He dragged Vladimir onto the bed and laid him down, placing his head on the pillow and then straightening his pyjamas. Finally he covered him up.
Sheremetev stood back, gazing down at the old man. He was unutterably ashamed of himself. He had acted in self defence – but he had gone much further than that. He had attacked him as well. Whatever Vladimir had once been, he was an old, senile man. The person who was responsible for the things he had done had already departed. Sheremetev had vented his rage on an empty shell.
‘Goodnight, Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ he murmured in despair. ‘Let’s hope things seem better in the morning.’
Sheremetev locked the door, as he had taken to doing after the night Vladimir went wandering, and went back to his room. He took a look at himself in a mirror. His cheek was gaping and ragged and elsewhere on his face were grazes and bruises left by Vladimir’s punches. His throat, where Vladimir had gouged him with his thumbs, was streaked with a pair of red weals. He felt at the back of his head and his fingers came away sticky with blood.
He took off his filthy clothes. The stench of the kitchen juice was on his skin. Exhausted and demoralised as he was, he had a shower, to wash off the juice, the day, everything.
He lay in bed and thought about nothing, because there was too much to think about, all of it inconceivable. He slept, but fitfully, waking frequently to some recollection of the day which seemed to be more of a nightmare than any dream he had ever had, feeling lost and confused and miserable. Finally, in the early hours, he fell into a deep sleep and didn’t wake until after eight.
There was no sound from the baby monitor other than its usual low static. Normally, Vladimir would have been awake by now, yelling for attention, but after such a disturbed night, and with the extra tranquilliser Sheremetev had given him, he must have still been deeply asleep. Sheremetev lay in bed, not wanting to get up, not wanting to reenter the world of madness that awaited him in the dacha. Was it even real? Could it be? Where was Barkovskaya’s body? Had they really thrown it into the pit with the chickens? Were they all going to walk around pretending that nothing had happened and no one knew anything as it lay rotting in the pit?
He thought of what had happened with the watches. And of Vasya. He had lost his son, he knew that now. There was no hiding from it any longer. In a different way perhaps, he was also going to lose a nephew. What was he going to say to Oleg? There would be no three hundred thousand dollars. He had thirty-two and a half thousand from the thief in the pinafore dress, and that would have to be enough.
But what about the watches Belkin had left behind? Suddenly he remembered them. How many were there? Five or six, excluding the old Poljot he had added as a joke. Put them together, they might be worth something, maybe even enough to persuade the prosecutor to let Pasha out. He sat up to check that the thirty-two and a half thousand from the other watches was still under the mattress. Pain shot through his head. He got out of bed tentatively, testing the extent of his injuries.
He’d take the watches, he thought. Leave the old Poljot for Vladimir. What did he care? After the crimes that had been committed in this place, that would be nothing.
And then he would leave. Take the watches and go. The dacha and everyone in it revolted him.
Only don’t look at me with that look, Vladimir Vladimirovich, he thought. Don’t let me see the confusion and fear in your eyes.
Sheremetev glanced at his watch. Eight-thirty. Still no sound from Vladimir’s room. Gingerly, he dressed and went to look in on him.
The ex-president was lying in the bed just as he had left him, face up, eyes open – stone cold.
17
SHEREMETEV MET DR ROSPOV at the door of the dacha. The doctor took one look at the gaping wound on his cheek and grimaced.
‘What happened to you?’
‘Come upstairs,’ said Sheremetev, conscious of the security guard watching them. ‘I’ll tell you when we get up there.’
They climbed the stairs and walked along the corridor to Vladimir’s suite. ‘You’re sure he’s dead?’ said the doctor in a low voice.
Sheremetev nodded. ‘Vladimir Vladimirovich was very agitated last night. He attacked me…’ Sheremetev gestured towards his face.
‘Did you sedate him?’
‘Eventually. But he managed to do this first. It wasn’t an easy situation, I can tell you.’
‘I’ll fix you up,’ said Rospov. ‘Let’s go and see him first.’
Sheremetev unlocked the door. Vladimir was lying where Sheremetev had found him, flat on his back in the bed. Rospov went to the bed and opened his bag.
Sheremetev watched as the doctor began to examine the body, trying to hide his anxiety.
He had had no choice but to call the doctor – you couldn’t just throw the ex-president of Russia into a pit full of chickens, as you could apparently dispose of a housekeeper. What would Rospov do? If he had any suspicion over the cause of death, he would be required by law to order an autopsy. After the struggle of the previous night, there was no telling what the findings of an autopsy would be and how they might implicate Sheremetev in Vladimir’s death.
But Rospov didn’t have to order an autopsy. He could decide that the ex-president’s demise was a death from natural causes, and there was no need to investigate further. And Sheremetev had seen enough of doctors to know that the other two physicians involved in Vladimir’s care, Kalin and Andreevsky, would be grateful to let it go at that. Why would either of them want an autopsy when there was always the possibility that it would reveal a shortcoming in their treatment?
Rospov felt at Vladimir’s neck for a pulse. Then he touched his eye with a tissue and laid a stethoscope on his chest. He listened for a full minute. Finally he put the stethoscope away and closed his bag.
‘Well, there’s no doubt about it. He’s dead. When did you last see him?’
‘I came up at about eleven o’clock. He was awake. He was talking – quite aggressively. Nothing unusual, but I sensed there might be trouble. I put my head in to try to calm him. He thought I was the Chechen.’
‘Do you know why?’ asked the doctor.
Sheremetev shook his head. If he had to describe the reason he was covered in the stink of kitchen juices, a whole new snake’s nest in the dacha would be revealed, which would hardly make the doctor feel more confident that there had been no suspicious circumstances surrounding the ex-president’s death. ‘He was disorientated, I suppose – he always was when he woke up at night. You know, Doctor, he was a martial arts champion. If he hadn’t lost some of his strength because of his age, he would have killed me last night.’
‘Did you fear for your life?’
‘Certainly. At one point he had me down on the ground and he was choking me.’ Sheremetev touched his throat, where the thumbprints left by Vladimir were visible as a pair of red, tender weals. ‘I tell you, Dr Rospov, if he hadn’t let go of me, I think he might have strangled me.’
Rospov shook his head. ‘So what did you do? Did you hit back at him?’
‘I defended myself. I had no choice.’
‘Do you hit him hard enough to hurt him?’
‘No! Just self defence. I didn’t hit him – I was just keeping his punches off me while I tried to get away. I ran to where I keep the tranquilliser. He was coming after me, but I managed to draw it up and then I got the injection into him. After that he was quiet. I got him back into bed, cleaned him up. By then he was asleep. Everything was normal. He was breathing easily. I went to bed. The next thing I knew, it was morning, and this is what I found.’