every muscle in his body screaming at the discomfort of the night. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was. He lifted his cheek from the cold marble floor and rubbed his eyes. His shoulder was cramped against her door.
he first glimmer of dawn awoke him and Field lay still, every muscle in his body screaming at the discomfort of the night. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was. He lifted his cheek from the cold marble floor and rubbed his eyes. His shoulder was cramped against her door.
Natasha had not been home.
He turned and paced from one side of the hall to the other.
Field took the notepad from his pocket and his father’s fountain pen. For a moment, as he tried to think what to say, he wondered if this is what his father had felt for his mother. Was it love that ruined you?
Field wrote:
Please call. I will be in the office. Central 26522, extension 79.
He almost added,
I know about the boy,
but thought better of it. He did not sign it.
Please call. I will be in the office. Central 26522, extension 79.
He almost added,
I know about the boy,
but thought better of it. He did not sign it.
Slowly, he opened the door to the stairwell and began to descend to the street. It was still early, a hint of color on the rooftops, the air heavy and close. He felt the stubble on his chin. He thought he could still taste Penelope in his mouth and it disgusted him. His clothes were a mess.
Field passed a line of bodies huddled against the wall of the race club and then stopped by its entrance and turned back one last time. As he swung around, a short Chinese in a pinstripe suit and black trilby stopped about twenty yards behind him.
Field looked at him, but the man made no attempt to hide, or to pretend that he was doing anything other than following him.
Field began walking again, listening to his own footsteps and the echo behind him. He felt for his revolver.
He kept a steady pace, skirting the race club and waiting for a solitary tram to pass before crossing the road. His pursuer maintained his distance.
In Carter Road, Field had thought to try and lose him, but as he walked past the church, the graveyard of which he would have used to shake off his pursuer, he saw another man reading a newspaper on the far side, and a third standing at the intersection ahead.
He slipped his hand inside his jacket and took hold of his revolver, then stopped. The footsteps halted behind him, but neither of the men ahead moved. He was ten yards beyond the church. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest.
Other books
Game of Souls by Terry C. Simpson
Delilah: A Novel by Edghill, India
Emily's Choice by Heather McCoubrey
Sons of the City by Scott Flander
Winsor, Kathleen by Forever Amber
The Devil's Garden by Montanari, Richard
Take Me by Locklyn Marx
Apocalypse by Troy Denning
Angel of the Somme: The Great War, Book 1 by Terri Meeker
Fiendish Schemes by K. W. Jeter
