The Master of Rain

by Tom Bradby

  “They’re unreliable,” Penelope said.

  “Perhaps that’s no surprise,” Geoffrey said, “under the circumstances.”

  “It’s no surprise that it happened to them. If they’d been . . .” Penelope looked at her husband, her face harsh again. “Well, you know what they’re like. No wonder there was a revolution.”

  Geoffrey looked at Field. “Better to give them a wide berth. That much is certainly true.”

  By the time Field stepped back out into Crane Road it was past midnight and a thick blanket of fog had descended. The smell of damp streets—from the dirt and dust that settled in dry weather—swelling drains, and the pollution caught in his nose and mouth. He was tempted to put a handkerchief to his face and breathe through it as he had seen others do. Instead, he put on the dark felt trilby that his uncle had pressed upon him and lit a cigarette. At least it tasted better than the air around him.

  Field began walking, his footsteps noisy, his feet again quickly damp. Another foghorn sounded on the river and he heard the rattle of a tram on the Nanking Road ahead, a Chinese banner on the corner highlighted through the gloom by a gas streetlamp—as in so many areas of the city, they had not got around to installing electric lights.

  Field crossed the main road and carried on, pacing out the silence, his metal-capped heels creating a steady staccato. He passed somebody hidden beneath a blanket, then realized that it was an entire family as they receded into the fog once more.

  He felt driven.

  Perhaps, he thought, it might have been wiser to have stayed with his uncle.

  He turned left into Nanking Road. Chinese men and women appeared suddenly through the fog and disappeared back into it just as quickly.

  Field thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He saw the sign for the Majestic ahead, and his pace quickened.

  He handed the doorman his hat and climbed the shabby red and gray staircase, emerging into the refurbished splendor of the ballroom on the first floor as she began singing. It was as if she had been waiting for him.

  Natasha stood in front of the microphone, and for a moment he lost himself in the sight and sound of her, his eyes locked on her long legs and narrow hips as they swayed with the rhythm of the music. Her voice drifted lazily around the hall. She had her eyes shut, and as she opened them, it seemed to him that she was smiling at him.

  He stepped forward a couple of paces, then saw Charles Lewis sitting close to the edge of the iron-framed balcony, staring at her.

  Field moved quickly down the staircase and around the back of the dance floor. He climbed up to the balcony opposite where he thought he would be able to stand unseen in the darkness.

  Even up here, away from the stage, few people talked among themselves. It wasn’t difficult to be captivated by the power of her voice.

  Natasha wore a black dress. A short, thick string of white pearls, held in the center by a gold clasp, hung down to her breasts. Her hair was glossy and unkempt.

  She had opened her eyes, and, however absurdly, Field still could not shake the notion that she was singing to him.

  As she finished and acknowledged the applause, Field realized he was attracting a few curious glances, mostly from the women at the large table next to him. Looking around him, he could see that, while the groups close to the balcony were small, intimate, back here it was ten or twelve to the table. Everyone was sumptuously dressed, the men with gold watch chains to match their companions’ jewelry.

  He turned back to the scene below him and his heart missed a beat. Charlie Lewis turned her slowly around the center of the dance floor, his cheek close to her own, his hand resting just above her hips, in the small of her back. She looked as though she was pressing herself against him, and he was smiling, whispering in her ear. Field saw that she was laughing. He stepped back, imagined the two of them naked together, on the bed, the candle flickering above them, her hands tied to the bedstead, her legs raised . . .

  Field breathed out heavily and forced himself to move toward the door. He did not look at the dance floor as he passed it and walked slowly up the stairs opposite. A girl in a silver dress was selling cigarettes by one of the tables, and he killed a few moments by buying a packet of Capstan and wondering what it would feel like to be rich. He could not imagine being like Lewis and never having to think about the price of anything.

  “You’re back.”

  He spun around. She was two or three feet away from him, her brown eyes resting steadily upon his face.

  “Yes.”

  Although the band was loud, this corner seemed quiet.

  “A professional or social visit?”

  “Just a visit.”

  “You were watching me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that part of the job?”

  Field swallowed. “Not unless I want it to be.”

  “And do you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t you know?”

  Field offered her a cigarette and when she declined, put them in his jacket pocket without taking one. “May I buy you a drink?”

  “I doubt you could afford it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She shook her head, her face still expressionless. “It’s not an accusation.” She looked him up and down. “Most policemen could afford . . . but I think you are the one who cannot.”

  “I’ve never been ashamed to be poor.”

  She stared at him, shaking her head. “Oh, I don’t think that is true.”

  He felt his face reddening. “Do you always mean to provoke?”

  Natasha did not answer. Field looked down at the floor below. Lewis was bending over a table on the balcony, in animated conversation. Field heard himself say, “Do you want to dance?”

  She laughed, then looked around her. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “No.”

  “Am I that funny?”

  She smiled again, but this time it was not at his expense. “You have an honest face.” She looked up at him. “Do you think I have an honest face?”

  Field almost said, “I don’t know,” but something in her eyes made him hesitate. “Yes,” he said eventually.

  This time her smile was one of resignation. “Perhaps I will see you again.”

