“True, but there’s no sign of any semen on the camisole, underwear, or stockings. None that I can see.” He walked past Field toward the door. He looked angry. “We’d better get Maretsky down here,” he said, stepping out into the corridor. “Chen, get Maretsky, will you, and tell him to get a move on.”
Caprisi returned to the other side of the room. “So tell me about the woman, Field. Field?”
“Yes.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bunching your fists.”
Field unclenched his hands.
“Tell me about her.”
“In what way?”
“What’s her name again?”
“Lena Orlov,” Field said. “Granger asked Records whether the address rang a bell and Danny pulled out the file on Orlov straight away. The photograph matches. I can see it’s her.”
Caprisi frowned. “Tell me about her.”
“I’m not sure if I know all that—”
“Then why has Granger given us the pleasure of your company?”
“The file is not extensive.”
“Save me having to look at it.”
Field took a deep breath. “Suspected Bolshevik sympathizer. Attended meetings at the
Caprisi had been eyeing the white photograph frame beside the bed. He picked it up, took a closer look, then threw it across to Field. Field noticed how he gritted his teeth when he was angry, making the muscles in his cheeks twitch. He could see the American suspected that Special Branch had a separate agenda.
The picture was of a family, seated formally on a lawn in front of a large country house. The mother was a thin, elegant woman; the father sat stiffly in military uniform. There were five children, three boys in white sailor suits, and two blonde girls in pretty white dresses, leaning against their mother’s knee. Lena had been the elder of the two girls. Field, suddenly somber, put the picture facedown on the bed. The body in front of him had been transformed suddenly by this glimpse of a past.
“Her father was a tsarist officer in Mother Russia, and you think she’s a Bolshevik.” Caprisi shook his head. “You guys should do your research.”
The Chinese detective was still on his knees, brushing the bedside table. Caprisi put a hand on his shoulder. “How are we doing?”
“The cuffs are clean. Everywhere else is heavy.”
“The cuffs could be evidence.”
There was one window in the room, high and small. Caprisi stood on the bedside table to open it and stuck his head out. “Shares a balcony with the woman next door; the girl who found her. Go and talk to her, will you, Field? And everyone else in the building.”
Two
Field didn’t need any encouragement to get out of the bedroom, and he breathed a little more easily in the hallway. He tugged at his collar again and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. He wished he could afford a lightweight suit like the one Caprisi wore. He had been grateful to his father for the gift of his Sunday best, but it was warm enough to be comfortable in a Yorkshire winter and highly unsuitable for the stifling summer heat of the Far East.
Field knocked once on the door opposite and waited. In the few minutes they’d been inside, the bulb in the hallway light had blown.
He heard movement, but no one came, so he knocked again.
A shadow moved along the crack at the bottom of the door and it was suddenly pulled open.
The woman was standing with her weight on one leg, light from a window behind her caressing her thighs through the thin white cotton of her dressing gown. Field could not see her face clearly and took a step back.
She was frowning at him.
“I’m from the Shanghai police.”
“You don’t say.”
She was tall—not quite as tall as he was, but still close to six feet. Luxuriant dark hair spilled over her shoulders and hung down to her breasts. Her gown was pulled tight, showing off the supple curves of her body.
Her nose was small, her cheeks curved in a manner that made her seem warm, even if her dark eyebrows were knotted together in a frown. But what struck Field most was her skin. Even in this light—and she had half turned now—he could see it was brown and smooth, making his own appear as white as alabaster.
“Can I come in?”
“Why?”
