She had opened her eyes, and, however absurdly, Field still could not shake the notion that she was singing to him.
As she finished and acknowledged the applause, Field realized he was attracting a few curious glances, mostly from the women at the large table next to him. Looking around him, he could see that, while the groups close to the balcony were small, intimate, back here it was ten or twelve to the table. Everyone was sumptuously dressed, the men with gold watch chains to match their companions’ jewelry.
He turned back to the scene below him and his heart missed a beat. Charlie Lewis turned her slowly around the center of the dance floor, his cheek close to her own, his hand resting just above her hips, in the small of her back. She looked as though she was pressing herself against him, and he was smiling, whispering in her ear. Field saw that she was laughing. He stepped back, imagined the two of them naked together, on the bed, the candle flickering above them, her hands tied to the bedstead, her legs raised . . .
Field breathed out heavily and forced himself to move toward the door. He did not look at the dance floor as he passed it and walked slowly up the stairs opposite. A girl in a silver dress was selling cigarettes by one of the tables, and he killed a few moments by buying a packet of Capstan and wondering what it would feel like to be rich. He could not imagine being like Lewis and never having to think about the price of anything.
“You’re back.”
He spun around. She was two or three feet away from him, her brown eyes resting steadily upon his face.
“Yes.”
Although the band was loud, this corner seemed quiet.
“A professional or social visit?”
“Just a visit.”
“You were watching me.”
“Yes.”
“Is that part of the job?”
Field swallowed. “Not unless I want it to be.”
“And do you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know?”
Field offered her a cigarette and when she declined, put them in his jacket pocket without taking one. “May I buy you a drink?”
“I doubt you could afford it.”
“Why do you say that?”
She shook her head, her face still expressionless. “It’s not an accusation.” She looked him up and down. “Most policemen could afford . . . but I think you are the one who cannot.”
“I’ve never been ashamed to be poor.”
She stared at him, shaking her head. “Oh, I don’t think that is true.”
He felt his face reddening. “Do you always mean to provoke?”
Natasha did not answer. Field looked down at the floor below. Lewis was bending over a table on the balcony, in animated conversation. Field heard himself say, “Do you want to dance?”
She laughed, then looked around her. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “No.”
“Am I that funny?”
She smiled again, but this time it was not at his expense. “You have an honest face.” She looked up at him. “Do you think I have an honest face?”
Field almost said, “I don’t know,” but something in her eyes made him hesitate. “Yes,” he said eventually.
This time her smile was one of resignation. “Perhaps I will see you again.”
“Was Lena a friend?”
Natasha hesitated. She came closer to him, glancing around to check that they were not overheard. “I cannot help you.”
“He must have put a hand over her mouth, so that her screams were silent.”
She did not look at him. A muscle twitched in her cheek. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Perhaps he was plunging the knife into her just a few feet from where you were sleeping.”
“I was not there.”
“We don’t know for sure when she was killed, so—”
“I was not there.”
Field took a pace toward her. “Lena is like a ghost. No one wants to talk about her. Don’t you think, after all that she went through, she deserves better?”
Natasha stared at the floor, as if in another world.
“Do you imagine Lena will be the last victim?”
