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

to be a tea dancer,” Field went on. “She attended meetings with known Bolsheviks, but I agree with Caprisi, that needs further investigation, because it looks like she was from an aristocratic background in Russia.”

    “All right,” Maretsky said firmly, as if not wanting to dwell on this. “So it’s the usual gray area. A tea dancer makes an arrangement with a man for a sexual meeting, either through her association with Lu or some other avenue. She lets him into the flat . . . Did anyone see him come in?”

    “I just sent Chen back down,” Caprisi said, “but Lu owned the building, so you can be reasonably sure that no one will have heard or seen anything.”

    “The man comes in,” Maretsky went on. “He makes sure she is in these panties . . .” Maretsky thought for a moment, a chubby fist to his mouth, staring at Lena Orlov’s face through his dirty, round, steel-framed glasses. “I think this is a precise fantasy. Everything must be right. He gets her to wear these particular underclothes. Perhaps they have had a relationship or . . . arrangement, and she knows this is his exact fantasy. He handcuffs her to the bed.” Maretsky’s accent seemed to get thicker, Field noticed, the more he had to think, as if the process of drawing on a mental filing cabinet compiled during a different era automatically transported him back there. “Then he . . . This is the point.” He shrugged. “One could say it is a convenient way of ensuring that she cannot resist or fight. Perhaps it even allows him to put a hand over her mouth. But, of course, it’s more than that. This is part of the fantasy. She must be helpless. Supine. Entirely under his control.”

    They were silent again.

    “So they’d met before?” Caprisi asked. “Whoever it was, it was definitely not a first assignation?”

    “Possibly.” Maretsky shrugged again. “Probably. I would guess there was a pattern that led up to this: same setting, with the underwear and the handcuffs, but not going to this point. Perhaps culminating in some form of violence, but not murder.”

    Field looked at Lena Orlov’s face. There was no sign of any bruising there, nor on her neck or shoulders, but she seemed nonetheless to bear the hallmarks of a victim. Perhaps it was because of what he knew, or thought he did, of her circumstances, but he could imagine her allowing herself to be beaten.

    He saw Natasha Medvedev again in his mind’s eye, strong hands clutching at her shoulders until the knuckles whitened. Would she have submitted herself to violence in this manner?

    “So it couldn’t be the result of an argument?” Caprisi asked. “Jealousy? Lovers’ quarrel?”

    “It’s possible, but it is better to begin with what is likely.”

    Maretsky displayed a disarming modesty. Field thought it was the deliberate act of a clever man to tailor his manner to his audience.

    “But you think not?” Caprisi asked.

    Maretsky turned to the pathologist.

    “Savage stabbing. Eighteen in all,” Krauss said, nicotine-stained fingers pressed to his lips. He dropped a hand and pulled back the sheet, revealing Lena’s naked, punctured body. The blood had been cleaned from her skin, which made the livid bruising around the stab wounds even more visible. There were so many holes that in some places the skin looked as though it had been stretched too thin and hung like thread. In others—around the top of her vagina—incisions grouped close together had created deep craters. Field blanched and turned away. Caprisi eyed him curiously, as if surprised at his squeamishness.

    “See,” Krauss went on as Field forced himself to turn back. “Frenzied. Again and again, in her stomach and in the upper part of her sexual organs.” He reached down and put one long, slim, bony finger on the dark mound of hair at the base of Lena Orlov’s stomach. “Here, and on her breasts also.”

    “This is not sudden anger,” Maretsky went on, no longer prepared to invite