The Master of Rain by Tom Bradby Read Free Book Online Page A

were assisted by a Russian woman of similar physique who sorted through the files, occasionally filling in at the front desk whenever Danny or Maretsky was involved in Modus Operandi briefings or research. Maretsky also had an office up on the sixth floor.

    There was no one in evidence, so Field filled out one of the white forms. He wrote:
Natasha Medvedev, Happy Times block, Foochow Road.

    He hesitated a second before taking another sheet, writing
Lu Huang
on it and hitting the brass bell on the front desk beside him.

    After a minute Danny emerged from behind one of the iron shelves at the far end of the room. “Mr. Field,” he said. Everyone liked Danny. His face exuded good-humored bonhomie. “What have you been up to?”

    “A Russian woman,” Field said.

    Danny looked up from the forms. He appeared worried. “Lu?”

    Field waited for him to expand, and when he didn’t, said, “Yes, Lu.”

    Danny looked shifty. “We’ve not got a file for Lu.”

    Field frowned.

    “There’s a background file,” Danny added hastily.

    “Then I’ll take that.”

    Danny turned around, disappearing behind the shelves and reemerging a few moments later with one bulging folder and a slim one.

    “Can I get the current file on Lu?”

    “There isn’t one.”

    “There must be one.”

    “We don’t have it.” Danny was flustered.

    “Where is it?”

    “I don’t know.”

    Field hesitated. “I thought all files have to be signed out and a memo put through to you if forwarded anywhere different.”

    “Yes.”

    “So you have a note of who the file’s signed out to?”

    “No.”

    “But—”

    “I mean yes. Granger has it.”

    “Well, I’ll get it from him, then.”

    “Sure.” Danny looked down. He was filling in the book in front of him, writing the file numbers and subjects alongside Field’s name. He turned it around for him to sign before shutting it and retreating behind the shelves once more, without looking back.

    Field took the stairs to the third floor, where Caprisi was on the phone, his jacket over the back of the chair, along with his leather holster. Watching him, Field noticed how well groomed he was, his hair neatly trimmed at the back and side. A leather wallet was open on the desk, and Field saw that there was a photograph inside of a young woman with short dark hair, holding a young boy.

    Caprisi put down the phone and swung around. He saw the direction of Field’s gaze and snatched the wallet up, slipping it into his trouser pocket. “Come on, Krauss has got the body.”

Five

    C aprisi led Field down the stairs to the basement and through the swing doors of Pathology to the darkened lab at the end. There was a single, bright light in the ceiling and the room was heavy with the smell of formaldehyde. Krauss, in his long white coat, was standing next to Maretsky.

    Lena Orlov lay flat on her back on a metal trolley in front of them. A white sheet covered her from the swell of her breasts to below her knees. Somehow she looked more peaceful here.

    “No assault,” Maretsky said, shaking his head.

    “No sexual assault,” Caprisi corrected.

    “Time of death,” Krauss said, with only the faintest hint of a German accent. “I would say around one o’clock in the morning. If the Russian neighbor found her at one o’clock in the afternoon, then I think she’d already been dead almost twelve hours.”

    “No consensual sex?” Caprisi asked.

    “Not as far as I can tell.”

    “Then why the fancy underwear and the handcuffs?”

    Krauss shrugged. Field didn’t know if it was the light, but Lena Orlov’s skin looked even whiter than it had in the flat.

    “Some kind of fantasy,” Maretsky said. “Was she a prostitute?”

    “We’re not sure of her circumstances yet,” Caprisi said. He turned and it was a second or two before Field realized that he was required to expand.

    “Her file is thin,” he said.

    “There’s a surprise,” Caprisi said.

    “She used