“Yes, we were at school together in Kazan, on the Volga. Our fathers were friends.”
Caprisi got out his notebook, taking the stub of a pencil from the top pocket of his jacket. “Does Lena have any relatives here in Shanghai?”
Natasha shook her head. “No. Most of her close family perished.” She looked at her feet, which were in open sandals. She moved them to and fro, before crossing one long, slim leg over the other, the skirt riding up the smooth skin of her calf.
“Did you see or hear anyone coming to the apartment the night before last?”
She looked up again. “I was out.”
“All night?”
“More or less.”
“What time did you leave?”
She thought for a moment. “About eleven.”
“And you didn’t hear anyone coming up the lift?”
“No.”
“You didn’t drop around before going out?”
Natasha shook her head.
“You went out . . . where?”
“The Majestic.”
“So when was the last time you saw her?”
Natasha hesitated. “In the afternoon.” She sat up straight, flicking her hair from her eyes. “I went for a walk on the recreation ground and, as I returned, Lena was coming in below. She’d been shopping on Nanking Road.”
“How was she?”
“She was . . .” Natasha shrugged. “She was okay.”
“Only okay?”
“What do you want, Detective? Her life wasn’t a picnic.”
Natasha was staring at both of them now, her brown eyes angry.
“She went into her flat,” Caprisi went on, unruffled, “and you into your own, and you heard nothing more until you went out again in the evening?”
“Yes.”
“And what about after your return that night? What time did you come in?”
“Between three and four. I don’t recall exactly.”
“On your own?”
She stared at him. “Yes.”
Field took out a cigarette and lit it. The others ignored him.
“And you . . . There was nothing unusual?” Caprisi asked.
“I was tired, Officer. I went straight to sleep.”
“Did you see anyone arriving or leaving her apartment?”
“No.”
“Did you hear anyone inside?”
She shook her head.
“And, when you awoke, you went over to borrow some milk?”
“Yes.”
Field had been watching Caprisi taking notes. The pencil stub was so thick that it would have been impossible to write neatly, even if that had been his natural disposition. Caprisi’s handwriting was the worst he’d ever seen.
The American looked up, putting the pencil between his lips, as if it were a cigarette. He leaned back in the chair. “Did Lena have a regular man, Miss Medvedev?”
Natasha stared at her feet again. “Yes, there was a boy in the band at the Majestic . . . Sergei . . . but it was not—”
“There were other men?”
“I don’t know.”
“Men who paid for her favors?”
“She has a sister . . . in Harbin.” Natasha looked up, face burning with righteous anger. “She’s only seventeen. Lena did it so that her sister didn’t have to.”
