One of the boys came through the white swinging doors, but Field shook his head. "No cook."

"Bacon?"

Field shook his head.

"Eggs? Very good. Build you up."

"No thanks."

The boy wiped a corner of the table that had not looked dirty with his tea towel and withdrew. Field sipped his coffee, then picked the mug up and went and sat in one of the leather chairs at the far end of the room. Pulling open his newspaper, fighting to concentrate, his eyes strayed to a picture of Bebe Daniels advertising her latest picture, Miss Bluebeard. Miss Bluebeard. He thought her mouth and nose were like Natasha's. He thought her mouth and nose were like Natasha's.

He put the newspaper down and went upstairs to change. In the corridor Prokopieff was pulling up his suspenders.

"Good morning, Field," he said, his accent thick and sarcastic.

"Good morning."

"Getting up early."

"Yes."

"And getting out of bed on the wrong side."

Field stopped. He looked at the Russian's bald head and sallow eyes. "Been busy, Prokopieff?"

He shrugged.

"What are you working on?"

"Working hard, my friend."

"Granger's orders?"

Prokopieff looked at him intently. "Not everything is Granger's orders."

Field held the Russian's stare, then unlocked his own room and slammed the door shut. He took his revolver out of its holster, placed it on the bed, within easy reach, then took some fresh clothes from the closet and put them on. His shirt had been neatly ironed by the hall steward, but was still musty and slightly damp.

He sat down, smoked a cigarette, and wondered if he should stay put. He decided that Natasha would not know where he was. He stood again and told himself that, if their intention had been to kill him, they would have done so earlier, when fewer people were around.

Field came out of the Carter Road quarters confidently, his hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket, gripping the b.u.t.t of his revolver hard. He saw them immediately. Two were leaning against the iron railings opposite, a third waiting farther up toward the top of the road.

Field walked briskly, ignoring them. The man ahead drifted forward and allowed him the s.p.a.ce to do what he'd intended, which was to turn into the churchyard.

He moved with less haste through the graveyard, as though he had come to visit a dead relative. He entered the front of the church.

Field had only been to one service here, but it was enough for him to be familiar with the layout. He sprinted down the center aisle, past the pulpit, and out into the vestry. The door was locked, but he opened a narrow window next to it and squeezed through. He climbed the wall behind and dropped down into the street.

He was about to run when he noticed another man standing on the opposite side of the road. He was wearing a white trilby and was not one of the three Field had seen before.

An expatriate woman walking her dog shot Field a curious and concerned glance, surprised at his sudden emergence, perhaps sensing his unease. Field brushed down his suit and began to walk again. The man followed and Field turned back once to see two of the others swiftly rounding the corner, the third climbing over the wall behind him.

Field waited for a black Buick to pa.s.s before he crossed the road. He thought there were four or five of them, if not more.

Inside the lobby at Central, a group of uniformed Chinese officers was waiting by the stairs, their Thompson machine guns propped up against the wall. Field pa.s.sed them and climbed up to the S.1 office.

As he entered, he could see Granger standing by the window in his gla.s.s office, the telephone to his ear, almost hidden in a cloud of smoke. Prokopieff was at his desk, leaning back in his chair, the suspenders of his trousers hanging down beside his knees, his scuffed boots against one cubicle wall, his head against the other. He was reading a newspaper, a blue censorship pencil in his hand. He looked at Field steadily.

Yang stood from behind her desk. She had a note in her hand, and Field's spirits surged until he read, Penelope called. Penelope called. It was timed ten minutes ago. It was timed ten minutes ago.

"Richard?" Field looked up. Granger was half out of his door. "Have you got a minute?"

Field folded up the sheet of paper and slipped it into his pocket. He noticed Yang was avoiding his eyes.

He shut the gla.s.s door behind him, banging the blind.

"I'll take you up in a minute," Granger said as he sat behind his desk.

"Take me up where?"

"I don't blame you, Richard, but I would have expected to be informed."

Field frowned.

"This is not a cowboy operation. We are entirely reliant on the council for funding, and to go in riding shotgun, accusing someone like Charles Lewis . . ." Granger shook his head. "We'll go up in a minute. I'll come and find you." Granger pointed Field toward his desk. "You're still coming tonight?"

"Dinner. Yes, of course."

"Are you all right, Richard?"

"I'm fine, yes."

"You look distressed."

"No . . . I'm fine."

"We need to talk about this supplement."

There was a long silence. Granger looked at the smoke hanging in the air between them.

"I've a meeting of the budgetary committee this afternoon. I was thinking of around two hundred a month?"

Field realized he was expected to answer. He was about to say that he had already received two payments into his account, when he realized that this had nothing to do with what Granger was telling him. "That's generous."

"It will be paid directly into your account at the same time as your salary."

