She's feeling upset,' said Khodyrev. Who knows? Maybe she holds us partly to blame. For not providing him with protection in the first place.'
On the other hand,' said Nikolai, perhaps she just doesn't like policemen. My wife's the same.'
Living with you, I can't say I blame her,' said Grushko. Maybe you're right Lieutenant Khodyrev, I don't know. Meanwhile, see if you can manage to trace that Golden Calf. Before Moses.'
Sir?'
And he took the golden calf which they had made and burnt it with fire, and ground it to powder, and scattered it upon the water, and made the people of Israel drink it.
Standing on a small island in the centre of the Neva Delta, the three-hundred-year-old Peter and Paul Fortress was the nucleus around which St Petersburg had grown. The twelve o'clock cannon fired as Grushko drove across the wooden Ivan Bridge towards the main entrance and, instinctively, we all three of us checked our watches.
It seemed an odd place to locate a restaurant. It was true, the fortress was very popular with the tourists, but so many people had met unpleasant ends within its granite walls that it would have quite taken the edge off my appetite.
The Poltava Restaurant, named after the battle Peter the Great had won against the Swedes, was located in what had once been the officers' club. We pulled up outside and knocked on the heavy wooden door. The fat greasy man who opened it was typically obstructive, no doubt in the hope that we would pay more to get a table for lunch.
You've got no chance today,' he said. We're all full up.'
Grushko flashed his identity card. Save it for the starving,' he said and pushed his way inside.
The mood was more rustic than military. Old prints, including one of Peter the Great's wedding party, decorated the Snow-cemmed walls beneath heavily beamed ceilings that were hung with wrought-iron chandeliers. And somewhere, we could detect the mouth-watering smell of pastry cooking.
I'd like to speak to the manager, please,' said Grushko.
I'm the manager,' said the man who had let us in.
Grushko showed him a photograph of Milyukin.
Ever see him in here? His name is Mikhail Milyukin.'
The manager took the photograph in his grubby hands and looked closely at it for several seconds. He shook his head.
Looks too thin to be one of our regulars,' he said.
We think he was in here three nights ago.'
If you say so.'
He was supposed to meet someone, only the other party didn't show up.'
A girl was it? We get a lot of courting couples in here.'
That's what we'd like to find out,' said Grushko. Perhaps if you could check the booking?'
The manager led us into a small alcove where, on a tall oak table next to an ancient telephone, lay a large leather-bound book. He opened it, licked his finger, turned back several pages and then ran the same finger down the page, smudging some of the writing as it went.
Here we are,' he said. Yes, now I remember. Party of two for eight o'clock, it was. But the booking was made in the name of Beria.'
Beria?' exclaimed Grushko. You're joking.'
The manager turned the book towards Grushko.
Take a look for yourself,' he said.
Yes, you're right,' said Grushko. It's just it was just that Beria was the chief of Stalin's secret police.'
You don't say,' shrugged the man. I'm too young to remember that myself. But we get all sorts in here.'
As he spoke a swarthy, southern type with a droopy moustache and a sharp suit stepped out of the dining-room, heading for the lavatory. Each squeak of his patent-leather shoes seemed to suggest that he was Mafia. Grushko's eyes followed the man he would have called him a churki with distaste.
I'll bet you do,' he murmured and then returned his attention to the reservations' book.
What I mean is that it's obviously a false name,' he said.
Not obvious to me,' said the manager.
How was the booking made?'
Telephone. No one ever books in person. Not unless they're a regular. Being on an island, well, it's not exactly on anyone's way.'
Grushko pointed to the blue biro Cyrillic letters that constituted Mr Beria's booking.
Is this your writing?
Yes.'
Can you remember anything about the person who phoned?'
It was a man, I'm sure of that anyway.' He thought for a moment and then shrugged. Apart from that, nothing at all.'
Did he have an accent? Georgian? Chechen, maybe?'
Look, I'm sorry, I really don't remember. Like I say, we get all sorts here.'
When Mr Milyukin, the man in the photograph, left, did he offer any explanations as to why the other man hadn't shown up?'
He paid his bill and then collected his coat. I helped him on with it. I said I hoped that we might see him again, and he said he hoped so too. I even opened the door for him. I think he was on foot I mean, I don't remember hearing a car start.'
Well, thanks anyway,' said Grushko.
Well, now you're here, gents, why not stay and have a bite of lunch?' said the manager. On the house. We've got homemade Peter's soup.'
Peter's soup,' Nikolai repeated hungrily. That's what I can smell.'
The Mafia type returned from the lavatory.
Thank you, no,' said Grushko, eyeing the man. We usually like to get away from our clients during the lunch hour.'
Nikolai's face fell and reluctantly he followed Grushko and myself out of the Poltava's door.
When we were outside Grushko looked squarely at the big man as if waiting for him to say something about walking away from a free meal.
What?' he said finally. No complaints about your stomach?'
Nikolai lit a cigarette and looked up at the golden spire on the nearby cathedral.
No,' he said, you were right. The food smelled better than the people eating there.' He slowly tightened his belt a notch. But I don't mind telling you, this honesty is damned hungry work.'
10
An investigator's job can only begin when a detective has made a statement to the effect that a crime has been committed and that a man should be arrested. All protocols follow this one-sentence declaration.
After our trip to the restaurant in the Peter and Paul Fortress I had a busy afternoon issuing several arrest protocols to two detectives from Grushko's department. A gang of Kazhaks had been preying on Jews who were about to emigrate to Israel, robbing them on the eve of their departure when all their belongings were neatly and for the robbers conveniently gathered together in bags and boxes. A man called the Goose had murdered an old Jewish woman in cold blood in her apartment on Bakunina Prospekt when she offered the gang resistance.
Having signed these arrest protocols, the next task was to justify them, and this required me to sign personal-search protocols and interrogation protocols. But to search the Goose's apartment for goods stolen from the old woman meant that I was going to need the relevant protocol stamped by the State Prosecutor's Office. So I called Vladimir Voznosensky and then went straight over there with the two detectives in their car. To some this might have all sounded rather bureaucratic, but that would have been to forget that the investigator was the best guarantee of a suspect citizen's rights.
I had not long arrived back at the Big House when I received a call from an old friend at the GUITI, the Chief Directorate of Corrective Labour Institutions. I had telephoned him earlier that same day to check on Sultan Khadziyev, the Chechen pimp whom Mikhail Milyukin had helped to put in the zone. My friend, whose name was Viktor, had been able to discover that Khadziyev had been serving his sentence in Beregoi 16/2, a camp that was close to the Kazakh border in western Siberia. Now he told me that Sultan had been released four weeks ago. For good behaviour. But he couldn't have served more than half of his sentence,' I said.
I don't understand it myself,' said Viktor. I called the regime chief at the camp and he assured me that a proper release order, authorised by this Directorate had been received. Believe me, I intend to investigate this matter thoroughly.'