The next building was taller, beyond his reach, except for one small section directly ahead of him around a pair of chimney stacks. There was a ledge on this side where he would need to launch himself, making it impossible to get a running start, and only a foot or two of space where he could land, but he had no choice.

Field stared at the gap between the chimneys opposite him and the edge of the roof. There was a small rim along the edge, not more than the height of a single layer of bricks, but enough to grip hold of.

Field stood on the ledge, bent his knees, and then hesitated. His stomach lurched in the way it did when he was about to launch himself from a high diving board.

It was too far.

He looked around him. A window was open in the top-floor apartment of the building opposite, its lace curtain fluttering gently in the breeze. The alley beneath him was blocked at one end by a wall, so that there was no entry from Foochow Road. Lines of brightly colored washing were strung across it.

He could no longer hear gunfire.

Field closed his eyes briefly, then opened them, bent his knees and jumped, hurtling toward the ledge.

He hit it with the top half of his body, his hands scrabbling in the gravel and slipping, before catching the parapet. His legs dangled in space; one arm and shoulder fought to stay on the roof while the rest of him hung down the side of the building.

Field gradually pulled himself up, but then slipped farther, his shoulder on fire.

He tried not to look down but couldn’t help himself. He saw only his feet and then the long drop to the alley below.

He managed to raise himself again, tearing his fingernails on the gravel, scrabbling for some kind of purchase with his feet, managing finally to get the inside edge of the sole of his right shoe into a small crack in the mortar. He put some weight on it, but a piece of the brick gave way and he fell farther, so that he was now hanging down vertically.

Field closed his eyes and pulled, willing the strength into his arms.

It was slow, and infinitely painful. He grunted, pushing his feet against the wall to relieve some of the pressure on his arms and shoulder, trying not to lose his grip on the ledge.

He got his good arm onto the roof and searched again for somewhere to put his feet. He found another tiny hole with the tip of his shoe and this time put less weight on it, pulling himself up slowly until both elbows, then shoulders, and finally his entire upper body were over the ledge.

He swung his legs around and then rolled over onto his back, staring up at the sky.

Field got to his feet. He waited until he had regained his balance, then climbed onto the chimney stack and rolled over onto the roof.

There was a hatch directly ahead of him, but before touching it, Field walked to each side of the building to get his bearings. The front of this building was directly opposite the racecourse, and he could see the truck and cars still parked in the street below.

A small group of uniformed officers stood behind a wall beyond the entrance to the Happy Times block, but Field couldn’t see any sign of them on the other side or at the back.

He returned to the hatch, lifted the edge with his foot, and then tipped it off. He ducked down.

He could hear a baby crying but couldn’t see anyone. He waited for a few moments, then climbed down a metal ladder bolted to the wall. The baby’s wails echoed around the circular stairwell.

Field stepped onto the stone landing and waited again, breathing deeply. A mother or nanny was trying to soothe the child, but it cried still louder.

He put his back against the wall and began to walk down the stairs, the revolver in his good hand, his eyes straining in the gloom. He saw a Chinese woman sitting with the baby, soothing it, caressing its forehead, rocking it from side to side. Field kept his revolver up, the sound of his footsteps echoing on the stone steps as he came down toward her.

The child’s crying lessened. The woman caught sight of him but did not move or recoil, her eyes steadily on his. Field saw something in her look, compassion perhaps, then realized it was a warning.

“Stay where you are, Field. Lower your gun.”

Prokopieff emerged from the shadows, the barrel of his revolver pointing at Field’s forehead.

“Lower your gun.”

Field hesitated. The Russian’s expression was hard and cold. Field imagined that this was the way he looked when he hurt the girls he brought back to the station house.

“Your gun.”

Field slowly lowered his arm. They stared at each other. He thought fleetingly about turning and trying to run.

Prokopieff shook his head. “Shot in the back while trying to escape.”

“I’m not escaping.”

“Not yet.” The Russian smiled.

“You’ve done this before.”

Prokopieff nodded. “I have done this before. Do you still believe an officer of the law can afford to be an idealist in this town?”

“Someone has to try.”

“Well, now is your chance.” The Russian looked down. “I’m the only one here.”

Field shook his head, not clear what the Russian meant. The adrenaline still pumped through him.

“You’re a fool, Richard Field.”

Field didn’t answer.

“But a fool is better than a liar.” Prokopieff gestured with his revolver. “Put the gun in your belt. You will need it.”

Field frowned.

“This city makes liars of us all, Field. Liars and cheats.” Prokopieff straightened, putting his gun back in its holster. His face was suddenly weary. “What good would it do me to kill you?” he said. “Perhaps you still have a chance to do something useful with your life. Just don’t throw it away making bad choices.” He turned and led Field down the steps. “Through here is a side entrance. All the buildings are being watched front and back, but I alone watch this alley, so go quickly.”

“So Granger was right,” Field said, almost to himself, “about everything.”

“Granger was a man to follow, but now he is gone. And all you can do is run while you have the chance.”

The Russian put a hand on Field’s shoulder and then pushed him out into the sunlight, the steel door banging shut behind him.

Field walked away in a daze, his eyes half-closed against the sudden glare. He expected to hear a volley of shots and feel the sudden, devastating pain of their impact, but the alley was silent.

Fifty-five

The number one boy recoiled at the sight of him in the doorway at Crane Road. Field entered the house without further invitation and walked through to the living room at the back.

A record was playing. The mournful sound of a jazz band drifted through the open door to the veranda. Penelope was curled up in a ball in the corner of a wicker sofa, like a small child, staring at the lush green of her near-perfect lawn.

Field sat opposite her. He took out his cigarettes and put one in his mouth, his hand shaking violently as he tried to light it.

“I always know when he is going to meet one of his girls,” she said. “It’s the only time he allows himself to get excited.” She spoke slowly. “It doesn’t last, of course. They just remind him of everything he has lost.”

“He’s dead, Penelope.”

“I always told myself,” she went on, as if he had not spoken, “that it did not matter because they were Russian girls.”

He didn’t know if she was trying to provoke him, or if she didn’t even realize he was there.

He stood and moved to the Gramophone. He lifted the needle, then, in a fit of anger, swept the whole contraption onto the floor.

He turned, unsteady.

Penelope was sitting up. “Is it too late for me, Richard?”

“I’m not a priest.”

Her eyes pleaded with him. “Please?”

“For God’s sake…”

“He killed that girl, didn’t he?”