by Tom Bradby
Natasha put her hands to her temples, as if trying to prevent this information from sinking in. She stared ahead, without answering, and then slowly crumpled. She rested her head against the wall, closed her eyes, and cried with a pain that Field had never seen in anyone before.
“Who was Lena seeing?”
She wiped her eyes again. “I don’t know.”
“Did Lu murder her, or one of his associates?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about Natalya Simonov?”
There was terror in her eyes.
“Did you know Natalya Simonov?”
She shook her head violently.
“Did you know Irina Ignatiev?”
“No, I . . .”
Natasha rested her head on her knees again.
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” Field said, his voice tight with frustration. “Did you know Natalya Simonov?”
“No.”
“Did you know Irina Ignatiev?”
She shook her head.
“For Christ’s sake!” He was on his feet. “You’re all from Kazan. Do you think I’m an idiot?” He took a step closer. “Aren’t you frightened, Natasha?”
She began crying again. This time Field moved instinctively to her. He put his arms around her and she moved against him, without resistance, placing her head on his chest.
He tightened his arms, hugging her.
He eased the pressure, lifted his right hand, and touched her head, smoothing the hair back from her forehead, calming her until the crying had lessened and then ceased, all the time keeping his eyes on the iron grille in the door.
“It’s all right,” he said.
She was quiet and still, but he did not let go. She pressed her head deeper into his chest and reached around to grip the sleeve of his shirt with her hand, as if clinging to a life raft.
“It’s going to be all right,” he said.
“No,” she said. “It can never be all right.”
He released her gently and stood. She was leaning forward now, still wiping her eyes periodically with the back of her hand. She looked frail, almost childlike in her vulnerability, a world away from the cynical sophisticate of his first acquaintance.
“What will you do with me?”
“I spoke to someone who knows you well,” he said quietly. “And she said that, of all the Russian girls here, your circumstances were the most impaired.”
“Mrs. Orlov, from the Majestic.”
“What did she mean?”
Natasha lowered her eyes. “I don’t know.”
“If you don’t help me, I cannot help you.”
She looked up, the hurt deep. “No one can help me, Richard.”
“You’re wrong.”
“No I’m not.”
“In what way are your circumstances impaired?”
She shook her head. “Do what you want with me, but please don’t ask me any more questions about it.”
Field felt his mouth tightening. “How did you become one of Lu’s girls?”
“I cannot talk about him.” There was another long silence as Natasha wrestled with herself. “Lena . . .” She stopped.
“Go on.”
“I . . . There was someone new. You asked if there was someone else, and it was true, there was. He . . . Lena did not talk about it, about him.”
“For how long before her death?”
“About two months. She seemed happier, as if something good had finally happened to her.”
“Lu asked her to see someone else?”
Natasha nodded.
“Do you have any idea who it might have been? Did she give you any clues? His nationality, for example, or the type of work he did? Or why Lu would be wishing her to do this?”
Natasha shook her head.
“Does he often ask his women to see other men?”
“He has many women, and many uses for them.”
Field wanted to know, more than he had ever wanted to know anything in his life, whether Natasha had slept with Lu, whether she was forced to lie down and degrade herself beneath that sallow, scarred face, and before he could stop it, he was assaulted by an image of the two of them together, naked, Lu’s portly manicured fingers on her dark smooth skin.
He stood up, stepped over to the door, and looked out of the grille before coming back and resuming his seat. She was sitting demurely, her arms wrapped around her legs, looking at him.
“Natalya Simonov, Lena Orlov, Irina Ignatiev—stabbed so many times, crying out in pain, screaming in agony and terror, but nobody heard them.” He looked at her. “And even now, nobody can hear them.”
She lowered her head again, staring at the bed.
“All Lu’s girls. Who is next, I wonder?”
She did not answer.
“Perhaps it’s you?” he said at length.
She went on staring down.
“Do you have any cigarettes?” he asked.
Natasha straightened, fumbled in her raincoat pocket, and then threw the box toward him.
“Do you want one?”
She shook her head.
Field lit one and inhaled heavily, enjoying the smoke and the way it brought momentary relief from the smell. He looked at Natasha and then stood once more. “I want to get you out of here.”
Caprisi was at the door, his face against the grille. Field wondered how long he had been watching. “Macleod wants a word, polar bear.”
Field stepped out of the cell and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Caprisi pulled him away from the door so that they could not be heard. “Macleod has heard she is in, and he wants her.”
“What do you mean, wants her?” Field’s heart was thumping again.
“He wants her to go down, as a warning to Lu. She’ll get fifteen years and there will be fuck-all Lu can do about it. It would be a demonstration of who’s in charge of the city.”
“No.”
“Steady, polar bear.”
Field trailed the American, his mind whirring as he climbed the stairs.
Macleod was on the phone, standing by the window, but he put the receiver down as Field and Caprisi came in, and moved behind his desk so that he was no longer blocking the light. “Well done, Field . . . Take a seat.”
