the C.1 office and stopped by the door, listening carefully.
He edged forward, then walked briskly through the darkness to Caprisi’s desk. He flicked on the light. There was a sheaf of paper in the American’s in-tray, a typed report from Maretsky summarizing the details they’d discussed in person. The Russian had typed ORLOV MURDER in capitals at the top of the page.
Field glanced through it. On the third page, beneath Maretsky’s signature, Caprisi had written,
As with Granger’s desk, the left-hand drawer was full of expense forms, the right-hand one empty. Field could see that the lock on it had been forced. He heard the lift moving and waited to see which floor it would come to. He turned off the light.
The lift stopped and the cage was slammed back.
Macleod walked briskly toward him. Field expected Macleod to see him, but he headed straight to his office and shut the door.
Field heard a drawer being unlocked, opened, and then shut again. A few seconds later Macleod emerged with a file in his hands.
Field flicked on Caprisi’s desk light.
“Bugger—” Macleod recovered himself quickly. “You gave me a shock. Did you not see me come in?”
Field was looking at the file. It was the same color as the one containing the fingerprints. “I was thinking.”
Macleod shook his head. “How’s your shoulder?”
“Painful.”
“It’s a bad business.”
Field stared at him. “I suppose any war has casualties.”
“It doesn’t need to.”
“There’s not many of us left now.”
Macleod was avoiding his eyes. “You must be careful.”
“I intend to be.”
Macleod shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Field thought about the way in which he’d so easily assumed that, because the phone call to Lu before the attack at the factory had come from Caprisi’s phone, Caprisi himself must have made it.
“What’s in the file?” Field asked.
Macleod shook his head. “Nothing of importance.”
“Nothing to do with the case?”
“No . . . something else.”
Field stared at him. “Caprisi left some notes.”
“Notes on what?”
“Retirement funds,” Field lied. “Dirty secrets.”
“Better keep hold of them, then.”
“Yes, I’d better.”
“You’ll never know when you might need them.”
“Quite.”
Macleod put the file under his arm. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Field switched off the light and stood, so that they faced each other across the darkened room. “A good night for you, in one sense,” he said.
Macleod hesitated, fingering his chain.
“You’ll certainly be commissioner now. You get your chance to clean up the city.”
“Caprisi was a good man, Field.”
“Yes. The best.”
“Brave but stupid.”
“He wouldn’t join your club?”
Macleod’s chain snapped. There was a
Field watched as Macleod turned, walked calmly to the end of the room and into the lift.
He sat down again, remaining still as it descended.
Forty-nine
