‘Where’s Scherbatsky?’
‘How should I know? Is that why you called me?’
‘You were in contact with him — and now he’s cleared out of his parents’ apartment.’
‘So? Try his own apartment or his wife’s parents. Why don’t you talk to Radek, his section is handling the case, isn’t it? Or don’t you boys speak to each other any more?’
An hour later Tomsky called back. This time he was more co-operative. He apologised for not giving a serious answer before. ‘But, honest to God, I didn’t know where Scherbatsky was. And this place, it’s a madhouse. Every time we think we know what the Americans want, they change their minds. How Gorbachev thinks he can negotiate arms control with them, Christ knows.’
‘What news do you have?’
Tomsky was offended to be cut short in his complaint. ‘Oh, sure, Scherbatsky. He just telephoned.’
‘When?’
‘Like I said, just now — five, perhaps ten minutes ago, right out of the blue. He told me to say thanks for your visit and everything is OK.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know, he wouldn’t tell me and the call didn’t last long enough to place a trace. What’s wrong, you don’t sound happy? You sound as though you don’t believe me?’
‘I believe you.’
‘You should. Ivan Pavlovitch says that it was you who gave him the idea.’
‘What idea?’
‘All that talk about things changing, about legality.’ Something was amusing Tomsky. ‘Do you watch television?’
‘Which programme?’
‘Twelfth Storey, this week’s edition.’
Kirov sometimes watched current affairs programmes. Twelfth Storey was one of the better ones because it took live questions over the telephone. Tomsky meanwhile was explaining his point.
‘Boris Kravtsov was in the studio. That’s right, our very own Minister of Justice. He was talking about the new revision of the penal code. He said a lot about securing the rights of the defendant under Article Fifty-eight of the Constitution. You understand? After you talked to him Scherbatsky watched television and saw this programme. And it came to him that, strictly speaking, he wasn’t actually under arrest, or, if he was, the arrest was technically illegal.’
‘So?’
‘So,’ Tomsky gave an abrupt laugh, ‘Scherbatsky’s gone and hired himself a lawyer!’
They waited in the New Arbat, watching the shoppers struggle in the fading light. Moscow, even before the true onset of winter, was a city of short brilliant days and long melancholy twilights made duller by the electric lighting and wan interiors of the shops. Tumanov, who had already had several hours of keeping surveillance, was bored and drummed his fingers on the nearest wall, yawned and whistled a tune until Bogdanov told him to shut up. To Kirov he said, ‘Is that true, Kravtsov was really on his hind legs and saying that sort of stuff?’
‘I didn’t see the programme, but the speech was reported in the papers.’
Bogdanov appeared distressed as if discovering a neighbour’s immorality. ‘He ought to know better than that,’ he commented, and making a vague connection he asked, ‘You don’t suppose for a second that Scherbatsky really has got himself a lawyer, do you?’
Tumanov threw a glance over his shoulder, and thinking it a smart remark said, ‘Since when do lawyers turn up by the carload and take whole families away?’
Bogdanov told him to shut up, but added for Kirov’s benefit, ‘Still, he’s right. I can think of people who do provide that sort of service — but they don’t include lawyers.’
Kirov could also think of people who provided that sort of service. But usually not in broad daylight. And how to explain the dvornik’s observation that Scherbatsky left with a smile on his face? It represented a subtle variation on the old themes of arrest that Kirov could not as yet understand. For now he answered the question.
‘I don’t believe in the lawyer. But something happened to change Scherbatsky’s attitude. Perhaps Radek offered him a fair trial.’
‘And Scherbatsky believed him? Pigs might fly!’
‘Our man’s here,’ Tumanov interrupted. He pointed to a figure holding a briefcase in one hand and a shopping bag in the other and bumping into the other pedestrians. ‘He’s pissed again. He was pissed at lunchtime — you should have seen him staggering along Gorky Street, I thought the militia would grab him for sure, knocking all the respectable citizens sideways and then into the Ocean fish shop to buy something.’ The man turned off the street and into the Agat jewellers store.
Bogdanov was weary with waiting. He saw Ostrowsky and was tired with the thought. He asked, ‘Did you recognise him from the photograph?’
Kirov shook his head.
‘Me neither. I sometimes wonder why we bother — with the photographs I mean, fat lot of good that they do us. Still it’s Ostrowsky all right, Kliment Vasilyevitch, and as respectable as my mother-in-law. I can’t see him dealing with Viktor Gusev. Viktor’s too shiny, too flash: all those tarts, Ostrowsky would shit himself with fear.’
‘He was dealing with Gusev.’ Kirov felt for the diamonds in his pocket. Somehow they had to be explained. Bogdanov remained unimpressed.
‘If he was, he’s got nothing to show for it, no car, no dacha, no holidays you’d care to go on and he lives in a crummy apartment with his one-and-only-ever-loving wife. In my book those mark him as an honest man; and so says his file — read it, it’s all in there. Ask yourself: if he was in business with Viktor, what was he doing with the money?’
People came and went. A woman in a sable coat glided to the entrance to the shop, accompanied by a young soldier who carried her parcels. She flounced and let the full skirts of the coat swing, obviously enjoying it for its sheer sensual pleasure. For a moment she reminded Kirov of Nadia Mazurova, but it was a fleeting resemblance. Nadia Mazurova was limited by her relationship with her provider, Viktor Gusev; and Viktor, struggling with his gimcrack ideas of style, could never achieve that level of suavity.
‘He’s gone to hell since his daughter died,’ Bogdanov continued on the subject of Ostrowsky. ‘His wife blames him. An only child and no hope of any more. Poor sod,’ he added, having no children of his own. ‘He goes home at night and has to face her. She chews his ear and naturally he’s too polite to smack her in the face. And what’s he supposed to tell her? That it’s all Viktor’s fault and everyone is very sorry? So he takes it for a couple of hours, then finds himself a bottle shop, buys some vodka, and sits outside getting quietly drunk — we have that from the local drying-out station. Two reports. The militia have had to drag him off the street. They feel sorry for him, so you won’t find the entries on his file. And at the shop his staff are covering for him. They like him.’ He turned to Kirov and said unexpressively, ‘He’s a decent guy. Do you really want to give him the business?’
Kirov watched the street and the woman going into the Agat store bearing her burden of other people’s dreams.
‘What do you suggest?’
Bogdanov recognised a professional question. Without enthusiasm he exercised his imagination.
‘Me and Tumanov go in and soften him up. Death. Stress. Piece of cake. You turn up as the Guardian Angel. Love and Understanding. Ostrowsky spills the story and nobody notices the bruises. Guaranteed.’ Bogdanov checked his watch. ‘Ten minutes and he leaves. Bloody easy. It’s a shame to do it.’ He waited. ‘Well?’
Kirov returned Bogdanov’s gaze blankly, seeing for a moment only the jeweller.
‘The money was for his daughter’s future.’