Master of Rain

by Tom Bradby

  Penelope got up. She did not acknowledge Field or meet his eye and seemed to be moving as if in a dream. Geoffrey followed her, unsure she was even capable of such a simple task, and he came back in alone, a bowl in one hand and some dressings in the other.

  Field tried hard not to wince as the wound was cleaned.

  “It’s a good thing you came here,” Geoffrey said as he pushed a swab into the wound. “It’s only a nick, but would have turned nasty. Infections set in fast in this heat.”

  When he’d finished, Geoffrey wound a bandage slowly around the top of Field’s arm and secured it with a safety pin. Field watched his face, which was a study in concentration.

  “You did this in the war,” he said quietly.

  “Many times.” Geoffrey stood. “You’ll be fine,” he said, misinterpreting him. “I’ve dealt with a thousand worse.”

  Field nodded. “Macleod is behind it all.”

  Geoffrey frowned. “You’ll need a drink.”

  Field didn’t answer, but watched his uncle shuffle to the walnut sideboard and take out two glasses.

  “The group of officers in the force who work for Lu is called the cabal, and Macleod is its head,” Field said.

  “Macleod?”

  “Yes.”

  “Impossible. He’s as straight as a die.”

  “He’s told me I have until noon tomorrow to leave Shanghai.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “Macleod is in Lu’s pocket. Caprisi and I were coming close to unraveling the connection between the Orlov murder and the drug shipments—shipments that go through Fraser’s factories.”

  “Fraser’s?”

  “We think Charles Lewis has been operating a massive opium smuggling operation. Lu provides the opium, Lewis the transport. The opium is hidden in sewing machines or other mechanical products and shipped into Europe. Lewis was being given some of the girls Lu keeps as a favor, and Lu’s men would clean up after Lewis had . . . finished with them.”

  Geoffrey’s face had gone white. “Charles Lewis?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have evidence of this?”

  “We are very close.”

  “That’s what tonight was about?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Granger?”

  “Eliminating a rival.”

  Geoffrey drew on his cigarette, then looked out toward the veranda, deep in thought. “It’s preposterous. Do you have any idea how rich Charlie Lewis is?”

  Field nodded.

  “His grandfather founded Fraser’s, and he is certainly the richest man in Shanghai. He presides over a huge empire. The idea is absurd. He has less need of any illegal scheme than anyone I’ve ever met.”

  “We know he likes to abuse girls. He likes to be violent to the women he sleeps with.”

  “What evidence do you have?”

  “We are very close to finding a relative of one of the dead girls whom we believe will be able to positively identify Lewis as her killer.”

  “Who is this?”

  Field didn’t answer.

  “Is there any direct evidence of Macleod’s corruption or of the activities of what you call the cabal?”

  Field sighed.

  “Then you must go.”

  “I’m not going to run away.”

  “This is not London, Richard, or New York or Paris. We cannot always win the battle, but we must win the war. I cannot go to the council about Lewis or even Macleod without cast-iron evidence, and you have none. Macleod will certainly be the new commissioner now, whatever I say, unless we have something concrete to block his promotion.” Geoffrey sighed. “Your investigation has rattled cages clearly, but if Granger and your colleague have been killed, then I’m afraid there can be no further discussion. Go to Hong Kong. Get on a ship. We can arrange for you to join the police there for a time.” Geoffrey shook his head slowly and sat down wearily on the sofa opposite. Field noticed, as he bent down, that his uncle had a small bald patch on the dome of his sandy head.

  “Can’t Macleod be arrested?”

  “On what evidence?” Geoffrey arched his hands, then raised them to his chin. “You’re the policeman, Richard. You tell me what evidence you have.”

  Field looked at his reflection in the polished top of the coffee table. “I have responsibilities.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “A girl.”

  “A Russian?”

  “Yes.”

  “Natasha Medvedev.”

  Field felt his heart thumping again. “How did you know?”

  “Penelope said you’d formed an attachment. I’ve seen her sing at the Majestic.” Geoffrey’s face was hard. “You have no responsibilities to her or anyone else, Richard. Don’t be a fool. You must go. If you involve yourself with this woman any further, then none of us will be able to help you.”

  Field’s mind was spinning. Geoffrey stood and went and got the decanter of whiskey from the walnut sideboard. He refilled both glasses and then lit another cigarette. He sat heavily. “Russian girls have a habit, Richard, of not being everything that they seem.”

  “I know that.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first to be deceived.”

  Field nodded, without meeting his uncle’s eye.

  “Natasha Medvedev is a beautiful girl. So many are.” Geoffrey inhaled deeply on his cigarette. “I’m sure her story is tragic. They all are.” Field looked at his uncle. “The fact is, you will not be able to save her from herself.”

