by Tom Bradby
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“No shit?” The American shook his head. “And you couldn’t shave, either?”
“I forgot.”
Caprisi sucked his teeth. “You’re anxious to get to work?”
“I was just thinking . . .”
“Hold your horses.” Caprisi lifted a finger. “Let me stop you. In the spirit of the overworked and underpaid Criminal Investigation Division, unlike your own department, Chen and I now have to deal with this armed robbery yesterday and—”
“That can wait.”
“Says who?” Caprisi shook his head. “We’ll get back to the Orlov case, but—”
“No, we can’t do that.”
“We can’t?” Caprisi cleared his throat before turning to pour himself a glass of water from the purified jug in the corner.
Field took his hands out of his pockets. “Lena wasn’t the first and she won’t be the last.”
“Is that so?”
“Maretsky doesn’t believe this was the first case, and he is sure the perpetrator will now have a taste for it.”
“A taste for roughing up Russian girls narrows it down.”
“You sound like Sorenson and Prokopieff.”
Caprisi’s mouth tightened. “Be careful, polar bear. We’ve a heavy workload and this can wait.”
“It can’t.”
“Now . . .”
“I saw your face in Lena Orlov’s flat and down in the Chinese city. Why was Chen restraining you?”
“Back off, polar bear.”
“What happened to Slugger?”
“I said back off.”
“Was he a homosexual?”
Field held Caprisi’s stare. The American suddenly took a pace closer. “Slugger was twice the man you’ll ever be.”
“And Lu had something to do with his death?”
“Slugger liked men, Field, you’re right.” He shook his head. “You want to know, I’ll tell you. Slugger liked men. I didn’t know, his wife didn’t know, his kids didn’t know, but Lu found out. As I said, we were closing down a lot of opium dens on the Foochow Road, angering Lu and upsetting the cabal, and Slugger wouldn’t be bought, so they set him up. There were pictures, just for fun. Slugger wouldn’t bend to the blackmail and decided to leave. He told us what had happened, put his wife and family on the boat to England, and some men in raincoats met them as they came down the gangplank in Hong Kong and handed his teenage son a photograph of Slugger fucking another man. So Slugger walked up to the top of the Peak and blew the back of his head off.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No you’re not. You didn’t know him.”
“That doesn’t stop me being sorry.”
Caprisi turned back to refill his glass, and it was a few moments before Field noticed that Chen had come into the room and was leaning against one of the cubicles. “Field wants to concentrate on the Orlov case,” Caprisi said.
Chen shrugged.
“Maretsky says he doesn’t think there are any cases here, but what about in the French Concession?” Field asked.
“He’s asked them,” Caprisi said.
“Yes, but if they’re as corrupt as everyone says, then they will probably have lied to him, or lied about the details.”
Caprisi frowned.
“A death would still have been reported in the newspaper. The gendarmerie might not have given all the details, but they would have to provide some.”
Caprisi looked far from convinced.
“If we could find any deaths that seemed even vaguely similar, then a little investigation might show a connection. It’s a long shot, I know, but if we could establish that there was even a single other case, then a pattern might emerge.”
Caprisi took out his pad and the short stub of pencil and made a note of this underneath one saying “fingerprints.” He looked up. “What about the factory that was referenced in Lena’s notes, and the shipments of sewing machines?”
Field looked at Chen. “Is that a red herring? Are we sure there is a connection between that notebook and the girl’s death?”
“Why did she want to keep it secret?” Caprisi asked.
Chen moved closer. “Lena was Lu’s girl. The factory has some kind of criminal activity associated with him. When I went down yesterday, they were nervous . . . the manager was not there.”
“I saw Lu and Charles Lewis together last night. They seemed very at ease in each other’s company.”
“Where?” Caprisi asked.
“The Majestic.”
“What were you doing there?”
Field felt his face reddening.
“Ground research, I see.” Caprisi shook his head. “The fish don’t come bigger than Lewis, do they, Chen?”
The Chinese detective shook his head.
“Lewis doesn’t have any connection with Lu, does he?” Field asked.
“Not that we know of.”
“Is it possible that Lewis could be involved—that whatever is going on at the factory could be at that level?”
“Anything is possible,” Chen said. “But whoever is behind these shipments, if they are as significant as we think, is more likely to be someone lower down in Fraser’s.”
“Lena was Lu’s girl,” Caprisi repeated. “So, really, it has to have been him.”
Chen shrugged again. “He likes girls, boys. He has her, for sure, but if she is not a favorite, perhaps there are other uses. She is a spy, a conduit to the Bolsheviks and agitators, part of his intelligence network, or maybe he lets an associate use her.”
“I’m not expert on Shanghai real estate,” Field said, “but isn’t a penthouse in the Happy Times block, with a balcony overlooking the racecourse . . . that’s serious money. There must be many cheaper ways of gathering intelligence on Borodin.”
They both nodded.
“And if we think about it from the killer’s point of view . . . whoever it is cannot fail to know that this woman is an asset of Lu’s. To murder her in this way shows a supreme confidence that there will be no repercussions.”
