“Natasha is not for sale.”
Sergei leaned back in his chair and laughed, harshly and without mirth. “If you say so, Detective. Have you seen her apartment? Of course you have. I’m sure she will be content with a life of poverty, an honest cop by her side.”
“We need to know where she is, Sergei.”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Is there anywhere—”
“How can I know?” He raised his hands, palms up. “These girls . . . they . . .” He breathed out smoke. “Sometimes they like a Russian man inside them again—I told you—maybe just to hear the language and feel their betrayal, so I do them.” He smirked. “Lena—sometimes Natasha—they all want to be done.” Sergei ground out his cigarette and leaned forward, conspiratorially. “They want to be done, so I make them pay. I make them scream!”
“You’ve slept with Natasha Medvedev?”
“Only when she begs me to.”
Field had grabbed the Russian by the collar of his jacket before he had even thought to control himself. The table careered into the side of the bar, their coffee cups smashing on the stone floor.
Field had the Russian up against the window, his feet off the ground and flailing vainly, then kicked his upturned chair to one side and dragged him by the scruff of his neck past the astonished owner and into the street. He waited for a tram to pass, then crossed over to and climbed the narrow set of stairs beside the Siberian Fur Shop. Sergei no longer struggled or made a sound.
When they got to Sergei’s rooms, Field kicked the door down, then picked the Russian up by his collar again and hurled him onto the unmade bed.
“Now,” he breathed in deeply. “Sit up!”
Field heard the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs and turned. He drew his revolver, only to see Caprisi appear in the doorway. They looked at each other for a moment and then Field replaced his gun and turned back to face Sergei.
He reached for a spindly wooden chair and sat down in it. He took out a cigarette, but neglected to offer one to the pathetic figure who now perched on the edge of the bed, his head bent. Caprisi didn’t move from the doorway.
“Now, let’s start again,” Field said. “Where would I find Natasha Medvedev?”
Sergei shook his head, his face twisted in contempt. “How should I know?”
Field stood and took a step forward, his fist raised.
“All right.” Sergei recoiled. “What do you want?”
Field was aware of Caprisi’s eyes on him but could not stop himself.
“Who are her friends?”
“I only saw her at the Majestic and with Lena.”
“Did you see her with anyone else?”
“No.”
“You’ve never seen her outside the Majestic?”
Sergei hesitated. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so, or definitely not?”
Sergei shook his head again. “I don’t really know her,” he said plaintively.
Field took a deep breath and rubbed his hand across his chin. He sat down again, not looking at Caprisi. “Who was Lena Orlov seeing during the two months before she died?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s try again, Sergei. Who was—”
“I thought you were her boyfriend?”
“I told you, only sometimes. It’s what I said. Sometimes she wanted a Russian boy.” He looked up. “Lena,” he added warily, “that’s what she said—to hear her own language.”
“So who was the other man?”
He shook his head again. “She wouldn’t say. English. Wealthy. Powerful.” For the first time, he managed a look of something approaching sincerity. “That’s why she was happy at the end.”
Field straightened. “He was English?”
“Yes.”
“The man who came to see her?”
“Yes.”
“He was certainly English?”
