by Ben Creed
‘Gubaz not stupid – he sees the future before the future sees itself. So, when friend Pugachev here tells me some Leningrad militia men need someone to read a ten-day-old corpse like it was War and Peace, that got me thinking.’
Kerselidze smiled. ‘Who better to rat out the militia than other militia? I can only kill him. The state can make him disappear. File a report on this shit. I can give you all the information you need, send him to a gulag, my friends give him friendly time.’
Rossel cursed Pugachev. He hadn’t known this was the deal and t
‘No,’ he said.
The thief stared at him. ‘Where is the harm? The major is a crook. Soviet justice will catch up with him, who cares how?’
‘You overestimate my influence, Mr Kerselidze.’
‘I know you are just a flunky, a kozyol in a stupid uniform. But you find out his rivals, you leave a file on a desk. In fact, now you know Major Timoshenko is crook, you breaking the law by not informing on him.’
‘I have no evidence.’
‘Fuck you, kozyol – no one in this country has evidence!’ Kerselidze lumbered towards him. ‘No one needs it, and if they need it they make it up.’ The gangster pushed his battered face up to Rossel’s own. ‘You think you are on side of justice? You are on side of liars and murderers.’
Rossel clenched his fingers.
‘I’ll tell you why I won’t do it,’ he said. The whole room was silent. Kerselidze’s men were still. But ready for action.
‘An informer. An informer did this.’
He held up his left hand, glove removed, and waggled the two remaining and crooked fingers to draw attention to the missing ones.
‘So, comrade, you can use that fish knife if you want to.’
Kerselidze’s eyes flickered down to the weapon he was holding three inches from Rossel’s gut. Then they came back up to linger on Rossel’s hand.
‘You can have these idiots perform their tricks on me and give me a bath at the bottom of the Neva,’ said Rossel. ‘But the answer is still no.’
The gangster drew back his lips, exposing a row of broken tombstones embedded in his fleshy pink gums.
‘I like you,’ he said. ‘But you are on the wrong side.’
‘I am on the side of working out who killed that poor bastard over there,’ said Rossel, putting his glove back on. ‘So, if you aren’t going to kill me or help me, I’d like my priest back, please.’
The head thief swivelled on his heel, marched over to Loma and slapped him so hard on the back that the barber’s fez slipped over his left eye.
‘You got your scissors, little Loma?’
Loma frowned.
‘You want me cut the cop’s hair, boss?’
Kerselidze clapped his hands together in childlike glee.
‘Not his.’
He pointed at the faceless body held up by the hat-rack.
‘His.’
The gangster scratched himself.
‘Like I say, Gubaz Kerselidze sees the future before the future sees itself. You’re a skilled man, Loma. A trim from you, a little parma-violet pomade, and I reckon you can make this fucker look just like a Yankee movie star.’
Loma picked up his barber’s scissors from a silver tray on a table.
‘No one knows pretty boys like Loma knows pretty boys, Papa Gubaz. One movie star bitch coming up!’
*
Strands of hair were floating through the air and landing on the linoleum. As Loma stood on a pair of metal stepladders and clipped away at the mane of the corpse, the gangster walked around the naked body and pointed to particular markings on the dead priest’s torso. Kerselidze knew his subject.
‘He’s not so fresh. The ink is a little blurred where his skin’s beginning to bloat. OK. The snake around his neck denotes a drug addict. This one here,’ he pointed to Father Tikhon’s left side, ‘the ring with the little round eye in the middle, means he was an orphan, alone in the camp when he arrived, with no protector. Not a good place to be. You say the other priests said he was fucked up? Then good for him. In the world of the gulag, being fucked up is best. It makes the other bitches careful. Make them think twice. If you can make them think three times, even better.’
Rossel stepped forward and pointed at the red reaper with the hammer and sickle etched into the priest’s right shoulder.
‘What about this one, Comrade Kerselidze?’
As soon as he heard the word comrade, the gangster’s face coloured. Then he spat on the floor next to Rossel’s feet.
