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Authors: Tom Bradby

BOOK: The Master of Rain
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Field frowned.
“There’s a background file,” Danny added hastily.
“Then I’ll take that.”
Danny turned around, disappearing behind the shelves and reemerging a few moments later with one bulging folder and a slim one.
“Can I get the current file on Lu?”
“There isn’t one.”
“There must be one.”
“We don’t have it.” Danny was flustered.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
Field hesitated. “I thought all files have to be signed out and a memo put through to you if forwarded anywhere different.”
“Yes.”
“So you have a note of who the file’s signed out to?”
“No.”
“But—”
“I mean yes. Granger has it.”
“Well, I’ll get it from him, then.”
“Sure.” Danny looked down. He was filling in the book in front of him, writing the file numbers and subjects alongside Field’s name. He turned it around for him to sign before shutting it and retreating behind the shelves once more, without looking back.
Field took the stairs to the third floor, where Caprisi was on the phone, his jacket over the back of the chair, along with his leather holster. Watching him, Field noticed how well groomed he was, his hair neatly trimmed at the back and side. A leather wallet was open on the desk, and Field saw that there was a photograph inside of a young woman with short dark hair, holding a young boy.
Caprisi put down the phone and swung around. He saw the direction of Field’s gaze and snatched the wallet up, slipping it into his trouser pocket. “Come on, Krauss has got the body.”
Five
C
aprisi led Field down the stairs to the basement and through the swing doors of Pathology to the darkened lab at the end. There was a single, bright light in the ceiling and the room was heavy with the smell of formaldehyde. Krauss, in his long white coat, was standing next to Maretsky.
Lena Orlov lay flat on her back on a metal trolley in front of them. A white sheet covered her from the swell of her breasts to below her knees. Somehow she looked more peaceful here.
“No assault,” Maretsky said, shaking his head.
“No sexual assault,” Caprisi corrected.
“Time of death,” Krauss said, with only the faintest hint of a German accent. “I would say around one o’clock in the morning. If the Russian neighbor found her at one o’clock in the afternoon, then I think she’d already been dead almost twelve hours.”
“No consensual sex?” Caprisi asked.
“Not as far as I can tell.”
“Then why the fancy underwear and the handcuffs?”
Krauss shrugged. Field didn’t know if it was the light, but Lena Orlov’s skin looked even whiter than it had in the flat.
“Some kind of fantasy,” Maretsky said. “Was she a prostitute?”
“We’re not sure of her circumstances yet,” Caprisi said. He turned and it was a second or two before Field realized that he was required to expand.
“Her file is thin,” he said.
“There’s a surprise,” Caprisi said.
“She used to be a tea dancer,” Field went on. “She attended meetings with known Bolsheviks, but I agree with Caprisi, that needs further investigation, because it looks like she was from an aristocratic background in Russia.”
“All right,” Maretsky said firmly, as if not wanting to dwell on this. “So it’s the usual gray area. A tea dancer makes an arrangement with a man for a sexual meeting, either through her association with Lu or some other avenue. She lets him into the flat . . . Did anyone see him come in?”
“I just sent Chen back down,” Caprisi said, “but Lu owned the building, so you can be reasonably sure that no one will have heard or seen anything.”
“The man comes in,” Maretsky went on. “He makes sure she is in these panties . . .” Maretsky thought for a moment, a chubby fist to his mouth, staring at Lena Orlov’s face through his dirty, round, steel-framed glasses. “I think this is a precise fantasy. Everything must be right. He gets her to wear these particular underclothes. Perhaps they have had a relationship or . . . arrangement, and she knows this is his exact fantasy. He handcuffs her to the bed.” Maretsky’s accent seemed to get thicker, Field noticed, the more he had to think, as if the process of drawing on a mental filing cabinet compiled during a different era automatically transported him back there. “Then he . . . This is the point.” He shrugged. “One could say it is a convenient way of ensuring that she cannot resist or fight. Perhaps it even allows him to put a hand over her mouth. But, of course, it’s more than that. This is part of the fantasy. She must be helpless. Supine. Entirely under his control.”
They were silent again.
“So they’d met before?” Caprisi asked. “Whoever it was, it was definitely not a first assignation?”
“Possibly.” Maretsky shrugged again. “Probably. I would guess there was a pattern that led up to this: same setting, with the underwear and the handcuffs, but not going to this point. Perhaps culminating in some form of violence, but not murder.”
Field looked at Lena Orlov’s face. There was no sign of any bruising there, nor on her neck or shoulders, but she seemed nonetheless to bear the hallmarks of a victim. Perhaps it was because of what he knew, or thought he did, of her circumstances, but he could imagine her allowing herself to be beaten.
He saw Natasha Medvedev again in his mind’s eye, strong hands clutching at her shoulders until the knuckles whitened. Would she have submitted herself to violence in this manner?
“So it couldn’t be the result of an argument?” Caprisi asked. “Jealousy? Lovers’ quarrel?”
“It’s possible, but it is better to begin with what is likely.”
Maretsky displayed a disarming modesty. Field thought it was the deliberate act of a clever man to tailor his manner to his audience.
“But you think not?” Caprisi asked.
Maretsky turned to the pathologist.
“Savage stabbing. Eighteen in all,” Krauss said, nicotine-stained fingers pressed to his lips. He dropped a hand and pulled back the sheet, revealing Lena’s naked, punctured body. The blood had been cleaned from her skin, which made the livid bruising around the stab wounds even more visible. There were so many holes that in some places the skin looked as though it had been stretched too thin and hung like thread. In others—around the top of her vagina—incisions grouped close together had created deep craters. Field blanched and turned away. Caprisi eyed him curiously, as if surprised at his squeamishness.
“See,” Krauss went on as Field forced himself to turn back. “Frenzied. Again and again, in her stomach and in the upper part of her sexual organs.” He reached down and put one long, slim, bony finger on the dark mound of hair at the base of Lena Orlov’s stomach. “Here, and on her breasts also.”
“This is not sudden anger,” Maretsky went on, no longer prepared to invite conflicting views. “Not the anger that stems from a disagreement or jealousy: that would be done in a flash, then instantly recoiled from. One incision, or a couple at most, instantly regretted as the perpetrator senses this will result in death and that he has gone too far. No, this stems from a deep-seated rage. It is perhaps sexual in nature. It has been building for a long time. The relationship . . . arrangement . . . has been leading up to this point, though poor Lena has not known it. It has exploded here.”
“He’s done this before?” Caprisi asked.
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps, or he has?”
“He has, I would say.”
“But we haven’t seen anything like it?”
“I’m checking the records. And we’re talking to the French gendarmerie. We’ve even contacted the Chinese police, not that that will do any good.”
Once again, they all stared silently at Lena Orlov’s body, until Field cleared his throat and took a step back.

