Yet in the end no amount of tinkering could compensate for the property’s shortcomings. There was no running water — the nearest well was a ten-minute walk. There was no plumbing — there was a pit toilet at the back of the house. When they’d moved in the pit toilet was filthy and falling apart. It had been far too shallow and it was impossible to go in without gagging at the smell. Nesterov had constructed a new one, in a separate location, working through the night to finish. It had decent walls and a much deeper hole with a barrel of sawdust to throw in afterwards. Even so, he was aware that his family lived cut off from the advancements in comfort and hygiene, with no promise of a better future. He was forty years old. His pay was less than many of the twenty-something workers at the car assembly plant. His aspiration — to provide a decent home — had come to nothing.
There was a knock on the front door. It was late. Nesterov, still wearing his uniform, could hear Inessa answer the door. A moment later she appeared in the kitchen.
— It’s someone for you. He’s from your work. I don’t recognize him.
Nesterov walked into the hallway. Leo was standing outside. Nesterov turned to his wife.
— I’ll deal with this.
— Will he be coming inside?
— No, this won’t take long.
Inessa glanced at Leo and then left. Nesterov stepped outside, shutting the door.
Leo had run all the way here. The news of Aleksandr’s death had wiped out any sense of discretion. He no longer felt the disappointment and melancholy that had wracked him all week. He felt unhinged, part of a horrific, absurd charade, a player in a grotesque farce — the naive dreamer, striving for justice but leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. His aspiration — that a killer be caught — had been answered with bloodshed. Raisa had known all along, she’d known in the forest, she’d known two nights ago, she’d tried to warn him and yet he’d pressed on, like a child on an adventure.
What could one man achieve?
He had his reply: the ruin of two hundred lives, the suicide of a young man and the death of a doctor. A young man’s body cut in two by a train: this was the fruit of his labour. This was what he’d risked his life for; this was what he’d risked Raisa’s life for. This was his redemption.
— Aleksandr is dead. He killed himself, threw himself under a train.
Nesterov dropped his head.
— I’m sorry to hear that. We gave him a chance to sort himself out. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was too sick.
— We’re responsible for his death.
— No, he was ill.
— He was twenty-two years old. He had a mother and a father and he liked going to the cinema. And now he’s dead. But the good thing is if we find another dead child we can just blame it on Aleksandr, solve the case in record time.
— That’s enough.
— What are you doing this for? Because you’re not doing it for the money or the perks!
Leo stared at Nesterov’s lopsided house. Nesterov replied:
— Tyapkin killed himself because he was guilty.
— As soon as we started arresting those men he knew we’d question those children, he knew we’d track him down.
— He had the surgical skill necessary to cut out a child’s stomach. He gave a false testimony to you regarding the girl’s murder to confuse us. He was devious, cunning.
— He told me the truth. That little girl’s stomach was cut out. Her mouth was stuffed with bark just as the boy’s stomach was cut out and his mouth was stuffed with bark. She had string tied around her ankle and so did the boy. They were killed by the same man. And it wasn’t Dr Tyapkin and it wasn’t that teenager Varlam Babinich.
— Go home.
— There was a body in Moscow. A young boy, called Arkady, not even five years old. I didn’t see his body but I was told that he was found naked, his stomach cut open, his mouth stuffed with dirt. I suspect his mouth was stuffed with bark.
— Suddenly there’s a murdered child in Moscow? That’s very convenient, Leo. I don’t believe it.
— I didn’t believe it either. I had the grieving family in front of me, telling me their son had been murdered, and I didn’t believe it. I told them it wasn’t true. How many other incidents have been covered up? We have no way of knowing, no way of finding out. Our system is perfectly arranged to allow this man to kill as many times as he likes. And he’s going to kill again and again, and we’re going to keep arresting the wrong people, innocent people, people we don’t like, or people we don’t approve of, and he’s going to kill again and again.
Nesterov didn’t trust this man. He’d never trusted him and he certainly wasn’t going to be drawn into making criticisms about the State. He turned his back on Leo, reaching for the front door.
Leo grabbed him by the shoulder, turning him so they were face to face again. The intention had been to make another point, to drive home his argument with reasoning and logic but instead, stumped for words, Leo punched him. It was a good punch, solid. Nesterov’s head cracked to the side. He remained in that position, head to one side. Then, slowly, he turned to face his junior officer. Leo tried to keep his voice steady.
— We’ve solved nothing.
Nesterov’s punch lifted Leo off his feet. He landed on the ground, on his back. It didn’t hurt, not yet. Nesterov stared down at him, touching his own jaw.
— Go home.
Leo got to his feet.
— We’ve solved nothing.
He threw a punch. Nesterov blocked, throwing one back. Leo ducked. He was a good fighter: trained, skilled. But Nesterov was larger and quick despite his size. Punched in the stomach, Leo doubled up. Nesterov brought a second blow down across the exposed side of his face, dropping him to his knees and splitting open the skin on his cheek. With his vision blurred Leo toppled forward, falling. He rolled onto his back, gasping. Nesterov stood over him.
— Go home.
In reply Leo kicked him squarely in the groin. He scuttled back, hunched over. Leo staggered to his feet.
— We’ve solved—
Before he could finish Nesterov ran forward, crashing into Leo, knocking him to the ground, landing on top of him. He punched him in the stomach, the face, the stomach, the face. Leo lay there, taking blow after blow, unable to get free. Nesterov’s knuckles were bloody. Catching his breath, he stopped. Leo wasn’t moving. His eyes were closed — a pool of blood collecting in his right eye, fed by a cut to his brow. Nesterov got to his feet, shaking his head at the sight. He moved towards the front door, wiping the blood on his trousers. As he reached for the handle he heard a sound behind him.
Wincing in pain, Leo pulled himself up. Unsteady on his feet, he raised his hands, as though ready to fight. He rocked from side to side, as if standing on a boat out at sea. He had only a vague idea where Nesterov was. His voice was a whisper.
— We’ve…solved…nothing.
Nesterov watched as Leo swayed. He walked towards him, fists clenched, ready to knock him down. Leo swung a hopeless, pitiful punch — Nesterov sidestepped and caught Leo under the arm just as his legs gave way.