‘Misha, you’ve not been here before,’ he said, gesturing him over.
Misha took in the oak-panelled basement room, the large mahogany desk, green leather armchair, the sofa and coffee table, and the wall of books. He was struck by the lack of natural light; only a single ceiling lamp suspended over Kostya’s desk and a table lamp by the sofa provided any illumination.
Konstantin flicked his head in the direction of the man who had escorted him down. The door closed behind him leaving Misha and Kostya alone.
Misha took Konstantin’s desk chair and swivelled it around to face him.
‘With your capacity for maths,’ Misha said, eyeing the books behind Kontantin, ‘I don’t know why you didn’t do something more worthwhile.’
‘Like rocket scientist?’
‘Precisely.’
‘You and I know there is not enough money in it… So what do I owe the honour of this unexpected visit?’ Konstantin was staring at his matted head wound. “A coffee if you want it, but I don’t think that would be very good for concussion.”
“Harkov,” Misha said.
Kostya gave him a blank stare and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Am I supposed to know him?’
‘I was there when your men took him out.’ Misha recited the registration number of the vehicle.
‘Do you think I memorise every registration plate?’
‘Well, take it from me, it’s one of yours.’
‘And if it is, so what? Wasn’t he the guy that killed that hooker-date of yours? Wasn’t that justice?’
‘I’ve never thought of you as big in the justice department… looks more like a failed cover-up and a botched burglary. Harkov worked for you.’
He could see Konstantin struggling to control himself.
‘You really don’t know how lucky you are,’ he spat out. ‘If it wasn’t for me…’ but he didn’t finish.
‘So you stole the photos?’
‘Such as they are. I don’t know what all the fuss is about… but you have rubbed some important people up the wrong way. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.’
‘Who?’
Konstantin shrugged again and rose to his feet.
‘That’s for you to find out. Interview over. And don’t let me find these ugly rumours on the street… or these other people, they will be the least of your problems.’
Chapter 18
The temperature had dropped to minus twenty. Two men seated at the far end of the café, a bottle of vodka between them, watched Viktoriya as she pushed the door shut behind her. Towards the front, a pensioner dressed in a shabby brown coat, still wearing his sable ushanka, its flaps hanging limply round his ears, chatted to an elderly woman.
Viktoriya walked over to the food counter and examined the paltry selection: three unappetising pastries on a chipped green plate, a small stack of hazelnut teacakes dusted in sugar, and a tureen of thin cabbage soup. The serving woman behind the counter, her hair tied up roughly in a bun, wiped her hands down the front of a grimy apron and waited for her to speak.
‘Tea, please.’
Silently, the woman selected a mug and held it under the samovar until it was full.
‘Sugar is extra,’ she said bluntly.
Viktoriya declined, paid her twenty kopeks, and carried it over to a table facing the front window. She took off her fur hat and padded coat and placed them on an empty chair where she could see them.
A solitary photograph of the previous general secretary, a stern looking Chernenko sporting thick snow-white hair, a blue jacket and a medal pinned to his chest, stared down at her. The glass sparkled in its glossy black frame and round it hung a red-and-silver garland. Viktoriya studied the woman behind the counter again and tried to guess her age: late fifties, early sixties, born in the twenties, old enough to have experienced the siege as a young girl. How different their lives had been. All that sacrifice, and what had it brought her… communist Utopia? She thought of her last visit to Milan. Maybe ignorance was bliss… or at least less bewildering. The portrait seemed ridiculous to her now.
She looked at the wall clock, its second hand frozen at thirty-two; the effort of its upward journey had clearly proved too much: three forty, ten minutes late. Suddenly anxious that this should be over, she fought the desire to get up and walk out. She had no desire to meet her father, even after so many years. His drunken binges had made her and her mother’s existence a living nightmare. She remembered the feeling of coming home from school on an afternoon when he wasn’t working and the feeling of apprehension as she turned the key in the door. How often had she invited herself round to Agnessa or Misha to put off that moment? Agnessa knew about her father – they lived on each other’s doorsteps – but she had never told Misha, she was not sure why, but thinking on it now she was certain he had known or suspected… the absence of return invites, his mother always so welcoming, always asking after her mother, never her father. It wasn’t such a big neighbourhood… and that final night, when he had taken the poker to her mother in one of his blind rages. She had fought it from him and cracked him over the skull. That had been the last time she had seen him. He was gone when she had returned from Agnessa’s the next morning.
The sound of the café door opening made her turn. A tall figure, a scarf wrapped tightly across his face, stepped into the café and quickly closed the door behind him. He turned looking for someone. His eyes settled on her. Still standing by the door, he pulled off his beanie and scarf and shot her a tight-lipped smile. The serving woman attempted to tidy her hair and poured her father a steaming hot mug of tea without him having to ask. How many years had it been since she had last seen him? Nine, ten, more…?
From where she was sitting he didn’t seem to have changed. He still had the same thick thatch of fair hair swept back off his forehead and was as lean and sinewy as he had always been. He sat down opposite her. She was glad he didn’t attempt to touch her.
‘Been waiting long?’ he asked, clearly not intent on making an apology.
‘Fifteen minutes.’
‘You were always one for being on time, the reliable one.’
He raised the mug of tea to his lips and fixed his icy-blue eyes on her as he took a sip and blew the steam in her direction. ‘You’ve turned into a real beauty. I always thought you would, just like your mother.’
Growing up, most people had commented on how she looked like him, not her mother. She didn’t think that had changed. Close up now, she could see the signs of ageing, weathered skin from working years outdoors and the all too familiar signs of too much vodka: thread veins and reddened skin.
‘How is your mother?’
‘She is fine,’ she said – all the better for not seeing you, she wanted to say.
‘Leningrad Freight? Hear you’re quite the director’s pet… big operation.’
She felt herself blush.
‘I’m not here to talk about work.’ From her handbag she extracted a small unsealed brown envelope and slid it across the table to him. ‘Five hundred roubles – that’s what you asked for. You don’t have to pay me back; just don’t bother my mother – or me – again.’
He flicked through the notes without taking them out and, satisfied, tucked the envelope into the inside pocket of his coat.
‘From what I hear, you’re doing pretty well there, got a good little business running on the side with that old school friend of yours – what’s his name… Konstantin Ivanivich. He was always a nasty piece of work.’
Unlike you, she didn’t say.