  “I have no choice.”

  “It’s love, I suppose.”

  Field didn’t answer, staring at the light dancing in the golden liquid in his glass. He looked up. “I’ve no right to ask this, but could you get her a passport and the correct papers?”

  Geoffrey stared down at his hands. Field became convinced that he would say no. “Do you have her full name?” he asked.

  “Natasha Olga Medvedev.”

  Geoffrey pushed himself to his feet and shuffled over to the sideboard, searching for a pen and paper.

  “Date of birth?”

  “April 1, 1900,” Field said, inventing it.

  Geoffrey turned toward him, suddenly smiling. “I’ll see what I can do, but on one condition. There can be no debate about this. You must clearly understand the nature of this city and your predicament. You must leave tomorrow on the first ship available. I will do what I can for the girl, but I now wish you to put her out of your mind. Is that clear?”

  Field did not respond.

  “There must be no misunderstanding, Richard. You can do nothing further for this girl. You must leave at once.”

  Fifty

  Field walked to the race club and squatted in the shadows beneath the clock tower. He did not know where else to go, and from here he could watch her apartment. There were no lights on up there. A family was sleeping alongside him, huddled together. The father, who was awake, watched him solemnly as the hours ticked past. Field thought of the family Caprisi had been helping and wondered what would become of them.

  He remembered the ball at the race club he had attended with Penelope.

  At about four o’clock a newspaper seller began to set up on the street corner, and Field stepped out of the shadows and bought a copy of the North China Daily News. The headline screamed “Bloody Friday.” He walked down to a gas streetlamp away from the Happy Times block and held the paper up to the light. Most of the articles were devoted to Patrick Granger—one of the finest public servants Shanghai has ever seen. There was a short report on Caprisi, alongside his police ID photograph. The article described him as a detective from Chicago, who’d come to Shanghai after killing his wife and young son in a drunken road accident. Field wondered where they’d got such detailed information. From Macleod, presumably, twisting the knife even after the American’s death.

  Field folded the newspaper and checked how much money he had with him. He managed to scrape together twenty dollars.

  He s
tepped back into the shadows, turned away from the family, took out his revolver, and checked that all the chambers were loaded. He had no further ammunition. He did not believe it was safe to go back to Carter Road.

  He wondered if Macleod really would let him leave. He looked at his watch once more and then nodded to the father of the family, who was still staring at him, and began to walk in the direction of the French Concession.

  The Russian church stood in darkness, the gravestones ghostly in the dim glow of the streetlamps.

  Field stood just inside the entrance. He looked at his feet. His shoes were scuffed and dirty. He ran his hand over his stubble and through his hair.

  It had only been nine days, but he found it hard to recall a world in which his every thought had not been defined by this woman, or to imagine one in which it might not be.

  He thought he saw the first light of dawn creeping over the rooftops. He scanned the graveyard again. He imagined that she, too, might be waiting in the shadows.

  Field thought he now understood what it was to await a sentence of death.

  He waited, motionless, movement no longer releasing him from his agitation.

  Field watched the gate as the dawn peeled away the darkness.

  He took a step toward the gate and then another and then, on instinct, spun around.

  She stood by the far wall, a black raincoat draped over her shoulders, her hair tied to one side. She was watching him, and although every fiber of his being screamed at his legs to run with all the force they could muster, he moved slowly, listening to his footsteps on the gravel path.

  Her hands were in front of her, clasped together. “Hello, Richard.”

  Field waited, hardly trusting himself to speak. “I didn’t think you would come.”

  “You didn’t leave me much choice.”

  “I know he’s your sister’s boy.”

  Neither of them moved.

  “When Natalya was killed,” Natasha said, “I tried to go. I took Alexei and got us onto a ship to Manila.” She stared at the ground by his feet. “For a few moments I felt . . . I believed in the impossible: that by acting swiftly I had got him out of this terrible place.” A look of inconsolable misery crossed her face. “But I turned around,” she said, “and he was gone.” She put her hand to her cheek, then let it fall. “A man came up to me to say that Alexei had been taken to an orphanage. Once a week, I go to Lu’s house and one of his men takes me in a car somewhere—not always the same place—and I am allowed to go to a room where I can look through a window and see Alexei playing. I cannot speak to him or contact him, but I can watch him for just a few moments, and then they take me away. If I ever fail to do what they say, then I know what will happen.”

  Field waited for her to continue, but she stood before him, almost in a trance. He became aware that the silence was being broken by the sound of cars behind them on Avenue Joffre, as the day gathered pace. He took a step toward her. “I cannot force you to trust me, but I believe I can get us out of here. You, the boy, all of us.”

