The Master of Rain [Paperback]

Every once in a while a book comes along that combines larger-than-life epic adventure; idiomatic, pungent historical detail and genuine storytelling panache. Tom Bradby’s The Master of Rain is such a book, carrying the reader headlong into a breathless tale of double-dealing and murder in 1920s Shanghai. What’s more, Bradby never allows his sprawling canvas to overwhelm his beleaguered characters who always remain in keen focus.

Richard Field, Bradby’s resourceful protagonist, has been seconded to the police force in the turbulent city of Shanghai. He finds a jostling mélange of British Imperial civil servants, American gunrunners and vicious Chinese gangsters. The grisly case he is landed with involves the mutilated body of a young White Russian woman and Field discovers that her neighbour, Natasha Medvedev, is somehow crucial to the investigation. But Natasha’s only agenda is self-preservation and Field finds himself unwisely falling in love with her. Can he crack the mystery before the next victim falls--particularly as the signs are that it is to be Natasha?

This is splendidly evocative writing from the author of the first-rate Shadow Dancer. Masterly in its depiction of a beautiful, dirty and corrupt city and a population in thrall to the imperatives of the market: human life, like everything else in Shanghai, has its price. Field is the perfect conduit for the reader through the glittering decay of the city and his relationships (both with the beguiling Natasha and the panoply of quirky, dangerous characters he encounters) are adroitly handled by Bradby. The book is nearly 500 pages long but the reader will find that it has the pace and compulsiveness of a short story. --Barry Forshaw

" A thrilling yarn of murder and mayhem... wise, richly layered and utterly convincing." - Simon Winchester
Praise for "The Sleep of the Dead":
" Elegant, spooky... a compulsive page turner... Lives up to the promise of its remarkable predecessor, "Shadow Dancer.".. Confirms Bradby's considerable promise as a thriller writer." - "Daily Mail"

Master of Rain is that rare thing: a truly epic crime novel, brilliantly researched and superbly executed.

A vividly set and compellingly readable thriller about corruption in all its forms.

'An immensely atmospheric, gripping detective story with just the right mixture of exoticism, violence and romance'

'The atmosphere and menace of Twenties Shanghai are brought to vivid life as the backdrop to this gripping tale'

A moody murder mystery with all the style of a noir classic.

'A brilliant evocation of one of the world's most fascinating cities...will make you go in search of old Shanghai'

'Nigh on impossible to put down...This intelligent thriller brings Shanghai to life as Gorky Park did for Moscow.'

'Does for Shanghai what Raymond Chandler did for Los Angeles-created a stylish and cool genre-fiction tapestry...debauchery at its most elegant'

The brilliant new thriller from the acclaimed author of "Shadow Dancer" and "The Sleep of the Dead,"
In a world where the basest of human needs are met, truth seems certain to be a fatal commodity.
Shanghai, 1926: a city of British Imperial civil servants, American gun-runners, Russian princesses and Chinese gangsters, where heroin is available on room service and everything is for sale. Exotic, sexually liberated and pulsing with life, it is a place and time where anything seems possible. For Richard Field, it represents an escape from his past. Seconded to the police force, his first moment of active duty is at a brutal crime scene. A young White Russian woman, Lena Orlov, lies on her bed, sadistically murdered. The key to the investigation seems to be the beautiful Natasha Medvedev, but can she be trusted - and is it safe to fall in love with a woman who may be the next victim?
Beneath the murky depths of Shanghai, Field sees a world beyond the glamour of the city's expatriate life - a world where everything has its price, and where human life is merely another asset to barter.

"Beneath the surface of this clever book, a thrilling yarn of murder and mayhem, we find a wise, richly layered and utterly convincing portrait of what was the most evil and fatally fascinating of all the modern world's cities. No one has managed to bring Shanghai so alive, in all its ghastly splendor: reading this vividly grim (and, if Hollywood is listening,quintessentially noir) story of the city's past should make us all tremble at the entirely grisly possibilities for its future."

Simon Winchester, Author of The Surgeon of Crowthorne --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.

Shanghai, 1926. A city of British Imperial civil servants, American gun-runners, Russian princesses and Chinese gangsters, where heroin is available on room service and everything is for sale. Exotic, sexually liberated and pulsing with life, it is a place and time where anything seems possible.

For Richard Field, it represents a brave new world away from the past he is trying to escape. Seconded to the police force, his first moment of active duty is a brutal crime scene. A young White Russian woman, Lena Orlov, lies spreadeagled on her bed, sadistically murdered. As he begins to peer through the glittering surface to the murky depths beneath, Field sees a world beyond the glamour of the city's expatriate life - a world where everything has its price, and where human life is merely another asset to barter.

The key to the investigation seems to be Lena's neighbour, Natasha Medvedev But can Field trust someone for whom self-preservation is the only goal? And is it wise to fall in love when there is every sign that Natasha herself may be the next victim?

In a city where reality is a dangerous luxury, Field is driven into the darkness beyond the dazzle of society to a world where the basest of human needs are met and where the truth seems certain to be a fatal commodity . . .

