The Master of Rain Part 2

"Medvedev."

He waited. "And your first name?"

"I don't think we're on first-name terms, do you?"

Field wasn't certain how to respond to her teasing, and couldn't tell whether it was gentle or barbed.

"Natasha," she said. "Natasha Medvedev. But most people call me Natasha."

"You found the body about an hour ago?"

"Yes." She removed her arms from her shoulders, and for a moment her dressing gown parted sufficiently to reveal the curve of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. His face reddened as he realized she saw the direction of his gaze.

"You went around for milk?"

"I'd run out."

"So you knocked, but there was no answer?"

"That's right, Officer."

"There was no answer, so you went in?"

"We've just been through this."

Field looked at her. "I'm sorry. Perhaps I'm being stupid. You went around to get milk, you knocked, there was no response, so . . . then what?"

She didn't answer.

"It's just, if you hardly knew the woman, it would seem more logical to turn around and come back to your own flat."

Natasha was looking at him as if he were the stupidest man she'd ever met. "The door was open."

"So you went in to see if you could borrow some milk?"

She didn't bother to answer.

"Then what?"

"Then I found the body."

Field stopped writing. "How did you do that?"

"Inspector, I think this conversation has gone as far as-"

"I'm not an inspector."

She sighed. "No, well . . ."

"Was it the smell?"

She screwed up her face in disgust.

"It's just," Field said slowly, "that I don't see how you got to the bedroom when the kitchen is the other side of the living room." He pointed. "The same layout as here."

Natasha Medvedev stared at him, and he held her gaze. He had no idea what he saw there. Contempt, perhaps. What he didn't understand was that it would have been very easy to make up a convincing lie, and she wasn't bothering to do so.

Field was still standing close to the photographs, and he took a step toward the bookshelf as one at the back caught his eye. Natasha was standing on what looked like the dance floor of a nightclub. She wore a figure-hugging dress with a plunging neckline, her unfas.h.i.+onably long hair tumbling over her shoulder just as it did now, her face impa.s.sive. By contrast, the woman next to her-not in the same league as her friend and with too much makeup, but an open, friendly face-was smiling.

Field held it up, pointing to the second woman. "Lena Orlov."

Natasha Medvedev shook her head. "No, another friend." As she said it, she was transformed again, clutching herself once more, dropping her head, so that her hair fell forward.

"Oh G.o.d," she muttered under her breath.

Field did not know what to do. He took a pace toward her, then another. He shut his notebook and slipped it back into the pocket of his jacket.

"I'm sorry, Miss Medvedev."

She did not respond.

"Is there anything I can get you?"

She shook her head, gathering her hair at the back of her neck with her hand.

"There's nothing I can do for you?"

She looked up. "You can go away."

Field hesitated again, wis.h.i.+ng that her eyes betrayed something other than bored hostility.

"Of course. Thank you for your time."

"It's been my pleasure."

"I doubt that."

She shrugged.

Field stepped out into the corridor, pulling the door quietly shut. He breathed in deeply, allowing himself a moment's peace before returning to the savagery of the apartment next door.

He put his hands in his pockets.

Was it just that he couldn't fault her, that she was physically perfect? Is that all it was?

Caprisi was standing by the French windows in the living room, looking out toward the racecourse. He turned as Field came in. "Chen's already been downstairs," he said. "There are two couples below, both away in New York. We'll have a talk with the doorman in a minute. Chen says the flats on this floor belong to Lu Huang. Pockmark Huang."

Field nodded. "I see."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"You understand?"

"Yes. So . . . both these women belong to Lu also." Field tried to dispel a sense of discomfort at the combination of this news and the recollection of Natasha Medvedev in her white dressing gown. Why wasn't she dressed when it was past lunchtime?

"There is no sign of the murder weapon," Caprisi said. "The handcuffs have been wiped clean, so . . ." He turned to Field, staring right through him. "Somebody has been cleaning up. Somebody has been in here after the murder and cleaned up." The American looked up. "What did the woman say?" he asked, but his demeanor suggested he already knew the answer.

"She was not helpful," Field said quietly.

Caprisi turned to the window and looked out toward the clock tower, wrestling with himself. "f.u.c.k it."

Maretsky emerged from the bedroom, blinking through his small thick gla.s.ses. His hair was even longer and scruffier than it had been when he'd come down to lecture the new recruits. Once a professor of philosophy at St. Petersburg University, Maretsky had found a niche here as an expert in the methods of Shanghai's criminals. His official t.i.tle was head of Modus Operandi and from his desk in the main police library and records office, he a.s.sisted both the Crime Branch and the Special Branch. He brought his philosophical and psychological training to his work and had somehow managed to command wide respect in an intensely macho force. His insightful lectures had been, Field thought, the highlight of the official police training.