  “Was Lena a friend?”

  Natasha hesitated. She came closer to him, glancing around to check that they were not overheard. “I cannot help you.”

  “He must have put a hand over her mouth, so that her screams were silent.”

  She did not look at him. A muscle twitched in her cheek. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “Perhaps he was plunging the knife into her just a few feet from where you were sleeping.”

  “I was not there.”

  “We don’t know for sure when she was killed, so—”

  “I was not there.”

  Field took a pace toward her. “Lena is like a ghost. No one wants to talk about her. Don’t you think, after all that she went through, she deserves better?”

  Natasha stared at the floor, as if in another world.

  “Do you imagine Lena will be the last victim?”

  Natasha had raised her head, her face suddenly fearful, and Field turned to see a man whom he knew instantly to be Lu Huang reaching the top of the stairs. He was smaller than he’d appeared in the photographs, his hands hidden in front of him, in the folds of a long silk robe. His face was round, coarse, and ugly, his hair in a long pigtail. Even in this light, Field could see evidence of the poor skin that had earned him his nickname. He was accompanied by two Russian bodyguards, with closely cropped hair and black suits, who moved confidently, drawing the attention of the other customers but making no acknowledgment of their presence.

  Natasha had half turned toward him, as if drawn by some magnetic force. Her face, now coldly beautiful and brittle, seemed drained of all spirit. She followed him, not bothering to excuse or explain herself to Field, and as Lu sat down at a corner table that was ob
viously reserved for him, she took a chair a few feet away. They did not even glance at each other or exchange a word, and it was a few moments before Field understood what was happening.

  She was sitting straight and stiff, like a doll. She was there for Lu to look at, to be seen with. She was his trophy.

  People had turned discreetly to look in their direction. Lu now acknowledged one or two with a curt nod.

  Charles Lewis walked toward the table, a waiter scurrying forward to pull back a chair. Lu turned to face him, suddenly animated, his bullet head level with Lewis’s shoulder. They looked familiar with each other’s presence, as if from long acquaintance. They both ignored Natasha, who stared vacantly down at the dance floor.

  Field could not move, could not think clearly. His stomach turned over so fast that he felt like vomiting.

  Lewis was gesticulating with his right hand, as if emphasizing a point. Lu’s head was motionless as he listened, then he nodded, raising his head and looking around the room. Lewis lit up a cigarette and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs.

  Lu stood and moved around the table. Natasha stood, too, her elegance somehow diminished as he came level with her. She allowed him to place a hand on her arm.

  He led her down the stairs to the dance floor and then they were locked together, Lu’s head only just above her breasts, so that, when they turned away from him, Field could not see the Chinese at all.

  Field searched Natasha’s face for some acknowledgment, but received none, her gaze and smile frozen. The other dancers had quietly made space for them, but were careful not to look too closely, and at the tables people had turned away and resumed their conversations.

  Lu and Natasha turned again and Field could see his chubby hand placed firmly against the base of her spine, pushing her hips toward him.

  Field watched in a daze until the music stopped and Lu Huang returned to his seat, without touching or acknowledging his dance partner. She sat down and stared again into the middle distance.

  Field turned, forcing his feet forward. He walked toward the two bodyguards, who had retreated to the door, and knocked into the one with blond hair. The man pushed him back, swearing in Russian.

  Field moved fast. The man ducked, but Field was too quick, his right hand catching the bottom of the man’s jaw and spinning him into the cigarette girl.

  Field turned and drew his revolver as the other bodyguard was still struggling for his gun. As he fumbled for his badge, Lewis appeared. “All right, boys . . .” He lowered Field’s weapon and turned to the Russians. “Police,” he said. “Let’s forget it, shall we?”

  Before they could answer, Lewis gripped Field hard on the arm and marched him toward the stairs, not letting go until they reached the street. Field noticed that both Lu and Natasha had affected not to notice the scuffle.

  Lewis exhaled, facing him in the shadowy gloom of a gas streetlamp still cradled by the fog. It was cool here, after the sweaty heat of the Majestic. “Jesus.”

  Field stared at him.

  “Wait here.”

  Lewis walked back into the nightclub and Field was about to leave when he returned. “You walk in, you apologize, you bow your head once, you wait until he speaks. If he does not, you leave.”

  “I’m not—”

  “You’ll do as you’re fucking told or you’ll be on the next boat home.”

  Field pulled his mouth back, furious at being treated like a child. “So we have to kowtow to a gangster.”

  “We don’t, Field. You do. You’re a junior detective and you’ve just insulted one of the most powerful businessmen in the city in one of its most public places. It is now a question of face.”

  “So he’s a businessman now.”

  “He is as far as you’re concerned.”

  “I’m not going to go in there and crawl—”

  “Then you’re an arrogant fool.” Lewis shook his head contemptuously. “I’m only standing here because I’m fond of your uncle, so don’t insult your own intelligence and mine any longer.”

  Field stared at Lewis. He breathed in deeply and walked back into the Majestic. The band still played, but at the top of the stairs, a flustered Chinese man in a dark suit—the manager of the nightclub, Field assumed—guided him through a heavy red velvet curtain and into what appeared to be a private dining room. As he entered, a door was slammed shut behind him.

