The Master of Rain

Forty-eight

An hour later Field walked into the deserted lobby of the Central Police Station. He nodded to the doorman, Albert, and headed for the lift. He pressed the button and watched the dial as it descended. He looked about him, then stepped in and pulled the cage across with his good arm.

He hit the button for the fourth floor and it cranked into action. It stopped with a jolt when it reached its destination. Field pulled back the door and hesitated before stepping out into the darkness of the S.1 office.

He walked through the patchwork of streetlight and shadow, realizing that he should have asked Albert if anyone was in.

Field reached Granger’s office. The glass door was ajar and he hesitated again, then pushed it open.

He rounded the desk and sat in Granger’s leather chair, in the darkness.

As he flicked on the light, the picture of Caroline on the corner of the desk leaped out at him. He reached forward and placed it facedown.

Field looked up sharply and turned the light off again, thinking he’d heard some movement at the far end of the main office. It was several minutes before he was satisfied no one was there.

The desk appeared to have been cleared out. The middle and right-hand drawers were empty. The drawer on his left was full of expense forms, meticulously filled out in Yang’s handwriting and signed by Patrick. Beneath them, he found a series of Hong Kong Shanghai Bank statements stapled together.

Field glanced through them. He was surprised to find that the Grangers appeared to have lived reasonably frugally, with few withdrawals, except for a large amount taken out on the first of each month. There were only two deposits, one of which was Granger’s salary, a generous two thousand dollars a month; the other, for two hundred dollars, was apparently a transfer from London.

Field pulled out the last sheet of paper in the drawer, a letter from the secretary of the Municipal Council, Geoffrey Donaldson, dated today, acknowledging, in formal language, Patrick Granger’s interest in the post of police commissioner and assuring him that it will be taken very seriously at the appropriate time. There was no personal flourish to the letter and it was signed, simply, Yours, Geoffrey.

The two cabinets in the desk were also empty.

Field stood, turned off the light, and pulled the door to Granger’s office gently shut. He walked downstairs to the C.1 office and stopped by the door, listening carefully.

He edged forward, then walked briskly through the darkness to Caprisi’s desk. He flicked on the light. There was a sheaf of paper in the American’s in-tray, a typed report from Maretsky summarizing the details they’d discussed in person. The Russian had typed ORLOV MURDER in capitals at the top of the page.

Field glanced through it. On the third page, beneath Maretsky’s signature, Caprisi had written, Tackle the boyfriend, Sergei; why was Lena Orlov so happy in the final weeks?

As with Granger’s desk, the left-hand drawer was full of expense forms, the right-hand one empty. Field could see that the lock on it had been forced. He heard the lift moving and waited to see which floor it would come to. He turned off the light.

The lift stopped and the cage was slammed back.

Macleod walked briskly toward him. Field expected Macleod to see him, but he headed straight to his office and shut the door.

Field heard a drawer being unlocked, opened, and then shut again. A few seconds later Macleod emerged with a file in his hands.

Field flicked on Caprisi’s desk light.

“Bugger—” Macleod recovered himself quickly. “You gave me a shock. Did you not see me come in?”

Field was looking at the file. It was the same color as the one containing the fingerprints. “I was thinking.”

Macleod shook his head. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Painful.”

“It’s a bad business.”

Field stared at him. “I suppose any war has casualties.”

“It doesn’t need to.”

“There’s not many of us left now.”

Macleod was avoiding his eyes. “You must be careful.”

“I intend to be.”

Macleod shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Field thought about the way in which he’d so easily assumed that, because the phone call to Lu before the attack at the factory had come from Caprisi’s phone, Caprisi himself must have made it.

“What’s in the file?” Field asked.

Macleod shook his head. “Nothing of importance.”

“Nothing to do with the case?”

“No . . . something else.”

Field stared at him. “Caprisi left some notes.”

“Notes on what?”

“Retirement funds,” Field lied. “Dirty secrets.”

“Better keep hold of them, then.”

“Yes, I’d better.”

“You’ll never know when you might need them.”

“Quite.”

Macleod put the file under his arm. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Field switched off the light and stood, so that they faced each other across the darkened room. “A good night for you, in one sense,” he said.

Macleod hesitated, fingering his chain.

“You’ll certainly be commissioner now. You get your chance to clean up the city.”

“Caprisi was a good man, Field.”

“Yes. The best.”

“Brave but stupid.”

“He wouldn’t join your club?”

Macleod’s chain snapped. There was a chink as his gold crucifix hit the floor. He bent down slowly to pick it up. “In deference to your uncle, Field,” he said, “I’m going to let you leave. You have until noon tomorrow.”

Field watched as Macleod turned, walked calmly to the end of the room and into the lift.

He sat down again, remaining still as it descended.