“Natasha has access to his house. She is summoned down there.”
Macleod thought about this. “Where is this ledger kept?”
“In his bedroom, we think.”
“The murder inquiry is too important. If Lu remains the primary suspect, then—”
“It remains the focus of our efforts.” Caprisi turned to his boss. “Field is saying that these ledgers serve a dual purpose. They could help us with the inquiry, by not only giving us an indication of what exactly these shipments are, and who else is in on the deal, but also providing a whole new avenue for prosecuting Lu.” Caprisi paused. “If the girl is frightened enough of prison, and is willing to work for us, then she could prove useful in a number of ways.”
Macleod snorted. “She’s one of his women. She’s not going to work for us.”
“Field thinks she will.” Caprisi looked at him.
Macleod tapped his fingers against the paperweight and then began to drum them on his desk, before getting up and looking out of the window again, sucking in his stomach and hitching up the waistband of his trousers. “All right,” he said, “but make sure she understands. She should be in bloody prison.”
Field stood, trying to hide his relief. He walked out ahead of Caprisi, but Macleod called him back. “I hope you don’t think I’m being harsh,” he said, closing the door behind the American. “I appreciate the work you’re putting in.”
Field nodded.
“I know it’s difficult, this not being your department, but we do appreciate your efforts.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Things are a bit difficult at the moment, but it will be worth it in the end. You understand?”
Field nodded.
“You’re not offended?”
Field smiled. “No.”
“Good. Good man.” Macleod pulled the door open with one hand and rested the other briefly on Field’s shoulder.
Twenty-seven
The process took longer than Field had thought. The Chinese sergeant refused to let Natasha go without someone from C.1 signing her out and wouldn’t budge even when Field got angry. Caprisi was nowhere to be found, and in the end Field had to summon Macleod to the phone, to tell the desk officer to do as he was asked.
He didn’t want to bother with arranging a car, so they got a rickshaw outside and crammed in together. He was conscious of the fact that their legs were touching. She made no attempt to move away.
Natasha let him into her flat. She slipped off her raincoat and stood in the middle of the room. She wore a simple, dark blue dress, cut close. Its hem rose above her knee as she ran her fingers through her hair.
“Do you want something to drink?” Her voice was an octave lower.
“No thanks.”
“Tea?”
“No.”
“You want something to eat?”
“No, I had lunch . . . of sorts.”
“You don’t think I can cook? Most Russian girls can’t. Lena couldn’t boil an egg when she came here. But my mother died when I was a little girl, and sometimes I used to cook for my father.”
“Perhaps sometime . . . you could cook me something.”
She smiled for the first time today and it lifted his spirits. “I’d like that.”
“Perhaps tonight.”
“Perhaps.”
Field did not know if that was a yes or a no. “But
“I can wait.”
Natasha sat down, indicating that he should do the same, but the atmosphere had changed now.
“I hope you’re not thinking that your freedom comes without cost.”
She looked at her shoes. When she raised her head, Field saw that she was smiling.
“What’s so funny?”
“You are funny. I’m watching you wrestle with yourself.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Do you want me, Mr. Field, or will you reject me? Which of you will win?”
