The Master of Rain

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 sucking 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 clean 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.

Field wiped the palm of his hand across his hair to remove some of the rain.

He knocked on her door once, loudly, then stepped back.

Light spilled out beneath the door, across the puddle of water that had gathered around his feet.

The door opened, the light behind her as it had been on that first day, her dressing gown only half done up, her hair tousled.

“You have a guest.”

She looked at him.

She stepped forward and curled her arms around his neck, her lips soft, her mouth warm, tasting as he had always imagined she would. The smell of her was intoxicating.

Field pulled at the back of her dressing gown. He kneaded, with strong hands, the soft flesh in the curve between her buttocks and thighs. She leaned back. Her hands rested gently on his neck, her eyes searching his.

Natasha was tall, but he lifted her easily. She wrapped her legs around him and rested her head on his shoulder as he kicked the door shut behind him.

She straightened by the entrance to her bedroom and released herself, leaning momentarily against the door frame. Her face was dimly lit by the city’s lights, her eyes, still searching his, betraying a combination of softness and deep loneliness. The rain rattled against the window.

He touched her, the flat of his hand against her cheek, and leaned forward to place his face beside her own. Her skin was smooth against his, warm and soft.

Field leaned back and her eyes once again searched his for something deep within.

She took his face in her hands and gently kissed him. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back against the frame. Field found that his own hands were shaking as he pushed the hair from her neck and ran his fingers down to her shoulder.

He bent his head to kiss her neck, breathing in the scent of her as though it were a drug. Her skin was soft as velvet and she inhaled sharply as he traced his fingers down between her breasts, slipping them inside her gown.

Field put his lips to her skin. He sank to his knees, feeling the curve of the breast with his hand, her nipple hard but supple as he took it gently into his mouth.

She breathed in again, arching her back. Her fingers massaged his scalp and pressed him closer.

Natasha pushed him lower, his lips brushing her ribs and then her smooth, flat stomach, her hands gripping him harder as his own ran up her thighs and over her hips. She guided him firmly, until his lips touched the soft hairs between her legs.

He kissed her harder and she leaned back, lowering her body, holding the frame behind her with one hand and his head with the other.

Each movement of his tongue within her was matched by the swaying of her hips, her breathing punctuated by almost inaudible gasps. Her fingers ran slowly through his hair, before again gripping his skull.

And then she was pushing him back and tearing at his clothes, pulling off his jacket and fumbling at the buttons of his shirt as he struggled to remove his trousers. She gave up and tore his shirt off as he tumbled onto the bed and she kissed him again, her lips on his cheek and his neck, his shoulder and the center of his chest, her warm, soft body flattened against him.

Natasha was slower now, more gentle, her lips on his, her long fingers caressing his face and neck and chest and arms.

She slipped off him, lay back, taking his right hand and inviting him to raise himself above her. She parted her legs, light from the racetrack illuminating the length of her, from the hair that spilled onto the white sheet beneath them to the round curve of her breasts to the darkness at the base of her belly. She brought him gently forward, guiding him, never taking her eyes from his as she let him slip silently inside her.

They were slow. Natasha shut her eyes, her arms above her head, her face tipped to the side, her mouth parted. She raised her legs and brushed them against his hips before opening her eyes and looking at him again. She touched his face.

She hardened her grip on his hips, clasped her legs behind him, then sat up, kissing him, passionately, on the mouth, then the cheek, breathing into his ear. His hand sought the contours of her ribs and her breast as they tumbled across the bed, parting for a moment, before she raised a leg to his waist and slipped him back inside her. She was laughing now, smiling at him, teasing him with her lips. “Richard Field,” she said quietly, testing the sound of his name. She laughed again.

She rolled on top of him. He cupped the curve of her buttocks with his palms as she pressed down on him, her breathing low and rhythmic.

Natasha slipped off him, gliding onto his stomach. She pressed herself against his chest, then lay back and pulled him gently above her again, filling herself with him once more.