'Beneath the surface of this clever book, we find a wise, richly layered and utterly convincing portrait of what was the most evil and fatally fascinating of all the modern world's cities. No one has managed to bring Shanghai so alive, in all its ghastly splendour.' Simon Winchester

Tom Bradby has for the last eight years been a political and foreign reporter for ITN, covering Ireland and South East Asia, and is now their royal correspondent. He is the author of three acclaimed novels, Shadow Dancer, The Sleep of the Dead and The Master of Rain and The White Russian. He lives in England with his wife and three children. --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

FIELD FELT LIKE A LOBSTER BEING BROUGHT SLOWLY TO THE boil. He closed his eyes briefly against the heat, the humidity and the still, heavy air. Only the clatter of typewriters hinted at energy and motion. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket and looked again at the two figures gesticulating behind the frosted glass. They were still arguing, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that it might be about him.
Macleod’s secretary had stopped typing and was appraising him with a steady gaze. ‘You’re new,’ she said, pushing her half-moon glasses up from the end of her nose.
‘Yes.’ Field nodded.
The woman wasn’t showing any sign of discomfort, despite being three times his
size and wearing a cardigan. ‘Take your jacket off if you’re hot,’ she said.
Field smiled, and glanced up at the fan. It turned lethargically, with no discernible effect. He put his hands in his pockets. Macleod’s office door had the words Superintendent Macleod, Head of Crime engraved in the glass and, although it was not Field’s place to say so, the security of tenure this implied confirmed what he had already heard about the man’s confidence.
Field looked up at the fan again, and the paint that was peeling off the ceiling above it. For a moment, the sun broke through the thick blanket of cloud that had hung over the city for days, spilling light on to the desks at the far end of the room. Despite the dark wood panelling, the tall windows made the place seem less gloomy than the Special Branch office upstairs. He tugged his collar away from his throat and wiped away more sweat. He’d never imagined heat like this.
Macleod’s secretary was still staring at him. ‘How are you enjoying Shanghai?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
She started typing again, fat fingers pounding the big metal keys, then stopped and looked at him. ‘Slept with a Russian yet? Paid for a princess?’
Macleod’s door opened and a small, lean man with dark, slicked-back hair walked past him. ‘Caprisi?’ Field said, but whatever had been going on in there, it had left Caprisi in no mood to talk. He headed for his desk, took his jacket from the back of the chair, pulled open a drawer, slipped a pistol into the leather holster that hung from his shoulder and marched towards the lift.
Field turned to face Macleod, who stood at his office door, toying with the chain around his neck. He was a burly man, almost bald, with a thin crown of grey hair. ‘You’re Field?’ His voice was deep, with a broad Scottish accent.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Follow him down.’
Field hesitated.
‘Well, go on, man, what are you waiting for?’
Field got into the lift after Caprisi and hit the button for the ground floor. It cranked into action with a jolt and a loud crack, and descended, as always, so slowly that it would have been quicker to crawl down the stairs on all fours. Not that anyone wanted to take the stairs in this heat.
‘You’re new?’ the American asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Still a Griffin.’
‘No.’ Officially he’d finished his training a month ago and had spent the intervening time being bored to death with routine office jobs. He was grateful to get out. Granger had told him his task was to check that the murder was not politically motivated and keep an eye on the Crime Branch.’
Caprisi stared down at his shoes. Field noticed how carefully they’d been polished – just as his own had been ever since he’d come to the Far East and been relieved of the need to do anything like that for himself. He remembered his father’s obsession with his lack of military discipline and allowed himself a smile.
Caprisi moved quickly through the lobby, his leather soles slapping on the stone floor. Outside, Field found himself squinting against the sun until it disappeared behind a bank of dark cloud. A Buick with a long brown body and a bright yellow hood stood at the kerb, its engine running. As he climbed into the near side, Field saw three bullet-holes in the panel by the door.
‘Where’s Chen?’ Caprisi asked the driver, an old man dressed in a white tunic, who turned and shook his head.
Caprisi looked out of his window, trying to contain his impatience, rapping the glass with his knuckles. He wore a large gold ring on the index finger of his right hand. ‘Come on, Chen,’ he said, under his breath. ‘What’s he doing?’ he asked the driver, though as far as Field could tell the man spoke no English.
Then a tall Chinese man emerged from the entrance of the Central Police Station. He wore a full-length khaki mackintosh and carried a Thompson machine-gun. He climbed on to the car’s running-board and ducked his head through the open window.
‘This is a present from Granger,’ Caprisi explained, and pointed at Field. ‘He’s a Griffin,’ he said, ignoring Field’s earlier intimation that his training was complete.
Chen seemed less put out by Field’s apparent intrusion than Caprisi and reached across to shake his hand, then barked an order at the driver and slapped the roof. He remained on the running-board as they lurched forward, the gun banging against the bodywork. Field felt for his own pistol, suddenly aware of the rapid beating of his heart.
They moved a hundred yards down Foochow Road. Field looked out past Chen at the tide of humanity sweeping down the pavement beside them, until they were brought to a halt once more. Caprisi leant forward to see what was causing the hold-up, then sat back with a sigh.
‘Granger told me you’re from Chicago,’ Field said.
A thin smile played across Caprisi’s lips. ‘Granger is the intelligence chief, so he should know.’