“This is definitely the first payment?”
“Richard, are you all right?”
“Yes, of course.”
Granger stood. “Lewis will be there tonight, so try to restrain yourself.” He took a step toward Field and glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t be put off by the Eton and Oxford nonsense. Or any of that rubbish Macleod has fed you. Lewis is surprisingly straightforward.”
“An honorable man.”
Granger regarded him critically.
Field opened the door, wondering how anyone else had gained his bank account details.
“I’ll come and get you in a minute.”
Field closed the door quietly and walked straight through the office and down the stairs to C.1. Caprisi took hold of Field’s arm and led him back to the stairwell.
“Macleod is fucking furious that we didn’t warn him. But I said time was short and other girls will be murdered and he’ll back us. I think he’s on the phone to some of the other members of the council. We’re up in front of the commissioner in a few minutes.”
“I can’t find her,” Field said.
Caprisi looked at him. He touched his arm again. “It’s all right, Field.”
“Do you think they’ve—”
“I think she’s gone to ground to avoid you. She’s no fool.”
He felt close to despair.
“Field.”
“I had a tail this morning. From last night, I think.”
“So did I.”
“I tried to shake them, but there were four, maybe five.”
“They can move in packs of ten or more.” Caprisi smiled ruefully. “There’s no shortage of manpower. And they don’t mind if you see them.”
“Lu’s men this time.”
“It seems so.” Caprisi moved toward the stairs. “Let’s go up. He’s in a foul mood.”
“I’d better come with Granger.”
Caprisi nodded and Field went back upstairs. Granger was still on the phone, but he only had to wait a few minutes. They walked up to the sixth floor together. Macleod and Caprisi were already sitting on the other side of the table, beside the commissioner.
Granger lit up again. Field considered how even-tempered he was. He never seemed to get angry.
“Macleod,” the commissioner said. “We all know why we are here: an official complaint from Charles Lewis. I’ve had Geoffrey Donaldson on the telephone this morning seeking an explanation, and Granger wanted all this thrashed out, so . . . please.”
“We’ve acted within the bounds that one could reasonably expect of this investigation,” Macleod said, his elbows on the table. “There are members of the council who share our misgivings about Charles Lewis.”
“Your misgivings,” Granger said.
“We are not here simply to protect the rich and powerful.”
“Though they pay our wages.”
Macleod glowered. “Let us not forget that Lena Orlov was stabbed almost twenty times.” He looked around the room and waited for someone to challenge him. “The notes left in Orlov’s flat refer to a series of shipments, all of which have originated from Fraser’s factories. We know they’re smuggling opium and that the next shipment goes tomorrow. It defies belief that this could be going on without Lewis’s express knowledge.”
“I doubt he even knows where most of his factories are,” Granger said.
The commissioner looked at Granger, flipping his pencil over the back of his hand.
“Lewis is tied to this murder,” Macleod went on, “whether we like it or not. We have Orlov’s notes; we have the fact of the shipments. It’s inconceivable he’s not in it up to his neck, and tough questioning was an entirely legitimate tactic. If nothing else, it might make him hesitate before killing any more girls. His response indicates guilt. I propose we have a watch on this shipment tomorrow night and on Lewis as well.”
Granger leaned forward. “Tell me you’re not serious.”
The commissioner indicated that Granger should present his case, but he simply shook his head. “There’s no evidence here that would stand up for a second in a court of law. Even if you are right about the shipments, there is no evidence whatever to suggest that Lewis knows anything about them. It could have been one of the factory managers who was fucking the Russian girl and shooting off his big mouth in an attempt to impress her. And the rest of it is so circumstantial as to be preposterous.”
“His response has been swift,” Macleod said.
“Of course it fucking has. His company taxes account for about twenty-five percent of our annual budget.” Granger looked exasperated. “We’re cutting our throats. As for the increase in the budget, we’ve spent months trying to persuade Geoffrey Donaldson.” He sighed again. “You can kiss that good-bye, Macleod.”
