The picture was of a family, seated formally on a lawn in front of a large country house. The mother was a thin, elegant woman; the father sat stiffly in military uniform. There were five children, three boys in white sailor suits, and two blonde girls in pretty white dresses, leaning against their mother’s knee. Lena had been the elder of the two girls. Field, suddenly somber, put the picture facedown on the bed. The body in front of him had been transformed suddenly by this glimpse of a past.

“Her father was a tsarist officer in Mother Russia, and you think she’s a Bolshevik.” Caprisi shook his head. “You guys should do your research.”

The Chinese detective was still on his knees, brushing the bedside table. Caprisi put a hand on his shoulder. “How are we doing?”

“The cuffs are clean. Everywhere else is heavy.”

“The cuffs could be evidence.”

There was one window in the room, high and small. Caprisi stood on the bedside table to open it and stuck his head out. “Shares a balcony with the woman next door; the girl who found her. Go and talk to her, will you, Field? And everyone else in the building.”

Field didn’t need any encouragement to get out of the bedroom, and he breathed a little more easily in the hallway. He tugged at his collar again and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. He wished he could afford a lightweight suit like the one Caprisi wore. He had been grateful to his father for the gift of his Sunday best, but it was warm enough to be comfortable in a Yorkshire winter and highly unsuitable for the stifling summer heat of the Far East.

Field knocked once on the door opposite and waited. In the few minutes they’d been inside, the bulb in the hallway light had blown.

He heard movement, but no one came, so he knocked again.

A shadow moved along the crack at the bottom of the door and it was suddenly pulled open.

The woman was standing with her weight on one leg, light from a window behind her caressing her thighs through the thin white cotton of her dressing gown. Field could not see her face clearly and took a step back.

She was frowning at him.

“I’m from the Shanghai police.”

“You don’t say.”

She was tall-not quite as tall as he was, but still close to six feet. Luxuriant dark hair spilled over her shoulders and hung down to her breasts. Her gown was pulled tight, showing off the supple curves of her body.

Her nose was small, her cheeks curved in a manner that made her seem warm, even if her dark eyebrows were knotted together in a frown. But what struck Field most was her skin. Even in this light-and she had half turned now-he could see it was brown and smooth, making his own appear as white as alabaster.

“Can I come in?”

“Why?”

Field cleared his throat. He tried to smile, but wasn’t sure if he’d managed it. “It would be easier than standing in the corridor.”

“Easier for you or for me?” She spoke English well, her Russian accent faint.

“It will only take a few minutes of your time.”

“I’m not dressed, Inspector.”

“I won’t look,” he said, but she didn’t smile and he quickly regretted it. “And I’m not an inspector.”

A glimmer of amusement seemed to stir at the corners of her lips. “I can see that.” She stepped back to allow him in.

The apartment was the same size as the one next door. The wooden floorboards had a rug over them, and, instead of a sofa, two old, threadbare chairs faced each other in front of a low Chinese table. There were pictures on the wall-crudely painted Russian landscapes in thick oil-a mirror, and, as in Lena Orlov’s main room, a bookcase, although this one had at least twice the number of books and photographs.

Field stepped through the open doors to the balcony and looked down over the racecourse. A line of horses was being led along the track in the distance. A tram rattled noisily past as the clock on the tower above the clubhouse struck two, audible despite the wail of a police siren somewhere close.

He turned back. “Very nice,” he said.

She was standing in the middle of the room, still appraising him frankly, although, he thought, with less hostility now. Or perhaps that was his imagination. He saw that she was a strong woman, the veins and muscles standing out in her forearms as she clasped her shoulders. For reasons that were not entirely clear to him, the plight of this woman, how she’d got here and how she could afford to live like this, was, for Field, suddenly and confusingly a cause for concern. Everyone always talked of the White Russians and the circumstances into which they were forced, but their predicament had not, until now, seemed real.

He was standing next to the bookcase and could see a collection of Russian books behind a photograph that was similar to the one in Lena Orlov’s apartment. The father, also in military uniform, sat this time in front of a less grand house, without a wife and with only two children, almost identical girls in white dresses with long dark hair, smiling shyly at the camera. They all held each other, displaying an easy warmth. The elder of the two girls had draped an arm protectively around the younger. Field thought again of the contrast between Lena Orlov’s squalid demise and the evidence of her own happy past. He felt like a voyeur. He coughed. “You read a lot?” he asked, gesturing at the books, which were all in Cyrillic script.

The girl did not smile.

“My father once said every man should read Anna Karenina,” Field said.

“How wise.”

He cleared his throat again. It seemed drier than ever. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You found the body?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean how?”

“I mean you… went around to see Miss Orlov?”

She shook her head irritably. “I went to ask for some milk, but there was no answer.”

“So how did you get in?”

“The door was open.”

Field looked at her. “Did she usually leave her door open?”

“I have no idea.”

“You didn’t know her well, then?”

“Not really.”

“What does ‘not really’ mean?”

“It means no.”

“You weren’t friends?”

She was staring at him, her hands still clutching her shoulders. She straightened, shifting her weight. “We nodded at each other on the landing, that was all.”

Field glanced at the books and photographs. “It seems odd,” he said, “the two of you living next door to each other, similar backgrounds, strange city, but not knowing each other.”

“If it seems odd to you, Officer,” she said, “then how little you understand.”

Field tried to hide his embarrassment by turning again to the family photograph. Of course, two women living here from similar, proud backgrounds might have had every reason to avoid each other.

He opened his notebook and took the old fountain pen his father had given him from the top pocket of his jacket. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Sorry for what?”

She’d sat down, her head bent, hands now clasped around her body.

“I don’t wish to take up too much of your time. Could I just take your name?”

She looked up. “What’s yours?”

The faint smile was back, her fragility evaporating.

“My name is Field.”

“That’s not much of a name.” Her voice was husky, like a singer who has spent too much time performing in smoke-filled nightclubs.

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

“How unromantic.”

Field gestured with his pen. “Can I take your name?”

“Medvedev.”

He waited. “And your first name?”

“I don’t think we’re on first-name terms, do you?”

Field wasn’t certain how to respond to her teasing, and couldn’t tell whether it was gentle or barbed.

“Natasha,” she said. “Natasha Medvedev. But most people call me Natasha.”