The Master of Rain

by Tom Bradby

  He was about to run when he noticed another man standing on the opposite side of the road. He was wearing a white trilby and was not one of the three Field had seen before.

  An expatriate woman walking her dog shot Field a curious and concerned glance, surprised at his sudden emergence, perhaps sensing his unease. Field brushed down his suit and began to walk again. The man followed and Field turned back once to see two of the others swiftly rounding the corner, the third climbing over the wall behind him.

  Field waited for a black Buick to pass before he crossed the road. He thought there were four or five of them, if not more.

  Inside the lobby at Central, a group of uniformed Chinese officers was waiting by the stairs, their Thompson machine guns propped up against the wall. Field passed them and climbed up to the S.1 office.

  As he entered, he could see Granger standing by the window in his glass office, the telephone to his ear, almost hidden in a cloud of smoke. Prokopieff was at his desk, leaning back in his chair, the suspenders of his trousers hanging down beside his knees, his scuffed boots against one cubicle wall, his head against the other. He was reading a newspaper, a blue censorship pencil in his hand. He looked at Field steadily.

  Yang stood from behind her desk. She had a note in her hand, and Field’s spirits surged until he read, Penelope called. It was timed ten minutes ago.

  “Richard?” Field looked up. Granger was half out of his door. “Have you got a minute?”

  Field folded up the sheet of paper and slipped it into his pocket. He noticed Yang was avoiding his eyes.

  He shut the glass door behind him, banging the blind.

  “I’ll take you up in a minute,” Granger said as he sat behind his desk.

  “Take me up where?”

  “I don’t blame you, Richard, but I would have expected to be informed.”

  Field frowned.

  “This is not a cowboy operation. We are entirely reliant on the council for funding, and to go in riding shotgun, accusing someone like Charles Lewis . . .” Granger shook his head. “We’ll go up in a minute. I’ll come and find you.” Granger pointed Field toward his desk. “You’re still coming tonight?”

  “Dinner. Yes, of course.”

  “Are you all right, Richard?”

  “I’m fine, yes.”

  “You look distressed.”

  “No . . . I’m fine.”

  “We need to talk about this supplement.”

  There was a long silence. Granger looked at the smoke hanging in the air between them.

  “I’ve a meeting of the budgetary committee this afternoon. I was thinking of around two hundred a month?”

  Field realized he was expected to answer. He was about to say that he had already received two payments into his account, when he realized that this had nothing to do with what Granger was telling him. “That’s generous.”

  “It will be paid directly into your account at the same time as your salary.”

  “So this will be the first payment?”

  “Yes. To be honest, at the moment I don’t feel especially like rewarding you, but I’ve got to put it in front of the committee and I promised we would discuss it, so we are. You don’t seem terribly pleased.”

  “No . . . I mean yes.”

  “It is paid to all members of my department here and rises as you become more senior. It’s an insurance payment.”

  “An insurance payment?”

  “This is an expensive city and I want the members of my department to be immune from its temptations, do you see?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing extra is expected of you; it is designed to reflect the special nature of the work in this department and the sensitivity of it. I hope you appreciate it, Richard. Most others do and it was a bloody nightmare getting it past the budget committee.”

  “This is definitely the first payment?”

  “Richard, are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Granger stood. “Lewis will be there tonight, so try to restrain yourself.” He took a step toward Field and glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t be put off by the Eton and Oxford nonsense. Or any of that rubbish Macleod has fed you. Lewis is surprisingly straightforward.”

  “An honorable man.”

  Granger regarded him critically.

  Field opened the door, wondering how anyone else had gained his bank account details.

  “I’ll come and get you in a minute.”

  Field closed the door quietly and walked straight through the office and down the stairs to C.1. Caprisi took hold of Field’s arm and led him back to the stairwell.

  “Macleod is fucking furious that we didn’t warn him. But I said time was short and other girls will be murdered and he’ll back us. I think he’s on the phone to some of the other members of the council. We’re up in front of the commissioner in a few minutes.”

  “I can’t find her,” Field said.

  Caprisi looked at him. He touched his arm again. “It’s all right, Field.”

  “Do you think they’ve—”

  “I think she’s gone to ground to avoid you. She’s no fool.”

  He felt close to despair.

  “Field.”

  “I had a tail this morning. From last night, I think.”

  “So did I.”

  “I tried to shake them, but there were four, maybe five.”

  “They can move in packs of ten or more.” Caprisi smiled ruefully. “There’s no shortage of manpower. And they don’t mind if you see them.”

  “Lu’s men this time.”

  “It seems so.” Caprisi moved toward the stairs. “Let’s go up. He’s in a foul mood.”

  “I’d better come with Granger.”

  Caprisi nodded and Field went back upstairs. Granger was still on the phone, but he only had to wait a few minutes. They walked up to the sixth floor together. Macleod and Caprisi were already sitting on the other side of the table, beside the commissioner.

  Granger lit up again. Field considered how even-tempered he was. He never seemed to get angry.

  “Macleod,” the commissioner said. “We all know why we are here: an official complaint from Charles Lewis. I’ve had Geoffrey Donaldson on the telephone this morning seeking an explanation, and Granger wanted all this thrashed out, so . . . please.”

