“What brought you here?” Field asked.

Caprisi’s face was impassive. “How long have you been in Shanghai, Field?”

“About three months.”

“And you’ve not yet learned the golden rule?” Caprisi smiled again and Field realized he looked like a Caucasian version of Chen-thick dark hair, bushy eyebrows, a narrow nose, and an easy, sly smile. The sleeves of his dark jacket were pulled up above his elbows, revealing broad forearms, and bushy hair spilled out of his open-necked shirt. “Take my advice: never ask anyone in Shanghai about their past. Especially not a lady.”

Field turned to the window as an old beggar woman thrust a bundle of rags toward him. As Chen clubbed her aside with the butt of his Thompson, he saw that the bundle contained a baby.

“Take it easy, Chen,” Caprisi said, almost to himself. He leaned forward impatiently once more. “What’s the holdup?” he shouted. Chen leaned through the window and shook his head.

“What’s your name, Field?”

“Richard. But most people call me ‘Field.’ ”

“Dick?”

Field grimaced.

“You don’t like ‘Dick’?”

“No one calls me that.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

Field looked at him, smiling. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Caprisi. It’s just that no one calls me that. But if you want to, be my guest.”

“Spirit.” The American smiled approvingly. “You’ll need that here.”

“What’s your name?”

“My name is Caprisi.”

They had stopped again and could see now that a crowd had gathered in the middle of the street. Caprisi opened his door. Chen and Field followed as he shoved his way through.

The crowd parted reluctantly to reveal a scrawny man lying flat on the road, a pool of congealed blood beneath his head and neck. The upper part of his body was bare and still glistening with sweat. The rickshaw, which had once been his livelihood, had been crushed like a pile of matchsticks. For a moment they all looked at him silently. Field knew enough about the city to be certain that this random accident was likely to plunge a large, extended family into destitution. Caprisi was checking the man’s neck for a pulse.

“What happened?” Caprisi demanded before switching to Chinese. Field only understood the last instruction: “Move aside, move aside.”

On the way back to the car, Caprisi asked, “How’s your Shanghainese?”

“I’m getting there,” Field said, walking fast to keep up.

“Congratulations.” Caprisi’s mood had soured. “Hit by a car. Oldsmobile. Westerners, who didn’t bother to stop.”

Their driver edged through the crowd before hurtling down Foochow Road to an apartment building opposite the racecourse. There was another police car parked outside, with two uniformed officers standing guard by a sign saying Happy Times. They nodded as Caprisi and Chen headed into the ornate lobby. An elderly Chinese in a red uniform with gold brocade sat behind a marble desk. He smiled at them.

“Field, come down and talk to him later, will you?” Caprisi ordered.

“Top floor,” one of the policemen said as they stepped into the lift.

Caprisi hit the button for the third floor and the lift began to move. It was swifter and smoother than their own, with polished wood panels and mirrors. Field tried not to look at himself, but Caprisi moved closer to the mirror, unselfconsciously removing something from his teeth. Chen caught Field’s eye and smiled. He was holding the Thompson down by his side, its magazine resting against his knee.

The top landing was spacious, with two doors separated by a gold mirror. Another uniformed officer was standing guard by the door on the right.

Inside, the main room was not as big as Field had anticipated, but the flat was a far cry from his own quarters. The wooden floor had been recently polished. One wall was dominated by a long sofa covered in a white cotton sheet and silk cushions in a kaleidoscope of colors. There was a handsome Chinese chest beside it, upon which sat a Gramophone. A rattan chair had been pushed up against the French windows, which opened onto a small balcony.

A bookcase in the corner was lined with embossed leather spines and framed photographs.

Field pulled at his collar again to ease the pressure on his neck before following Caprisi through to the bedroom at the far end of a short corridor.

He recoiled at the smell and then the sight of blood on white sheets, and tried to shield this reaction from Caprisi. A Chinese plainclothes detective he did not recognize was dusting the bedside table with fingerprint powder. A photographer was lining up a shot and there was the sudden thump of a flashgun.

“Jesus,” Caprisi said quietly.

The woman lay in the middle of the big brass bed that occupied most of the room. Her wrists and ankles were handcuffed to each corner, her body half-turned, as if twisting to be free. She was wearing silk lingerie: a beige camisole and panties, a garter belt and stockings. She had been stabbed repeatedly in the stomach and vulva and had bled profusely. The blood was now dry; it had taken some time for her death to be discovered.

Caprisi made his way round to the far side of the bed, next to the wardrobe. He glanced through a separate door into the bathroom.

“Don’t touch anything.”

Field nodded, without moving or taking his eyes from the woman’s face. She had short blond hair, and her lips were still pink with lipstick. Her mouth was half-open, giving the disconcerting impression that her face was distorted with pleasure.

“Jesus,” Caprisi said again.

Field did not respond.

“Ever seen a dead body like this?”

Field shook his head.

Caprisi leaned forward, examining her. “Good-looking girl.” He sat close to the woman’s waist. Field tried not to look at the patch of dark hair, which became visible as Caprisi took hold of the top band of her panties and began to lower them, until they were around her knees. The corpse was stiff and he grimaced with the effort. “She’s been dead some time,” he said. Field felt the dryness in his throat as Caprisi leaned down to take a closer look, using his fingers to try to open the gap between her thighs. There was dried blood everywhere, most of the sheet a dark red.

Caprisi wiped his fingers on the lower part of her leg, then pulled the panties back up. He stood, looking down at the body, frowning. “Hard to tell,” he said, more to himself than Field. “But I’m not sure…” He looked up. “What do you think?”

Field shook his head. “About what?”

“I don’t think there’s been an assault. A sexual one.”

Field didn’t answer.

“She’s still got her underwear on,” Caprisi said.

“That doesn’t mean she wasn’t assaulted.”

“True, but there’s no sign of any semen on the camisole, underwear, or stockings. None that I can see.” He walked past Field toward the door. He looked angry. “We’d better get Maretsky down here,” he said, stepping out into the corridor. “Chen, get Maretsky, will you, and tell him to get a move on.”

Caprisi returned to the other side of the room. “So tell me about the woman, Field. Field?”

“Yes.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bunching your fists.”

Field unclenched his hands.

“Tell me about her.”

“In what way?”

“What’s her name again?”

“Lena Orlov,” Field said. “Granger asked Records whether the address rang a bell and Danny pulled out the file on Orlov straight away. The photograph matches. I can see it’s her.”

Caprisi frowned. “Tell me about her.”

“I’m not sure if I know all that-”

“Then why has Granger given us the pleasure of your company?”

“The file is not extensive.”

“Save me having to look at it.”

Field took a deep breath. “Suspected Bolshevik sympathizer. Attended meetings at the New Shanghai Life. Lived here. But we don’t have much more than that.”

Caprisi had been eyeing the white photograph frame beside the bed. He picked it up, took a closer look, then threw it across to Field. Field noticed how he gritted his teeth when he was angry, making the muscles in his cheeks twitch. He could see the American suspected that Special Branch had a separate agenda.