The Master of Rain Read Free

found her. Go and talk to her, will you, Field? And everyone else in the building.”

Two

    F ield 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