  Natasha did not lift her eyes. She shook her head.

  “And if we do nothing, then we will all be dead. All of us. Macleod has given me until noon.”

  “Why you?”

  “They killed my partner. Last night. And they tried to kill me.” Field cleared his throat. “Even if you do not believe me, what kind of life do you think awaits Alexei in the orphanage and afterwards?”

  She did not answer.

  “Do you know what Lu likes to do with young boys from the orphanages?”

  Suddenly, she lunged for him, her head thumping against his chest, long, bony fingers digging into his shoulder blades, the smell of her skin flooding his senses, her hair in his mouth and eyes.

  He held her to him, then tried to release her, but she would not yield.

  He took hold of her shoulders and prized her away. He looked into her eyes, which spoke of her confusion and her relief and her uncertainty. “You must do exactly as I say.”

  “I’m not a child.”

  “We have only one chance. Where is Alexei?”

  She shook her head.

  “You must have some idea.”

  Natasha stared at him, and seeing only fear in her eyes, he tried to conceal what lurked behind his own.

  Fifty-one

  Field drove them straight to the orphanage. It was light now, the streets bustling with life as the city geared up for a new day.

  He killed the engine, and for a few moments Natasha stared at the white building in silence. She did not move until Field went around to open her door.

  Inside, the sound of the children having breakfast drifted down from the far end of the cavernous hallway. Natasha was moving slowly and he took hold of her arm.

  There was no one behind the glass window, but a doorman appeared from a room to the side. He looked at Field and Natasha and then disappeared without a word. He returned a few minutes later with Sister Margaret.

  She was not pleased to see him. Today there was no sunshine in the hallway and her hair seemed darker. “How can I help you, Mr. Field?”

  “This is Natasha Medvedev. She is Alexei’s aunt.”

  Sister Margaret’s face hardened. “Alexei has been very lucky. Mr. Lu’s men came around only half an hour ago to say that they had found a home for him.”

  Field stared at Sister Margaret and saw that he had misjudged her a moment ago. The hardness in her face was an attempt to stop herself from cracking. “Who came?” he asked more gently.

  “They were Mr. Lu’s men.”

  “There is no home for any of these boys, Sister.”

  She lowered her eyes, deep creases across her forehead.

  “They are abused and then disposed of.”

  “Mr. Field, if you have come here to make accusations—”

  “If we don’t get to him immediately, that is what will happen to Alexei.”

  “Mr. Field, I’m afraid you will have to go.”

  “Is it worth it, Sister?”

  Sister Margaret stared at the floor in silence.

  “Please, Sister,” Natasha said quietly. Field watched the muscles twitching in the nun’s cheeks.

  He turned and strode down the corridor to the source of the noise. The children were having breakfast. They faced each other across four long oak tables. The chattering died as he walked in.

  “Does anyone here know Alexei Simonov?”

  The children, with big eyes and subdued faces, stared at him in silence.

  “Please, Mr. Field.” Sister Margaret was tugging at his sleeve. “Please.” He stepped back into the corridor. “There was no need for that,” she said.

  “Where is the boy, Sister?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Sister . . .”

  “I will find him.” Sister Margaret looked from Field to Natasha and back again. “I will need a little time.”

  She was gone for almost an hour, and Field and Natasha did not speak. Natasha was frightened, but he knew that nothing he could now say would reassure her. He had to force himself to remain in his seat by the entrance hall. His eyes were repeatedly drawn to the article about Lu and the note saying he would be inspecting the orphanage on the coming Wednesday.

  He tried to think clearly, to shape the plan that was forming in his mind.

  Sister Margaret returned, her footfall soft on the stone floor. “Do you have a car?” she asked.

  Field drove slowly, following Sister Margaret’s directions. They turned onto the Bund and continued over Garden Bridge onto Broadway East, and then through Hongkew past Wayside Park.

  She indicated that he should stop as they came up to what looked like a school. Field parked alongside a rugby pitch where a small group of children was playing tag. They were close to the Settlement boundary.

  As she got out of the car, Sister Margaret’s face was pale and drawn, but there was a determined set to her mouth.

  The sign on the facade said, The Christian B
rothers Orphanage, and the entrance hall was as gloomy as Sister Margaret’s own. She told Field and Natasha to wait and disappeared down a corridor to their left. Natasha had her head down, her knuckles white as she tugged at the fabric of her skirt.

  Field heard voices and saw a small group of boys emerging from swinging doors at the far end of the corridor Sister Margaret had taken, talking quietly among themselves. As they turned away into one of the rooms, they stopped and eyed him curiously. The light was dim, but he could see they were all Asian boys, dressed in simple white uniforms, each with a blue cross on his chest.