The Master of Rain (58 page)

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Authors: Tom Bradby

BOOK: The Master of Rain
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“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not empowered—”
“For Christ’s sake!”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Listen.” Field tried to calm himself. “Listen to me. Let me repeat. This is Richard Field, S.1, at the house of Patrick Granger, who has just been shot seven times in the chest. I urgently need a number for Detective Caprisi.”
There was another hesitation. “Do you have Detective Caprisi’s Christian name, sir?”
Field tried to think. “No, I don’t, but just look it up.” He waited. “Come on,” he said.
“I’m sorry, sir, I’m looking.”
Field turned to see the number one boy emerging from the kitchen area.
“All right, sir, I have it. Detective Caprisi, Lane 1522, 6 Bubbling Well Road. Telephone number, Central 36278.”
Field cut the connection and dialed Caprisi’s number. It was busy. He tried again but got the same signal. “Come on, Caprisi,” he muttered, but every time he dialed, he got the same response.
The number one boy was looking at the scene in the doorway and turned with a start as he sensed Field behind him. “Car,” Field said. “Keys.”
The man looked confused and frightened.
Field tried to imitate the action of someone putting a key in an ignition and starting a car. The man eventually understood and reached up to the shelf above him on which his master’s hats were stored.
Geoffrey came out of the living room as the servant handed Field the keys. “Christ, man, you’re wounded.” He tried for a moment to prevent him from leaving, but Field pushed roughly past, catching his uncle off balance.
“For God’s sake,” he heard Lewis say, but he shut the door and reached over to set the spark and throttle levers, then turned the self-starter. He switched the levers again, released the emergency hand brake, and shoved his left foot against the low speed pedal. He eased it off and slipped into high gear as the car gathered speed.
He was going too fast as he came to the end of the street and almost crashed into another dark sedan as he pulled out onto Peking Road.
A few spots of rain splattered against the windshield and he leaned forward, nursing his bad arm, swinging left into Yu Ya Ching Road and then right into Bubbling Well Road.
There was a small crowd outside Caprisi’s apartment. Field sprinted up the iron steps outside the building to the first floor.
He stopped.
For a moment he could not move.
“No,” he whispered.
Field took a step closer.
He fell to the floor, ignoring the searing pain in his arm. He touched Caprisi’s cold neck, fumbling for a pulse. The glass in the door had shattered and Caprisi was lying flat on his back in the corridor, his revolver in one hand. He was wearing white shorts and T-shirt and, like Granger, he’d been hit repeatedly in the chest.
“No,” Field said again.
He shut his eyes and tried to concentrate. He pushed his fingers into the skin and tried to locate some sign of life. He gripped the American’s wrist.
Field put his head on Caprisi’s chest, his hands on his shoulders.
He touched Caprisi’s cheeks and stared into his eyes. He shook him. “Come on,” he said. “Come on.” He shook him harder. He took hold of the American’s shoulders and moved him roughly from side to side. “Come on, for pity’s sake.”
Field ran his hands through Caprisi’s hair. He took some between his fingers and pulled. “Come on.”
He waited for a response.
“Come on!”
Caprisi’s mouth was tightly shut, his eyes staring at a fixed point in the ceiling, his slicked-back hair ruffled where Field had held it. His head was tilted to one side, his left hand open, stretching toward the door.
Field sat back against the wall.
He did not move.
Field reached out and touched Caprisi’s cheek with shaking fingers. “Sleep well, my friend,” he said. In his eyes, silent tears were forming. A drop fell on his hand as he withdrew it from Caprisi’s face.
He stood unsteadily. “Fuck it,” he said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He took a step back.
He picked up a chair, lifted it, with difficulty, above his head, and hurled it through the broken window.
He took another step back.
Field took a thin yellow raincoat from one of the pegs above him and placed it over Caprisi’s chest.
He leaned back against the wall and breathed in as deeply as his lungs would allow, his eyes shut in an attempt to close his mind to the guilt that threatened to engulf him.
Footsteps clattered up the iron stairs. Field did not move, no longer caring if they were coming for him.
The footsteps stopped. There was no sound. He opened his eyes and straightened slowly, turning to see Chen standing in the doorway, his arm in a sling, his face white from the exertion of the climb. He stepped in, leaned against the far wall, and slid down it, too, so that they faced each other across Caprisi’s body.
Field sat back. “I never even got to thank him,” he said.
Chen looked at him steadily.
“Why Caprisi?”
Chen sighed. “Caprisi did not fit into their world.”
“Why tonight?”
“Your investigation. And the drugs. The
Saratoga
sails tomorrow. The shipment must go ahead.”
“Lewis.”
Chen did not answer.
Field straightened once more. He put his hands in his pockets and stepped into the tiny kitchen. Postcards were taped to the fridge, most from Chicago but some from other cities in America: Miami, Boston, New York, Los Angeles. Field took them all off carefully and turned them over. They were nearly all from “Mom and Dad,” though the one with the Hollywood banner on the front was from “Carol” and gleefully announced that Caprisi’s little sister was going to make it big in the movies.
Field walked down the corridor to the bedroom—which was completely bare—and the living room.
There were two photographs on the mantelpiece: one of Caprisi with what looked like his sister and his parents, a handsome white-haired man and a large dark-haired woman, and one of the girl and the baby that Field had seen in the American’s wallet. Field picked it up to take a closer look. Beneath it was a small, leather-bound album. He opened it and stared at the picture on the first page. It was of a boy of about three or four, wearing a baseball outfit and gripping a bat, a huge smile on his face. On the other side of the page was a more formal picture, and Field could see the family resemblance. The boy had straight, short, dark hair and solemn eyes, just like his father.