  “We’ve acted within the bounds that one could reasonably expect of this investigation,” Macleod said, his elbows on the table. “There are members of the council who share our misgivings about Charles Lewis.”

  “Your misgivings,” Granger said.

  “We are not here simply to protect the rich and powerful.”

  “Though they pay our wages.”

  Macleod glowered. “Let us not forget that Lena Orlov was stabbed almost twenty times.” He looked around the room and waited for someone to challenge him. “The notes left in Orlov’s flat refer to a series of shipments, all of which have originated from Fraser’s factories. We know they’re smuggling opium and that the next shipment goes tomorrow. It defies belief that this could be going on without Lewis’s express knowledge.”

  “I doubt he even knows where most of his factories are,” Granger said.

  The commissioner looked at Granger, flipping his pencil over the back of his hand.

  “Lewis is tied to this murder,” Macleod went on, “whether we like it or not. We have Orlov’s notes; we have the fact of the shipments. It’s inconceivable he’s not in it up to his neck, and tough questioning was an entirely legitimate tactic. If nothing else, it might make him hesitate before killing any more girls. His response indicates guilt. I propose we have a watch on this shipment tomorrow night and on Lewis as well.”

  Granger leaned forward. “Tell me you’re not serious.”

  The commissioner indicated that Granger should present his case, but he simply shook his head. “There’s no evidence here that would stand up for a second in a court of law. Even if you are right about the shipments, there is
no evidence whatever to suggest that Lewis knows anything about them. It could have been one of the factory managers who was fucking the Russian girl and shooting off his big mouth in an attempt to impress her. And the rest of it is so circumstantial as to be preposterous.”

  “His response has been swift,” Macleod said.

  “Of course it fucking has. His company taxes account for about twenty-five percent of our annual budget.” Granger looked exasperated. “We’re cutting our throats. As for the increase in the budget, we’ve spent months trying to persuade Geoffrey Donaldson.” He sighed again. “You can kiss that good-bye, Macleod.”

  “Money doesn’t buy innocence.”

  “But it pays our wages.” Granger bristled. “You’re wrong about Lewis, anyway. I know he’s a little rougher on the inside than we expect in someone of his standing, but I don’t believe he’s behind these . . . girls.”

  “They were murdered.”

  “They were Russian.”

  “So they don’t count?”

  “Of course they do, but get a sense of proportion. If it was a society woman of his acquaintance, then it would be intolerable, but they were Russian prostitutes, for Christ’s sake. If you have the evidence, then it’s a different matter; but so far, you’ve not got a row of beans and you’re acting like a bunch of cowboys.”

  “Perhaps that is what is required.”

  Granger rolled his eyes. He looked at the commissioner. “Are you going to say anything?”

  “It does seem a little premature.”

  “Thank you.”

  The commissioner turned back to Macleod. “What explanation do you want me to offer Geoffrey Donaldson?”

  Both Caprisi and Macleod were looking at Field. “We acted within bounds we thought were reasonable in a very unpleasant case,” the Scot said. “No offense was intended and we apologize if any was caused. Clearly, the involvement of one of his factories and his association with some of these girls, and with that side of the city’s life in general, may have led us to act in haste, but we will continue to pursue the matter vigorously.” Macleod tugged at his nose. “I’m still going to watch that factory tomorrow.”

  “Then they’ll move it through somewhere else,” Granger said.

  “Is that so?”

  Granger and Macleod glowered at each other.

  “That’s enough, gentlemen,” the commissioner said. “I think we’ve progressed as far as we’re going to.”

  Forty-six

  A few minutes later, after watching Granger walk into his office and shut the door, Field went down to C.1. Caprisi was standing by the door, talking to one of the secretaries, and Field waited until she had gone back to her desk.

  The American went to get himself some water.

  “Where do you think she’s gone?” Field asked.

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Do you think they know she is working for us?”

  “I didn’t even know. Is she?”

  Field realized he was making a fool of himself. “We need to find the boy and we won’t without her.”

  “If she’s chosen to be lost, then we’re wasting our time. People disappear here, if you haven’t noticed. If she’s been taken, we’ll never find her.”

  Field contemplated for the first time the possibility that Natasha might be dead already.

  “You’ve left a note?” Caprisi asked.

  Field’s throat was dry. He wondered now if even leaving the note was dangerous. “Yes.”

  “Caprisi!” Macleod shouted.

  Both of them walked down to his office and shut the door behind them. Macleod retreated behind his desk, shaking his head. He was half-angry and, Field thought, half-amused, in the way that a father is with a troublesome but spirited child.

  “So you’re being tailed as well,” Macleod said.

  “Lu’s men.”

  “Then I want you in the office, unless otherwise agreed. In fact, in the office, period. We’ll arrange an escort back to your quarters tonight.”

  Caprisi looked at Field. “We believe Natalya Simonov’s son can positively identify the killer,” the American said. “We need to look for him.”

