by Tom Bradby
Field took the book.
He flicked through the pages, his pulse quickening.
It was there, in Ngoc’s neat flowing hand: Incident number F6715. Body of woman found stabbed, Avenue Joffre. Natalya Simonov.
There were no further details, nor was there a house or apartment number. Avenue Joffre stretched the entire length of the French Concession, so door-to-door inquiries were likely to prove time-consuming and possibly fruitless. Field assumed that, somewhere, there must be a file on the case.
He turned around again. “You would keep files here on important cases or individuals?”
“No, sir. Rue Wagner.”
“They’re all kept at headquarters?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There are none here at all?”
“No, sir.”
“So what happens if you want to look at a file? Do you have to go down to Rue Wagner?”
“A car delivers the file in the morning and takes it back in the evening, sir. Or we can go down if there is a hurry.”
Field nodded and smiled, turning something over in his mind. He held out the incident book. “Do you remember this case—Simonov? Do you remember the address or section of . . .”
The constable looked at the entry and shook his head, but his smile vanished.
Field turned the book around and began to leaf through its pages. He worked forward but nothing caught his eye, so he went to the Simonov entry and worked back to the beginning.
He reached March 31, where the book began.
F6222, an entry read. Body of a woman found stabbed. Avenue Joffre. Ignatiev, Irina. Field closed the book carefully and put it on top of the box. “Thank you.”
He walked briskly down the corridor and was about to continue through the hall, but he changed his mind at the last minute and turned right, into Givreaux’s office.
“Success?” the Frenchman asked. He stood and moved to the side of his big teak desk. It was covered in paperwork, held in place by a series of crocodile-skin weights.
“In a sense, yes.” Field cleared his throat. His instincts were to leave it at that, but he could not resist pushing further. “Do you remember the Simonov case?”
The lieutenant was unfazed, responding with an indolent shake of the head.
Field persisted. “Natalya Simonov, Russian girl stabbed more than a month ago.”
“I don’t recall.”
“It was dealt with by CID at Rue Wagner?”
“Probably.”
“I imagine it is quiet here, relatively speaking.”
“Depends on what you mean by quiet.”
“You get a lot of murders?”
Givreaux was staring at him, now understanding the drift of his questions. “Not a lot, no.” He moved closer. “I forgot your name. You are Richard . . .”
“Field.”
“Field, yes.” Givreaux’s gaze was level.
“What about Irina Ignatiev?”
Givreaux’s brow creased, as if he were trying to recall the name.
“Her body was also found on Avenue Joffre, on March 31—two and a half months ago.”
Givreaux shrugged.
“Also dealt with by Rue Wagner?”
“Sure. It was . . . I remember now. It turned out to be a domestic, I think. Why, are you—”
“Is Constable Ngoc around?”
“Ngoc?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“He made a note of the incident here.”
Givreaux nodded. “It was CID who attended.”
“Is there any chance I could have a word with Constable Ngoc?”
“He will not be in today.” Givreaux showed Field to the door. “I’m sorry not to have been more help.”
Twenty-three
Field instructed his driver to take him down to the Customs House on the Bund. It was still overcast and the light drizzle left him again with wet feet, so he took the stairs to the seventh floor in an attempt to stamp out the water. As he climbed, he looked down toward the neat public gardens next to Garden Bridge.
The immigration room was small and crowded. It smelled of damp from too many raincoats and umbrellas. Field strode over to the counter in the far corner and interrupted the woman behind the grille as he produced his card. “I’m afraid I need some assistance.”
An older woman in a black cardigan turned around and stepped forward to examine his ID before moving to unlock the partition door. She ushered Field into a back room.
“I’m correct in thinking that everyone who arrives in the city has to register with you here?” Field shook his foot to try and get rid of the last of the water.
“In theory, yes. As you know, not everyone does.”
“But Russians have never been refused entry, so there would be no point in trying to come in illegally.”
“Less bureaucracy.”
“But life is difficult without identification papers,” Field persisted, thinking of the hours he’d spent here filling out the necessary forms.