“We can do better from this girl.”
“I’m sure you can, but this is a decision—”
“Nobody informed me of any decision.”
Macleod frowned. Field saw that Caprisi was imploring him to moderate his tone. “No one has to inform you of anything, Field.” He sat down. “It’s excellent work, though, very quick thinking. The commissioner is pleased.”
“We can do better.”
“If you want to take it up with Granger,” Macleod said, his lips tight now, “then do so.”
Field breathed in deeply, trying to calm himself. He sat down. “It’s not my position to say, I know,” he said, trying to buy himself time. “But this wouldn’t hurt Lu, really, would it?”
“Depends how he feels about the girl. Depends how good a fuck she is.”
Field breathed in heavily again to settle the pounding urgency of his blood. Macleod was fiddling with a stone paperweight on his desk. Field could see that his brusque and decisive manner hid a deep nervousness.
“Lu Huang remains our prime suspect.” Field looked at Caprisi, who was standing between them, his back to the wall. “Shouldn’t we still play for the main goal? This girl may be able to help us.”
Macleod’s face had softened a fraction.
“And if we cannot, in the end, prove that Lu murdered Lena Orlov, then perhaps we could find another way to bring him to court.”
Macleod looked doubtful.
Field sighed, glancing at Caprisi once more. “Lu Huang keeps a ledger,” he said in desperation, catapulting forward a plan that had barely started to form in the recesses of his mind.
Macleod looked at him as if he had gone mad.
“There’s a clue in Lena Orlov’s no
tes. She said the payments were in the second ledger. Lu is a businessman. Every single transaction must be recorded in a ledger.”
“I’m sure you will begin to make sense at some point,” Macleod said.
“Every single transaction,” Field went on. “Legitimate and otherwise. What are the shipments referred to in Lena Orlov’s notes? If they are not legitimate, as we strongly suspect, then who is being paid, how, and where? A Fraser’s company is doing the shipping.”
Macleod was alert now. “How do you know about this ledger? There’s a file upstairs?”
Field hesitated. “Yes,” he lied.
“Granger has opened a file? Have you got it?”
“No.”
“Can you get it?”
“I doubt it.”
“Why not?”
“It seems to have vanished.”
“But you’ve seen it?”
“Yes.”
“It talks about criminal transactions being recorded?”
“All transactions.” Field considered the logic of what he was saying for a moment. “I’m sure they are not noted as criminal transactions, but we might be able to prove a link between a crime and the payoffs associated with it.”
Macleod walked back to the window. He leaned against the dark wooden frame, fingering his chain.
“It would provide concrete evidence of—”
“I’m not stupid, Field.” Macleod turned, staring out of the window at a thick cloud of black smoke that was drifting over the rooftops. “Would he really note down criminal transactions in black and white?”
“The majority of his transactions are criminal. Every business needs to keep a record of—”
“It’s a hostage to fortune.”
“He’s safe in the French Concession and the house is a fortress.”
“The woman should still go to jail.” Macleod turned back. “Medvedev, whatever her name is. That would be a signal, not just to Lu but to his associates, that when we catch people, they go to prison and he cannot protect them.”
“Natasha has access to his house. She is summoned down there.”
Macleod thought about this. “Where is this ledger kept?”
“In his bedroom, we think.”
“The murder inquiry is too important. If Lu remains the primary suspect, then—”
“It remains the focus of our efforts.” Caprisi turned to his boss. “Field is saying that these ledgers serve a dual purpose. They could help us with the inquiry, by not only giving us an indication of what exactly these shipments are, and who else is in on the deal, but also providing a whole new avenue for prosecuting Lu.” Caprisi paused. “If the girl is frightened enough of prison, and is willing to work for us, then she could prove useful in a number of ways.”
Macleod snorted. “She’s one of his women. She’s not going to work for us.”
“Field thinks she will.” Caprisi looked at him.
Macleod tapped his fingers against the paperweight and then began to drum them on his desk, before getting up and looking out of the window again, sucking in his stomach and hitching up the waistband of his trousers. “All right,” he said, “but make sure she understands. She should be in bloody prison.”
Field stood, trying to hide his relief. He walked out ahead of Caprisi, but Macleod called him back. “I hope you don’t think I’m being harsh,” he said, closing the door behind the American. “I appreciate the work you’re putting in.”
Field nodded.
“I know it’s difficult, this not being your department, but we do appreciate your efforts.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Things are a bit difficult at the moment, but it will be worth it in the end. You understand?”
Field nodded.
“You’re not offended?”
Field smiled. “No.”
“Good. Good man.” Macleod pulled the door open with one hand and rested the other briefly on Field’s shoulder.
Twenty-seven
The process took longer than Field had thought. The Chinese sergeant refused to let Natasha go without someone from C.1 signing her out and wouldn’t budge even when Field got angry. Caprisi was nowhere to be found, and in the end Field had to summon Macleod to the phone, to tell the desk officer to do as he was asked.
