“Macleod?”
“And Caprisi. They came in together.”
“When was that?”
“About forty minutes ago.”
Field turned and ran back upstairs, first to Crime, where the office was still dark and empty, and then to the Branch, where his desk lamp was still the only sign of life. He stopped again in the middle of the room. “Sir?” he said.
He walked slowly down to Granger’s room, knocked, and waited.
Field glanced over his shoulder, then slipped through Granger’s door. He peered through the blinds, back down toward the lift, then walked around and sat behind the desk, his heart thumping. The in-tray was full of sheets of paper. He lifted the top one and held it up to the light. It was a memo from Commissioner Biers to “Heads of Department,” about the “ordering, use, and abuse of stationery.”
Field put it down, glancing toward the lift again before opening the drawer to his right. An embossed invitation to a function at Fraser’s lay alongside a leather pistol holster. It was four months out of date.
The shrill ring of a telephone made Field start, and it was a moment before he realized that it was coming from his own desk. He shut the drawer and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him.
Field sat and wiped the sweat from his forehead, hoping the ringing would stop, but it didn’t.
He picked it up. “Richard Field.”
“Dickie.”
“Hello . . . Penelope.”
“I’ve been trying to get you all evening, but there’s been no answer.”
“I’m sorry, there was a—”
“You’ve been busy, I know.”
“I haven’t yet written a note to thank you both for dinner, both dinners. It was a marvelous—”
“Don’t be silly. Don’t mention it. Geoffrey thinks you’re terrific and is very proud to have you as a nephew. And so am I.”
Field felt his face flushing with pleasure. “Well, I—”
“Are you free tonight?”
He looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty.
“I don’t have any plans, but—”
“Then you shall come out with us. There is a dance at the race club and—look, I know it’s last-minute, but Geoffrey wants to show you off to everyone. You won’t disappoint us, will you? Surely Crime can spare you at this time of night?”
Field noticed that Penelope rarely drew breath.
“I’m not busy. But are you sure?”
“Geoffrey is insistent. He instructed me not to take no for an answer, so I shall meet you at the entrance at ten.”
Field put down the phone and stared at it.
“Granger,” he whispered to himself. “Fuck.” He felt the resentment rising inside him, tasting the bile in his mouth. Was it his fault? Hadn’t Caprisi told him enough? Shouldn’t he have been more careful and hidden the fingerprint file? He felt stupid and naive.
He wondered where Granger had gone, and he stood up intending to go and look for him. He stopped. Of course, the building was huge. He could be anywhere.
Field stood outside the race club, looking up at the clock tower, then back across to the Happy Times block, where a light was on in Natasha Medvedev’s apartment.
So far, he’d seen no sign of her through the windows.
He watched the guests arriving, wondering why he hadn’t found an excuse not to come. It was not just that he was incorrectly dressed—all the men were wearing white ties and tails, which he did not possess—but that the others, with their well-cut coats and dresses, jewelry and finely polished shoes, belonged to a world in which he increasingly wanted to be included.
He looked at his watch and then walked in through the tall glass doors. He waited at the bottom of a marble staircase, beneath a magnificent crystal chandelier.
“Dickie!”
Penelope was wearing a white dress, a circle of diamonds sparkling brightly around her neck. She kissed him, brushing a white-gloved hand on his arm, her body pressed briefly against his. Her skin was soft, a hint of French perfume catching in his nostrils. She was wearing red lipstick, generously applied, and as she stepped back, she laughed and began to wipe it off his cheek, ignoring the fact that it was staining her glove. He noticed for the first time how long her eyelashes were.
“Come.”
She slipped a hand into the crook of his arm and began to lead him up the marble staircase.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I seem to be improperly dressed. I didn’t—”
