Master of Rain

by Tom Bradby

  “What do you think, Richard?” Granger asked.

  Field frowned. “About what?”

  “This is a time for testing loyalties, don’t you think?”

  Field nodded. “Yes.”

  They were all staring at him.

  “The commissioner formally announced today he is to retire,” Geoffrey said.

  There was another silence.

  “I think,” Lewis said, “that the police force is the ethical arbiter of a city, don’t you?”

  Field stared at Granger, then at Lewis, whose eyes were fixed upon him, his face taut. Geoffrey was smiling at Field encouragingly. “I think,” Field said slowly, “that a police force reflects the ethics of the city but does not necessarily generate them.”

  “Well said, Richard,” Geoffrey inserted. “Well said indeed.”

  A Chinese servant appeared at the door and Granger stood. “Dinner, I believe.”

  The women left the room first, followed by Granger and Geoffrey. Field was last, and as he came toward the door, Lewis suddenly spun around in front of him. “All right, Richard?”

  Field didn’t answer.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you and your American friend need to be very careful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I hear rumors, old man.”

  Field waited for him to go on.

  “Take my word for it: be careful when you are out and about.”

  Field felt the tension and aggression in his back and neck.

  “I’m warning, not threatening.”

  “You’re always warning.”

  “And you’re not listening.” Lewis’s voice was still icily polite, his glare piercing. “I’m warning you and you’re not listening. I don’t want to see you go down, but I’m not going to say it again.”

  Lewis turned around, leaving Field confused and angry.

  He breathed in deeply and walked through to the dining room. He was ushered to a seat between Penelope and Caroline Granger.

  Field watched Granger as he leaned across to talk to Geoffrey. He thought of the questions that cluttered his mind.

  “How are you enjoying Shanghai?” Caroline asked. She was leaning toward him, smiling warmly.

  “It has its moments.”

  “Only moments?”

  He shrugged. “It’s different.”

  “Charlie is an evangelist,” she said quietly, glancing across the table at Lewis. “We’re not all blind to the city’s faults.”

  Field was not certain what she meant, so picked up a spoon and began to eat the avocado on the side of his plate, which was extremely ripe.

  “Most of us went through phases . . . excitement, disillusion . . . realistic tolerance.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of the poverty, of the inequality. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

  “But it was built nonetheless.”

  She frowned. “So much better that we are here than the alternative. We have to lead by example. That’s what Patrick believes.”

  “Of course.”

  “And if we can’t set an example, then we shouldn’t be here. Otherwise what’s the point?”

  Field took a last mouthful of avocado, then put his spoon down, noticing that it was silver. He was thinking about Lewis’s words and the sense of urgency in his voice. “Where did you meet Patrick?” he asked.

  “In Ireland.”

  “You don’t sound Irish.”

  “School in England.” She smiled again. “My father should have been loyal to the English, but he was a believer and we hid Patrick in the house.” She touched Field’s arm. “That’s what I love about Shanghai. You may have a past, but even if everyone knows about it, they don’t hold it against you.” She glanced at her husband, a look of deep, measured affection. “Anyone can be anyone.” She got up, still smiling, to supervise the preparation of the main course, and Field took the opportunity to go down the corridor to the lavatory. He washed his hands and then his face in the big enamel basin. He looked at his bloodshot eyes in the mirror and wondered what was happening to him.

  He thought of Patrick and Caroline and how easy they were together, and the wealth on display—the silver and the servants and the big airy rooms. Was that what he wanted in life? To scramble to the top, to accumulate?

  He wondered if he could stay in this city, if he could accumulate wealth under Patrick and take possession of Natasha. If he cooperated, wouldn’t they give him that?

  Is that what Patrick was always doing—subtly offering him a chance to join the club? Was he just missing the opening?

  He still didn’t understand the question of the supplement. Were the previous payments from someone else, not Granger, or was Granger just being disingenuous?

  Field wondered what in his father’s upbringing had made him so hostile toward the idea of pleasure and ease. Honor wasn’t going to feed anyone, and it had certainly never fed them. Perhaps integrity was a luxury of the rich.

  The door opened behind him and she stepped in. “Jesus, Penelope . . .”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “For Christ’s sake, they’re only in the next room.”

  He saw immediately that she was drunk. She was fumbling for something in a long thin silver and black handbag. “Everyone gossips, Richard. Everyone in this city. Everyone will soon know.”

  “Is that what you want? Why me, all of a sudden?”

  “Why not?” She looked up. “Are you ashamed, Richard? Of what we did?”

  Field didn’t answer.

