“Lewis.”
Chen did not answer.
Field straightened once more. He put his hands in his pockets and stepped into the tiny kitchen. Postcards were taped to the fridge, most from Chicago but some from other cities in America: Miami, Boston, New York, Los Angeles. Field took them all off carefully and turned them over. They were nearly all from “Mom and Dad,” though the one with the Hollywood banner on the front was from “Carol” and gleefully announced that Caprisi’s little sister was going to make it big in the movies.
Field walked down the corridor to the bedroom—which was completely bare—and the living room.
There were two photographs on the mantelpiece: one of Caprisi with what looked like his sister and his parents, a handsome white-haired man and a large dark-haired woman, and one of the girl and the baby that Field had seen in the American’s wallet. Field picked it up to take a closer look. Beneath it was a small, leather-bound album. He opened it and stared at the picture on the first page. It was of a boy of about three or four, wearing a baseball outfit and gripping a bat, a huge smile on his face. On the other side of the page was a more formal picture, and Field could see the family resemblance. The boy had straight, short, dark hair and solemn eyes, just like his father.
There was a shot of Caprisi standing next to his son, an arm on his shoulder, and another of all three of them in a studio. Caprisi and the boy wore serious expressions, but the woman had a warm, easy smile. She was pretty, with a small nose, dark hair, and a steady gaze.
The rest of the photographs had been taken in a backyard. There was one of Caprisi kneeling with his arm around his son, both of them again in baseball attire. There was another of the boy as a baby, in his mother’s arms.
The last picture in the album was of the boy sitting on his mother’s lap. She had the same serene smile.
Field stared at the photograph until the tears in his eyes made the figures blur. “Well, you’re with them now,” Field said. “Maybe what you wanted.”
He closed the album, put it carefully back on the mantelpiece. Chen was still sitting on the floor close to the door, head bent.
For the first time in his life, Field wanted to believe in a God. He groped for something good beyond this, but found only icy despair.
He felt paralyzed, powerless to save himself.
The woman in the photograph seemed to be watching him.
He forced himself to walk back down the corridor. He knelt by Caprisi’s body and after a moment’s hesitation, ran his hand over Caprisi’s hair, the way he’d done with Edith when they were children. Chen did not move.
Field leaned back. “Granger is dead, Chen.”
Chen stood. “The cabal has guarded its secrets well. You must go, Field, before it is too late.” He took out a piece of paper and wrote down a number. “If you need help . . .”
For a moment Field didn’t respond.
Chen glanced down at Caprisi’s body. “You can show your gratitude to him by staying alive.”
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
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
