Fortunately, thought Danilov. ‘What’s he said?’
‘Nothing. Cried a bit. Makes a whining, humming sound in his throat.’
‘Hummed?’ demanded Danilov, instantly alert.
‘Like a whine really. Like an animal. I think he’s mad.’
Kosov didn’t know the psychiatric history, Danilov remembered. ‘Where did you get the name?’
‘From his workbook. He’s a labourer in a marshalling yard. You wouldn’t think so. He’s very clean.’
They could hear Petr Yezhov before they reached the cell. The sound was neither a hum nor a whine: to Danilov it sounded like the whimpered, repetitive bark of a puppy chained too long in one place. It changed when Kosov opened the cell door, into a longer, more positive whimper, definitely of fear. The man had been hunched sideways on the bunk, boots on the blanket, his arms clutched around knees drawn tightly up to his chest, rocking back and forth. As they entered he briefly uncoiled himself, scrabbling further into the corner where the bunk abutted the wall, then bunched up again.
Danilov decided the man was trying to make himself smaller. There was a bruise under his left eye, and the side of his right hand, nearest to where Danilov stood, was badly grazed, although the bleeding appeared to have stopped. But it was not that which caught Danilov’s attention. He was oddly bald, an alopecia sufferer, isolated patches of hair clinging to his head. He looked just like the victims, after they had been shorn. ‘Petr Yakovlevich?’
Don’t look at them, say anything. Two men. A uniform. Angry uniform.
‘Petr Yakovlevich, what were you doing, on Ulitza Mickiewicz?’
Had to get out: stop being locked up. ‘Yes.’ The voice was high-pitched, girlish.
‘Why?’ Nothing sensible could possibly emerge from this.
‘Yes.’ The voice was lower.
‘Why do you walk at night?’
‘Walk.’
‘Why do you walk?’ This was cruel. But so had the killing of Vladimir Suzlev and Ann Harris and Nadia Revin been cruel. And the attempt upon Lydia Orlenko.
A trick. Wouldn’t be tricked. Say nothing.
‘Do you look for women when you walk?’
Didn’t do it, not any more. ‘No.’ Shouldn’t have spoken.
‘You did once, didn’t you? You hurt women. Bit them.’ Danilov was conscious of Kosov’s startled attention beside him. He prayed the man wouldn’t intervene, with some needless comment. Kosov didn’t.
Needed maht: his mother would know what to say. More than he did: he didn’t understand. ‘Got well now.’
‘Are you well, Petr Yakovlevich?’
Yezhov began to rock again, a gentle back and forth movement. The whining sound started.
Lydia Orlenko had talked of her attacker humming, as he bent over her, Danilov recalled. This could be mistaken for someone humming. Danilov’s mind ran on, to the American psychological profile he’d disdained — still doubted — as modern witchcraft. There was the strange, disfiguring baldness. Although he was dishevelled and crumpled, the disarray of his clothes was obviously recent, the result of whatever had happened during and after his pursuit and the way he had rolled himself up, inside this cramped cell. There was still a discernible crease in his trousers, the shoes were polished, scarcely scuffed, and his shirt crisper than any Olga had finally put into his drawer, that night. And the jacket was double-breasted: Danilov was sure there had been something in the profile about double-breasted jackets being important. ‘Have you hurt people again? Looked for women as you walked at night? Attacked them? You must tell me. It will be better if you tell me.’
Too many words: too many to understand. Where was maht? She would understand. Maht understood everything. Go on making a noise, in his throat. He couldn’t hear the words — too many words — if he made the noise in his throat.
‘Tell me, Petr Yakovlevich!’
Both angry now. Wouldn’t unlock him, if they were angry. That’s how you got locked up, by making them angry. ‘Didn’t do it. Didn’t hurt anyone.’
Danilov wished he could sit down: make the encounter easier for all of them. ‘Did you cut off their hair? And the buttons. Why did you do that? Tell me!’
‘Want to,’ said Yezhov, trying to convey that he wanted to be out of the cramped cell, made even smaller by these two men.
