Child 44 Part 21

The man laughed.

-No one is going to be killed. He's quite safe.

She began to struggle but the man wouldn't let her go. Surrounded by pitying faces, she tried to break free.

-Let go of me! I need to find my son.

Nesterov pushed through the crowd, breaking through to his wife. He'd found his youngest son playing in the tall reeds and was now carrying both his children. The man let go of his Inessa's arm. She took hold of Vadim, clutching his head as though it were fragile and might break. They stood together as a family, surrounded, hostile faces all around. Why had they behaved like that? What was wrong with them? Efim whispered: -Let's go.

They left the crowd, hurriedly collecting their stuff and heading to the car. There were only four other cars parked by the dirt road. The rest of the bathers had arrived by tram. Nesterov started the engine, driving off.

On the beach a thin woman with a touch of grey in her hair watched as the car disappeared. She'd made a note of the number plate, having decided this was a family that needed investigating.

Moscow 5 July Until yesterday, if Leo had been arrested, there was nothing directly linking Raisa to his unauthorized investigation. She could have denounced him and there might have been a chance she'd survive. That was no longer true. On a train nearing Moscow, travelling under false papers, their guilt was indivisible.

Why had Raisa boarded the train, accompanying Leo? It went against her governing principlesurvival. She was accepting an immeasurable risk when an alternative presented itself to her. She could've stayed in Voualsk and done nothing or, to be safer still, she could've betrayed Leo and hoped that this betrayal would have secured her future. It was an unpleasant strategy, hypocritical and despicable, but she'd done many unpleasant things in the name of survival, including marrying Leo, a man she'd loathed. What had changed? This wasn't about love. Leo was now her partner, not in the straightforward marital sense. They were partners in this investigation. He trusted her, listened to hernot as a courtesy but as an equal. They were a team, sharing a common goal, united behind a purpose more important than either of their lives. Energized, excited, she didn't want to return to her former subsistence existence, wondering how much of her soul she'd have to slice off and sell in order to survive.

The train came to a stop at Yaroslavavski Vokzal. Leo was all too aware of the significance of returning here, travelling across the very train tracks where Arkady's body had been found. They were returning to Moscow for the first time since their exile four months ago. They had no official business here. Their lives and investigation depended on being undiscovered. If they were caught they would die. The reason for their venture was a woman called Galina Shaporina, a woman who'd seen the killer, an eyewitness who could describe this man, put an age on him, flesh him outmake him real. Currently neither Leo nor Raisa had any idea of what kind of man they were searching for. They were clueless as to whether he was old or young, lean or heavy, scruffy or well dressed. In short, he could be almost anyone.

In addition to speaking to Galina, Raisa had proposed talking to Ivan, her colleague from school. He was well read in censored Western material and had access to restricted publications, magazine articles, newspapers and unauthorized translations. He might be aware of case studies about comparable crimes from abroad: random, multiple, ritualized murders. Raisa knew only about such crimes in the barest of detail. She'd heard about an American, Albert Fish, who'd murdered children and eaten them. She'd heard stories about a Frenchman, Dr Pettiot, who, during the Great Patriotic War, had lured Jews to his cellar offering safety, and then killed them, burning their bodies. She had no idea whether this was merely Soviet propaganda about the decay of Western civilization, killers depicted as products of a flawed society and perverse politics. From the point of view of their investigation a determinist theory was useless. It meant that the only suspect they could be looking for was a foreigner, someone whose character had been determined by living in a capitalist society. But clearly the killer was moving around the country with ease; he spoke Russian and charmed children. This was a killer operating within the fabric of their country. Everything they knew or had been told about this type of crime was either false or irrelevant. They had to unlearn every presumption and start afresh. And Raisa believed that Ivan's access to sensitive information was crucial to re-educating themselves.

Leo appreciated that such material would be of benefit but equally he was also keen to reduce their interaction to as few people as possible. Their primary objective was speaking to Galina Shaporina, Ivan was secondary. Leo wasn't entirely convinced that he was worth the risk. However, he was aware that his evaluation was tainted by personal factors. Was he jealous of Ivan's relations.h.i.+p with his wife? Yes, he was. Did he want to share their investigation with Ivan? Not for a second.

Leo glanced out of the window, waiting for everyone to disembark. Train stations were patrolled by undercover and uniformed agents. All major transport junctions were deemed to be vulnerable as points of infiltration. There were armed checkpoints on the roads. Ports and harbours were under constant surveillance. Nowhere was layered in more levels of protection than Moscow. They were attempting to sneak into the most heavily policed city in the country. Their only advantage was that Vasili had little reason to suppose they'd be reckless enough to embark on such a venture. About to step off the train, Leo turned to Raisa.