  Lu was flanked by his two glowering bodyguards. Natasha sat in the corner, head bowed. Lu had his hands tucked into the wide sleeves of his gown, and his eyes, too, radiated a cold fury. Field had never before been in the presence of someone who appeared to exist solely to damage and destroy.

  Field could not look at Natasha, but he was overwhelmed by her presence. His heart was thumping, his palms sweaty, his mind confused.

  “Your name?” the blond Russian asked.

  “Field.”

  “First name?”

  “Richard.”

  “You are a police officer.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which department?”

  “S.1.”

  “Special Branch.”

  “Yes.”

  “You believe my men are communists?” Lu spoke in a low monotone, his anger barely restrained.

  “No. Of course not. I apologize.”

  They were silent.

  “It was an accident,” Field said.

  “No, Mr. Field, it was a mistake?” Lu shook his head once, curtly, his anger not soothed by Field’s apology. “The good reputation of the police is important to Shanghai. You cannot afford mistakes.” He sighed. “You are a friend of Mr. Lewis?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  Lu frowned.

  “Yes.”

  Lu suddenly pulled his hands from his sleeves, clenched his right into a fist, then opened it again, as if demonstrating the ease with which he could crush whatever came within his grasp. “You are a fortunate to have such friends.”

  “Yes.”

  Field tried not to meet Lu’s eye. He caught sight of his own reflection in a large gold-framed mirror that hung behind a small bar at the far end of the room.

  “These are troubled times,” Lu said.

  Field did not answer.

  “Mistakes . . .” He tipped his head to one side. “Mistakes can be costly.” Perhaps it was Field’s imagination, but he thought Lu glanced at Natasha’s bowed head as he spoke. “You are foolish to have done this.”

  Field forced himself to say yes.

  “We should not meet again,” Lu said quietly. “No, we should definitely not meet again.” He dismissed Field curtly with his hand.

  As Field turned, he saw Natasha, her head bowed in supplication, her hair shielding her face.

  The blond bodyguard ushered him, none too gently, to the door.

  Lewis was waiting for him. He didn’t ask what had happened. “This is Shanghai, Richard, not Twickenham.”

  “So he can do as he wants?” Field asked, his anger returning.

  Lewis looked at him, still bemused. He took a silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket, lighting up himself, then offering one to Field. “Listen, old man, all good things come to those that wait, if you understand what I mean.”

  Field did not respond. A doorman emerged from the club and handed him his trilby, before quickly retreating.

  “Bright young man.” Lewis smiled. “You’ll be all right.” He laughed, the cigarette still in his mouth. “Perhaps, one day, you’ll even be able to afford old Natasha, if he’s got tired of her and she’s worth having by then.” Lewis was still smiling. “It’s a joke, old man.”

  “You seem to get on just fine with Lu.”

  Lewis’s face darkened. “I hope you’re not implying what you seem to be, Field. I want you to be in no doubt that I’d like it very much if Lu didn’t exist, but until we find a way to bring that about, needless friction would serve neither of us. You’d do well not to fight what you can’t change.”

  “That may be
your philosophy, but it’s not mine.”

  “Then you’re going to find life here rather tough going, old man.”

  Field didn’t sleep. It was a cooler night, but in the tiny box that was his room in the Carter Road quarters, that made little difference. He lay still, staring at the ceiling, his whole body covered in a thin sheen of sweat. The mosquitoes had no respect for the nets or spray and he watched them gathering in the corners of the ceiling in the half-darkness.

  He turned on his side, trying once again to shut out the sounds from next door.

  They grew louder, something—Prokopieff’s head perhaps—banging against the wall. There was a low grunt, then a muffled scream, followed by the too-familiar sound of a beating, so that Field was on his feet, his fists clenched tight.

  He pressed his knuckles against his forehead, then tried to block his ears, but Prokopieff’s companion was crying loudly now and Prokopieff was hitting her harder.

  Field jumped onto the bed and thumped the wall with the flat of his hand. “Shut the fuck up!”

  The beating stopped, the girl’s crying dropping to a strangled whimper. “Shut the fuck up, Prokopieff,” Field repeated, breathing heavily before slumping back onto the bed and once again staring at the ceiling.

  Prokopieff began talking to the woman roughly in Russian, and after a few minutes Field heard her getting dressed. Prokopieff, he knew, was paying her.

  She walked away, her heels clicking loudly in the corridor.

  “Get fucked, English boy,” Prokopieff said, but Field didn’t answer.

  He closed his eyes and tried to relax, but his heart was thumping.

  He thought of the fear in Natasha’s eyes tonight and recalled what Maretsky had told him about Lena not being the first victim, nor, probably, the last. Why hadn’t he told Caprisi about that already? They should have been working with a much greater sense of urgency.

  Field wanted the new day to begin immediately.

  Seventeen

  Field was waiting next to Caprisi’s desk when the American arrived for work. Caprisi put down his leather case and hung his raincoat from the hatstand in the corner. “All right,” he said, “I get in early, but this is . . . How long have you been waiting?”