Caprisi clicked his tongue against the top of his mouth. “Chen. Would Lu, as a point of culture, let anyone else sleep with one of his women? I mean, have we got this wrong? Would he even consider lending her to someone?”
“Probably. A concubine, certainly not, but this woman is not a concubine, so it is less clear. It is . . . He is Chinese. Easy for me to understand, hard to explain.”
“Try.”
Chen sighed. “Russian girls, they . . . Lu is Chinese, so if he has a Chinese concubine, then another man who has even looked at her is dead. No question. That is face. Chinese to Chinese. But Russian girls will be different . . . This is more complicated. Russian girls are a category to themselves. He keeps them, he fucks them, but there is not so much . . . face. Control is a little looser. He requires them to carry out other tasks. They are perhaps business gift, now to one man, now to another. Sometimes, if they are very beautiful, they are for show. He would keep them, but the money is nothing to him, small. He might go to apartment, but more likely to have them come to him when required. The face is different, that is what. If they humiliate him in public; if they are disloyal, or give information to enemy; if they fail to do what he asks, then they will be executed.”
Chen frowned, as if unsure of whether he had adequately communicated his interpretation of Lena’s precarious position.
“But he is,” Caprisi said, “not in the business of letting other people fuck his women for free? This Russian boyfriend, for example, what is his position?”
“If she chooses to do this, it is very dangerous. Perhaps Lu will tolerate—what is it to him? Only Russians. Or perhaps he will be annoyed. If the woman is beautiful, favored above others, it is very dangerous. He may execute immediately. If less important, perhaps he will ignore once—no point in wasting assets. Each case different. But, of course, it could be he like to murder. This is different. Russian girls are good, then. Inferior.”
“Maybe Krauss is wrong,” Caprisi went on. “The man opposite says Lu arrives at four—perhaps he murders her then. She dies at four, not earlier.”
Field recalled his exchange with Natasha the previous evening and his suggestion that she might have been in the building while Lena was being murdered. He thought about her hasty denials.
“Krauss was wrong about that Chinese boy last year,” Caprisi said. Field frowned, but the American waved his hand to indicate it was too complicated to explain. “But if it was Lu, he was quick.”
“It does not take long,” Chen said.
“To tie her up?”
“A minute. Two.”
“So he’s angry. He’s learned she’s been fucking Sergei?”
“Sergei is still alive.” Chen smiled, raising his eyebrows. “Besides, Maretsky is right. So many wounds.” Chen mimed the stabbing. “Anger.”
“He likes doing it. He enjoys it.”
“Then why here?” Field asked. “Why not in the French Concession? Isn’t that safer for him?”
Caprisi and Chen looked at him. There was a long silence.
Caprisi said, “Don’t discuss this, Field. Not with anyone. If there is physical evidence—if any useful prints come back, or any other documentation—we do not keep it in the office. You give it to me. I’ll hold it at my apartment. Is that clear?”
Chen was looking at Field as though he were an idiot.
They heard the lift stop. Macleod pulled the metal cage back and walked slowly down the room toward them. He was wearing a long gray raincoat and a brown trilby. He carried a black leather briefcase with dull brass buckles. He went straight to the corner and poured himself a glass of water, as Caprisi had done.
“That’s better,” he said, taking off his hat and wiping the sweat from the dome of his head with his hand. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
Caprisi was sitting on his desk. He pulled up a chair to rest his legs on. “Field wants us to concentrate on the murdered Russian girl.”
Macleod looked at him without smiling. “When he gets to manage his own department, then that’s what he can do.”
“Maretsky says there will be more.”
Macleod walked into his office, taking off his raincoat and placing it on the stand, along with his hat, before coming back to the doorway. “More what?”
“More victims. More deaths.”
“And what makes him so bloody sure of that?”
“He thinks it is part of a pattern. Some deaths already, perhaps in the French Concession, more to come.”
Macleod sighed. He sipped his water. “Well, you can give it priority, but we’ve got too much going on to clear the shelf.”
“It could be an avenue into Lu. Perhaps he’s overreaching himself.”
Macleod thought about this. “All right, you can clear the decks for a few days, see where it takes you. Field, have you got a minute?”
Field followed Macleod into his office. The Scotsman closed the glass door behind him and his manner instantly softened. He was no longer frowning—he even smiled once as he encouraged Field to sit opposite him. “How are you settling in . . . It’s Richard, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You seem to have come far, for a Griffin.”
“Well, I’m not sure . . .”
“You have a confidence about you and I like that.”
Field did not know how to respond.
“Caprisi thinks you’re a good man.”
“That’s . . .”
“He has good judgment.” Macleod was not meeting Field’s eye. “It’s been a while since I got really involved in training.” He turned to Field now, smiling again. “Used to be my beat before CID.”
“A lot less interesting.”
“Yes.” Macleod nodded. “But it had its uses. The training department is the future, of course.”
“Then God help us.”