  “Not today, gentlemen. If you’re being tailed, then you’re at risk, and I can’t afford the manpower to move you around with an escort all day.” Macleod leaned across and pushed his paperweight from side to side. “I’m going to fix a watch on the factory tomorrow, so we’ll see what transpires. Perhaps that will be your evidence.” Macleod stood. “Is Chen fit?”

  “No.”

  “Fit enough to supervise a watch?”

  “I doubt it.”

  Macleod looked annoyed by this. “Don’t cause me any more trouble, will you, boys.” It was not a question.

  Field felt caged in the office, so, after lunch, he resolved to return to Katya’s house.

  He tried to get out of the station the back way. He walked through the canteen and the kitchen and emerged into a small side alley by the rubbish bins. He could see no sign of anyone, so stepped out into the street. He kept close to the wall and ducked under the steam that was pouring from an open kitchen window.

  He had only walked ten yards when he saw them leaning against the wall at the far end of the alley: two on each side of the street. They straightened and Field stopped. For a moment he felt like testing them out, the adrenaline pumping through him, but his instincts told him the risk of inadvertently leading them to Katya’s house was too great. He turned back. There was no choice but to sit by the phone and wait.

  That night Lu’s men were still out front, but Granger shoved Field roughly into the back of his Chevrolet and then turned to check that they were not being followed.

  Granger had dismissed Macleod’s suggestion that they would need an escort.

  The house was close to Penelope and Geoffrey’s, just behind the Bund, and of similar design and size, with a veranda and high-ceilinged, airy rooms. “Good man, Field,” Granger said as he guided him into the hall. “You can lose your jacket. Wu!”

  Granger went on through to the back while his number one boy took Field’s jacket and revolver, then sprayed his ankles awkwardly with paraffin.

  “Many bites . . . buzz . . .”

  Field smiled. The man had not a single tooth, so “buzz” sounded like his father breaking wind. He paused, gathering himself.

  Caroline Granger rose swiftly as he came onto the veranda at the back, offering her hand. She wore a simple, short black dress with a gold and diamond necklace, her dark hair shiny and her smile warm. “We meet properly at last.” She turned. “You know Penelope Donaldson.”

  “We’re related,” Penelope said without standing. “I’m his auntie.”

  Penelope was also dressed in black. She looked at him as he sat down, dark eyes resting upon his face. He tried to smile back.

  “Some champagne, Richard?” Granger held a bottle in one hand, a glass in the other.

  Field hesitated.

  “Hesitation means consent.” He poured the glass and handed it to him.

  Field took out his cigarettes and offered them around, but Granger shook his head and reached for his own as he sat on the wicker sofa beside his wife.

  “I’ve been getting a hard time,” Granger said, leaning back in his chair and placing both feet on the glass table in front of him. “The ladies here believe their kind are in the process of proving themselves our equals in some ways, and our superiors in most.”

  “That woman who is planning to swim the Channel,” Caroline explained. Patrick doesn’t believe she’ll be able to do it and certainly does not find it a cause for celebration.”

  “I’d like to see her bloody dance.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Penelope asked.

  “That she’s probably not very feminine,” Caroline went on. “Patrick likes his women strapped to the bed.”

  Penelope giggled.

  Field took a sip of the champagne and a drag of his cigarette. He looked out, thro
ugh the smoke, across the startlingly green lawn. They were surrounded by bigger buildings, but the garden felt private; the city was a distant hum above the noise of the gas lights.

  The doorbell rang and Granger stood to go to the front door. Penelope stared at him as they heard Charles Lewis and Geoffrey in the hallway.

  “The lovely Mrs. Granger,” Lewis greeted his hostess as he came onto the veranda. “What a pleasure. Dickie . . . how nice.” Field stood and Lewis gripped his hand hard, his manner icily polite, his glare piercing. He stared at Field for a moment, then moved along to Penelope. “Here’s my girl . . .” He kissed her, too warmly.

  Geoffrey came through the door. “Evening, nephew,” he said, his face split by a smile of genuine warmth. Field felt a stab of guilt in his belly. “Sorry we’re late. The Empire Day preparations are killing me, and then Charlie and I were yapping in the club about the cricket.”

  They shook hands. Geoffrey kissed first his wife and then Caroline. He sat on the wicker sofa beside Penelope. Granger opened another bottle of champagne and poured both men a glass, before refilling the others, ignoring Field’s gesture of refusal.

  “We almost got mown down outside,” Geoffrey said. “Some moron absolutely hammering along.”

  “Drunk,” Lewis said.

  “You know they have white lines in the middle of the road in England now, and even lights—red and green to slow everyone down.”

  “Traffic lights,” Lewis added.

  “Yes. That’s what we need.”

  Granger returned to his seat and put his feet back on the glass table. “Breaches of traffic protocol are,” he said, “the very least of our problems.”

  They were silent for a moment. Field wondered whether they all knew about the interview with Lewis. Granger lit another cigarette.

  “They’ve still got these bloody strikes in England,” Geoffrey said.

  “At least it’s not just us,” Granger said.

  “Bolshevism is never going to take hold in England,” Lewis said. “Not a chance, you mark my words. It’s a nonissue.”