Master of Rain

by Tom Bradby

  “Run,” Chen said. They threw open the car doors and Field followed him. Caprisi was two paces behind.

  Water was dribbling down Field’s face, his feet and clothes soaking from the short sprint to the awning. He raised his hand, revolver pointing forward.

  The roof was high; metal lamps hung down on long metal poles. In front of them, there were hundreds of wooden worktops, to their right a line of heavy machines. In the far corner, an iron staircase led up to a glass box that Field assumed was the supervisor’s office.

  Chen’s face was harsh, his mouth pursed with aggression as he walked forward, swinging his machine gun in a wide arc.

  He stopped and looked at his watch. “Not yet six and no one here.” He turned to his right and touched one of the big machines. “Still warm. They got out quick.” He dropped to his knees, and as he did so, there was the sudden roar of an engine and a loud bang as a car smashed into the side of the factory door.

  Field was blinded by headlights as the first bullets whipped into the metal behind him. He dropped to the floor, deafened by the sound of the ricochets, crawling away as Chen and Caprisi were doing, trying to find cover behind one of the big machines.

  Chen got there first and rolled onto his side beneath it. Caprisi slid beyond him as the bullets pinged off the metal. The rest of the fire was indiscriminate, glass from the windows high on the wall showering them like confetti.

  There was a momentary lull. Chen pulled his knees up underneath him, jumped to his feet, and returned fire. Field tried to follow, but Caprisi took hold of his sleeve and shouted over the noise for him to stay still.

  Chen fell back, hitting one of the machines and landing on his side, his machine gun clattering on the floor in front of them. The Chinese detective clutched his arm, grimacing in pain. Caprisi lunged forward and tried to pull him to safety. “All right,” Chen said through clenched teeth. “Arm. All right.”

  There was silence.

  They heard footsteps.

  Caprisi was gripping Chen’s arm and trying to stop the bleeding, his face twisted with the effort. He pulled at Chen’s raincoat, trying to get it off so that he could reach the pressure point on the inside of the arm, while holding his hand up in the air, above the level of his head.

  Field looked over to the machine gun.

  The footsteps grew louder. His hand was shaking.

  He saw the corner of a fedora.

  He lunged over Chen’s legs, dropping his revolver, diving for the machine gun, kneeling, head down, trying to get his finger to the trigger, looking up to see the man in the hat swinging around.

  The machine gun juddered in his hand, thumping back against him. The man was peppered with holes, and specks of blood floated above him in a fine mist as he fell, his face white with the shock of his own death.

  Field got to his feet, turned toward the next man, and pulled the trigger. The gun flew up in the air, but the other two men behind turned and ran.

  The car revved up and reversed as they sprinted toward the door, shouting.

  Doors slammed, the car’s engine roared, and then it was gone, leaving the factory eerily silent.

  “Is he—”

  “Check the others are dead,” Caprisi said, still fighting to get Chen’s raincoat off.

  Field stood. His legs were shaking, the gun hanging down beside him.

  He walked slowly, listening to the sound of his own footsteps as he moved toward the bodies.

  Both men were Chinese. The first wore a blue suit. His chest was full of holes, a pool of blood beneath him. His fedora lay a few feet away.

  Field had hit the second man in the head. There was less blood, but his face was contorted and ugly.

  “Are they dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “Yes,” Field shouted.

  “Well then, come back.”

  Their voices seemed to echo.

  Field returned and crouched beside the American. “It’s an artery,” Caprisi said. “Get his sleeve off that arm and rip it. Rip the coat or the shirt—anything.”

  Field handed him the strips of material.

  “Now, while I keep my finger on the pressure point, get this off. Tear it. Don’t worry about Chen.”

  Field grabbed Chen’s raincoat underneath the arm and pulled it off. Caprisi gave him Chen’s hand and indicated he should hold it up while he tried to get the makeshift bandages around the wound to stop the bleeding.

  “It’s all right, Chen,” he said quietly. “It hurts, but it’s not going to kill you.” Caprisi stood. “All right, let’s get you out of here.”

  They lifted Chen up. One arm was over Field’s shoulder, and Caprisi still held the other above the level of his head. The front of Caprisi’s shirt and his hands and face were covered in the Chinese detective’s blood. As they walked past the line of machines, the American said, “They knew we were coming.”

  The rain was still like a wall beyond the entrance, pounding onto their heads and into their eyes as they stepped out, trying to spot the car. The lights were not on, and several seconds passed before they realized that it was full of holes, the windows broken, their young driver slumped forward over the wheel.

  Twenty-eight

  This is a declaration of war.”

  There was silence as Macleod looked around the room, waiting for someone to challenge him.