There was a shot of Caprisi standing next to his son, an arm on his shoulder, and another of all three of them in a studio. Caprisi and the boy wore serious expressions, but the woman had a warm, easy smile. She was pretty, with a small nose, dark hair, and a steady gaze.
The rest of the photographs had been taken in a backyard. There was one of Caprisi kneeling with his arm around his son, both of them again in baseball attire. There was another of the boy as a baby, in his mother’s arms.
The last picture in the album was of the boy sitting on his mother’s lap. She had the same serene smile.
Field stared at the photograph until the tears in his eyes made the figures blur. “Well, you’re with them now,” Field said. “Maybe what you wanted.”
He closed the album, put it carefully back on the mantelpiece. Chen was still sitting on the floor close to the door, head bent.
For the first time in his life, Field wanted to believe in a God. He groped for something good beyond this, but found only icy despair.
He felt paralyzed, powerless to save himself.
The woman in the photograph seemed to be watching him.
He forced himself to walk back down the corridor. He knelt by Caprisi’s body and after a moment’s hesitation, ran his hand over Caprisi’s hair, the way he’d done with Edith when they were children. Chen did not move.
Field leaned back. “Granger is dead, Chen.”
Chen stood. “The cabal has guarded its secrets well. You must go, Field, before it is too late.” He took out a piece of paper and wrote down a number. “If you need help . . .”
For a moment Field didn’t respond.
Chen glanced down at Caprisi’s body. “You can show your gratitude to him by staying alive.”
Forty-eight
A
n hour later Field walked into the deserted lobby of the Central Police Station. He nodded to the doorman, Albert, and headed for the lift. He pressed the button and watched the dial as it descended. He looked about him, then stepped in and pulled the cage across with his good arm.
He hit the button for the fourth floor and it cranked into action. It stopped with a jolt when it reached its destination. Field pulled back the door and hesitated before stepping out into the darkness of the S.1 office.
He walked through the patchwork of streetlight and shadow, realizing that he should have asked Albert if anyone was in.
Field reached Granger’s office. The glass door was ajar and he hesitated again, then pushed it open.
He rounded the desk and sat in Granger’s leather chair, in the darkness.
As he flicked on the light, the picture of Caroline on the corner of the desk leaped out at him. He reached forward and placed it facedown.
Field looked up sharply and turned the light off again, thinking he’d heard some movement at the far end of the main office. It was several minutes before he was satisfied no one was there.
The desk appeared to have been cleared out. The middle and right-hand drawers were empty. The drawer on his left was full of expense forms, meticulously filled out in Yang’s handwriting and signed by Patrick. Beneath them, he found a series of Hong Kong Shanghai Bank statements stapled together.
Field glanced through them. He was surprised to find that the Grangers appeared to have lived reasonably frugally, with few withdrawals, except for a large amount taken out on the first of each month. There were only two deposits, one of which was Granger’s salary, a generous two thousand dollars a month; the other, for two hundred dollars, was apparently a transfer from London.
Field pulled out the last sheet of paper in the drawer, a letter from the secretary of the Municipal Council, Geoffrey Donaldson, dated today, acknowledging, in formal language, Patrick Granger’s
interest in the post of police commissioner
and assuring him that it
will be taken very seriously at the appropriate time.
There was no personal flourish to the letter and it was signed, simply,
Yours, Geoffrey.
The two cabinets in the desk were also empty.
Field stood, turned off the light, and pulled the door to Granger’s office gently shut. He walked downstairs to the C.1 office and stopped by the door, listening carefully.
He edged forward, then walked briskly through the darkness to Caprisi’s desk. He flicked on the light. There was a sheaf of paper in the American’s in-tray, a typed report from Maretsky summarizing the details they’d discussed in person. The Russian had typed
ORLOV MURDER
in capitals at the top of the page.
Field glanced through it. On the third page, beneath Maretsky’s signature, Caprisi had written,
Tackle the boyfriend, Sergei; why was Lena Orlov so happy in the final weeks?
As with Granger’s desk, the left-hand drawer was full of expense forms, the right-hand one empty. Field could see that the lock on it had been forced. He heard the lift moving and waited to see which floor it would come to. He turned off the light.
The lift stopped and the cage was slammed back.
Macleod walked briskly toward him. Field expected Macleod to see him, but he headed straight to his office and shut the door.
Field heard a drawer being unlocked, opened, and then shut again. A few seconds later Macleod emerged with a file in his hands.
Field flicked on Caprisi’s desk light.
“Bugger—” Macleod recovered himself quickly. “You gave me a shock. Did you not see me come in?”
Field was looking at the file. It was the same color as the one containing the fingerprints. “I was thinking.”
Macleod shook his head. “How’s your shoulder?”
“Painful.”
“It’s a bad business.”
Field stared at him. “I suppose any war has casualties.”
“It doesn’t need to.”
“There’s not many of us left now.”
Macleod was avoiding his eyes. “You must be careful.”
“I intend to be.”
Macleod shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Field thought about the way in which he’d so easily assumed that, because the phone call to Lu before the attack at the factory had come from Caprisi’s phone, Caprisi himself must have made it.

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