The Master of Rain by Tom Bradby

“Everyone expects Shanghai to be decadent, so we like to give the impression of debauchery, but you’re too nice to be teased, and you’re family.”

    Field had drunk both the first and now this gin and tonic quickly, and was beginning to feel the effects.

    “Another one, Richard?” Geoffrey asked.

    Field shook his head.

    Geoffrey leaned forward and stubbed out his cigarette in the silver ashtray. “I think we should go through to dinner.”

    To Field’s dismay, Penelope Donaldson put her arm through his and led him along the veranda to the French doors, leaning against him a little, so the smell of Parisian perfume caught in his nostrils.

    “How is your mother, Richard?” she asked.

    “She’s fine.”

    “I keep telling Geoffrey he should send money.”

    “She won’t accept it.”

    “I’m sorry about your father.”

    Field had been trying not to look at her, but he turned and found himself flushing. Her brown eyes were soft, her gaze solemn now; only the corner of her mouth betrayed her amusement. He shrugged, not certain what he should say.

    They had reached the dining room, which was again huge, the walls covered in floor-to-ceiling mirrors, in between which hung dark paintings of English country landscapes.

    There were only a few groups eating, and another Indian waiter led them to a table by the window. It looked out onto the veranda where they’d just been sitting and the lawns beyond.

    As his chair was pulled back, Field glanced up at the giant chandelier and wondered if he should offer to pay for his own dinner. He suspected that it would be bad form, but did not want to be seen as another poor cousin intent on sponging off the wealthy branch of the family.

    Geoffrey ordered a bottle of champagne and lit another cigarette, offering the case around the table, so that, as the waiters filled their glasses, they were all smoking.

    Field had never had champagne and had often wondered whether he would like it. He took to it so quickly that it was hard not to gulp it down.

    “So who do you think is your man?” Geoffrey said when the waiter had placed the bottle in the silver wine bucket next to him.

    “For the murder?” Field said, beginning to feel quite drunk.

    “Yes.”

    “We’ve hardly begun—”

    “Initial theories. A Jack the Ripper?” He turned to Lewis. “An Eastern Jack the Ripper?”

    “The woman’s flat belongs to Lu Huang.”

    Both the men opposite him frowned. “He’s your suspect?” Geoffrey asked.

    “Difficult to say at this stage. It’s just that it was his apartment, and my colleagues think it was his men who bundled the doorman down to the Chinese city and presided over his execution.”

    “Doesn’t seem Lu’s style, stabbing a woman,” Geoffrey said.

    “I get the impression he’s more or less above the law.”

    Geoffrey Donaldson shook his head vigorously. “No, no. We’d love to get him for something if we could, but . . . you know.” He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “He has the French in his pocket and he’s careful what he does and doesn’t do in our jurisdiction, but . . .”

    “Isn’t the abduction of the doorman a crime in our jurisdiction?” Field had begun to sound truculent, so he took another large sip of champagne. “As well as the murder of the girl, of course.”

    “Yes, absolutely,” Geoffrey said, nodding. “If you boys could get him on this, it would be marvelous, send a signal . . . you know. Don’t you think, Charlie?”

    “Absolutely,” Lewis said without enthusiasm.

    “The municipal authorities keep open contacts with Lu,” Geoffrey said, “for reasons I’m sure you appreciate, but that doesn’t mean he’s above the law.” He took another drag of his cigarette. “Anything you can do to teach everyone in this city a lesson on that score would earn you a lot of plaudits.”

    “That’s enough politics, boys,” Penelope said. “It’s only a Russian girl, after all . . . Let’s order,