“Maybe Krauss is wrong,” Caprisi went on. “The man opposite says Lu arrives at four-perhaps he murders her then. She dies at four, not earlier.”

Field recalled his exchange with Natasha the previous evening and his suggestion that she might have been in the building while Lena was being murdered. He thought about her hasty denials.

“Krauss was wrong about that Chinese boy last year,” Caprisi said. Field frowned, but the American waved his hand to indicate it was too complicated to explain. “But if it was Lu, he was quick.”

“It does not take long,” Chen said.

“To tie her up?”

“A minute. Two.”

“So he’s angry. He’s learned she’s been fucking Sergei?”

“Sergei is still alive.” Chen smiled, raising his eyebrows. “Besides, Maretsky is right. So many wounds.” Chen mimed the stabbing. “Anger.”

“He likes doing it. He enjoys it.”

“Then why here?” Field asked. “Why not in the French Concession? Isn’t that safer for him?”

Caprisi and Chen looked at him. There was a long silence.

Caprisi said, “Don’t discuss this, Field. Not with anyone. If there is physical evidence-if any useful prints come back, or any other documentation-we do not keep it in the office. You give it to me. I’ll hold it at my apartment. Is that clear?”

Chen was looking at Field as though he were an idiot.

They heard the lift stop. Macleod pulled the metal cage back and walked slowly down the room toward them. He was wearing a long gray raincoat and a brown trilby. He carried a black leather briefcase with dull brass buckles. He went straight to the corner and poured himself a glass of water, as Caprisi had done.

“That’s better,” he said, taking off his hat and wiping the sweat from the dome of his head with his hand. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

Caprisi was sitting on his desk. He pulled up a chair to rest his legs on. “Field wants us to concentrate on the murdered Russian girl.”

Macleod looked at him without smiling. “When he gets to manage his own department, then that’s what he can do.”

“Maretsky says there will be more.”

Macleod walked into his office, taking off his raincoat and placing it on the stand, along with his hat, before coming back to the doorway. “More what?”

“More victims. More deaths.”

“And what makes him so bloody sure of that?”

“He thinks it is part of a pattern. Some deaths already, perhaps in the French Concession, more to come.”

Macleod sighed. He sipped his water. “Well, you can give it priority, but we’ve got too much going on to clear the shelf.”

“It could be an avenue into Lu. Perhaps he’s overreaching himself.”

Macleod thought about this. “All right, you can clear the decks for a few days, see where it takes you. Field, have you got a minute?”

Field followed Macleod into his office. The Scotsman closed the glass door behind him and his manner instantly softened. He was no longer frowning-he even smiled once as he encouraged Field to sit opposite him. “How are you settling in… It’s Richard, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You seem to have come far, for a Griffin.”

“Well, I’m not sure…”

“You have a confidence about you and I like that.”

Field did not know how to respond.

“Caprisi thinks you’re a good man.”

“That’s…”

“He has good judgment.” Macleod was not meeting Field’s eye. “It’s been a while since I got really involved in training.” He turned to Field now, smiling again. “Used to be my beat before CID.”

“A lot less interesting.”

“Yes.” Macleod nodded. “But it had its uses. The training department is the future, of course.”

“Then God help us.”

“Yes.” Macleod didn’t bother to smile. He was staring into the middle distance, over Field’s shoulder. “I’m sure there is a great deal of excellent instruction, but I’m not sure they really tell…” Macleod cleared his throat. “I’m not sure that they equip Griffins with what they really need to know, if you see what I mean.”

“I think so,” Field said, not seeing at all.

“You’re a good man. Good family and all the rest of it.”

Field wasn’t sure if this called for a response.

“I wanted you to be clear about what is going on-what we face, if you understand my meaning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Granger and I don’t always see eye-to-eye on this and… You’re a member of his department, so it’s perhaps unfair of me to talk to you like this, but I think it’s important… I feel it’s important that I get my view across to anyone who seems to be reliable and trustworthy.”

Field nodded.

“Granger views Lu as a fact of life that must be dealt with in an adult way; as he would see it, lived with, even compromised with. That’s his view and I suppose he’s entitled to it. I’m afraid I view Lu Huang as an evil that must be eradicated. Whilst he continues to exist, we are doing no more than trying to stem the tide of violent crime.” Macleod looked at him again. “Lu’s tentacles are long.”

“Yes.”

“They stretch even inside this building.”

“Caprisi said.”

“He has explained?”

“Yes.”

“It takes time to understand, of course.”

“I think I understand now.”

Macleod was fidgeting with the cross around his neck. He reminded Field again of his father, though, oddly, Field did not feel resentment, but a quiet respect.

“Good,” Macleod said, bringing their meeting to an end. “I suppose, in theory, you have been detailed to my department, or at least working out of it, so I thought it important to have a chat.”

Discussing Lena’s murder made Field feel like a caged animal, but despite his own sense of urgency, and Macleod’s approval, Caprisi and Chen said they had other things to attend to first.

While he was waiting for them, Granger’s secretary called down to the department to find out where he was. Field had forgotten that he was supposed to be accompanying him to the Hongkew district.

Granger was in a sullen mood. “Morning, son,” he said as Field climbed into the new yellow and gray Chevrolet and settled into the backseat. The leather was smooth to the touch, the walnut trim highly polished. Granger sat easily, his big legs stretched out in front of him. As Field tried to free a small stone that had become lodged in a hole in the sole of his shoe, he couldn’t help noticing the quality of Granger’s clothes.

As they raced along the Bund, past the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank and the Customs House, Granger took a small bottle of whiskey from a compartment built into the walnut dash. Field declined his offer and turned to look out of the window at the neatly laid-out gardens next to the imposing building that housed the British consulate.

They crossed Garden Bridge, the water beneath the iron structure teeming with sampans. The fog had lifted, but it was still warm and overcast and close.

The driver hooted loudly at another car as they passed the Soviet consulate, before entering the narrower streets around the Hongkew market. The signs and banners here were in Japanese, though the difference to the foreign eye, Field thought, was not marked.

Field had never been into the Hongkew station before; it was a cramped but well-organized building. The constables were mostly either Japanese or Chinese, and they all stopped talking, respectfully, in the corridors as Granger strode past.

The briefing was the same as the one Field had heard the day before, and afterward there were no questions, so they had saki with the Japanese S.1 officer who was attached to the station. Granger talked more about Borodin, becoming personal and abusive, still furious that the Russian’s diplomatic status allowed him to send his children to the American school and keep mistresses in different apartments around the city.

In the car on the way back, Granger said quietly, “Charlie tells me there was some trouble last night at the Majestic.”