Danilov released a small sigh, of satisfaction. ‘That’s it!’ he encouraged. ‘You want to. Why do you want to?’
‘Can’t be locked up. Inside,’ answered the man, honestly.
‘Mad,’ insisted Kosov, intruding at last. ‘I said he was mad. But it’s him, isn’t it? The one you want?’
Uniforms were always angry. Men who locked you up. ‘Better. I’m better. They said. Mother knows.’ There. Said a lot. Have to unlock him now because he’d said a lot.
Danilov saw for the first time the blood smear on the wall, over the bunk, guessing that Yezhov had grazed his hand hitting at it. The man was mad: retarded and confused, certainly. And with a history of sexual attacks upon women. And had said, minutes before, that he’d wanted to cut off their hair and buttons. Whose hair or buttons? Had he meant the woman — and Suzlev by mistake — or hadn’t he meant that at all? ‘Tell me how you did it. How you hurt them.’
The doctors knew. Everyone knew. Why did this man want to know again. ‘Bit them. Wanted to taste. Not now. Better.’
‘You stabbed them, didn’t you? From behind? With a knife?’
‘Didn’t.’
‘And then cut off their hair? And the buttons? Why did you put the shoes where you did?’
‘Don’t know …’ Yezhov intended the denial to be that he didn’t know what the man was saying, what he was talking about, but it was too many words, so he stopped. He hadn’t done anything wrong: he was sure he hadn’t. But his mother thought he had: kept holding his hands and saying that she had to know, just like this man, although he wasn’t holding his hands. What was it, that he’d done? He couldn’t remember. He’d tell them, if he could remember. Then they’d let him go. Walk again. He wanted to walk, not feel things tight around him. Didn’t like things tight around him. The first time, when he’d been locked up, they’d put him in a funny jacket, with sleeves that didn’t end and were tied behind him, so that he couldn’t move at all, the tightest thing he’d ever known all wrapped around him. Screamed to get out: screamed and cried and thrown himself around the cell just like this but he couldn’t get out of it. Didn’t ever want to be put in a funny jacket like that again. In a cell just like this one. He made a great effort to at last look towards the men, towards the one who wasn’t wearing a uniform and whose voice was kinder. ‘No jacket. Please, no jacket.’
I’m hunting a maniac, thought Danilov: someone deranged, mentally unstable. And he was facing someone deranged and mentally unstable. There could be no question that the man had to be held, for more investigation. Mother knows. The home had to be scientifically examined. Danilov’s mind stopped, at the word. It was routine for a detained person’s belongings to be taken away. It might have been an idea to have examined it all before attempting this befuddled interview. ‘Are you going to tell me about it? What you did to these women?’
‘No.’ How could he tell what he couldn’t remember? ‘Want to go now.’
Kosov sniggered and said, without sympathy: ‘This is pathetic!’
Danilov thought so too, but differently from Kosov. He said to Yezhov: ‘You can’t go. You’ve got to stay here.’
‘NO!’
The outburst was so abrupt and unexpected that both Militia Colonels were completely startled. Yezhov broke like a spring from his coiled position, swiping out wildly at both of them as he tried to get to the door. The blow caught Danilov directly in the stomach, driving the wind from him: he staggered back, retching, against the unseen wall behind. Another blow missed Kosov. The indulgently fat uniformed man was grossly out of condition but solid-bodied. Yezhov had no support and little momentum as he came up off the bed. Kosov simply stepped forward, blocking the man. But Yezhov didn’t fall back. Instead he entwined his arms around Kosov’s neck, using the other man to pull himself up. In turn Kosov locked his arms around Yezhov and together the two pirouetted in a tight, violent embrace. Danilov pushed himself away from the wall, breath groaning into him, groping to dislodge Yezhov’s arms from the other policeman. He couldn’t, at first: the mindless grip was rigid, impossible to shift. Danilov had to use two hands and all his strength to prise first the fingers, then the arm loose. Partially freed, Kosov twisted to get further away from the other man, then drove his knee up full into Yezhov’s groin.