Prokopieff emerged from the shadows, the barrel of his revolver pointing at Field’s forehead.
Field hesitated. The Russian’s expression was hard and cold. Field imagined that this was the way he looked when he hurt the girls he brought back to the station house.
“Your gun.”
Field slowly lowered his arm. They stared at each other. He thought fleetingly about turning and trying to run.
Prokopieff shook his head. “Shot in the back while trying to escape.”
“I’m not escaping.”
“Not yet.” The Russian smiled.
“You’ve done this before.”
Prokopieff nodded. “I have done this before. Do you still believe an officer of the law can afford to be an idealist in this town?”
“Someone has to try.”
“Well, now is your chance.” The Russian looked down. “I’m the only one here.”
Field shook his head, not clear what the Russian meant. The adrenaline still pumped through him.
“You’re a fool, Richard Field.”
Field didn’t answer.
“But a fool is better than a liar.” Prokopieff gestured with his revolver. “Put the gun in your belt. You will need it.”
Field frowned.
“This city makes liars of us all, Field. Liars and cheats.” Prokopieff straightened, putting his gun back in its holster. His face was suddenly weary. “What good would it do me to kill you?” he said. “Perhaps you still have a chance to do something useful with your life. Just don’t throw it away making bad choices.” He turned and led Field down the steps. “Through here is a side entrance. All the buildings are being watched front and back, but I alone watch this alley, so go quickly.”
“So Granger was right,” Field said, almost to himself, “about everything.”
“Granger was a man to follow, but now he is gone. And all you can do is run while you have the chance.”
The Russian put a hand on Field’s shoulder and then pushed him out into the sunlight, the steel door banging shut behind him.
Field walked away in a daze, his eyes half-closed against the sudden glare. He expected to hear a volley of shots and feel the sudden, devastating pain of their impact, but the alley was silent.
Fifty-five
The number one boy recoiled at the sight of him in the doorway at Crane Road. Field entered the house without further invitation and walked through to the living room at the back.
A record was playing. The mournful sound of a jazz band drifted through the open door to the veranda. Penelope was curled up in a ball in the corner of a wicker sofa, like a small child, staring at the lush green of her near-perfect lawn.
Field sat opposite her. He took out his cigarettes and put one in his mouth, his hand shaking violently as he tried to light it.
“I always know when he is going to meet one of his girls,” she said. “It’s the only time he allows himself to get excited.” She spoke slowly. “It doesn’t last, of course. They just remind him of everything he has lost.”
“He’s dead, Penelope.”
“I always told myself,” she went on, as if he had not spoken, “that it did not matter because they were
He didn’t know if she was trying to provoke him, or if she didn’t even realize he was there.
He stood and moved to the Gramophone. He lifted the needle, then, in a fit of anger, swept the whole contraption onto the floor.
He turned, unsteady.
Penelope was sitting up. “Is it too late for me, Richard?”
“I’m not a priest.”
Her eyes pleaded with him. “Please?”
“For God’s sake . . .”
“He killed that girl, didn’t he?”
Field stared at her. “Which one?”
Penelope frowned, her confusion genuine. Then her face collapsed as the truth finally rose up to swamp her.
