“Belong to Lu. He buys influence any way he can and it’s spread like a cancer. In the force we call them the cabal.”
Field tried to decipher exactly what Caprisi was saying. “Who is we? You said
“Macleod, Chen.”
“That’s it?”
“One or two others. Most in our department are clean.”
“But the rest of the force is dirty?”
Caprisi was staring at him. “Not all, Field, but more than you might imagine.”
“How does it work?” Field asked.
“Someone runs the group from the inside. The commissioner is a joke, but is probably paid for his silence.”
“You don’t know who runs them?”
“We don’t know for certain.”
“Is it Granger?”
“He’s your boss, Field.”
“You think Granger heads this group . . . the cabal. He orchestrates . . .”
“He’s your boss, Field.”
“I’m asking you.”
Caprisi shrugged. “Have you seen the way he dresses?”
Field stared out of the window.
“Last year it came to a head. We were closing down opium dens on Foochow Road. Lu didn’t like it and neither did the cabal. For each raid, we needed uniform support, and every time we went out, even if we’d planned it at short notice, they were expecting us. We started to find we were being followed after work—all of us. By Lu’s men, mostly, but they always seemed to know where we were going and what we were doing. And then they struck without warning. We were ambushed on our way out to a raid. Two of our detectives were killed, and Macleod ordered a tactical retreat, but he’s not forgotten and neither have I.”
“Is that when Slugger . . .”
Caprisi shook his head. “That’s enough.”
Field sighed and returned to looking out of the window. “It would be easier if you trusted me,” he said.
There was a long silence, until Caprisi said, “I do.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Instinct.”
Field took out his cigarettes and offered one to Caprisi, who shook his head.
“Macleod hates Granger,” Field said.
Caprisi didn’t answer.
“Because he thinks Granger is head of the cabal.”
“Yes, but it’s more than that. Macleod was brought up by his mother, in one of the roughest parts of Glasgow. He has a pathological hatred of disorder and decay and greed. His father was a womanizer and gambler, who ran off with a prostitute and left them in poverty. So if you take a look at Granger, I think you’ll get the picture.”
“Is Macleod married?”
“Yes.”
“Yes . . . but?”
“He married a Chinese girl, but the council disapproves, so he never talks about it, or allows anyone to meet her.”
Field turned back to the window.
“He seems rough, Field, but he’s loyal to those he cares about.”
Field faced his colleague again. He sensed he was expected to give an answer. “I can see that,” he said.
The Majestic was empty, save for two elderly Chinese women who were scrubbing the floor on their hands and knees, lonely figures in front of the big mirrors at the far end of this cavernous room. The porter led Field and Caprisi through a wooden door in the far wall and up a steep, narrow staircase.
At the top was a tiny balcony, with an empty hatstand.
The porter knocked once on the door and a woman answered, “Come.”
It was an attic room, painted red, with long sloping ceilings and a single small casement window, both sides of which were open. The woman sat at her desk, dressed elegantly in black, a silver chain around her neck, her white hair—long, like Natasha’s—tied up at the back of her head.
“You’ve come about Lena,” she said.
