“It was dealt with by CID at Rue Wagner?”
“Probably.”
“I imagine it is quiet here, relatively speaking.”
“Depends on what you mean by quiet.”
“You get a lot of murders?”
Givreaux was staring at him, now understanding the drift of his questions. “Not a lot, no.” He moved closer. “I forgot your name. You are Richard . . .”
“Field.”
“Field, yes.” Givreaux’s gaze was level.
“What about Irina Ignatiev?”
Givreaux’s brow creased, as if he were trying to recall the name.
“Her body was also found on Avenue Joffre, on March 31—two and a half months ago.”
Givreaux shrugged.
“Also dealt with by Rue Wagner?”
“Sure. It was . . . I remember now. It turned out to be a domestic, I think. Why, are you—”
“Is Constable Ngoc around?”
“Ngoc?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“He made a note of the incident here.”
Givreaux nodded. “It was CID who attended.”
“Is there any chance I could have a word with Constable Ngoc?”
“He will not be in today.” Givreaux showed Field to the door. “I’m sorry not to have been more help.”
Twenty-three
Field instructed his driver to take him down to the Customs House on the Bund. It was still overcast and the light drizzle left him again with wet feet, so he took the stairs to the seventh floor in an attempt to stamp out the water. As he climbed, he looked down toward the neat public gardens next to Garden Bridge.
The immigration room was small and crowded. It smelled of damp from too many raincoats and umbrellas. Field strode over to the counter in the far corner and interrupted the woman behind the grille as he produced his card. “I’m afraid I need some assistance.”
An older woman in a black cardigan turned around and stepped forward to examine his ID before moving to unlock the partition door. She ushered Field into a back room.
“I’m correct in thinking that everyone who arrives in the city has to register with you here?” Field shook his foot to try and get rid of the last of the water.
“In theory, yes. As you know, not everyone does.”
“But Russians have never been refused entry, so there would be no point in trying to come in illegally.”
“Less bureaucracy.”
“But life is difficult without identification papers,” Field persisted, thinking of the hours he’d spent here filling out the necessary forms.
“That is true.”
“And if a Russian, a noncitizen, changes his address, he is supposed to inform you?”
“In theory, yes.”
“And most do?”
She shrugged. “There is no reason not to. The majority do.”
“Okay, I have two names and I urgently need an address for both of them.”
The woman put on her glasses and looked at his notebook.
“Do you know in what month of what year the women originally came here?”
“No.”
“You don’t know what year?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t be sure.”
She sighed. “It will take two to three days, Mr. Field.”
“Three days?”
“Do you know how many people arrive here every year?”
“Thousands.”