  Field hadn’t been in Commissioner Biers’s office before and he was impressed. They were sitting at a round table, surrounded by tall windows which, on a clear day, would have afforded a panoramic view out over the rooftops, toward the Customs House and Hong Kong Shanghai Bank in one direction, and the race club in the other. Outside, the rain pounded on the glass. Behind him, a brass lamp on the commissioner’s teak desk struggled to dispel the gloom of the gathering night.

  If it was true that Biers was rarely sober, he was hiding it well tonight. He’d been solicitous and charming to both of them, gripping their shoulders, asking after Chen, before slipping into a discussion of the Dempsey-Carpentier fight at Jersey City some five years ago, clearly picking up on an earlier conversation, oblivious to the fact that Caprisi was not in the mood for small talk. The commissioner was softly spoken, with the hint of an accent that betrayed his Irish-immigrant background. He did not remember Field from their meeting the other night.

  Biers began to fiddle with the pen and papers he’d brought from his desk. Field could see that he was nervous. “Yes,” he said, clearing his throat.

  “This is a direct attack on some of our most important men.”

  “Well, we’ve been attacked before.” The commissioner cleared his throat again. “You chaps have been brave, of course.”

  “During a robbery, but that’s different. This was premeditated. An ambush.”

  The door opened. Granger strode to the table and pulled back the leather-cushioned chair next to Field. He touched his shoulder in a gesture of support, or possibly consolation, as he sat down. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Good evening, Patrick,” Biers said warmly, as if greeting a favored son. Field noticed that both Macleod and Caprisi avoided Granger’s eyes.

  Granger loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, and stretched his long legs. He was smartly dressed in a dark three-piece suit, a gold watch at his waist.

  “Perhaps you could give us your assessment, Caprisi,” Biers said, “as the senior officer.”

  The American detective leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He glanced at Macleod, then Field. “Chen’s all right. We’ve taken him to the Hôpital Ste.-Marie.”

  “I meant about the events tonight.”

  Granger lit a cigarette. He offered the silver case to Field, but no one else, then got up and brought back an ashtray.

  “They were waiting for us. The machines were still hot. They’d left in a hurry.”

  “They knew you were coming?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a long silence; the only sound was Granger suc
king in smoke, then blowing it out into the air above them.

  The commissioner appeared to be in a trance.

  Macleod leaned forward. He seemed calmer. “The question is, what have we done to attract such a response? Is it the murder investigation, or the notes that implicate the factory? And who knew that we were going to the factory today?” He turned to Field. “Did you tell anyone?”

  Field shook his head.

  “After you left us in Crime, you went straight out?”

  “No, I went up briefly to see Mr. Granger, but—”

  “He certainly didn’t mention the visit to me, or I’d have told him to be more careful.” Granger looked around, reprimanding them for their naiveté. Macleod and Caprisi stared at Field, as if daring him to contradict his boss.

  He said nothing, his jaw clenched.

  Field recalled that he had also told Natasha they were going to the factory. He tried to remember the exact words he’d used.

  He found it impossible to accept the idea that she could betray his confidence.

  “So from this side, no one knew of the impending visit,” the commissioner said.

  “I knew of it,” Macleod said. “And Caprisi. No one else.”

  There was another silence as Granger stubbed out his cigarette and pushed the ashtray toward the middle of the table. “There’s Chen,” he said.

  “He would never tell anyone,” Caprisi said. “He’s smarter than that.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Granger asked.

  Caprisi glared at him but made no attempt to respond. Granger had kicked this subject into the one guaranteed gray area—the true loyalties of the Chinese detectives on the force—and Field could see that it had infuriated the men opposite him. Upon reflection, it enraged him, too. Chen was a good man and he was in hospital.

  Biers ran a hand over his head and smoothed the few hairs that remained there. Field met Macleod’s steady gaze. It seemed, suddenly, vitally important that this man and not Granger become the next commissioner.

  “The next question,” Macleod said, “is what are we going to do about it?” He looked first at the commissioner, then Granger. “This man is no more than a gangster. He’s murdered a girl in our jurisdiction, or covered up for the man who has; he’s removed a perfectly innocent doorman and had him executed; and now he’s made a brazen raid on our men as they went about their duty. And all in the space of five days.”

  The commissioner nodded, unconvincingly.

  “We have to teach him a lesson. We cannot let this situation continue.”

  There was another long silence. Granger lit another cigarette; Biers fiddled with his pen. Field looked at his reflection in the tabletop.

  “How do you propose to go about this?” Granger asked.

