Field smiled. “Lena’s notes suggest that payments were recorded in ‘ledger two.’ ”

“Correct.”

“I’ve just read an interview with Lu. He boasts about what good records he keeps of all those who owe him money.”

Caprisi nodded. “Getting to the point…”

“He obviously has to record all details of shipments and so on. He must also keep track of whom he bribes and for how much. Lena must have seen those records. The interview says that he keeps these records at home. He wouldn’t need to lock them in a safe all day; entries are being made all the time, and no one is going to steal them. The French are no threat and the house is like a fortress. It’s better guarded than a bank. The only people who have access are his women.”

They didn’t answer him.

“If most of his actions are criminal, then most of those records will provide proof of criminal action.”

“As you know, Field, he lives in the Concession.”

“Yes, but supposing we could get hold of them? Supposing there was the political will to mount a prosecution? It shouldn’t take much for the Municipal Council to decide he’s got too big for his boots.”

“Who says there is the political will?”

Field decided to drop it, but he could see he’d got Caprisi thinking.

“You should talk to Macleod,” the American said. “But you answered your own question. How would we ever get a look at them in the first place?”

They finished their cigarettes. “Is Macleod as dour as he sometimes appears?” Field asked.

“He’s Scottish.”

Field smiled. “I know, but that’s not necessarily-”

“He wants to clean up Shanghai, then go home and be a minister of the Kirk.”

“Do you think he’ll succeed?”

“I’m sure the church will have him.”

“No, I mean-”

“I know what you meant, Field.” Caprisi smiled. “What do you think?”

Field didn’t answer immediately. “Nothing is impossible.”

“Quite right,” Caprisi said, mocking him. “This is almost part of the empire, after all.”

Field grinned. “Fuck off, Caprisi.”

They worked for another twenty minutes before Field found what he was looking for. It was a brief paragraph on page two of the Journal of May 2. He kept his finger on it as he tried to translate. “The body of an … entraîneuse… entertainer was discovered last night by gendarmes in Little Russia. She is believed to have been stabbed to death at home.” Field looked up.

Caprisi pulled the newspaper across the table. He pinched his nose between his fingers as he glanced at the print, leaving a smear of black ink.

“They don’t even give her name,” Field said.

“Make a note of the date,” Caprisi said. “There’s a station in Little Russia which would have received the first call. You should go down there tomorrow. Forget the French CID, they’ll tell us nothing. See if you can find out more details-how many times she was stabbed, was she handcuffed?” Caprisi looked at him. “I don’t need to tell you what to ask. Better that you go alone. Think up some excuse to have a quick look through the report cards for that period.”

Caprisi’s driver pulled up opposite the Soviet consulate, and they crossed the road, light drizzle drifting into their faces as they walked alongside the tall wire fence. The building looked deserted.

Beyond the perimeter were two Chinese shops, one selling spices, the other hardware, a narrow staircase in between providing access to the cramped, damp offices of the New Shanghai Life.

A corridor, with piles of the magazine stacked all along one wall, led into a small room with five or six desks. Two typists sat in one corner, hammering away.

Everyone turned to look at them. Two men cut short an animated discussion behind a wood and glass partition. Field recognized Borodin immediately. He was a tall, lean, well-built man with a hawkish face and closely cut dark hair.

“Can I help you?” he asked from the doorway, his English spoken with a faint American accent.

Field, who was closest, led the way down between the desks. He produced his identification. “Richard Field, S.1. My colleagues, Detectives Caprisi and Chen, are from the Crime Branch.”

Borodin was as tall as Field but leaner. He reminded Field a little of Granger, with his well-cut three-piece suit and polished shoes, but he was an aggressively angular man, his face hostile and suspicious. “No crime has been committed here. This is a legitimate magazine to try to counter the propaganda your newspapers put out about the new Soviet regime.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Field said easily.

“I must ask you to leave, or we will have no choice but to register a diplomatic protest.”

“I wasn’t aware this was diplomatic territory.”

“I must ask you…”

“Please, Mr. Borodin.”

The Russian stopped.

“A Russian girl has been murdered. We believe she worked here from time to time.”

Borodin stepped back to allow them through the partition, his face still suspicious. A thin, intellectual-looking man with round glasses stood from behind the desk and proffered his hand, but not his name. He was the spitting image of Sergei.

Chen moved to the back of the room. Caprisi and Field leaned against the glass, opposite Borodin. The walls were lined with more copies of the magazine, except the section behind the editor’s desk, which was covered with pictures of Russian leaders. Field noticed there was not one of Trotsky-just Stalin, in the center, surrounded by Kamenev, Zinoviev, and Lenin.

“Do you recall Lena Orlov?” Field asked.

The editor was staring at his desk, and Borodin, who was clearly going to be the spokesman, tilted his head thoughtfully to one side. Field was beginning to see why Granger detested this bespoke revolutionary. “Orlov?”

“Medium height, blonde, quite pretty,” Caprisi said.

“From Kazan,” Field added.

Borodin shrugged. “Perhaps she came to a meeting.”

“Just one?”

“Many people attend. There are many people who do not accept the version of the new Russia put forward by your newspapers.”

“So she came once?”

“Sure.”

“What about Natasha Medvedev?”

Borodin shrugged again, as if not recalling the name.

“You would remember her,” Caprisi said. “Tall, thin, strikingly beautiful.”

“There are many beautiful Russian girls here, Officer.”

“So we understand,” Field said. Borodin stared at him. “What about Sergei Stanislevich?”

Borodin shook his head. Field turned to the editor. “What about you?”

“I’m always at the meetings,” Borodin said.

“You’ve just been in the south.”

“I am happy to speak for the staff.”

“Then you didn’t know Stanislevich?”

Borodin shook his head.

“You must keep details of those who attend your meetings, names, addresses-”

“Of course we do not.” Borodin looked horrified. “So that you can harass anyone who wishes to counter the propaganda that you-”

“Yes,” Caprisi said. “I think we get the message.”

“Stanislevich, Medvedev, and Orlov all come from Kazan on the Volga,” Field said. “They attended meetings here-and yet they claim not to have known each other well.”

Borodin was frowning.

“Stanislevich says he didn’t know either of the women in Russia.”

“Do you know everyone in London, Officer?”

“No, but-”

“Nor do I in Moscow.”

“Emigrés spend time together,” Chen said, his voice quietly menacing. “These people knew each other well, and you remember them.”

Borodin stared at the Chinese detective, trying to intimidate him and failing.

Caprisi sighed and straightened. There was no point in continuing this interview. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Borodin,” he said.

As they reached the bottom of the stairs and emerged into the drizzle again, Caprisi said, “This fucking city.” He took out his cigarettes, looking across at the consulate. “No one is going to say a fucking thing.”