His mobile telephone rang.
'Go ahead.'
It was Netto.
'Good morning, Vissari. What do you have?'
A couple of things, said Netto. One: the house in Vspolnyi Street. He had established that it belonged to a medium-sized property company called Moskprop, who were trying to let it for $15,000 a month. No takers so far.
'At that price? I'm not surprised.'
Two: it looked as though something had been dug up in the garden in the past couple of days. There was loose soil in one spot to a depth of five feet, and forensics reported traces of ferrous oxide in the earth. Something had been rusting away down there for years.
'Anything else?'
'No. Nothing on Mamantov. He's evaporated. And the colonel's agitated. He's been asking for you.'
'Did you tell him where I was?'
'No, lieutenant.'
'Good man.' Suvorin rang off. Zinaida was watching him.
'You know what I think?' said Suvorin, 'I think your old papa went and dug up that toolbox just before he died. And then I think he gave it to you. And then I reckon you gave it to Kelso.'
It was only a theory, but he thought he saw something flicker in her eyes before she turned away.
'You see,' he said, 'we will get there in the end. And we'll get there without you, if necessary. It's just going to take us more time, that's all.'
He settled back in his seat.
Wherever Kelso was, he thought, the notebook would be. And wherever the notebook was, Vladimir Mamantov would be as well - if not now, then very soon. So the answer to one question - where was Kelso? - would provide the solution to all three problems.
He glanced at Zinaida. Her eyes were closed. And she knew it, he was sure of it.
It was so infuriatingly simple.
He wondered if Kelso had any idea how physically close Mamantov might be to him at that moment, and how much danger he was in. But of course he wouldn't, would he? He was a westerner. He would think he was immune.
The journey dragged on.
THAT’S it,' said the militia man, pointing a thick forefinger.
'Up there, on the right.'
It looked a grim place in the rain, a warehouse of dull red brick, with small windows set behind the usual cobweb of iron bars. There was no nameplate beside the dingy entrance.
'Let's drive round the back,' suggested Suvorin. 'See if you can park.'
They swung right and right again, through open wooden gates, into an asphalt courtyard glistening in the wet. There was an old green ambulance with its windows painted out parked in one corner, next to a large black van. Big drums of corrugated metal were piled with white plastic sacks, tied with tape and stamped SURGICAL WASTE in red letters., Some had toppled off and split open, or been torn open by dogs, more like. Sodden, bloodied linen soaked up the rain.
The girl was sitting erect now, staring about her, beginning to guess where she was. The militia man levered his big frame out of the front seat and came round to open her door. She didn't move. It was Suvorin who had to take her gently by her arm and coax her out of the car.
'They've had to convert this place. And there's another warehouse out in Elektrostal, apparently. But there you are. That's the crime-wave for you. Even the dead are obliged to sleep rough. Come on, Zinaida. It's a formality. It has to be done. Besides, I'm told it often helps. We must always look our terrors in the eye.'
She shook her arm free of him and gathered her coat around herself and he realised that actually he was more nervous than she was. He had never seen a corpse before. Imagine it: a major of the former First Chief Directorate of the KGB and he had never seen a dead man. This whole case was proving an education.
They picked their way through the refuse, past a goods lift, and into the back of the warehouse - the militia man in the lead, then Zinaida, then Suvorin. It had been a cold store originally, for fish trucked north from the Black Sea, and there was still a slight tang of brine to the air, despite the smell of chemicals.
The policeman knew the drill. He put his head into a glassed-in office and shared a brief joke with whoever was inside, then another man appeared, shrugging on a white coat. He held back a high curtain of thick black rubber strips and they passed into a long corridor, wide enough to take a fork-lift truck, with heavy refrigerated doors off to either side.
In America - Suvorin had seen this on a video of a cops and robbers programme Serafina liked to watch - the bereaved could view their loved ones on a monitor, comfortably screened from the physical reality of death. In Russia, no such delicacy attended the extinct. But, there again~ in fairness to the authorities, it had to be said that they had done their best with limited resources. The viewing room - if approached from the street entrance - was out of sight of the refrigerators. Also, a couple of bowls of plastic flowers had been placed on a covered table, on either side of a brass cross. The trolley was in front of these, the outline of the body clear beneath the white sheet. Small~ thought Suvorin. He had expected a larger man.
He made sure he stood next to Zinaida. The militia man was beside his friend, the morgue technician. Suvorin nodded and the technician folded back the top part of the sheet.
Papu Rapavis mottled face, his thin grey hair combed back and neatly parted, stared through blackened eyelids at the peeling roof.
The militia man intoned the formal words in a bored voice, 'Witness, is this Papu Gerasimovich Rapava?'
Zinaida, her hand to her mouth, nodded.
'Speak please.'
'It is.' They could hardly hear her. And then, more loudly:
'Yes. It is.'
She glanced sideways at Suvorin, defiantly.
The technician began to replace the sheet.
'Wait,' said Suvorin.
He reached out for the edge of the sheet that was closest to him and pulled, hard. The thin nylon whisked away, billowed clear of the body and settled on the floor.
A silence, and then her scream split the room.
'And is this Papu Gerasimovich Rapava? Take a look, Zinaida.' He didn't look himself - he had only a vague impression, thankfully - his eyes were fixed on her. 'Take a look at what they did to him. This is what they'll do to you. And to your friend Kelso, if they catch him.'
The technician was shouting something. Zinaida, yelling, reeled away, towards the corner of the room, and Suvorin went aftef her - this was his moment, his only moment: he had to strike. 'Now, tell me where he is. I'm sorry, but you've got to tell me. Tell me where he is. I'm sorry. Now.'
She turned and her arm flailed out at him, but the militia man had her by her coat and was pulling her backwards. 'Eh, eh,' he said, 'enough of that,' and he spun her round and on to her knees.
Suvorin got on to his knees as well and shuffled after her. He cupped her face between his hands. 'I'm so sorry,' he said. Her face seemed to be dissolving beneath his fingers, her eyes were liquid, blackness was trickling down her cheeks, her mouth a black smear. 'It's all right. I'm sorry.'
She went still. He thought she might have fainted but her eyes were still open.
She wouldn't break. He knew it at that moment. She was her father's daughter.
After maybe haIfa minute, he released her and sat back on his heels, head bowed, breathing hard. Behind him, he heard the noise of the trolley being wheeled away.
'You're a madman,' said the technician, incredulously. 'You're fucking mad, you are.
Suvorin raised his arm in weary acknowledgement. The door slammed shut. He rested his palms on the cold stone floor. He hated this case, he realised, not simply because it was so damned impossible and freighted with risk, but because it made him realise just how much he hated his own country: hated all those old-timers turning out on Sunday mornings with their pictures of Marx and Lenin, and the hard-faced fanatics like Mamantov who just wouldn't give up, who just didn't get it, couldn't see that the world had changed.