-If you happen to catch their eye, a guard or anyone else, even someone who appears to be a civilian, don't immediately look away. Don't smile or make any gestures. Just hold eye contact and then look at something else.

They stepped down onto the platform, neither of them carrying much luggage. Large bags were more likely to draw attention. Walking briskly, they had to stop themselves from rus.h.i.+ng. Leo was thankful that the station was busy. All the same he could feel his s.h.i.+rt collar becoming damp with sweat. He tried to rea.s.sure himself that there was almost no chance any of the agents here were looking for them. They'd already been careful to shake any possible surveillance back at Voualsk. They'd established that they were going on a walking holiday in the mountains. Applications had to be made for vacations. Because of their limited status they'd only been able to get a couple of days. Under extreme time pressure, they'd set off into the forest, trekking in a loop, making sure they weren't being followed. Once they were confident they were alone they'd returned to the forest near the station. They'd changed out of their muddy clothes, buried them and their camping equipment, and sat waiting for the train to Moscow to arrive. They'd boarded it at the last minute. Should all go according to plan they'd collect the eyewitness report, return to Voualsk, slip into the forest, retrieve their equipment and change back into their muddy clothes. They'd re-enter the town from one of the northern forest trails.

They were almost at the exit when a man behind them called out: -Papers.

Without hesitating, Leo turned. He didn't smile or try to appear relaxed. The officer they were dealing with was State Security. But Leo didn't recognize him. That was fortunate. He handed over his papers. Raisa handed over hers.

Leo studied the man's face. He was tall, stocky. His eyes were slow, his movements sluggish. This was nothing more a routine stop and search. However, routine or not, the papers he now examined were fake and at best only a pa.s.sable imitation. In his days as an agent Leo would never have been fooled by them. Nesterov had helped provide them, doctoring them with Leo's a.s.sistance. They'd worked hard but the more they'd worked the more he'd become conscious of their weakness: the scratches on the paper, the points where the ink bled, the double lines where it had been stamped twice. He now wondered how he could've put his faith in these doc.u.ments and realized he hadn'the'd hoped they wouldn't be checked.

Raisa watched the agent pore over the writing and realized the man could barely read. He was trying to hide this fact by pretending to be extremely thorough. But she'd seen too many children struggle with the same problem not to be able to spot the signs. The man's lips moved as his eyes scanned the lines. Aware that if she gave any indication of knowing his weakness he'd almost certainly lash out, she maintained her look of fear. She reasoned he'd appreciate being feared: it would soothe any anxiety that he might be feeling. Sure enough the agent checked on their expressions, not because he had some suspicion regarding the doc.u.ment but because he was worried they'd become less afraid of him. Satisfied that he was still a man to be feared, he slapped the doc.u.ments against the palm of his hand, making it clear that he was weighing them up, that he still had power over their lives.

-Let me see your bags.

Leo and Raisa opened their small bags. They carried nothing more than a change of clothes and some basic essentials. The officer was becoming bored. He shrugged. In reply they nodded reverentially at him, moving towards the exit, trying not to walk too fast.

Same Day Having quashed Fyodor's own investigation into the murder of his son, cajoled and bullied him into silence, Leo was about to ask for his help with the same subject. He needed Fyodor to take him to Galina Shaporina's apartment since he'd been unable to find the address. Indeed, it was possible that he couldn't even remember her name correctly. He hadn't been paying much attention at the time and so much had happened since then. Without Fyodor there was little hope of finding this witness.

Leo was prepared for humiliation, the loss of face; he was braced for scorn and contempt, just as long as he secured that eyewitness account. Although Fyodor was an MGB agent, Leo was banking on the fact that his loyalty would be to the memory of his son. No matter how much hatred Fyodor felt towards Leo, surely his desire for justice would force them into an alliance? With that said Leo's a.s.sessment of the situation four months ago had been correct. An unauthorized investigation into the death of his son would put his entire family at risk. Perhaps Fyodor had come to terms with that a.s.sessment. Better to protect the living, better to turn Leo over to the State, that way he benefited from both safety and revenge. What would he decide? Leo knocked on the door. He was about to find out.

Apartment Block 18, fourth floor, an elderly woman opened the doorthe woman who'd stood up to him, the woman who'd dared to call a murder by its name.

-My name is Leo, this is my wife, Raisa.

The old woman stared at Leo, remembering him, hating him. She glanced at Raisa.

-What do you want?

Raisa answered, her voice low: -We're here about the murder of Arkady.

There was a long silence, the old woman studying both their faces before replying: -You've come to the wrong address. No boy was murdered here.

As she went to close the door, Leo put his foot forward.

-You were right.

Leo expected anger. But instead the elderly woman began to cry.

