Metkin made no attempt to move when Lapinsk backed out into the corridor. The man appeared to be speaking to both of them when he said Danilov’s appointment represented an expansion of the Bureau, but Danilov took it as a confirmation of a larger audience he couldn’t see.
Turning more towards Danilov, Metkin looked around the office in which it was difficult to move for files and folders and reference books and box containers, which made the place look like an animal warren but was in reality Danilov’s own records system. He knew what every bundle and packet contained, and could retrieve material hours ahead of the proper basement archives. Metkin said: ‘This will no longer be your office. Kabalin is senior investigator now.’
Vladimir Nikolaevich Kabalin had been Metkin’s partner, allegedly specialising in organised gang crime, and had been another on Danilov’s now laughable purge list: Danilov wondered if Metkin would remain, with Kabalin, on the payroll of one or more of the gangs they were supposed to have investigated. There was no reason why they couldn’t double or treble their income now; with Kabalin as senior investigator and Metkin in ultimate charge, the rackets could continue uninterrupted and unchallenged.
‘Where will my office be?’ he asked.
‘It’s a problem,’ dismissed Metkin, enjoying himself. ‘We’ll have to find you somewhere. I want you in my office. An hour.’
The bastard was staging the performance to mock Leonid Lapinsk, whose protege he had been, Danilov realised; the outgoing Director stood head bowed in embarrassment, just occasionally looking towards the squad room. Danilov said: ‘So there’s nowhere for me to put my things?’
Metkin almost over-stressed the sneer. ‘Is there anything in this junk heap worth keeping?’
‘Things that are necessary to keep,’ insisted Danilov. How clever was Metkin: how really clever? This was juvenile.
Metkin shrugged. ‘They’ll have to be stored somewhere, until we can find accommodation for you. Don’t forget: an hour.’
As he looked helplessly around the room, Danilov was sure he heard laughter from along the corridor. He got up and started tidying the files to be carried away, but the fury was shaking through him and he did it carelessly, so the fresh piles began toppling and slipping, creating worse chaos. Danilov stopped, forcing control. He could not allow Metkin to reduce him to unthinking, unco-ordinated anger by a few minutes of arrogant, childish pantomime.
He looked up curiously at another noise from outside, not knowing what to expect, then smiled, relieved. Yuri Mikhailovich Pavin had been his partner, whenever Danilov had been able to manipulate the shifts, a plainclothes Militia major whose heavy, slow-moving demeanour belied the astute brain that made him, in Danilov’s opinion, the best scene-of-crime officer in the department.
‘Hear you’ve got to pack up,’ greeted Pavin. ‘Thought you might need help.’
Danilov saw Pavin had several cardboard boxes – a rarity like everything else in Moscow – gathered in a ham-like grip. ‘They can’t have been easy to get?’
‘Someone in stores owed me a favour.’
Pavin had never admitted how he supplemented his Militia salary, and Danilov had never enquired. Pavin moved towards the jumbled files. ‘Any particular order? Things to be kept in sequence?’
‘It’s got to be done by noon: I’ve been called before Metkin then. Just dump them in as they come: I’ll sort it out later.’
‘I’ve still got the key to the store-cupboard we used as the evidence room for the killings last year,’ said Pavin. ‘They’ll be safe there for a while. Not long, though.’
Danilov stopped packing, looking at Pavin in disbelief. ‘You think anyone will bother to upset these things?’
‘Yes,’ said Pavin. ‘You weren’t expected to take the job. They don’t want you here: you’re an intrusive nuisance, so everybody is going to do what they can to make it as uncomfortable as possible. Besides, these boxes are worth having.’
‘I’d be grateful for any warnings in advance,’ said Danilov, tentatively, and quickly added: ‘I don’t want to cause you any difficulty.’
‘I wouldn’t want that either,’ said Pavin honestly. ‘If I can safely help, I will.’
They had packed, although badly, and already carried six boxes to the store-room before Kabalin arrived. It took the man too long to clear his face of the surprise at the empty room and Danilov was glad he’d blocked the doorway, keeping Kabalin outside for the disappointment to be witnessed by the other watching detectives.
‘There’s only one bulb!’ protested Kabalin. The office was an inner one, with no window, so lights had to burn constantly: a wall socket and a desk lamp were empty, putting the room in semi-darkness.
‘You’ll have to get replacements from maintenance,’ advised Danilov. The average waiting time for light bulbs in Militia headquarters was six months, and then they could only be obtained for reciprocal favours. The bulbs hadn’t blown: they were in one of the first packing cases now in the locked closet to which Danilov had the only key. The light sockets wherever he was put would be empty, which made taking those from his old room a practical precaution, though Danilov regretted matching the childishness with which he was being treated.
Anatoli Metkin had not had time to innovate any changes or even to become accustomed to the Director’s suite, and Danilov decided the man looked the furtive interloper he was. Metkin was physically indecisive, neither tall nor short, fat nor thin. A crowd person, but for his face, which was criss-crossed and latticed with lines, and his mouth was bracketed by two deep grooves that began close to his eyes and curved the entire length of each cheek. His eyes were unusually light blue and unsettling because of it, and he didn’t blink a lot, as if he were afraid of missing something.
‘You’re surprised at my appointment,’ declared Metkin.
‘I didn’t have the opportunity earlier to congratulate you,’ evaded Danilov. The hypocrisy stuck in his throat. How much more would he find difficulty in saying and doing, in the future?
‘Lapinsk had promised the directorship to you, hadn’t he!’
The former Director would not have admitted that. ‘The appointment is the responsibility of the Interior Ministry, not a gift of an outgoing incumbent.’
‘Exactly!’ said Metkin, triumphantly, as if the reply had proved something.
Which Danilov supposed it had, hopefully for his own future protection, rather than Metkin’s satisfaction. Who was Metkin’s protector in the Ministry? There would be safety for himself, if he could find out. There were papers on the desk, and Danilov was curious to know if Metkin had written reminder notes for himself.
Fixing Danilov with an unbroken gaze, Metkin said: ‘I do not intend any misconceptions between us.’
‘I hope there won’t be,’ said Danilov. The man was altogether too anxious, falling over himself to make his points and doing it badly. There was advantage to be taken here.
‘Your appointment is provisional. Did Lapinsk make that clear?’
‘No,’ Danilov conceded. Had it been an oversight by Lapinsk? Or an admission of further failure the old man hadn’t been able to concede?
Metkin smiled, crumpling his face further. ‘If the experiment doesn’t work, it will be reconsidered. For that reason, your promoted rank to Lieutenant-General is only acting, subject to confirmation.’
On what grade – his old or the temporary one – would his pension be calculated if he abandoned the whole stupid nonsense and quit the Militia entirely? ‘There is a car?’ He might as well get everything spelled out at the very beginning.