"So this will be the first payment?"

"Yes. To be honest, at the moment I don't feel especially like rewarding you, but I've got to put it in front of the committee and I promised we would discuss it, so we are. You don't seem terribly pleased."

"No . . . I mean yes."

"It is paid to all members of my department here and rises as you become more senior. It's an insurance payment."

"An insurance payment?"

"This is an expensive city and I want the members of my department to be immune from its temptations, do you see?"

"Yes."

"Nothing extra is expected of you; it is designed to reflect the special nature of the work in this department and the sensitivity of it. I hope you appreciate it, Richard. Most others do and it was a b.l.o.o.d.y nightmare getting it past the budget committee."

"This is definitely the first payment?"

"Richard, are you all right?"

"Yes, of course."

Granger stood. "Lewis will be there tonight, so try to restrain yourself." He took a step toward Field and glanced over his shoulder. "Don't be put off by the Eton and Oxford nonsense. Or any of that rubbish Macleod has fed you. Lewis is surprisingly straightforward."

"An honorable man."

Granger regarded him critically.

Field opened the door, wondering how anyone else had gained his bank account details.

"I'll come and get you in a minute."

Field closed the door quietly and walked straight through the office and down the stairs to C.1. Caprisi took hold of Field's arm and led him back to the stairwell.

"Macleod is f.u.c.king furious that we didn't warn him. But I said time was short and other girls will be murdered and he'll back us. I think he's on the phone to some of the other members of the council. We're up in front of the commissioner in a few minutes."

"I can't find her," Field said.

Caprisi looked at him. He touched his arm again. "It's all right, Field."

"Do you think they've-"

"I think she's gone to ground to avoid you. She's no fool."

He felt close to despair.

"Field."

"I had a tail this morning. From last night, I think."

"So did I."

"I tried to shake them, but there were four, maybe five."

"They can move in packs of ten or more." Caprisi smiled ruefully. "There's no shortage of manpower. And they don't mind if you see them."

"Lu's men this time."

"It seems so." Caprisi moved toward the stairs. "Let's go up. He's in a foul mood."

"I'd better come with Granger."

Caprisi nodded and Field went back upstairs. Granger was still on the phone, but he only had to wait a few minutes. They walked up to the sixth floor together. Macleod and Caprisi were already sitting on the other side of the table, beside the commissioner.

Granger lit up again. Field considered how even-tempered he was. He never seemed to get angry.

"Macleod," the commissioner said. "We all know why we are here: an official complaint from Charles Lewis. I've had Geoffrey Donaldson on the telephone this morning seeking an explanation, and Granger wanted all this thrashed out, so . . . please."

"We've acted within the bounds that one could reasonably expect of this investigation," Macleod said, his elbows on the table. "There are members of the council who share our misgivings about Charles Lewis."

"Your misgivings," Granger said.

"We are not here simply to protect the rich and powerful."

"Though they pay our wages."

Macleod glowered. "Let us not forget that Lena Orlov was stabbed almost twenty times." He looked around the room and waited for someone to challenge him. "The notes left in Orlov's flat refer to a series of shipments, all of which have originated from Fraser's factories. We know they're smuggling opium and that the next shipment goes tomorrow. It defies belief that this could be going on without Lewis's express knowledge."

"I doubt he even knows where most of his factories are," Granger said.

The commissioner looked at Granger, flipping his pencil over the back of his hand.

"Lewis is tied to this murder," Macleod went on, "whether we like it or not. We have Orlov's notes; we have the fact of the shipments. It's inconceivable he's not in it up to his neck, and tough questioning was an entirely legitimate tactic. If nothing else, it might make him hesitate before killing any more girls. His response indicates guilt. I propose we have a watch on this shipment tomorrow night and on Lewis as well."

Granger leaned forward. "Tell me you're not serious."

The commissioner indicated that Granger should present his case, but he simply shook his head. "There's no evidence here that would stand up for a second in a court of law. Even if you are right about the shipments, there is no evidence whatever to suggest that Lewis knows anything about them. It could have been one of the factory managers who was f.u.c.king the Russian girl and shooting off his big mouth in an attempt to impress her. And the rest of it is so circ.u.mstantial as to be preposterous."

"His response has been swift," Macleod said.

"Of course it f.u.c.king has. His company taxes account for about twenty-five percent of our annual budget." Granger looked exasperated. "We're cutting our throats. As for the increase in the budget, we've spent months trying to persuade Geoffrey Donaldson." He sighed again. "You can kiss that good-bye, Macleod."

"Money doesn't buy innocence."

"But it pays our wages." Granger bristled. "You're wrong about Lewis, anyway. I know he's a little rougher on the inside than we expect in someone of his standing, but I don't believe he's behind these . . . girls."

"They were murdered."

"They were Russian."