The Master of Rain by Tom Bradby Page A

staring at the floor, still fiddling with the chain. In some ways, he reminded Field of his father; he seemed to have the same sense of moral and practical certainty.

    Caprisi had a notebook open in his hand. “So we talk to Lu when permission comes through from the French. We try the apartment block again and talk to Natasha, the unhelpful neighbor.”

    “Natasha and Lena were close friends,” Field said. “They danced together at the Majestic Café.”

    All three detectives looked at him in silence for a moment. “Okay,” Caprisi said, “since we are short of direct evidence, we should work on tracing through Orlov’s life. Was she a prostitute? Did she have a regular man? Did she exclusively belong to Lu, and did he lend her to anyone else? And there’s this.” Caprisi produced the leather volume with the hole cut in it and handed it, open, to Macleod, who took out the notebook and glanced through it.

    “Names of ships, departure dates, and destinations,” Caprisi explained.

    “I can see that.”

    “We don’t know its relevance, but if Lena was one of Lu’s girls, it may have something to do with him, or with the man who killed her.”

    Macleod shut the book and handed it back to Caprisi. “Right. Keep me briefed. The municipal authorities wish to be kept closely informed on this investigation, and the commissioner wants regular updates.”

    They all frowned, including Field.

    Caprisi turned away. Field followed Chen toward the American detective’s desk.

    “Field,” Macleod said. Field stopped and turned. “You playing rugby tomorrow?”

    “Yes, I believe so, sir.”

    “Granger has been telling everyone you’re a find.”

    “He’s never seen me play.”

    “You’re fit?”

    “Yes.”

    “You’re sure?” Macleod was smiling.

    “I’m sure.”

    “Caprisi, make sure you break this boy’s leg.” Macleod took a step toward Field and stretched his arms above his head. “He’s good, you know, for a Yank.”

    “So everyone says.”
     

    Field sensed the tension as soon as he entered the ten o’clock briefing. It was held in a large, gloomy room behind the duty sergeant’s counter on the first floor. Field took a seat at the back behind Caprisi, at a desk almost identical to the ones they’d had at school, even down to the graffiti. Someone had carved in big letters:
Smith for fucking Pope.
There was graffiti etched into the dark wooden panels beside him, too, paint on the walls above peeling off in large chunks. There were no pictures or adornments of any kind and the two fans hanging down on long metal poles from the ceiling stood idle. Field had never seen them work. Whatever the police budget was being spent on, it wasn’t building maintenance. The whole building had an aura of decay about it.

    The old clock between the frosted glass windows at the end of the room was tilted to the side, but still showed that the briefing was late again.

    Field leaned against the wooden panel and closed his eyes, losing himself in the hubbub around him.

    He was jostled and turned to see a group of officers in full protective gear coming through the door. Sorenson, a small, surly, dark-haired man from Ohio, took off his heavy metal jacket and let it drop to the floor with a loud thud, then stacked it and the helmet against the back wall along with his machine gun. He had been unfriendly during Field’s attachment to the incident room here in Central, and didn’t bother to acknowledge him as he shoved his way into a seat next to one of the Chinese officers on the far wall.

    Caprisi lit a cigarette and then, without looking around, threw the packet over his shoulder onto Field’s lap.

    Captain Smith walked in. He clipped Caprisi over the head playfully with a buff-colored folder on his way to the lectern. He was tall—six feet two or three—with a narrow face and white hair. Like most of the men in the room, he was in blue summer uniform, the silver badge on his lapel above his