“Yes.” Macleod didn’t bother to smile. He was staring into the middle distance, over Field’s shoulder. “I’m sure there is a great deal of excellent instruction, but I’m not sure they really tell . . .” Macleod cleared his throat. “I’m not sure that they equip Griffins with what they really need to know, if you see what I mean.”
“I think so,” Field said, not seeing at all.
“You’re a good man. Good family and all the rest of it.”
Field wasn’t sure if this called for a response.
“I wanted you to be clear about what is going on—what we face, if you understand my meaning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Granger and I don’t always see eye-to-eye on this and . . . You’re a member of his department, so it’s perhaps unfair of me to talk to you like this, but I think it’s important . . . I feel it’s important that I get my view across to anyone who seems to be reliable and trustworthy.”
Field nodded.
“Granger views Lu as a fact of life that must be dealt with in an adult way; as he would see it, lived with, even compromised with. That’s his view and I suppose he’s entitled to it. I’m afraid I view Lu Huang as an evil that must be eradicated. Whilst he continues to exist, we are doing no more than trying to stem the tide of violent crime.” Macleod looked at him again. “Lu’s tentacles are long.”
“Yes.”
“They stretch even inside this building.”
“Caprisi said.”
“He has explained?”
“Yes.”
“It takes time to understand, of course.”
“I think I understand now.”
Macleod was fidgeting with the cross around his neck. He reminded Field again of his father, though, oddly, Field did not feel resentment, but a quiet respect.
“Good,” Macleod said, bringing their meeting to an end. “I suppose, in theory, you have been detailed to my department, or at least working out of it, so I thought it important to have a chat.”
Eighteen
Discussing Lena’s murder made Field feel like a caged animal, but despite his own sense of urgency, and Macleod’s approval, Caprisi and Chen said they had other things to attend to first.
While he was waiting for them, Granger’s secretary called down to the department to find out where he was. Field had forgotten that he was supposed to be accompanying him to the Hongkew district.
Granger was in a sullen mood. “Morning, son,” he said as Field climbed into the new yellow and gray Chevrolet and settled into the backseat. The leather was smooth to the touch, the walnut trim highly polished. Granger sat easily, his big legs stretched out in front of him. As Field tried to free a small stone that had become lodged in a hole in the sole of his shoe, he couldn’t help noticing the quality of Granger’s clothes.
As they raced along the Bund, past the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank and the Customs House, Granger took a small bottle of whiskey from a compartment built into the walnut dash. Field declined his offer and turned to look out of the window at the neatly laid-out gardens next to the imposing building that housed the British consulate.
They crossed Garden Bridge, the water beneath the iron structure teeming with sampans. The fog had lifted, but it was still warm and overcast and close.
The driver hooted loudly at another car as they passed the Soviet consulate, before entering the narrower streets around the Hongkew market. The signs and banners here were in Japanese, though the difference to the foreign eye, Field thought, was not marked.
Field had never been into the Hongkew station before; it was a cramped but well-organized building. The constables were mostly either Japanese or Chinese, and they all stopped talking, respectfully, in the corridors as Granger strode past.
The briefing was the same as the one Field had heard the day before, and afterward there were no questions, so they had saki with the Japanese S.1 officer who was attached to the station. Granger talked more about Borodin, becoming personal and abusive, still furious that the Russian’s diplomatic status allowed him to send his children to the American sc
hool and keep mistresses in different apartments around the city.
In the car on the way back, Granger said quietly, “Charlie tells me there was some trouble last night at the Majestic.”
“It was an accident.”
“Well, don’t do anything stupid, eh?” Granger smiled. “Can’t have you getting damaged before the match this afternoon.”
Field had completely forgotten about it. “You don’t play?” he asked.
Granger shook his head. “Not anymore.”
“But you did?”
“Might have for Ireland.” He lowered his voice, the laughter still in his eyes. “If there had not been a war on.”
“The Great War or . . .”
“The war of independence. The Irish war. Rebellion, to you. Now, I’m the worst kind of coach . . .”
“Were you and Michael Collins friends?”
Granger looked at him, as if weighing him up. “Yes.”
“How did you end up here if you were fighting the English?”
“New York for guns, then a girl.”
“Your wife?”
Granger smiled. “No.”
“They say the commissioner is about to retire.”
“Within the month.”
“Do you think . . .”
“If it’s Macleod, we’re all finished.”
“But the Municipal Council must favor you overwhelmingly.”
“Don’t be so sure.” They had stopped outside the Cathay Hotel, and Granger was looking at him steadily, his hand on the door handle. “I’ve a meeting.”
“I’ll get out here as well.”
“I’ll get the driver to—”
“No, it’s fine. I said I’d meet Caprisi at the library.” Granger narrowed his eyes. Field shook his head. “Nothing important.”
They got out of the car. Granger adjusted his clothes. Field wondered when his light suit would be ready.
“Don’t make the mistake of underestimating Macleod, Field. He may not mix with the council socially, but he’s been on a private sales job for years.” Granger lit a cigarette. “I’m sure he’s given you one of his little chats . . .”
“Yes.”
“Policemen shouldn’t act like missionaries, and I get tired of him lecturing us all like joyless schoolboys.”