The doctor gazed at the grazes on Vladimir’s face. ‘These,’ he said, pointing. ‘Are these from blows you struck?’
‘I don’t know, Dr Rospov. I really don’t know.’
The doctor scrutinised the grazes. ‘With respect, Nikolai Ilyich, I think I’d better have a proper look at the body.’
Sheremetev nodded, feeling sick with foreboding. Why had he even talked about a fight? Why hadn’t he said that he had fallen – or something – and torn open the laceration on his cheek? Nothing to do with Vladimir. The doctor might not have even noticed the grazes that he now found so interesting.
Rospov unbuttoned Vladimir’s pyjama top and examined his chest and abdomen. There was a faint bruise on the left side below the ribs. Sheremetev stole a surreptitious glance at Rospov and saw that the doctor had noticed it. ‘Let’s lift him up,’ said Rospov. They sat the corpse up and Vladimir’s chin flopped onto his chest, exposing the back of his head. Another bruise discoloured the skin, detectable through the wisps of Vladimir’s hair. Rospov looked questioningly at Sheremetev, who couldn’t bear to meet his gaze. They laid him down and then removed the pyjama trousers and Rospov examined the legs.
‘Alright,’ said the doctor.
‘I only did what I had to do to defend myself,’ said Sheremetev.
‘Of course, Nikolai Ilyich.’ Rospov took a step back and folded his arms. ‘Please.’
Sheremetev rearranged the pyjamas and then pulled the sheet up over Vladimir’s face.
‘And the tranquilliser, Nikolai Ilyich… You said you injected him. How much did you actually give?’
‘The usual dose.’
‘How much was that?’
‘Five milligrams,’ muttered Sheremetev.
‘Five?’
‘Yes. Five. That’s the usual dose.’
‘You didn’t give him a little more, perhaps, considering how agitated he was?’
‘Maybe I gave him ten.’
‘Was it ten or was it five?’
Sheremetev’s mind raced. Why had he said that? Why had he said ten?
‘Professor Kalin said he could have up to ten if necessary,’ he murmured at last.
‘So you gave him ten?’
‘Ten, yes. I think it was ten.’
‘Perhaps you got confused. From the way you described the situation, it sounds as if it might have been difficult to be precise when you drew it up. Perhaps you gave him more than ten.’
‘No, ten. Definitely no more. The door was locked.’
‘The door?’ said the doctor.
‘I keep the tranquilliser in a cupboard in my room. I got back to my room and locked the door behind me. That way I was safe – then I could draw it up. I gave him ten, Doctor. Ten milligrams. No more.’
Rospov peered at him, eyes slightly narrowed. ‘Do you think, when you fought him, something could have happened?’
‘Like what, Dr Rospov?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, like a blow to the upper part of the abdomen perhaps, on the left, where it might have ruptured his spleen.’
‘Ruptured his spleen?’ Sheremetev remembered the sensation of the top of his head connecting with Vladimir’s belly. ‘No, Doctor. Definitely not!’
‘Or a blow to the back of the head, perhaps?’
Sheremetev shook his head, hearing in his mind the crack of Vladimir’s skull hitting the floor, and again, as he struggled up with his hand on Vladimir’s face.
‘In an older person, Nikolai Ilyich, even a relatively mild blow to the head can cause bleeding around the brain.’
‘I only held him off, Doctor, like I said. I was only trying to keep his blows off.’
‘Hmmm,’ mused the doctor. He gazed at the body, which was now covered. Vladimir’s nose made a point in the sheet. ‘Well, under normal circumstances, I would just write a death certificate: he was old, he had dementia – something in him gave up. But there has been some kind of a fight, drugs have been used, and he was our president, after all, so we can’t take shortcuts. No disrespect to you, Nikolai Ilyich, but in view of these facts, I have to conclude that an autopsy is in order.’
Sheremetev stared at him. He felt clammy with fear.
‘Nikolai Ilyich, are you alright?’
Sheremetev hesitated. ‘I have… some money,’ he murmured in barely more than a whisper.
The doctor laughed. Sheremetev’s reputation for probity was known even to him.
‘Thirty two and a half thousand—’
‘What? Rubles?’
‘Dollars!’
‘Of course you do. And where is it, under your mattress? I’m a professional man, Nikolai Ilyich. You’re insulting me.’
‘I have it! I swear I have it.’
‘Thirty-two and a half thousand dollars? Really? How?’
‘It doesn’t matter how.’
The doctor eyed Sheremetev for a moment, then turned back to the corpse, as if weighing up the offer. After a minute, he was still staring.
Sheremetev peered around to see that he was looking at. It wasn’t the corpse – it was the bedside table, where the watches left by Belkin still lay in a jumble.
Suddenly Rospov turned back to him.
‘Nothing serious happened in the fight?’ said Rospov.
‘No.’
‘You just fended off his blows? You didn’t strike him yourself?’
‘No.’
‘And you gave him only ten milligrams of the tranquilliser? No more?’
‘No more.’
Rospov stepped forward to the bedside table. Six watches. Each, he knew, would put his Breitling Chronospace in the shade, each worth five or six times as much.
Rospov ran his fingers over them as one might over the delicate skin of a newborn child, gently turning them this way and that.
‘Vladimir Vladimirovich was strongly opposed to the idea of an autopsy being carried out on him, wasn’t he?’ murmured Rospov, still caressing the watches. ‘I remember once, when I first met him, he told me explicitly.’
Sheremetev could remember no such thing.
‘One shouldn’t go against a person’s wishes in such a thing, not unless there’s an overwhelming need.’
‘No,’ said Sheremetev.
‘And there’s no such need, is there?’
‘No,’ said Sheremetev.
The doctor looked around at Sheremetev. Their eyes met. Both men knew exactly the bargain they were about to strike. Rospov knew what Sheremetev’s offer of a bribe signified – and Sheremetev knew what Rospov’s greed for the watches portended. Nothing even needed to be said.
As Sheremetev looked on, the doctor opened his bag and put the watches in, one after the other. He stopped only when it came to the seventh watch on the table, lying a little apart from the others, the old Poljot that Belkin had thrown away. ‘Rubbish,’ he muttered, and he left it where it was. Then he closed the latch over the other watches in his bag with a snap.
The doctor turned back to him. ‘I don’t think we need an autopsy. The case is clear.’
‘I agree,’ said Sheremetev.
‘You held him off in self defence. He had the same dose of drugs he’d had a hundred times.’
‘Yes,’ said Sheremetev.
Rospov smiled. ‘Good. I’ll write the death certificate. A man of his age with dementia – sooner or later his heart’s going to give up.’
The doctor picked up his bag and headed for the door. ‘Take me to the housekeeper, please. You were going to introduce me last time, remember? I should inform her that Vladimir Vladimirovich has passed on and that I will be letting the appropriate authorities know.’