  “We have to find evidence,” Macleod said. “We do it the old-fashioned way. We build a case, we get evidence, we lure him into this part of the city and arrest him.”

  “Easy.”

  “We are making progress, but I think it’s important that we acknowledge now that this is our aim.”

  Field looked up. Macleod was staring at him again.

  “We must make sure information is tightly controlled, so that there are no further leaks.” Macleod turned toward Granger.

  Biers was twiddling his pen over the back of his hand, as Field had done in lessons at school, trying to spin and catch it in one movement.

  “What are the Municipal Council going to think,” Granger said. “I’m not sure if they’ve signed up for a war.”

  The commissioner did not answer, spinning his pen again and again, until he managed to catch it.

  Field had no choice but to follow Granger after the meeting. The pair of them took the stairs while Caprisi and Macleod got into the lift.

  The Special Branch office was dark. Granger did not bother to switch on a light until he got to his room. He kicked the door shut behind them with such force that the whole cubicle shook.

  “You’re wondering why I lied about tonight,” Granger said, lighting Field’s cigarette and then his own. “Fuck it.”

  Field didn’t answer.

  “Macleod was trying to catch us out. Make us look bad in front of the commissioner.” Granger scowled and threw his cigarette in the bin. “He hasn’t got you distrusting me, has he?”

  “Of course not.”

  Granger looked at his watch. “Fuck. Caroline will kill me.” He followed Field out of his office and locked the door after him. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” he said.

  Field walked over to his desk and sat down, listening as Granger got into the lift and pulled the cage across, then slowly descended.

  He leaned forward, glad to be surrounded by the darkness. The rain still thundered on the windows above him, like a stranger demanding entry. He remembered the days he’d spent inside the house in Yorkshire as a young boy, staring out at their small, waterlogged garden. The rain here unnerved him; it was relentless and angry. He ran his fingers back and forth along his temples and then rubbed his eyes, trying to relax. His head felt heavy.

  There was someone behind him. He banged the light as he spun around, one hand reaching for the revolver inside his jacket.

  “Caprisi.” He breathed out. “What the fuck are you—”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  Macleod was standing behind the American. “You told him about the factory. I thought Caprisi had told you not to give away—”

  “I didn’t think it would matter. He just asked why I was in a hurry.” Field stood up, forcing them both to take a pace back. “Christ.” He rubbed his forehead. He almost told them that he’d also mentioned the factory raid to Natasha, then thought better of it. “I don’t understand . . . I mean why tonight, in response to what, specifically?”

  “The cabal and Lu act as one,” Caprisi said. “This was a warning. This case is obviously sensitive to them, either because of what is going on at the factory or because of who the murderer is, or both. We cannot be bought, therefore they have to warn us off. If we pursue it, things will be taken to the next stage.”

  Field sighed.

  “We’ve got to be more careful, Richard. No leaks. Make sure no one is told what we are actually doing.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Try and stay close to Granger. Tell us if you see a move coming.”

  “We’ll meet every morning down below,” Macleod said. “At seven sharp, before anyone else gets in.”

  After they’d gone, Field switched off the light and sat there, finding the darkness briefly comforting.

  He finally got up and walked down the stairs, intending to climb into a rickshaw and go to the Donaldsons’ house, where he was sure of a warm reception, but that was not the address he gave. A hundred yards short of the Happy Times block, he shouted at the man to stop and got out. He thrust a generous note into his hand.

  The rain was thundering down and Field had left his trilby in the office, so the water ran in rivulets down the back of his neck. The smell of Soochow Creek hung heavily in the air and a single gas lamp hissed beside him. Field wiped his face and walked, his feet squelching water with each step, like a primitive pump.

  There was a light on in her apartment. Field stopped short and ducked into the doorway of a building opposite. He opened his raincoat and fumbled in his new coat pocket for his cigarettes, but his matches were damp.

  He looked up as the light in her apartment went off.

  He imagined the white gown falling from her shoulders. He could see it crumpled around her ankles. Natasha was walking toward Lu, he reaching forward, smiling, to take possession of her.

  A dog barked loudly and a barge honked twice on the river. Field could hear the rasp of his own breathing.

  A tram rattled past.

  Field stepped out, unable to stop himself. He walked through the puddles in the road and stamped out the water on the steps into the Happy Times block, leaving a trail of dirty prints across the reassuringly c
lean stone floor. It looked as if no one had been in tonight.

  The porter was a younger man, with short hair and a lean face. He was on his feet. He nodded a greeting, not willing to challenge Field’s presence.

  Field walked through the fire exit door and began to climb the darkened stairwell. The door into her hallway creaked as he opened it. He stopped to listen, but could only hear the sound of his own breathing.