Maretsky took a couple of paces toward the window. "She's in s.e.xually appealing underwear." His Russian accent was as faint as Natasha Medvedev's. "She's handcuffed to the bed, so that she cannot move. There's no sign of a struggle, but nor is there any indication of a.s.sault, or even of consensual intercourse. As you say, no s.e.m.e.n on her panties or on the bed." He shrugged. "Of course, there's a lot of blood."

"So what does that mean?"

"Is it what she liked?" Maretsky asked, glancing at the photographs on the bookshelf. "The handcuffs, I mean. And the underwear. Or is it a man's s.e.xual fantasy? A man whom she is in love with, or serves in some way."

"They had an argument, lovers' quarrel?" Caprisi asked. "He ties her up, then they have a fight?"

"No." Maretsky shook his head emphatically. "This must be about a much deeper, more virulent rage. Look at the body. We are probably seeing rage against women in general, not Lena Orlov in particular."

Field thought of the woman lying on the bed and the disconcerting appearance of pleasure that death had left playing on her lips. He found himself imagining the terror on her face as the knife was plunged into her, again and again.

"Chen says," Caprisi went on, "that this flat and the one next door belong to Pockmark Lu. And therefore, presumably, the women in it."

Maretsky said, "She was obviously a . . . you know, high-cla.s.s."

"She was his woman?"

"I'm sure he would have had her, but she may have had other uses."

"Hiring her out?"

Maretsky shrugged. "A gift, perhaps."

Field was struggling, and failing, to accept the idea of Natasha Medvedev submitting herself to a man against her will.

"It's certainly vicious," Maretsky said, almost to himself.

No one answered.

Maretsky was carrying a small leather briefcase-almost like a lady's handbag-and he tucked it under his arm and moved toward the door. "We'll talk later," he said.

"Has there been anything similar?" Caprisi asked.

Maretsky shook his head. "Nothing that springs to mind. I'll check with the French police."

For a few moments after Maretsky's departure, they stood in silence, Field reflecting on how quiet it was here-a far cry from his own quarters with the endless grunting and bellowing that went on at all times of the day and night.

He could not imagine what kind of man could have done this.

"Check this room," Caprisi said. "I'll do the others."

"Looking for anything in particular?"

"Use your head."

Caprisi went through to the kitchen and Field heard him opening and shutting the cupboards. He looked about before moving the Gramophone and opening the Chinese chest beneath. It was empty. He stared out of the window, running his finger through the condensation that had gathered on the gla.s.s since their arrival. The panes were small, the narrow metal bars between them painted white. The building must have been completed recently, because the humidity and heat of the summer frayed the paintwork of most buildings very quickly.

He turned to the bookcase and pulled out a tall, thin, dark leather photograph alb.u.m.

The pictures were similar to the ones in the frames-a testament not just to a lost era but to a vanquished world. This was the chronicle of Lena Orlov's life before the revolution had forced her from Russia, and Field could see immediately, much more vividly than from a thousand books or newspaper articles, how painful the loss of this past had been.

The photographs seemed to recall a pastoral idyll: a large country house, a lake, a summerhouse, a magnificent wooden yacht, a father who looked severe and a mother who smiled in every picture. Field had read that most of the Russian aristocrats with money had fled to Europe, but the Orlovs, too, had clearly been wealthy.

There was a photograph of a little girl whom Field a.s.sumed to be Lena, with a dog and a woman he thought must have been her nanny. It was the last picture in the book, taken by a sledge in the snow, in front of the house, a number of suitcases visible on the shaded, iron-framed veranda in the background. Had this been the end, the departure?

He closed the alb.u.m and put it back, wondering what had become of the brothers and sister who would be called upon at a time like this to come around and sort through her effects.

He thought how hard it would be for any sibling to accept that their sister had died like this. Or were they dead, too?

There was a large leather-bound volume that looked like a Bible next to the photograph alb.u.m, and thinking of his father, the religious fanatic, Field took it down and opened it, only to discover that a large hole had been carved inside, creating enough s.p.a.ce to hide a small notebook.

Lena Orlov-he a.s.sumed it was Lena-had written in a neat, flowing hand, in ink, and each line contained a date, the name of a s.h.i.+p (he a.s.sumed), and a destination. The last entry was: 26th June. SS Saratoga-Liverpool. 26th June. SS Saratoga-Liverpool.

That was in just over a week's time.

Not all of the destinations were in the United Kingdom. Some of the s.h.i.+ps had been bound for Amsterdam, Bordeaux, Antwerp, Calais, and Kiel. It did not say what they had been carrying, nor was there any indication as to why they had been listed.

At the bottom of the page, Lena had written: All payments in ledger two. All payments in ledger two.

Caprisi came back in and Field handed him the leather volume and the notebook. He glanced down the list. "Where did you find this?"

"On the bookshelf."

"s.h.i.+pments," Caprisi said.

"Yes, but of what?"

The American shrugged.

"Something to do with Lu?"

"She must have had a reason for hiding the notes. What is this . . . 'payments in ledger two'?"