— I agree.
— These are two separate cases.
Leo stared blankly, bewildered by the assertion.
— But these children were murdered by the same man.
— A girl has been sexually assaulted and murdered. A boy has been sexually assaulted and murdered. These are different crimes. These are different depravities.
— We don’t know the boy was sexually assaulted.
— Look at him!
— I don’t believe, nor does the doctor I spoke to, that the girl was sexually assaulted.
— She was naked.
— But they both had bark, tree bark, ground-up tree bark stuffed into their mouths.
— Larisa’s mouth was stuffed with soil.
— That’s wrong.
— Varlam Babinich has admitted stuffing her mouth with soil.
— Which is why he can’t have killed her — the ground is frozen. If it was soil where did he get it from? Her mouth was stuffed with bark just as this boy’s mouth was stuffed with bark. The bark was prepared in advance, I don’t know why.
— Babinich has confessed.
— He’d admit anything if you asked him enough times.
— Why are you so sure this is the same killer? One child was murdered close to the station: careless, reckless, barely out of sight. The screams could have been heard by the passengers. It was an idiot’s crime and an idiot has confessed. But this child has been led almost an hour’s walk into the forest. Care has been taken, so that no one could interrupt him. This is a different man.
— Who knows what happened with the girl, maybe he wanted to walk further into the woods and she changed her mind so he had to kill her there. Why do they both have string around their ankles?
— This is a different crime.
— Tell me you’re not so desperate to prosecute that you’ll say and believe anything.
— You tell me what kind of person rapes a girl, kills her, and then rapes a boy and kills him? Who is this person? I’ve worked in the militia for twenty years. I’ve never encountered such a person. I’ve never heard of such a person. Can you give me one example?
— The girl wasn’t raped.
— You’re right. There was a reason the girl was killed — she was killed for her blonde hair. She was killed by a sick man. There was a reason this boy was killed. He was killed by a different man, with a different sickness.
23 March
Aleksandr closed the ticket office, lowering the blind and sitting back in his chair. Although the office was small, no more than a couple of square metres, he liked the fact that it was his. He didn’t share it with anyone nor did he have anyone overseeing his work. He had a kind of freedom, unburdened by quotas or productivity reviews. There was just one downside to having this job. Everyone who knew him presumed that he must be disappointed with how life had turned out.
Five years ago Aleksandr had been the fastest sprinter at Secondary School 151. People had believed he was destined for success on a national level, perhaps even an international one if the Soviet Union were to compete in the Olympics. Instead, he’d ended up in a sedentary job manning a ticket office, watching other people embark on journeys while he went nowhere. He’d spent years following a punishing exercise regime, winning regional competitions. And to what end? Timetables and tickets: work which could be done by anyone. He remembered the exact moment the dream came to nothing. He and his father had taken a train to Moscow, attending the selection process at the Central Army Sports Club, the CSKA — part of the Ministry of Defence. The CSKA was renowned for selecting the best athletes from all over the country and pushing them to become exceptional. Ninety per cent of applicants were rejected. Aleksandr had raced until he was sick by the side of the track. He’d run faster than he’d ever run before, beating his personal best. He hadn’t made the cut. On the return trip home his father had tried to put a positive slant on the rejection. It would motivate them to train harder, he’d make the cut next year for certain and he’d be the stronger for having been made to fight for his dream. But Aleksandr had given everything and it hadn’t been enough. There’d be no next year. Though his father had continued to press, Aleksandr’s heart wasn’t in it and soon his father’s heart wasn’t in it either. Aleksandr had left school, begun work, settling into an easy routine.
It was eight in the evening by the time he finished. He left the ticket office, locking it behind him. He didn’t have far to walk as he and his parents lived in an annexe built above the station. Technically speaking, his father was in charge of the station. However, his father wasn’t well. No one at the hospital could say what was wrong with him except that he was overweight and drank too much. His mother was in good health and, her husband’s illness aside, generally cheerful. She had reason to be — they were a fortunate family. The pay for working on the State railway was modest, the amount of blat, influence, relatively small. But the real advantage was the accommodation. Instead of having to share with another family they had sole use of an apartment with plumbing, hot water and insulation — as new as the station itself. In exchange they were expected to be on call twenty-four hours a day. There was a bell which could be rung from the station wired directly to the apartment. If there was a night train or an early morning train they had to be on hand. But these were small inconveniences which, shared across the family, were more than offset by the relative comforts they enjoyed. They had an apartment easily big enough for two families. Aleksandr’s sister had married a cleaner who worked at the car assembly plant, where she also worked, and they’d moved into a new apartment in a good district. They were expecting their first child. This meant that Aleksandr, at twenty-two years old, had nothing to worry about. One day he’d take over the running of the station and the annexe would be his.
In his bedroom he changed out of his uniform, put on casual clothes and sat down to eat with his parents: pea-haddock soup followed by fried kasha. His father was eating a small portion of cow’s liver. Though expensive and extraordinarily difficult to come by, liver had been recommended by the doctors. Aleksandr’s father was on a strict diet, including no alcohol, which he was convinced was making him worse. They didn’t speak over dinner. His father appeared to be in some discomfort. He hardly ate. After washing the plates Aleksandr excused himself: he was going to the cinema. By this stage his father was lying down. Aleksandr kissed him goodnight, telling him not to worry, he’d get up to deal with the arrival of the first train.
There was only one cinema in Voualsk. Until three years ago there’d been none. A church had been transformed into a six-hundred-seat auditorium where a backlog of State-sponsored films were shown, many of which had been missed by the town’s population. These included The Fighters, Guilty Without Guilt, Secrets of Counter-Espionage and Meeting on the Elbe, some of the most successful movies of the last ten years, all of which Aleksandr had seen several times. Since the cinema’s opening it had quickly become his favourite pastime. Because of his running he’d never developed an interest in drink and he wasn’t particularly social. Arriving at the foyer he saw that Nezabyaemy God was showing. Aleksandr had seen the movie only a couple of nights ago and numerous occasions before that. He’d found it fascinating, not the film itself particularly, but the idea of an actor playing Stalin. He wondered whether Stalin had been involved in the casting. He wondered what it must be like watching another man pretend to be you, instructing them what they were doing right and what they were doing wrong. Aleksandr walked past the foyer. He didn’t join the queue, heading instead towards the park.