 

They left Maretsky and Krauss together in the basement—both, Field thought, in their own way, creatures of the darkness—and got back into the lift. Caprisi pulled across the metal cage door with unnecessary aggression and leaned back heavily on the wall behind him.
“I’m sorry to be ignorant,” Field said, “but are all tea dancers prostitutes?”
“Try one for size and you’ll see.”
Caprisi hit the buttons for the third and fourth floors, then leaned back again with a sigh, his face softening. He seemed suddenly less hostile. “You know,” he went on, “they say these Russian women commit suicide at the rate of one a week. They come here with nothing . . .” Caprisi turned to him. “You imagine, you grow up in a beautiful house, with a large staff and the belief that the world is there to serve you and then”—he flicked his fingers—“all gone. Months if not years of terror as you escape across the vast wilderness of your country, and then you wind up here, penniless, your father and mother probably dead. How do you support your siblings? What do you do to stay alive? If you do nothing, then you live on the streets and slowly starve to death.”
The lift seemed to be moving more slowly than ever. Field thought of the big house his own mother had been brought up in and the shame of his father’s bankruptcy.
“Some teach English, or music, or French or Russian. Many of them go to the cabarets and offer themselves for a dance at a dollar a time. You want more? Maybe, maybe not. Depends on their mood, on you, on the money.”
They’d reached the third floor. Caprisi jammed his foot in the door.
“That’s the demimonde.
Les entraîneuses,
they call them. The entertainers. Beautiful, sad women, reduced to a life nothing could have prepared them for, and which many cannot manage.”
Caprisi was staring at Field with intense, dark eyes. “Try one, Field, and see how much you hate yourself.” Then he stepped out and walked away.
Field now put his foot against the door. “I didn’t know you were married.”
Caprisi turned. “Who says I’m married?”
“The photograph . . . I thought . . .”
“Don’t pry, Field. I told you that.”
“Why did Chen have to restrain you today?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
They stared at each other.
“What do you want me to do?” Field asked.
“Whatever you were sent here to do. Write up your file. Tell Granger.”
“I was sent to help.”
Caprisi smiled thinly. “Tell Granger you’ve helped.”
“What about Lena Orlov?”
“What about her?”
“Shouldn’t we find out where she worked, what her life was like, who she mixed with, whether anyone saw the man in her apartment?”
“I
should.”
Field frowned. “Shouldn’t this go a little beyond internal politics?”
“Tell Granger that.”
Field felt the sweat breaking out on his forehead again. “You don’t trust me, do you?”
Caprisi shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t trust anyone from Granger’s mob.”
“That doesn’t make sense. We’re from the same force.”
“You think so? Then good luck to you, Dickie.”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t patronize me.”
Caprisi frowned. “Why would I want to do that?”
“I may be new, but I’m not stupid.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that, Dickie.”
Caprisi held his stare. Field tried hard to see what was behind the American’s dark eyes. He suddenly felt as if everyone in this city were a total, unfathomable stranger, and would remain so.
“All right,” Caprisi said, his face softening again. He took a pace toward him. “All right, Field. I’ve got some paperwork to do, but come down in a couple of hours and we’ll go from there.”
Field looked at his watch, embarrassed.
“You have a social engagement. Drinks at the Shanghai Club?”
“He’s my uncle.”
Caprisi looked as if he was going to say something else, then thought better of it. “Tomorrow morning, then. Nine o’clock, if that’s not too early for you. We’ll meet and then go to the ten o’clock briefing.”
“What about Lu?”
“Easy, polar bear.” Caprisi smiled. “As I said, welcome to Shanghai. It’s one slow step at a time, if we manage to take any steps at all.”

 

Granger was on the phone when Field knocked on the glass door of his office a few minutes later, but shouted, “Come in.”
Field stood awkwardly in front of him, trying to pretend he wasn’t listening to the call. Granger was discussing arrangements to go to the cinema with his wife. He smiled at Field as he suggested they see
Trifling Women.
The office was small. A bookcase behind him was lined with leather-bound volumes. There was a black-and-white photograph of an attractive dark-haired woman.

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