‘I’m not your comrade, militia. I am King Wolf, here and in camp, and no thief in Leningrad or Kolyma knows any power greater than Gubaz Kerselidze. Not even Generalissmo fucking Stalin.’
Kerselidze’s hand closed around the white handle of the knife that was attached to his leather belt. Rossel glanced over at the thugs near the door who, on hearing their boss’s raised voice, had turned to face them. Rossel reached up and took off his cap, doffed it and bowed.
‘King Wolf, as you say.’
Kerselidze’s sneering mouth relaxed. ‘You got balls as big as Abkhazia watermelons to walk in here and only pretend to kiss my ass, gundog.’
Rossel tried again.
‘The red reaper on the right-hand shoulder.’
The gangster raised his eyes heavenward and pretended to think. Finally, he shook his head.
‘Most prison ink has no colour. Ink is made from blood, piss, ash from burnt tyre, boot, whatever a man can get his hands on. That’s how when friend, Pugachev, here,’ Kerselidze patted Pugachev on the shoulder, ‘told me about a distinctive red reaper tattoo, well, straightaway, it made me think of someone. A coloured tattoo is not unknown but is unusual. Especially if he was not a thief. Who knows where he had it done? But I remember a man with a red Death on his shoulder, yes.’
Rossel tried to keep calm.
‘You remember a name?’
Kerselidze spat on the floor.
‘I rule not just in one camp, militia officer. I have men in six, seven, eight camps. And friends in twenty. These past years, since the war, some bitches help Stalin, help Chekists, still call themselves thieves.’ He spat again with added venom. ‘Bitches. Fuck your mother. But look, I hear stuff. And I hear about crazy man with red tattoo and God in his head who slashed two thieves. So, I’m almost sure. But one more thing and I will know. Loma,’ he commanded, ‘do as Papa Gubaz asked.’
The barber had already managed to cut away enough of the tangled black hair with his scissors to now use his clippers. He flicked a switch in the wall and the blades began to buzz. Kerselidze pointed to a spot at the very centre of the back of the dead man’s head.
‘Just there, Loma, just there,’ he said.
Rossel, Pugachev and the head thief stared as Loma’s clippers moved, up and then sideways, across the back of the priest’s scalp; cutting a perfect cross into the middle of it. Rossel heard the shuffle of feet and with a lurch in his stomach realised that the other thieves were crowding around them to get a look. The skin of the revealed scalp, although still discoloured from the slight decomposition, was whiter than that of the rest of his body. Except, that was, in the exact centre of the cross, where, clearly visible, was a mark about six inches long. Rossel stepped closer to the body and started upward. The black tattooed letters were in Latin.
Capital letters, large enough to be eligible, and very neat. Three words only:
HOMO HOMINI LUPUS
Pugachev let out a low whistle.
‘The schoolboy Latin I learned in my former life was never up to much but I think that says: Man is wolf to man. What’s that all about?’
Kerselidze slapped his hands together in glee.
‘That’s him, all right, I knew it. The red tat on his shoulder and some gibberish on his head. No hair in gulag – too many fleas. Not a thief’s tattoo. A man like that, his name gets around.’
‘And his name is?’ Rossel said.
Kerselidze pointed at the body. It lolle
d in its straps, its grey flesh softening.
‘Avdeyev, Maxim Avdeyev. That was the name he answered to at roll call. Avdeyev – always first name on the list. Then he got religion and called himself something else. Like he was a real priest . . .’
‘Maxim.’
Something in the tone of Rossel’s voice made all the other men turn towards him. Kerselidze looked him up and down.
‘Something wrong, gundog?’
Rossel took a moment to reply.
‘An acquaintance?’ the gangster persisted.
Rossel nodded. The priest’s face, bone and gristle, leered at him. He felt sick.
Kerselidze roared with laughter and slapped him on the back.
‘You in big trouble, now, gundog? Yes, I know you are. I can tell.’
The gangster’s men were all chattering now, some in Georgian, some in Russian but laced with slang he only half knew.