  “Just an easy fuck, is that it?” she asked, her face twisted. She shook her head. “I can see what you think—see it in your eyes. It is the same with the others: just an easy fuck. Well, you don’t get off that lightly.”

  “I’m not ashamed.”

  “But you still think it was a mistake?”

  Field saw no point in provoking her.

  She looked down. “Geoffrey will go back to work tonight. You can drop me home.”

  He moved toward the door.

  “You’ll be mine now, when I want you.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “All of a sudden, you don’t like the idea of fucking me when I’m drunk.”

  Field looked at her, his disgust no longer disguised.

  “I’m an easy lay when I’m drunk, aren’t I, Richard?”

  “I don’t like the idea of fucking you under any circumstances.”

  She yanked her dress up and took a step toward him. “Don’t you want to stick it in, Richard? Or have you had enough already? Want to go back to that Russian bitch, is that it?”

  She lunged for him, her dress still raised, thrusting her crotch against his and trying to kiss him, her tongue on his lips before he could take hold of her arms and force her back.

  “Penelope?”

  They both heard the soft shuffle in the corridor outside. She stepped back, straightening her dress and checking her hair in the mirror. She was suddenly cool and calm. “Yes,” she said.

  “You all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Where is Richard?”

  “I don’t know. I think he must have gone upstairs.”

  They waited, heard a shuffle as Geoffrey moved away again. Field leaned back against the wall, catching sight of himself in the mirror and shutting his eyes in despair. Penelope let herself out quietly, without saying another word.

  Field slipped up the stairs to cover himself. When he returned to the dining room, he squeezed between Patrick’s back and the Chinese sideboard, avoiding Geoffrey’s eye and looking as if he had just been sick.

  “Are you all right?” Caroline asked.

  “I’m fine,” he said, sitting down. “Just been feeling a bit off-color all day.”

  “Working the boy too hard, Patrick,” Lewis said sourly. “You should take a break, Dickie, go down to the coast.”

  “He’s working on a murder,” Geoffrey said sharply. “He’s hardly g
ot time for that.” Field looked up and saw the hurt in his uncle’s eyes and knew that he had heard.

  That he knew exactly.

  The meal dragged after that, like nothing Field had ever experienced. It was even worse once the women had retired and the four men were left to their port. Geoffrey and Charles Lewis returned to a discussion of British politics, a conversation that neither Patrick nor Field contributed to.

  As soon as Field could reasonably get away with it, he announced his intention to leave, explaining that he still did not feel at his best. He managed to avoid meeting Geoffrey’s eyes as they shook hands, and then Patrick was on his feet to show him to the door. Patrick finished his cigarette as Field put on his holster and jacket. Lewis came into the corridor and leaned against the wall, glaring at him.

  Field went back to the veranda, walking past Lewis without comment. He said good night to Caroline and Penelope and then came back to shake Patrick’s hand.

  “Good luck, old man,” Lewis said, still watching him.

  Field stepped out into the street.

  The road was deserted save for a black sedan parked outside a house twenty yards away. As he looked at it, its lights came on and it pulled out into the middle of the road. For a moment Field wondered if it was someone he knew—Caprisi perhaps—and then he heard the rattle of the machine gun and felt a stinging pain in his shoulder.

  He was over, on the ground, his head on the sidewalk staring at the night sky, the car’s tires screeching as it stopped, the bullets punching into Granger’s car in front of him and into the sidewalk beside his head.

  There was pain, blinding, in his arm—his left arm. He reached into the holster with his right, the gun in his hand now, pointing toward the sky, his finger on the trigger, squeezing off a shot, into the air.

  He moved. He swung himself around as the door above him opened and he saw Patrick Granger charging out, as if in slow motion, his gun in his hand. He fired. He was shouting. Field turned his head once more to see a man towering above him, a machine gun in his hand, his face exploding.

  Forty-seven

  Damn it, man.” Granger was kneeling beside him, tugging at his coat, trying to pull it from his shoulder. “You’re all right.”

  Field winced with pain, recoiling from Granger’s rough embrace.

  “Stay still. You’re all right.” He had the coat off Field’s shoulder now and tore at his shirt. He exposed the wound, then stuck his fingers in it to stop the bleeding.

  Caroline was at the top of the steps, her face ghostly. Penelope, Geoffrey, and Lewis swam into view behind her.

  “Get a bandage or a shirt,” Granger shouted. “Anything clean.”

  Caroline disappeared. Penelope looked as if she was about to cry as Geoffrey and Lewis came down the steps. Geoffrey stood beside him. Lewis took off his shirt and began tearing it.

  “Are you all right?” Geoffrey asked; his face was etched with concern.

