The Master Of Rain

right, you know? It was okay that there would be no more. We’d come to accept it, that he would be enough, that that was it. We were a family.”

Caprisi was gazing at a point over Field’s shoulder. The silence stretched between them.

“We went to a party. A christening. It was bootlegged, of course, and I always went for the whiskey. Jane hated that, but I guess it helped me. I guess it helped me not to think too much about work, about what was going on in the city . . . It wasn’t until I got here that I realized Chicago wasn’t the only place justice and truth are in pretty short supply . . .” His voice trailed off. “She didn’t want me to drive, but I insisted. We argued; she gave in. She didn’t want to fight about it, she said. Not worth fighting about.” He looked at Field, his face a mask of pain. “I got out without a scratch.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Everyone’s sorry.”

“I know, but . . .”

“You’re satisfied now?”

Field didn’t answer and Caprisi sighed. “That was unfair. I’m the one who should be sorry.” He leaned forward. “It seems to me that everyone I’ve trusted in has been taken away.”

“You don’t have to protect me, Caprisi.”

The American looked at him for a long time and then smiled gently. “Yes I do.” His expression hardened. “You need to be tough on her, Field.”

Field didn’t answer.

“I’m sure you will be.” He pushed his tray away. “She’s not a child and I should think she’s experienced at manipulating people. She was caught doing something that could see her in prison for a long time. If she has information, make sure you get it out of her.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

Field stared at his hands. “It’s not wrong to be searching for something better, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

Field looked up again. “I’ve never had what you had. I’m sorry you lost it—truly sorry—but I’ve never had anything like that. In all my childhood, I have to really struggle to remember one happy day or moment. Everything was so . . . pressurized. We existed under this cloud that was my father’s anger, and the first moment I ever felt free of it—happy—was the day the liner that brought me here docked on the Bund. I got off, breathed that polluted air, saw the grand buildings of the waterfront, and, more than anything, I wanted to put everything I had ever known behind me and start again.”

“It’s all right to want something better, just don’t look for it in the wrong place. Be patient. It will come.”

Field stood.

“And you need to find out why she’s Lu’s girl. Don’t take no for an answer.”

The cells were like everything that was wrong with the worst parts of Shanghai. The smell of the sewers, damp, and decay, undiminished by any kind of flow of air, created a cocktail that assaulted his nostrils the moment Field opened the big steel door and began to walk down the stone steps.

Caprisi’s remorse and guilt came with him. Field had wanted to talk about love, and about what he felt now, but he knew what he had to say would appear ludicrous to anyone but himself.

He hesitated. What would her reaction be, here?

“Natasha Medvedev,” he told the duty sergeant. “Came in about forty minutes ago.”

The Chinese officer took out his pen and looked up expectantly.

“Field. S.1.”

“She was signed in as C.1. Chen.” He pointed at Chen’s name, detective number, and signature alongside Natasha’s name.

“Correct. We arrested her together, but this is now an S.1 matter.”

The man looked doubtful. Field thought how absurd it was that the mistrust between the two elite departments of the force had grown to the point at which ordinary uniformed officers were wary when there was any point of contention.

“It’s a joint Crime and Special Branch investigation,” Field said. “I’m working with Caprisi.”

He signed in. He put the pen down and straightened his jacket as the door ahead of him was opened and he was handed the key to her cell. He stepped into the gloom, hesitating as the iron door was slammed shut behind him. It was a couple of degrees cooler down here, but he slipped his jacket off and loosened his tie.

A man in the cell to his right began to cough and didn’t stop, his lungs racked by convulsions, before giving way to wheezy, uneven breathing.

Field’s footsteps were noisy on the stone floor.

Natasha’s cell was at the end of the corridor. She was sitting on her bed, with her feet pulled up and her head on her knees, face down. Field watched for a second through the grille and, when she didn’t look up, put the key in the lock, opened the door, and stepped in.

He waited, hands in his pockets. There was an open drain in the corner, next to the tin bucket that was supposed to be used as a toilet. The smell here was much worse than outside.

She lifted her head, spinning her hair back and away from her face. Field saw fear, not defiance, in her eyes. He pulled over a chair. “Do you mind if I sit down?”