by Tom Bradby
“Go where?”
“Just something I need to do.”
“I’ve said my piece, Field.”
“Yes, I heard it.”
Caprisi stared at him.
“You won’t follow me this time, will you?”
“Just make sure no one else does. They’re interested now.”
“What’s got them interested?”
“At a guess, the other girls. Ignatiev and Simonov. Lu must know we know about them. Perhaps the killer is beginning to get nervous. Perhaps, beneath his customary air of cool, Lewis is getting worried.”
Field looked at Caprisi for a few moments, then turned away.
Forty-two
The Sisters of Mercy Orphanage was situated halfway down Avenue Joffre, a solid, white building set back from the road behind a tall iron gate, which squeaked as Field opened it. He walked down two steps and through a colonnade of stone pillars to a cavernous entry hall, which was cool after the heat of the street. It smelled of damp, paint peeling off its walls.
Field had wanted to work alone, so he had not told Caprisi he was coming to the orphanage, though perhaps he’d guessed.
If he could find the boy, Field believed, then he would be able to ascertain beyond doubt that Lewis was the killer.
A corkboard in one of the alcoves was covered with notices, including the same newspaper article on Lu Huang that had been pinned to Maretsky’s wall. Above it a printed sheet announced:
Our benefactor will grace us with a visit at ten p.m. on Wednesday. Bedtime will be delayed accordingly. All dormitories must shower before nine. Songs in the hall will be followed by a dormitory inspection. All children will stand by their beds. Mr. Lu has promised to find homes for at least two more children.
Field stared at the last line.
The notice was signed, Sister Margaret.
Field turned around. The orphanage must be only a minute or two by car from Lu’s house.
He thought of the young orphans standing by their beds, waiting to see if they would be the lucky ones. Would they have an inkling of their fate—or would their hearts be bursting with joy that they had been chosen for “adoption”?
Field felt physically sick, his pulse quickening. He wondered why Natasha had not taken Alexei in.
There were three wooden chairs in the hallway. Beside each was a pile of pamphlets and Field picked one up. It was a list of prayers.
He replaced it and walked into the gloomy corridor beyond, his loud footsteps, the damp, and the stifling odor of sanctity providing uncomfortable echoes of his own past.
A man in a dark suit was walking toward him. He carried a Thompson machine gun, and the incongruity of his presence suggested to Field that he was one of Lu’s men.
The man looked at him as he passed, before turning toward the front gate.
Field reached a central hallway, encircled by thin shards of light from the glass dome above. He could hear the sound of children playing. He approached an open door in the corridor to his left, where a light was on, and knocked once.
The woman who looked up was pretty, her white habit not quite denying her femininity. She was startled and then flustered.
“My name is Richard Field, from the Shanghai police,” he said. “I’d be grateful if I could speak to Sister Margaret.”
She stood, nodding, and disappeared into the room behind.
Field retreated to the hallway again and looked up. A shard of light fought its way through the filthy windows set in the roof and fell directly on his face.
He moved to the corner and sat in one of the straight-backed chairs. He picked up a copy of the newsletter from a long altar table beside it and fanned his face. He waited a long time. The sound of the children seemed to have grown fainter.
Field heard movement at the other end of the corridor and looked up to see the nun he’d spoken to leading a smaller, older woman quickly toward him.
“I’m Sister Margaret,” the woman said. She spoke with a Scottish accent. Her skin was pale and her handshake cool. The light caught the top of her wimple, illuminating the few strands of red hair that poked out from beneath it.
“Richard Field, Special Branch.”
Sister Margaret nodded once and then led Field into her office. Through the window he could see the children playing in the courtyard. They were all in clean, pressed white uniforms, their hair neat. Most seemed to be Chinese or Eurasian. A small group of boys was playing football. Field searched their faces for one he might recognize.
“Would you like some tea, Mr. Field?”
“Thank you. Milk, no sugar, please.”
She indicated the seat behind him, a small, tall-backed wooden pew, before leaving to arrange for the tea. Field went back to scanning the playground. He could see only one Caucasian boy, but he had blond hair, was older than Alexei had been in the photograph, and bore no resemblance to either Natalya or Natasha.
Sister Margaret appeared again so silently that Field did not realize for a few moments that she had returned. She sat down behind her desk, beneath a picture of the Virgin Mary holding the infant Jesus. She moved a pile of papers to the edge of the desk, brushing off the dust that had gathered beneath it. “How can I help you, Mr. Field?”
Field returned to his seat. “You have been here long, Sister?”
“Some years, yes.”
“It’s a long way from Scotland.”
“Most places are.”
“I’m from Yorkshire.” Field smiled.
“Then you had a shorter journey.”
She was impervious to small talk. Field cleared his throat. “You are . . . Mr. Lu Huang is one of your donors.”
He saw the wariness in her face immediately. She gave an almost inaudible sigh. “He is a most generous benefactor.”
“I’m sure.”
They were silent.
Sister Margaret’s clothes rustled. “I am aware of what people say, Mr. Field, but in my situation, I believe beggars cannot be choosers.”