“That is true.”
“And if a Russian, a noncitizen, changes his address, he is supposed to inform you?”
“In theory, yes.”
“And most do?”
She shrugged. “There is no reason not to. The majority do.”
“Okay, I have two names and I urgently need an address for both of them.”
The woman put on her glasses and looked at his notebook.
“Do you know in what month of what year the women originally came here?”
“No.”
“You don’t know what year?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t be sure.”
She sighed. “It will take two to three days, Mr. Field.”
“Three days?”
“Do you know how many people arrive here every year?”
“Thousands.”
“Sometimes more than a hundred thousand.” She looked down at the names again. “I can assume they arrived after 1918?”
“Yes. Probably after 1920, but 1918 to be on the safe side.”
“May I take this page?” She ripped it out. “Please give me your telephone number.”
Field wrote it down. “You can’t do it sooner? These two women have both been murdered and their cases are a crucial part of a bigger picture.”
“I will do my best. But it will still be two to three days.”
Outside, Field gripped the wooden banister of the staircase and placed his forehead against the window, gazing down at the traffic moving slowly along the Bund, far below. He felt the anger and frustration swelling within him.
It found its expression twenty minutes later, back on Avenue Joffre, when Sergei Stanislevich opened the door a fraction and then, upon seeing Field’s face, tried to close it again.
Field thumped it with both hands, sending Sergei tumbling back into his bed, the towel around his waist falling down. There was a squeal as a small, naked Chinese girl leaped off the bed and tried to cover herself. Field thought she could not be more than fourteen or fifteen.
He turned away instinctively and did not turn back until they had both hastily dressed themselves. The Chinese girl fled down the stairs.
“Right, Sergei,” Field said, shutting the door behind her. “I’m going to ask you some more questions, and if I don’t think you’re telling me the truth, you’re going to regret it. Is that clear?”
The Russian nodded, his Adam’s apple moving violently as he swallowed. Field picked up a violin and put it carefully on the floor before seating himself on the arm of the sofa and crossing his legs. There was a tray beside him, a syringe and two long metal spikes alongside a simple opium pipe.
Field sighed. “Irina Ignatiev and Natalya Simonov.”
Sergei clearly recognized the names.
“Who are they?” Field stood.
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“You do.”
“No . . . no.”
Field took a step toward him.
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“Natalya . . . the second one, no, but Irina . . .”
“You knew her?”
“No, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Lena mentioned her once.”
Sergei had pushed himself back to the far side of the bed and leaned over to take out a cigarette.
“In what context?” Field asked.
“In what—”
“How did the conversation go?”
Sergei looked confused.
“Why did Lena mention her?”
“She was another of Lu’s girls.”
“Irina?”
“Yes.”
“Irina Ignatiev?”
“Yes.”
Field thought about this. “What did Lena say about her?”
“She’d heard he had another Russian girl over here in the French Concession. She wanted to know what the girl was like, whether I had met her.”
“And had you?”
“No.”
“Where did Irina live?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I’d never heard of her before.”
“What else did Lena say about her?”
“That was it. She wanted information from me, but I’d never heard of her.”
“She lived somewhere on this street. Which house?”
He shook his head so vigorously Field thought it might fall off.
“Lu has other Russian girls?”
“Probably.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Natasha Medvedev?”
“Yes.”
“You know her.”
“Only through Lena.”
“And from the Majestic.”
He shrugged. “Yes.”
“Did Lena mention any others?”
His head shook as he sucked heavily on his cigarette.
“So you know only about Irina and Lena and Natasha. You’ve never heard of Natalya Simonov?”
Sergei shook his head, and this time Field thought he was telling the truth.
“Lena and Irina have been killed, but not Natasha.”
Sergei smirked. “She fucks better.”
Field stood, his fists bunched, then, watching the puzzled reaction in Sergei’s face, he fought to bring himself under control. “What do you know about Natasha?”
“I don’t know anything.”
“You must know something.”
“She thinks she is superior.” He snorted.