He didn’t want to bother with arranging a car, so they got a rickshaw outside and crammed in together. He was conscious of the fact that their legs were touching. She made no attempt to move away.
Natasha let him into her flat. She slipped off her raincoat and stood in the middle of the room. She wore a simple, dark blue dress, cut close. Its hem rose above her knee as she ran her fingers through her hair.
“Do you want something to drink?” Her voice was an octave lower.
“No thanks.”
“Tea?”
“No.”
“You want something to eat?”
“No, I had lunch . . . of sorts.”
“You don’t think I can cook? Most Russian girls can’t. Lena couldn’t boil an egg when she came here. But my mother died when I was a little girl, and sometimes I used to cook for my father.”
“Perhaps sometime . . . you could cook me something.”
She smiled for the first time today and it lifted his spirits. “I’d like that.”
“Perhaps tonight.”
“Perhaps.”
Field did not know if that was a yes or a no. “But you must be hungry. Please don’t let me stop you.”
“I can wait.”
Natasha sat down, indicating that he should do the same, but the atmosphere had changed now.
“I hope you’re not thinking that your freedom comes without cost.”
She looked at her shoes. When she raised her head, Field saw that she was smiling.
“What’s so funny?”
“You are funny. I’m watching you wrestle with yourself.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Do you want me, Mr. Field, or will you reject me? Which of you will win?”
“I’m doing my job.”
“Of course you are.” She stood, walked to the mantelpiece, and took down a packet of cigarettes. She lit one and then sat back down, her dress riding up her thigh.
Field’s throat felt dry.
“Is it because you think I belong to him? Does that disgust you?”
“You do have to help me.” Field no longer trusted his voice, which sounded as if it belonged to someone else.
“I don’t have to do anything.”
He stared at her. “Have you ever seen the inside of a Shanghai prison?”
“No.”
“I doubt you’d survive a month.”
“Perhaps you’d be doing me a favor.”
“If that’s what you think, I might as well take you back right now.”
“You cannot hide behind your badge.”
“You don’t believe we can protect you from Lu?”
“Half of you work for him.”
“And you think—”
“No. That’s why I’m talking to you.” She shook her head in irritation. “Please. Do what you want with me, but don’t talk about this anymore.” She took a deep breath. “You ask me if I know who Lena was seeing, but I don’t. She was secretive those last few months.”
“She told you nothing about him?”
Natasha shook her head.
“And yet you lived next door.”
Natasha shrugged. “It was always a desire to be private.”
“So you never saw a man entering her apartment, never heard a voice, never saw a car parked outside?”
“No.”
“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? The two of you friends, knowing each other back in Kazan. You end up living next door to each other, and yet you know nothing whatsoever about her life?”
“Believe what you want.”
“What about the notes she left on these shipments—the SS Saratoga, due to depart with a load of Fraser’s Elect
rical Company sewing machines?”
She was still shaking her head.
“I would say the notes were left for someone who would be able to decipher them and would know what they meant. Were they left for you?”
Natasha stared at him without answering.
Field stood and crossed to the window. He looked down toward the racetrack and saw, to his surprise, that the large clock read almost five o’clock.
He turned around. “Do you ever go to Lu’s house?”
“Sometimes.”
“What do you do there?”
She dropped her head an inch, looking at her hands, and Field felt his face reddening again.
“Of course, you go into his bedroom.”
“Of course.”
The emotion was like a drug. His mind raced, his heart thumping in his chest.
“What do you . . .”
“Can we not talk about this now?”
“We don’t have a choice.”
“No.” She was avoiding his eyes. “Of course, but I’m tired.” She looked up. “Please, just not now.”
He could see the pain in her eyes. “I have to go, anyway,” he said. “We have to investigate this Fraser’s factory.”
He stopped at the door.
She had followed him over. “Thank you,” she said.
“Tonight, then?”
“Yes, perhaps.”
And then the door was closing, she was smiling, and reality, once again, was spinning away from him.
Caprisi was standing by his desk, his holster on. “I’ve been waiting,” he said. “The manager finishes at six.” He pointed upstairs. “Granger was looking for you.”
“I’d better go and check in.”
“Come on, Field.”
“I’ll be quick.” He sprinted upstairs to his own office.
Yang was packing up to go and she eyed him without comment. Prokopieff was bent over a pile of newspapers, his jacket on the back of his chair, his thick suspenders off his shoulders. “Lucky bastard with that Medvedev woman,” he said. “You get all the luck.”
Field knocked on Granger’s door and pushed it open.
Granger was on the phone, his feet on the desk. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Yes, sir.” He put down the receiver and raised his eyebrows as he turned toward Field. “Department is using too many paper clips; the commissioner’s very worried.” He lifted his hand and lowered his feet. “It’s a joke, Field. You look anxious.”
