. . .” He shrugged. “The prints will be in the lab. They’ll look to see if there is any match on file. Even if the handcuffs are clean, other prints might tell us who has been to the apartment over the past few days, which is better than nothing. But you’ve got to fill this out and take it to the lab before they’ll release the results. They’ll bring them to my desk when they’re ready, tomorrow or the next day, and stick them in the tray. You may have to keep on their back because they’re always complaining about their workload. If they have a match, they’ll do a memo and you go to Maretsky and he’ll brief you about who the guy is. But if they’ve got a match, I’ll come and see Maretsky with you, okay?”
Field nodded, turning away, assuming it would be better to return to his own desk on the fourth floor to fill this out.
“And, Field . . .”
He stopped and turned back.
“Please get yourself a new suit. It’s painful to see you dressed like a polar bear in the desert.”
Field looked at his new partner. “The doorman was killed because he saw the murderer entering the apartment block.”
Caprisi nodded his head slowly. “Correct.”
“The murderer was Lu, or someone else who had received Lena as a ‘gift.’ ”
“Probably.”
“Or someone with whom she had made a private arrangement.”
“Lu looks after his goods, so she’s unlikely to have taken that risk.”
“A boyfriend, a . . . lover.”
“It cannot be ruled out, but, as I said, she’d have to have been a brave woman.”
Field turned around, got back into the lift, and went to his own office on the floor above. The only natural light up here was from a series of windows set high on the wall, all with frosted glass, as if the work of the department was best kept from prying eyes. Granger’s office was exactly the same as Macleod’s, though he’d resisted the temptation to engrave his name in the glass. There was no light on within, but as Field walked down past the bank of secretaries—all Chinese in his department—toward his tiny cubicle in the corner, Granger opened his door.
He was a huge man, even bigger than Field, six feet five or six, with a broken nose and a handsome, craggy face. His hair was unconventionally long and disheveled.
“What happened?” Granger still spoke with the thick accent of his native Cork.
Field stopped. “We saw the doorman of the building being bundled into a car and taken down into the Chinese city, so we followed and witnessed him being beheaded.”
Granger frowned. “Outside the Settlement?”
“Yes. They took him out.”
“Who?”
“Caprisi said it was Lu’s men.”
“Did you see them?”
Field shook his head. “Not really.”
“What did Macleod say?” Granger asked.
“About the doorman?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing. I haven’t seen him since we got back.”
“What about the woman?”
“It doesn’t look political. Maretsky said he thought it was sexual, but I’ll . . .”
Granger nodded, as if satisfied. “Stick with it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And stop calling me ‘sir.’ ” Granger was looking distracted. “What did Macleod say about the woman?”
“Nothing . . .” Field had to struggle to prevent adding “sir” again. “I haven’t seen him.”
“Stick with it,” Granger said again. “It’s Caprisi?”
“Yes.”
“How did he handle himself?”
Field frowned.
“Forget it. Give me a shout if you have any trouble.”
Granger turned and shut the door quietly behind him.
Four
Field’s cubicle was as spartan as his life here. Apart from his telephone and Lena Orlov’s file, which he’d taken out of Registry earlier, there was a huge pile of papers and journals that he was required to “keep an eye on” with “a view to censorship,” as Granger had put it. Apart from the
