toward home and dreaming of the house and the green fields they’ll own.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“What I’m saying is that the disease has already spread. Macleod has something that is priceless in this city. He’s chosen to be honest when he could be rich. Don’t ask me why he is the way he is, but he pathologically hates corruption.” Caprisi pushed his food away. “He is the last chance—the last, Field—and we have no choice but to stand behind him and to trust each other.”
Thirty-four
Charlie Lewis was not at the factory on Yuen-Ming Road at three o’clock.
Macleod had skipped his meeting and joined them, with the promise that the questioning would be left to Caprisi. Field was in the middle car, Caprisi in the front, and a total of seven armed officers stepped out inside the factory gate. This time, however, the factory was full, the machines in noisy operation.
An anxious security guard showed them up to the glass box above the workshop floor, where they were greeted by the Scottish factory manager. Field could see immediately that he was nervous. “A snifter?” the man asked.
Caprisi and Field shook their heads as he poured himself one. Field looked down at the police officers standing guard by the door. Macleod scowled at the man.
“Gordon Braine. I’ve not introduced myself.”
Caprisi ignored his outstretched hand. Braine had a long nose with hairs poking out of it and hollow cheeks. He looked ill.
“What happened last night?” Caprisi asked.
“I’m sorry, dreadful thing to happen. Glad no one . . . you know . . .” He sat, taking a sip of his whiskey.
“No one except a driver whose family won’t be quite as relaxed as you are today,” Caprisi said. “What time do you normally shut up?”
“Seven. Normally seven. But, of course . . .”
“Go on.”
“Last night our head of security received a call, saying that we should close early.”
“And what was the reason?”
“No reason was given, but . . .”
“But what?”
Braine avoided their eyes. “These are difficult times, Detective. Our workforce is Chinese. Strikes, protests. I said we shouldn’t give in and I didn’t see why—but this is a man whom we trust to be in touch with . . . you know.”
“The underworld.”
“Yes. And with whatever intelligence there is—the Bolsheviks, the protests. Some factories have been damaged, of course, burned even, when they are the subject of intimidation and they—”
“So you were being brave?”
Braine took another sip of whiskey. “Our man was insistent that we must vacate the floor immediately and go home. I did not understand it, but as I said, he was sufficiently alarmed to make me feel there was no choice but to comply.”
“You didn’t think to tell the police?”
“I thought it would blow over—just one of those things that happen here, from time to time.” He took another sip and gained confidence. “Doing business here—it’s a far cry from Scotland.”
Macleod fiddled with the cross around his neck. Field was glad that he had chosen to come along. Out of the office, he exuded a quiet confidence and strength.
“Where is this man?” Caprisi asked.
Braine looked confused.
“The head of security, where is he?”
“Oh, he is . . .” The confidence disappeared. “He is ill today, I believe.”
“Ill?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“How convenient.”
“I’m sorry. I understand it must be frustrating and I can quite appreciate—”
“Where does he live?”
“I’m not sure we actually have an address. You see—”
“You employ a man as your head of security and you don’t know where he lives?”
“In the Chinese city, I know that, but . . . He was employed before my time, and he is always here, in place when I arrive and still here when I go. I never thought to ask. He really controls the shop floor. He would have details of the employees, and he ensures—”