Fyodor, his wife and the elderly woman, Fyodor's mother, stood together, a civilian troika troikaa citizen's tribunalwatching as Leo took off his coat, dropping it on the chair. He pulled off his jumper and began unb.u.t.toning his s.h.i.+rt. Underneath, taped to his body, were the details of the murdersphotos, descriptions, statements, maps showing the geographical spread of the crimes: the most important pieces of evidence that they'd acc.u.mulated.

-I had to take certain precautions in carrying this material around. These are the details of over forty murders, children, both boys and girls, murdered across the western half of our country. They've been killed in almost exactly the same way, the same way as I now believe your son was killed.

Leo pulled the papers free from his chest: the ones closest to his skin were damp with sweat. Fyodor took hold of them, glancing through. His wife stepped forward, as did his mother. Soon all three were reading the doc.u.ments, pa.s.sing them between each other. Fyodor's wife spoke first.

-And if you catch him, what will you do?

Remarkably, it was the first time Leo had been asked that question. Until now they'd concentrated on whether it was even possible to catch him.

-I'll kill him.

Once Leo had explained the nature of his personal investigation, Fyodor wasted no time with insults or recriminations. It evidently didn't cross his mind to refuse them a.s.sistance or doubt their sincerity or worry about the repercussions. Nor did those thoughts occur to Fyodor's wife or his mother, at least not in any significant way. Fyodor would take them to Galina's apartment immediately.

The shortest route there involved crossing the railway tracks, where Arkady had been found. There were several train tracks running parallel, a wide s.p.a.ce, lined with ragged shrubs and trees. With the fading evening light, Leo appreciated the appeal of this secluded no man's land. In the heart of the city it felt eerily empty. Had the boy run across these sleepers, chased by that man? Had he fallen to the ground, desperate to get away? In the dark, had a train raced past, indifferent? Leo was glad to get off the tracks.

Nearing the apartment, Fyodor argued that Leo should remain outside. Galina had been terrified by him before: they couldn't risk him scaring her into silence again. Leo agreed. It would just be Raisa and Fyodor.

Raisa followed Fyodor up the stairs, reaching the apartment door and knocking. She could hear the sound of children playing inside. She was pleased. Of course she didn't believe a woman had to be a mother to appreciate the gravity of this case but the fact that Galina's own children were in danger should make her easy to enlist.

The door was opened by a gaunt woman in her thirties. She was wrapped up as though it was the middle of winter. She appeared ill. Her eyes were nervous, taking in every detail of Raisa's and Fyodor's appearance. Fyodor seemed to recognize her.

-Galina, you remember me? I'm Fyodor, father of Arkady, the little boy who was murdered. This is my friend Raisa. She lives in Voualsk, a town near the Urals. Galina, the reason we're here is because the man who murdered my son is murdering other children, in other towns. That is why Raisa has travelled to Moscow, so that we can work together. We need your help.

Galina's voice was soft, barely a whisper.

-How can I help? I don't know anything.

Expecting such a reply, Raisa pointed out: -Fyodor isn't here as an officer of the MGB. We're a group made of fathers and mothers, any citizens outraged at these crimes. Your name won't appear in any doc.u.ments; there are no doc.u.ments. You'll never see or hear from us again. All we need to know is what he looks like. How old is he? Is he tall? What colour is his hair? Were his clothes expensive or cheap?

-But the man I saw wasn't with a child. I told you that.

Fyodor answered: -Please, Galina, let us in for a second. Let's talk out of the hallway.

She shook her head.

-I can't help you. I don't know anything.

Fyodor was becoming agitated. Raisa touched his arm, silencing him. They had to remain calm, they couldn't bully her. Patience was the key.

-OK, that's OK, Galina. You didn't see a man with a child. Fyodor explained that you saw a man with a tool bag, is that right?

She nodded.

-Can you describe him for us?

-But he didn't have a child with him.

-We understand. He didn't have a child with him. You've been clear about that. He just had a tool bag. But what did he look like?

Galina considered. Raisa held her breath, sensing she was about to break. They didn't need the information written down. They didn't need a signed testimony. They just needed a description, thrown away, deniable. Thirty seconds, that was all it would take.

Suddenly Fyodor cut through the silence, saying: -There's no harm in telling us what a man with tool bag looked like. No one can get in trouble for describing a railway worker.

Raisa stared at Fyodor. He'd made a mistake. People could get in trouble for describing a railway worker. They could get in trouble for much less. The safest course of action was always to do nothing. Galina shook her head, stepping back from them.

-I'm sorry, it was dark. I didn't see him. He had a bag, that's all I remember.

Fyodor put his hand on the door.

-No, Galina, please...

Galina shook her head.

-Leave.

-Please, please...

Like a panicked animal, her voice became shrill with worry: -Leave!

There was silence. The noise of the children playing stopped. Galina's husband appeared.

-What's going on?