“Of course.”
Sister Margaret searched his eyes for signs of insincerity, her own expression defensive. She placed her hands in her lap, entwining her fingers.
The younger nun came in with a tray. As she placed a cup in front of Field, she smiled shyly at him.
“Thank you, Sister Jane,” the older woman said sharply.
Field waited until she had gone. “I see that Lu—Mr. Lu—is coming to visit the children.”
“We are grateful that he finds the time.”
“Of course. I assume—well, he was an orphan, so he must like to see children being better cared for than he was.”
Sister Margaret did not answer. Her eyes rested steadily upon Field’s face, her expression still guarded, before it slipped far enough to betray a blend of resignation and something else—moral compromise perhaps. Field felt a cloud of depression begin to envelop him. He had hoped Maretsky was wrong and that the situation here was not as debased as he had suggested.
“Lu sometimes finds children a home?” Field asked.
“Sometimes, yes. He very kindly found two of the young boys homes earlier this year.”
“Expatriate parents?”
“Chinese, I believe. They were Eurasian boys.”
Field looked down. He wanted to relieve his frustration and anger by shouting at her.
“Are you all right, Mr. Field?”
He sipped his tea. “Yes, thank you.” He cleared his throat again. “Lu—Mr. Lu—picks out the children himself on these visits?”
Sister Margaret hesitated. She dropped her gaze. “Yes.”
Field swallowed hard. He could not be certain how much she knew beyond doubt, how much she suspected and tried to block out.
“The parents are happy? They have worked well—the adoptions, I mean?”
“We do our best here, Mr. Field, but, of course, the boys were excited to leave.” She shrugged. “Mr. Lu kindly made the arrangements and the boys were thrilled—of course, they
were.”
Field hesitated. He imagined two young boys darting down the corridor outside, bursting with happiness at the thought of the better life they believed awaited them beyond the gate on Avenue Joffre. He could see Lu Huang’s portly fingers as he habitually opened and closed his right hand. “They’re happier now?”
“I believe so, yes. Mr. Lu kindly keeps us in touch with their progress.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“You’re a policeman, Mr. Field, so perhaps you can appreciate the true nature of this city.”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Without the orphanage these children would have perished long ago. All of them. Without our benefactor there would be no orphanage.”
Field looked at her. For a moment, believing that she was completely aware of the extent and scope of her Faustian pact, he felt like throwing up.
“Alexei Simonov.” Field saw immediately that Sister Margaret knew the boy. “Mr. Lu—or his men—brought him here and asked you to give him shelter?”
Sister Margaret did not answer.
“The mother . . .”
“It is a tragedy,” she said.
“Of course.” He allowed himself a mournful pause.
Sister Margaret raised her hand. “We have had five Russian children in one year,” she said, spreading her fingers.
“Five.”
“Suicide is against God’s will.”
“Yes.”
“But it is still a tragedy, of course.”
“Of course, yes.”
Field reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out the photograph he’d kept in his desk. He stood and handed it to Sister Margaret. “This is how Natalya Simonov committed suicide, Sister.”
Her face went white. After a few moments she handed it back. She did not catch his eye.
“Would it be possible for me to speak to the boy?”
“Out of the question.” She shook her head.
“It’s just that—”
“Out of the question.” She shook her head again, in case she had not sufficiently emphasized this point. “He has been traumatized.”
Field looked out of the window at the boys still playing football in the yard.
“He is not here, Mr. Field.”
“Supposing that the boy did turn out to have family, after all, then he would—”
“We are past that point, Mr. Field. Alexei must be allowed to begin his life again. Mr. Lu has his best interests at heart and he was most clear on this point. No one is to see the boy.”
“It is touching to hear that Mr. Lu takes so much time to consider the welfare of individual orphans when he must be such a busy man.”
She glared at him.
“Sister, Natalya Simonov was stabbed about fifteen times in the vulva and the lower part of her stomach.” He looked her in the eye.
Sister Margaret’s face was sheet-white again.
“We think Alexei saw his mother’s killer. We believe he is the only person who can positively identify him before he does this”—Field held up the photograph—“to another woman.”
Sister Margaret’s lips tightened. “I cannot allow it,” she said. “I cannot.”
The children had stopped playing football on the far side of the yard. They were drinking water and splashing it on their faces. Their hair was damp with sweat. Their uniforms seemed to sparkle in the sunlight, a green cross at the center of each shirt. They sat down against the far wall, talking among themselves.
Field reached for a notepad and took out his father’s pen. “This is my number. I leave it up to you.” He handed her the piece of paper and left the office.
Field stopped when he reached the central hallway. He could hear the sound of his breathing. A door opened behind him and he turned to see Sister Margaret walking in the opposite direction. He watched her until she reached the far end of the corridor. She did not look round.
The hallway was silent again.
Field half turned and saw that some of the children were watching him silently. There were four of them, all young Chinese or Eurasian boys. They did not move, their gazes solemn.
