‘The antibiotics got contaminated and they killed him. It happens. You have the report from Fomin. He tells you it happens.’
‘Something…’ Kirov repeated softly. ‘You don’t have to come.’
Bogdanov shrugged. ‘I’ll come. Give me time to call my wife and tell her I’ll be late home. Then I’ll come.’
Kirov stepped outside the office. Through the glass in the door he could see Bogdanov with his hand muffled around the telephone mouthpiece. In all these years he had never met Bogdanov’s wife. He wondered sometimes if she even knew what Bogdanov did for a living. In a way she was as mysterious as Grishin’s prized ‘spouse and parent’, whom he had met only once. But perhaps the mystery lay in being married. Instead of which there were Laras — a succession of Laras. And one Irina Terekhova, the traitor with whom he fell in love.
‘We still have the body,’ the doctor admitted. She was a brisk woman, square and comfortable to look at. ‘Since he was still technically a prisoner, the autopsy was conducted here.’
Off the ward there was a small room. She opened it and turned on the light. There was a collection of mops, detergent and buckets, and Viktor Gusev lying on the floor between a trolley and a pile of chairs. He was covered by a patched sheet.
‘Look at him if you want to,’ the doctor said. ‘I still have my rounds to do.’
‘That’s OK. Leave us.’
Kirov stooped and pulled back the cover from the corpse’s face. Gusev was still as remembered. The distance of death had confirmed the irony and aloofness of his expression. The talcum powder that had been used to dress and handle the body fitted with Gusev’s smoothness and suavity. The roots of the black hair showed traces of grey. Gusev had used dye, as Kirov had guessed.
Bogdanov let his foot move forward to stir a pale toe that peeped from the bottom of the sheet.
‘If we have to go forward with this case, why not leave it to Tumanov? He’s a big boy now, he can handle his own jobs and has the sense to know when he’s out of his depth. I’m thinking of time — your time, boss. Why waste it on — whatchamacallit — liaison?’
‘I want to know why Gusev is dead.’
‘Contaminated antibiotics,’ Bogdanov answered.
Kirov looked away from the corpse. ‘That wasn’t the question.’ He examined the walls. It hadn’t been possible to reach the full height with a mop; there was a tidemark and a colour change, and dried moisture trails dribbled down the wall. Disturbing Viktor Gusev had caused the corpse to seep juices. Kirov knelt and pulled back the cover entirely.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Bogdanov whispered, and he turned his face away. Kirov continued folding the sheet, then placed it carefully on the floor. He returned his gaze to the body, placing the sheet on the body like fragile porcelain. The breastbone had been broken and the abdomen was slit to the pelvis. After the chosen organs had been removed, the guts had been bundled back into the cavity which was left open.
‘I’ll stitch him up before we move the body,’ the doctor said. She was standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, her free hand holding a cigarette. She smoked idly and regarded the two KGB men dispassionately. ‘Finished?’ she enquired.
‘I’ve seen enough.’
‘No injuries? No “accidental” injuries? That’s what you were looking for, wasn’t it?’ She blew smoke into the room. ‘Two lots of men watching him, the detective’s and your lot. Was he something special, this Gusev, that you couldn’t wait to get your hands on him?’
‘I don’t know.’
She laughed. Cheerfully she added, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tidy up.’ She held the door open and turned the light off behind them.
They stood now in the anteroom to the ward. The patients were huddled over their beds Those who were on their feet were frozen, staring back through the glass like a still life.
Bogdanov cadged a cigarette from the doctor. She was on the point of disappearing on another errand.
‘There’s something else I’d like to talk about,’ Kirov said.
‘I’ll only be a minute.’ She smiled with horsy teeth and appraised him sexually with glaucous blue eyes.
Bogdanov kicked the linoleum, examined the burns and stains. ‘Why haven’t you told Bakradze about the girl?’ he asked.
‘If he knows about Gusev he probably knows about the girl.’
‘And the diamonds? You still have them? Why haven’t you told Bakradze?’
The still life in the ward began a slow movement. One of the prisoner-patients, with large oval eyes slit in the middle the way they paint them on a clown’s face, directed a look of recognition at Kirov. It said, I know you and all the bastards like you that were ever spawned. The man let his eyes slide slowly up and down then gave a weary fuck-off gesture.
‘What do you think Viktor was doing? Buying or selling?’ Kirov turned away and looked at Bogdanov.
‘Search me. But why would he be buying? If he was selling antibiotics for dollars and certificate roubles like we found at his place, why should he spend the cash to buy diamonds? With cash he could do things, pay people for favours, buy things that people want. But what can he do with diamonds worth a lifetime’s salary apiece — give them away to get his car fixed? Who needs them? He’d be crazy to convert the proceeds of the drugs game into diamonds.’
‘So?’
‘So … I don’t know. Maybe there’s no connection. Today Viktor is dealing in antibiotics; tomorrow he’s dealing in diamonds; and the day after, maybe it’s wholesale meat from some of Radek’s friends. They’re all commodities, and Viktor is a dealer. Somewhere out in the sticks there’s a mine where a little bit of the production leaves in the workers’ mouths. It filters through the system and finally reaches Viktor, who sells the diamonds for cash. Who knows, maybe the cash we found came from the diamonds and not from the antibiotics.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Sure. And here’s a crazy idea: the Great Jewish Antibiotics Ring doesn’t exist! The whole business is a diamonds racket. We’re investigating the wrong thing!’ Bogdanov gave a short laugh and coughed over his cigarette. He picked off the ash between his forefinger and thumb and slipped the butt into his pocket. He dumped his enthusiasm. ‘Who knows? Anyway, why Jewish? Is Viktor Jewish? Who’s Jewish in this case that we know of?’
‘It’s just a name.’
‘But it came from somewhere — from Grishin?’
‘Grishin gave it the name,’ Kirov agreed. He remembered Grishin handing over the papers and saying that they represented all that was known of the Great Jewish Antibiotics Ring. The official title was something else.
The doctor came back. She had a prisoner in tow, a grey runt in prison drabs. She was cuffing him round the ear and abusing him on the subject of cleaning the corridors. Seeing the two men she gave the prisoner a slap and let him scuttle away. She approached Kirov and assumed a pleasant but businesslike expression.
‘There was something else? You said there was something else.’
‘The antibiotics that were given to Gusev, they came from your stocks?’
‘Mine?’ She found the idea funny. ‘You think I have antibiotics to waste on vermin like Gusev?’
‘They weren’t yours?’
She didn’t answer but returned his curiosity with amusement.
‘Where did they come from?’ Kirov pressed her.
‘I called Petrovka and spoke to whatshisname.’
‘Bakradze?’
‘The other one.’
‘Antipov.’
‘I told him that if he wanted Gusev alive and well, then he’d have to get me some antibiotics.’