In the corridor apartment doors opened, people were staring, observing, pointing: alarming Galina further. Sensing that they were losing control of the situation, that they were about to lose their eyewitness, Raisa moved forward, hugging Galina, as if saying goodbye.

-What did he look like?

Cheek to cheek, Raisa waited, closing her eyes, hoping. She could feel Galina's breath. But Galina did not reply.

Rostov-on-Don Same Day The cat perched on the window ledge, its tail flicking from side to side, its cool green eyes following Nadya around the room as if it were considering pouncing on her, as if she were nothing more an over-sized rat. The cat was older than her. She was six years old; the cat was eight or nine. That fact might go some way to explain why it had such a superior att.i.tude. According to her father the area they lived in had a problem with rats and therefore cats were essential. Well, that was partly true: Nadya had seen plenty of rats, big rats and bold too. But she'd never seen this cat do anything useful about them. It was a lazy cat, spoilt rotten by her father. How could a cat think itself more important than her? It never allowed her to touch it. Once, as it had happened to pa.s.s by, she'd stroked its back, to which it had replied by twisting around, hissing, before bolting to the corner with its fur stuck out as though she'd committed some sort of crime. At that point she'd given up trying to befriend it. If the cat wanted to hate her, she'd hate it back twice as much.

Unable to remain in the house any longer with the cat staring at her, Nadya set off, even though it was late and the rest of her family were in the kitchen, preparing uzhin uzhin. Knowing that she'd be refused permission to go for a walk she didn't bother asking, slipping on her shoes and sneaking out of the front door.

They lived on a bank of the river Don, her younger sister, her mother and father, in a neighbourhood on the outskirts, cratered streets and brick hut-houses. The city's sewage and factory waste fed into the river just upstream and Nadya would sometimes sit and watch the patterns of oils, filth and chemicals on the water's surface. There was a well-trodden path along the riverbank which ran in both directions. Nadya turned downstream, out towards the countryside. Even though there was very little light she was confident of the route. She had a good sense of direction and as far as she could remember she'd never been lost, not once. She wondered what kind of jobs a girl with a good sense of direction might get when she grew up. Maybe she'd become a fighter pilot. There was no point becoming a train driver since they never had to think about where they were going: a train could hardly get lost. Her father had told her stories about female bomber pilots during the war. That sounded good to her, she wanted to be one of them, her face on the front of a newspaper, awarded the Order of Lenin. That would get her father's attention; that would make him proud of her. That would distract him from his stupid cat.

She'd been walking for a little while, humming to herself, pleased to be out of the house and away from that cat, when suddenly she came to a stop. Up ahead she could see the outline of a man walking towards her. He was a tall man but in the gloom she couldn't tell much else about him. He was carrying some kind of case. Normally the sight of a stranger wouldn't have bothered her in the least. Why would it? But her mother had recently done a peculiar thing: she'd sat Nadya and her sister down and warned them not to talk to any strangers. She'd even gone as far as telling them it would be better to be impolite than to obey a stranger's request. Nadya looked back towards her house. She wasn't all that far from home; if she ran she could get back in less than ten minutes. The thing was, she really wanted to walk to her favourite tree further downstream. She liked to climb up and sit in it and dream. Until she'd done that, until she'd reached that tree, she didn't feel like the walk had been a success. She imagined that this was her military mission: to reach the tree and she couldn't fail. Making a snap decision, she decided she wouldn't talk to this man: she'd just walk straight past him and if he spoke to her, she'd say good evening good evening but not stop walking. but not stop walking.

She continued along the path with the man getting nearer. Was he walking faster? He seemed to be. It was too dark to see his face. He was wearing some sort of hat. She moved up the edge of the path, giving him plenty of room to pa.s.s by. They were only a couple of metres apart. Nadya felt afraid, an inexplicable urge to hurry past him. She didn't understand why. She blamed her mother. Bomber pilots were never afraid. She broke into a run. Concerned this would insult the gentleman, she called out: -Good evening.

With his free arm, Andrei grabbed her around the waist, lifting her small frame clear off the ground, bringing her face close to his, staring into her eyes. She was terrified, holding her breath, her little body rigid with tension.

And then Nadya began to laugh. Recovering from her surprise, she put her arms around her father's neck and hugged him.

-You scared me.

-Why are you out so late?

-I wanted to walk.

-Does your mother know you're outside?

-Yes.

-You're lying.

-No, I'm not. Why are you coming from this direction? You never come from this direction. Where have you been?

-I've been working. I had some business in one of the villages just outside the city. There was no way to get back except to walk. It was only a couple of hours.

-You must be tired.

-Yes, I am.

-Can I carry your case?

-But I'm carrying you so even if I gave you my case I'd still be carrying its weight.

-I could walk by myself and carry your case.