Field hesitated. “Lena is dead, so is Irina. Let’s say Natalya Simonov was also one of Lu’s girls. Who else does he keep, apart from Natasha?”
Sergei was recovering his self-confidence fast. “How should I know?”
“Think.”
“I only knew through Lena and, like I said before, we didn’t talk about it.”
“You’ve never talked about it with Natasha?”
Sergei crossed his legs. He examined his feet carefully, smoke from his cigarette spiraling slowly toward the ceiling.
“You’ve seen Lu at the Majestic.”
Sergei looked up. “Of course.”
“Apart from Natasha, whom else have you seen him with?”
“I’ve seen you with Natasha.”
Field stared at him. “Whom else have you seen Lu with?”
The Russian shrugged.
“No one, or too many to list?”
“Natasha usually sits close to him.”
“Why is that?”
Sergei looked at him. Eventually, he said with a leer, “You’ve seen it.”
There was a long silence.
Field felt a burning need to get out of this room. He put his hands in his pockets. “I’ll be back, Sergei,” he said.
Field returned to his quarters in Carter Road.
The common room was empty, so he went to the phone and dialed the exchange, asking to be put through to Maretsky. It rang and rang, and he was just about to cut the connection when Maretsky picked up the receiver.
“It’s Field.”
The Russian was out of breath.
“I need your help.”
Maretsky still did not answer.
“Another Russian girl was murdered on May 1, and a third at the end of March. Both women lived on Avenue Joffre.”
“I’m busy.”
“Irina Ignatiev and Natalya Simonov. I think they were both Lu’s girls.”
“I really don’t have time.”
“Maretsky.” Field breathed out heavily, his heart still beating fast. “Come on, give me a break. It’s like fighting with a blanket over your head. Caprisi says you have a contact in the gendarmerie. All I need is an address for both women, so we can establish a pattern.”
“Caprisi is familiar with the procedures for applying for information from the gendarmerie.”
There was a long silence.
“Irina Ignatiev was murdered at the end of March, Natalya Simonov on May 1, Lena Orlov three nights ago. As you said, there is a pattern.”
“Thank you for keeping me informed, Detective.”
“Someone is going to be his next victim.”
“Someone will be, yes.”
“And that fact leaves you cold? It was you who predicted that there would be more victims.”
Maretsky sighed. “What is fueling this, Field? An admirable philanthropic concern for Russian women in general, or for one in particular?”
“Maretsky . . .”
“I ran into Caprisi today.”
Field was silent.
“I hope she hasn’t been foolish enough to give you any encouragement.”
“I don’t know who you are—”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“I want to prevent it happening again,” Field said.
“Before it happens to her.”
“Please, Maretsky.”
“I really do hope Natasha hasn’t given you any encouragement, Field, because if she has, she’s a fool and so are you. And if she hasn’t, then you’re just victim to an unjustifiable obsession and you should develop a sense of reality before you lead a lot of other people into trouble.”
“I wish you could hear yourself.”
“I’ve seen it before, Field, and it never ends well.”
“I just need your help.”
“I have to survive, Field, and so does she. And so, probably, do you. So follow the advice of those around you and desist.”
There was a note from Caprisi in his room: Where the fuck are you? French agree to interview with Lu, scheduled tomorrow. Be in my office nine sharp.
Field tore the note up and put it in the bin, then lay down on his narrow bed, but couldn’t sleep. He was haunted by the image of Natasha, twisting desperately to avoid the slashing of the knife.
Twenty-four
Field finally slept for a couple of hours but was still at his desk long before nine. He pulled over the tray that had contained the fingerprint results, then looked at the pile of journals to be censored.
He pushed his chair back and took the stairs down to the registry. His still-damp soles slapped loudly on the stone steps as he moved through the pools of light cast by the narrow window slits. The place was open, but Danny did not smile at him and there was none of the usual banter.
“Everything all right, Danny?” Field asked as the Irish American went to check whether or not there was a file on Irina Ignatiev or Natalya Simonov.