‘No one survives twenty years in camps without being able to see shit coming from a million miles away.’
The thieves began to cackle. Kerselidze carried on laughing too, delighting in the show.
‘Like I always say, Gubaz see the future before the future sees itself!’
*
Pugachev drove the truck back towards Leningrad, talking incessantly. Rossel sat next to him in silence.
‘So this has been a reunion of sorts?’ said Pugachev. ‘Well, that’s a turn-up, Lieutenant. Wait until your superiors hear about this.’ He gestured to the body of the priest behind them. ‘That you and this painted popsicle are old friends.’
Pugachev swung the wheel as the truck slid around a bend. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you look like a man who swan dives into a bucket of shit and then discovers it’s an ocean.’
Rossel turned away and stared out of the window into the darkness.
‘I mean, bunch of corpses in the middle of a field and you actually know one of them? Turns out to be a lunatic who fancies himself as a saviour of souls. Any of the other corpses friends of yours too? Maybe one’s your mother? Maybe one’s Tchaikovsky? Maybe one’s an old girlfriend, eh? An old flame?’
Rossel grabbed Pugachev by the collar and bellowed an instruction.
‘Stop the fucking truck.’
‘All right, all right. You need to take a piss? Then why not just say?’
‘Just stop!’
Pugachev pressed his foot down on the brake. They rolled to a halt at the side of the road.
Rossel yanked the handle, flung open the door and jumped down into deep snow. His heart was thundering and he was gasping for air. Waves of panic and dread rolled over him, making him drop to one knee. He grabbed handfuls of snow and thrust them into his face, crying out with the shock, trying to freeze his thoughts and stop his mind exploding out of control. The snow clung to his skin and slid under his collar. A bout of furious coughing took hold but when it passed, he was back in control.
Without a word, the lieutenant clambered back into the truck and slammed the door. He pointed forward. Pugachev, knowing better than to open his mouth, rammed the truck into gear.
21
Wednesday October 24
‘Oy, to nye vyecher . . .’
The song – Sofia’s song – swirled discordantly around his mind; fast, too fast. A perverse lullaby. It mocked his now-brittle sanity.
By the time he got back to Vosstaniya Street, he had convinced himself that his worst fears would be confirmed.
‘I have narrowed it down to six,’ said Taneyev, handing Rossel a collection of crisp files. ‘These are the six missing women who approximately fit the description of the one you and the captain call the Snow Queen.’
Rossel took them.
‘What about her gown?’
‘I have been calling around all the city’s theatres to see if they have any costumes missing, just as Sergeant Gerashvili said she was going to do.’
‘Anything?’
‘As the junior sergeant said, the gown is very good quality – difficult to find something like that in the usual shops. And it is, of course, not an item for a worker. A school or kindergarten might have something like that for a New Year show but a theatre would seem more likely,’ he said.
‘I agree. I think you should try the opera houses, too.’
Rossel’s voice was flat, lifeless.
‘Aren’t you going to look at the files, Lieutenant?’ asked Taneyev. He was after at least a little acknowledgement of his detective work. Even though Rossel was dreading the thought of seeing her name – Sofia’s name – drummed onto a flat, unfeeling page by the keys of a clerk’s typewriter, he nodded.
‘Six women of about the same height – one hundred and seventy centimetres – and aged between thirty and forty. All recently reported missing in this region and far beyond. I even had to send to Moscow for some of them,’ said the sergeant.
Rossel opened the files one by one, pulling out the first sheet with the photograph clipped to it. Then stopped at the fourth page.
‘Are you all right, Comrade Lieutenant?’
Number four gazed up at him through enigmatic, olive-green eyes set above cheekbones as white and strong as stone. He read the name again and again to himself.
Sofia Fedotova . . .
As if it was a charm. As if it was his sacred mantra. As it once had been.
Rossel took a deep breath. Then handed the other five files back. ‘Thank you, Comrade Taneyev,’ he said.
Taneyev took them back.