  “He’s fine,” Granger said. “Hold his arm up, Geoffrey. Higher. It’s not an artery.”

  Granger took the strips of shirt from Lewis and began to bind them tightly around Field’s upper arm. He pulled hard so that there was maximum pressure on the wound. “It’s all right,” he said again. “Only flesh—glancing blow. You’re lucky. Bloody fortunate.”

  “Who was it?” Lewis asked, but both Geoffrey and Granger were concentrating on Field, so the question went unanswered.

  “Geoffrey, call an ambulance, will you?”

  Granger stood. He moved around behind Field, put his hands beneath his arms, and pulled him to his feet. Charlie Lewis was waiting on the steps, shirtless, next to Penelope. Caroline came through the door, holding a bandage, which she could see her husband no longer needed. The body of the gunman lay in front of them, the back of his head blown across the edge of the sidewalk, his hand resting against one of the wheels of Granger’s car.

  There was a screech of tires, and, as if in slow motion, they all watched the black sedan tearing back down the street toward them. A fraction of a second before he heard the sound of the bullets, Field felt the force of Granger’s push. Caught off balance, he careered to the ground once more, smashing against Granger’s car. He fell back against the sidewalk, the pain in his head intense as he hit the body of the dead gunman and rolled across him.

  The car roared away and then there was an ear-piercing scream.

  Field raised his head. Patrick Granger was lying behind him, spread-eagle across the sidewalk, his head resting against the bottom step. Caroline was upon him, whispering, “Patrick, Patrick,” but Field could hear only a low groan.

  Charlie Lewis moved her aside roughly, dragged Granger flat, and tried to take his pulse. Geoffrey hobbled down the steps and bent over him on the other side, his ear to Granger’s mouth, listening for the sound of breathing.

  Field pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. He stood unsteadily. He could see that Patrick had been shot six or seven times in the chest, bloody holes in the whiteness of his shirt.

  Geoffrey straightened, and put his hand on Caroline’s shoulder to indicate that it was no use, but she did not let go. She clutched his head to her chest, sobbing, whispering his name, her mouth quivering and her eyes shut. And then she convulsed, emitting a single howl of anguish more tortured than any Field had ever heard.

  He closed his eyes. Caroline sobbed quietly and slowly, each breath deep and wrenching. She mumbled her husband’s name, over and over again, until Field could not bear to listen to it anymore. He opened his eyes, tried to step forward, and was vaguely aware of pavement rushing up to meet him.

  When he came to, he was inside, on a sofa in the front room, Geoffrey’s concerned face above him.

  “How long?” he asked.

  Geoffrey looked puzzled.

  “How long have I been out?”

  “You fainted. About two minutes, three . . . I don’t know.”

  Field tried to sit up.

  “Steady on. You must take it easy.”

  “No.” Field pushed away his uncle’s hand and sat up. He swung his legs onto the floor. “Where is the telephone?”

  “You need rest.”

  “I need a telephone.”

  Field stood, feeling immediately unsteady. He forced himself to overcome it as he crossed the hall. His arm and shoulder burned with pain. He passed Penelope, who sat clenched in a ball on the floor, close to the door. Caroline was still clutching her husband on the sidewalk outside, Charlie Lewis above her, trying to get her to stand.

  Field found the phone and had to struggle for a moment to recall the number of the Central Police Station.

  The operator took a long time to answer. “It’s Field here. I need to have the telephone number for Detective Caprisi, from C.1.”

  The man on the other end of the line hesitated. “I’m sorry, sir, but we’re unable—”

  “It’s Richard Field from S.1. I’m at the house of Patrick Granger, head of S.1. He’s just been assassinated, and I urgently need the number and address of Detective Caprisi from C.1.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not empowered—”

  “For Christ’s sake!”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Listen.” Field tried to calm himself. “Listen to me. Let me repeat. This is Richard Field, S.1, at the house of Patrick Granger, who has just been shot seven times in the chest. I urgently need a number for Detective Caprisi.”

  There was another hesitation. “Do you have Detective Caprisi’s Christian name, sir?”

  Field tried to think. “No, I don’t, but just look it up.” He waited. “Come on,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I’m looking.”

  Field turned to see the number one boy emerging from the kitchen area.

  “All right, sir, I have it. Detective Caprisi, Lane 1522, 6 Bubbling Well Road. Telephone number, Central 36278.”

  Field cut the connection and dialed Caprisi’s number. It was busy. He tried again but got th
e same signal. “Come on, Caprisi,” he muttered, but every time he dialed, he got the same response.

  The number one boy was looking at the scene in the doorway and turned with a start as he sensed Field behind him. “Car,” Field said. “Keys.”