— I liked her hair. I wanted it. I have a yellow book, a yellow shirt, a yellow tin and some yellow hair. This is why I cut her. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. When can I have the blanket?
— Let’s talk about that later.
Leo interrupted:
— What blanket?
— Two days ago he kidnapped a baby. It was wrapped in a yellow blanket. He has an obsession with the colour yellow. Fortunately the baby was unhurt. However, he has no sense of right or wrong. He does whatever he feels like without regard for consequence.
Nesterov moved closer to the suspect.
— When I found Larisa’s hair in your book, why did you think you’d be in trouble? Tell this man what you told me.
— She never liked me, she kept telling me to go away but I wanted her hair. I wanted it so bad. And when I cut her hair she didn’t say anything at all.
Nesterov turned to Leo, offering the questioning to him.
— Do you have any questions?
What was expected of him? Leo thought for a moment before asking:
— Why did you stuff her mouth with soil?
Varlam didn’t answer immediately. He seemed confused.
— Yes, there was something in her mouth. I remember that now. Don’t hit me.
Nesterov answered:
— No one is going to hit you, answer the question.
— I don’t know. I forget things. There was dirt in her mouth, yes.
Leo continued:
— Explain what happened when you killed her.
— I cut her.
— You cut her or you cut her hair?
— I’m sorry, I cut her.
— Listen to me carefully. Did you cut her body or did you cut her hair?
— I found her and I cut her. I should have said to somebody but I was worried. I didn’t want to get in trouble.
Varlam began to cry.
— I’m in so much trouble. I’m sorry. I just wanted her hair.
Nesterov stepped forward.
— That’s enough for the moment.
With those words of reassurance, Varlam stopped crying. He was calm again. It was impossible to tell from his face that this was a man in the frame for murder.
Leo and Nesterov stepped outside. Nesterov shut the door to the celclass="underline"
— We have evidence that he was at the crime scene. Snow prints match his boots exactly. You understand that he’s from the internat? He’s a simpleton.
Leo now understood Nesterov’s bravery in addressing this murder head on. They had a suspect who suffered from a mental disorder. Varlam was outside Soviet society, outside Communism, politics — he was explainable. His actions didn’t reflect on the Party, they didn’t alter the truism about crime because the suspect was not a real Soviet. He was an anomaly. Nesterov added:
— That shouldn’t lull you into thinking he’s incapable of violence. He’s admitted killing her. He has a motive, an irrational one, but a motive. He wanted something he couldn’t have — her blonde hair. He has a history of committing crimes when he can’t get what he wants: theft, kidnapping. Now he’s turned to murder. To him, killing Larissa was no different from stealing a baby. His morality is undeveloped. It’s sad. He should have been locked up a long time ago. This is a matter for the sledovatyel now.
Leo understood. The investigation was over. This young man was going to die.
Same Day
The bedroom was empty. Leo dropped to his knees, putting his head to the floorboards. Her case was missing. He stood up, ran out of the room, down the stairs and into the restaurant kitchen. Basarov was cutting fatty strips off an unidentifiable joint of yellow meat.
— Where’s my wife?
— Pay for the bottle and I’ll tell you.
He pointed to an empty bottle, the bottle of cheap vodka Leo had finished in the early hours of the morning, adding:
— I don’t care if it was you or your wife who drank it.
— Please, just tell me where she is.
— Pay for the bottle.
Leo didn’t have any money. He was still wearing his militia uniform. He’d left everything in the locker room.
— I’ll pay you later. However much you want.
— Later, sure, later you’ll pay me a million roubles.
Basarov continued cutting the meat, signalling his refusal to budge.
Leo ran back upstairs, rifling through his case, throwing everything out. In the back of the Book of Propagandists he had twenty-five-rouble notes, four of them, an emergency stash. He got to his feet, ran out, back down the stairs to the restaurant, pushing one of the notes into the man’s hand, considerably more than a single bottle was worth.
— Where is she?
— She left a couple of hours ago. She was carrying her case.
— Where was she going?
— She didn’t speak to me. I didn’t speak to her.
— How long ago, exactly how long ago?
— Two or three hours…
Three hours — that meant she was gone, not just out of the restaurant but quite possibly out of the town. Leo couldn’t guess where she might be heading or which direction she’d be travelling.
Feeling generous after his substantial reward, Basarov volunteered a little extra information.
— It’s unlikely she made it in time for the late afternoon train. As far as I remember there isn’t another train till right about now.
— What time?
— Seven thirty…
Leo had ten minutes.
Ignoring his tiredness, he ran as fast as he could. But desperation choked him. Short of breath, he had only the roughest idea where the station was. He was running blindly, trying to recall the route the car had driven. His uniform was soaked with spray from the icy slush on the street, the cheap material getting heavier and heavier. His blisters rubbed and burst, his toes were bleeding again, his shoes filling with blood. Each step sent a searing pain through his legs.
He turned the corner only to be confronted by a dead end — a line of wooden houses. He was lost. It was too late. His wife was gone; there was nothing he could do. Hunched over, trying to catch his breath, he remembered these ramshackle timber houses, the stench of human effluent. He was close to the station; he was sure of it. Rather than retrace his steps he ran forward, entering the back of one of the huts, stepping into a family seated on the floor, in the middle of a meal. Huddled around a stove, they stared up at him, silent, afraid at the sight of his uniform. Without saying a word he stepped over the children and ran out, entering onto the main street; the street they’d driven down on their arrival. The station was within sight. He tried to run faster but he was slowing. Adrenaline could no longer compensate for exhaustion. He had nothing in reserve.
He barged into the station doors, knocking them open with his shoulder. The clock showed it was seven forty-five. He was fifteen minutes too late. The realization that she was gone, probably forever, began to crash across his mind. Leo clung to the groundless hope that somehow she’d be on the platform, somehow she hadn’t got on the train. He stepped out: looking right and left. He couldn’t see his wife, he couldn’t see the train. He felt weak. He leant forward, his hands on his knees, sweat running down the side of his face. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man sitting on a bench. Why would a man still be on the platform? Was he waiting for a train? Leo straightened up.