‘Don’t you need all of them, Lieutenant?’ he asked as Rossel headed for the door. ‘Why only that one? Is she the one? Sofia Fedotova? But she was a hospital cleaner from Ivangorod. Surely she can’t be your Snow Queen?’
*
Dance with me, Sofia.
She had looked at him, surprised.
You, of all people?
Every man in the conservatory was a little in love with Sofia – in some cases, more than a little – and because she smiled at them, many thought they had a chance. She had one long-term boyfriend, a tall, habitually off-key Estonian trombonist who was either very tolerant or oblivious to her occasional one-night stands. She was available but choosy. It alarmed and irritated Felix in equal measure that he had never seen the inside of Miss Fedotova’s chemise.
Dance with me, Sofia.
It was another drunken party and he could no longer contain himself. It had been his policy to wait until she had tired of her admirers and her supposed relationship with the trombonist had blown itself out, so to speak. Then their friendship would blossom into something else – love, of course! – and she would see him anew. But tonight, he could not resist, so he took his courage in both hands, waited for that split second when she was alone – dark, frowning, voluptuous, perfect – and approached.
Sofia took his hand and stood up as somebody struck up a tragic waltz on the piano and somebody else called for more vodka. More couples joined them in the middle of the room – a dusty student room in the hostel, smelling of smoke, of good proletarian food and bad proletarian drink. The beds and tables had been shunted to one side and the dance floor was full. A tenor began to wail as Sofia rested her head on Revol’s shoulder. She was a singer, too, a mezzo.
‘It’s Revol’s night tonight, the lucky devil,’ he thought he heard a voice say in the darkness, but he couldn’t be sure. Her breasts pressed against his thumping heart.
They danced amid the flickering candles and the clinging couples and emptying glasses and bottles, and Rossel held Sofia as if she were a bisque doll. Only as the song drew to a close did he draw his lips closer to hers.
After that . . . glorious nights of cheap vodka and cheaper tobacco, concerts at the Kirov, picnics in Primorsky Park, and passion. Such passion. She bought him a copy of Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal and read The Albatross to him, again and again – ‘Poets are like these lords of sky and cloud, Who ride the storm and mock the bow’s taut strings.’ Musicians, too, she said. Once he had awoken to
find her softly singing her Cossack folk song to him.
But then.
‘No, Revol, not anymore,’ she had whispered one evening as she lay beside him. Informing him with inexplicable detachment that it was over.
‘Not with you, because . . .’
‘Why not?’
She had always refused to tell him.
*
Dr Volkova looked at him with an expression that conveyed she expected him not to be able to stomach what was coming next.
‘Proceed, Doctor,’ he said. But his voice was wavering.
Rossel patted his pockets for the reassuring shape of his cigarettes. Trying to drown out the melody that was still echoing around his brain. Matches – fuck your mother, where are my matches?
The Snow Queen’s ribs – Sofia’s ribs – stuck out like a xylophone. Her long, dark hair spilled behind her head, in sharp and still elegant contrast to the purple and black pudding of what had been her face.
‘Because of the investigations into the Doctors’ Plot, I am one of only two working forensic pathologists left in the whole of Leningrad, Lieutenant, so my time is precious. But now that her internal organs have thawed, I have been able to examine the body and gather evidence,’ said Dr Volkova. She went through the official checklist.
‘Dental records and fingerprints were not possible, as with the other bodies. Our murderer had already eliminated that line of inquiry.’
The doctor had sliced the corpse open from the bottom of the rib cage to below the abdomen and removed the internal organs.
‘As with the other female, this victim had little blood and no urine left. There was practically no fatty tissue on her.’
Rossel was still fumbling for his matches. He felt the burn of acid rising in his throat and felt like throwing up, but he was determined to resist the compulsion.
‘What are those marks?’
Dark green tendrils were spreading over Sofia’s corpse, and her skin was starting to blister and peel.
‘When bodies defrost, decomposition is rapid,’ said Dr Volkova. ‘That discolouration spreads through the veins. I had better finish examining her quickly, before unpleasant fluids start to exit the orifices.’ She caught his expression. ‘Sorry.’