They were silent.
“This sister,” Caprisi said quietly. “She is the only other survivor from the family we saw in a photo next door?”
“Yes.”
“How many men . . . I mean was Lena a—”
“No.” Natasha shrugged. “When she felt she had to.”
“One consistent man?”
“Sometimes.”
“What about the last few months? Was there anyone—”
“I don’t know. We . . . never talked about it.” She shook her head.
“What work do you do, Miss Medvedev?” Caprisi asked.
There was a long silence.
“If you think it should be obvious to us, then you’re wrong.”
“I sing at the Majestic.”
“Just sing?”
She didn’t dignify this with an answer.
“That was where Lena worked.”
“Well done, Detective.”
“So you would have known . . . would have seen which men she was . . . making an arrangement with.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“How does it work?”
“Some of the men are married . . .” She sighed. “A girl may dance with a hundred in an evening, hints exchanged in whispers. The arrangements you are referring to are not made on the dance floor of the Majestic.”
“How are they made?”
“Lena had a telephone. A man might call on her.”
“But you didn’t see any particular man calling?”
Natasha shook her head.
Caprisi had the pencil in his mouth again. “These flats are owned by Lu Huang.”
She didn’t react.
“So what brings you, or Lena, to live here?”
“We pay rent. To a company on Bubbling Well Road. If they’re connected to Lu, then I’m not aware of it.”
Field did not think Natasha was a good liar. Caprisi must have agreed, because he was looking around the flat, clearly wondering how she could afford to live in such surroundings.
“You must be aware of what happened to the doorman.”
She nodded, again dropping her gaze.
“We believe that Lu’s men were responsible.”
Field looked at her right hand, which was pointing at the ground, her wrist limp. She was wearing a gold bracelet.
“Can you think of any reason,” Caprisi went on, “for such drastic action?”
Natasha shrugged. “They say he was a communist.”
“Like you,” Field said.
She stared at him.
“How does the daughter of a tsarist officer,” he went on, gesturing at the photograph on the bookshelf, “come to attend meetings at the
“My father is dead.”
Field felt his face reddening. “So you have decided . . .”
“So it’s none of your business.”
“On the contrary,” Caprisi said slowly. “It’s very much Mr. Field’s business. The Settlement takes a very . . . strong view of emigres who abuse its hospitality by using this as a base to export political ideas to the Chinese. That’s right, isn’t it, Mr. Field?”
“Yes.”
Caprisi turned back to face her. “So what does Pockmark Lu get in return for allowing you to live here?”
“I told you. We pay rent.”