Field walked out through the entrance hall and into the bright sunshine.
There was a car waiting on the far side of the street, about fifty yards to his left. He watched it for a few moments before setting off, but the car didn’t follow him.
Once he’d turned the corner, he stopped beneath the shade of a sycamore tree and leaned back against the iron railings of a large house. He shut his eyes. He’d never felt so tired.
When he opened them again, he looked at his watch, then fumbled in his jacket pocket for Prokopieff’s old surveillance notes. He glanced over them, then put them away and began to walk.
It took him only a few minutes to reach Lu’s house, but he looked at his watch again to be sure of the time. It was twelve-thirty. If Lu’s routine had not changed, he would leave at one o’clock.
Field stood beneath the trees opposite the house before deciding that he was too conspicuous and retreating a few yards.
He took out a cigarette, but then put it back in the packet.
He looked up at the bedroom window. He fought against the idea that she was a willing—even an enthusiastic—prisoner. He thought of her apartment and her elegant clothes and the look that had crept across her face as she had forced him away.
The door opened. Lu’s bodyguards came down the steps and surrounded the car. As the blond one, Grigoriev, scanned the street, Field turned quickly and walked away. He kept on going until he was round the next corner, then spun around and came back, keeping in the shadow of the trees.
Field watched as Lu came down the steps with a girl of about thirteen or fourteen. He had a brief glimpse of her frightened face before she was pushed into the back of the car. Lu moved slowly, Grigoriev supporting him as he came down the last step.
Natasha was not with him. Field felt his shoulders sag with relief.
The bodyguards climbed into the car or onto the running boards, and the car moved off in the direction of the Bund. Field looked at his watch again. It was one o’clock exactly.
He stepped farther into the shadow of the trees and lit a cigarette. He glanced up at the bedroom window but saw no movement. Every so often he wiped the sweat from his forehead.
Lu returned at five minutes past two. All four bodyguards were on the running boards now. They jumped off before the car had come to a halt, taking up the same positions as they had done earlier. After about thirty seconds Field saw Grigoriev tap the driver’s window and another of the men stepped forward to open Lu’s door. He went slowly up the steps to the house. The bodyguards followed him and the car drove off. There was still no sign of Natasha.
Field lit another cigarette.
He was about to leave when a rickshaw pulled up outside the house.
Before Field had even had time to retreat farther into the shadows, Lu’s door had opened and Field caught a glimpse of the man who had arrived. It was Caprisi. He stepped inside.
For a moment Field stared at the door and the empty street. Then he leaned back against the tree. His shoulders sagged; hope drained from him. Natasha had been right. Everyone and everything was corrupt; nothing here was left untainted.
He could feel his father mocking him, and he realized that to have believed in any kind of purity, to have sought any kind of victory, moral or practical, had been doomed from the beginning.
It made him fortune’s fool.
Forty-three
Caprisi stepped out of Lu’s doorway. He lit a cigarette and glanced deliberately up and down the street, as if assuming he was being watched. He looked deflated; the meeting had not gone well. By Field’s watch he had been in there exactly half an hour.
The American beckoned to his rickshaw driver, walked down the steps, and climbed in.
Field watched for a few moments before following on foot, occasionally having to break into a run to ensure he did not
lose the rickshaw as it turned off toward the Chinese city.
The streets were narrower now, swift progress no longer possible against the oncoming wall of humanity.
They did a series of turns, and Field was soon lost, a stranger still in the dusty, teeming sprawl beyond the European boulevards.
The rickshaw pulled up at an intersection and he ducked back into a doorway as Caprisi got out and put a note into his driver’s hand. Field was bent low, beneath a lamp, a baby crying in the open courtyard of the tiny house behind him. He listened to its mother trying to soothe it.
The American began walking, and for fifty yards they were the only two people in sight, then Caprisi turned right into a busier street. Field bumped into a woman herding a group of pigs, and when he looked up, the American was gone.
Field stopped, then turned off to the left.
This alley was dark and much narrower. The dust rose around him as he walked, the only sound that of distant voices. There was no sunlight to penetrate the gloom. He heard the tinkle of a bicycle bell.
A figure came at him from a doorway and knocked him down. The man was onto him as he regained his feet, pushing him back hard against the wall, a revolver pressing against Field’s nose.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Caprisi growled.
Field waited until he’d regained his breath. “Following you.”
“Why?”
“I saw you go into Lu’s house.”
Caprisi held him still, then relaxed his grip and took a step back, without lowering his gun. “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.”
“So you’re on the take, like everyone else?”
The American raised the revolver again so that it was pointing at Field’s face. “You holier-than-thou Brits are getting on my nerves.”
Suddenly, Caprisi’s expression changed. He lowered his gun and put it back in its holster. “All right,” he said. “You want to know? I’ll show you.”
He walked away fast, so that Field had to struggle to keep up. They were in another warren of narrow alleys, where still almost no light penetrated and the smell of sewage and human excrement was overwhelming. A group of children played in an open drain to their right as they turned into a narrow path and ducked through a doorway.
