«If a gun goes off in Act One, it must be hanging on the wall in Act Three,» Saam shouted in the distance. «Keep looking and don't come back without him!»
Cold rose from the gully. Mist gathered over the water, sneaking under Savely's jumper like a cat and curling up in a ball on his chest so that he felt as though a cold gravestone had been lowered onto him.
The veranda at the Three Lemons had been sealed off. There were police officers all over the place, keeping curious onlookers at bay. All day long the townsfolk kept coming into the square to catch a glimpse of where Coffin had been killed still not believing it had really happened. The gang shot them evil looks and people tried to adopt sad expressions, hiding their smiles behind the handkerchiefs pressed to their mouths.
The gang, baring their teeth, patted their pockets, checking their knives.
«They grovel when you're alive, then they're chuffed to bits when you're dead.»
«Slimy, worthless scum.»
It was dark and quiet in the bar with the blinds down and napkins over the lamps to dim the light. The waitresses whispered. They couldn't bring themselves to talk out loud. Saam was hunched over a table, worrying at a steak with his fork, feeling his back tingled and stung by people's stares. The gang were quiet, waiting to see what the new boss would do but Saam doused them with silence like boiling water. The first thing he had to do was to deal with Savely Savage for shooting Coffin but he'd vanished into thin air. Saam chewed these depressing thoughts along with his steak and his armpits prickled as he started to doubt whether he had really seen or only imagined Savage out by the garages.
Shorty tried to distract Saam, rustling up a couple of old jokes that he acted out but Saam kicked him aside and the cripple cringed in a corner, keeping a frightened eye on the new boss. Saam pulled a face and Shorty could read his fate in the lines on his forehead. Fatigue appeared on the cripple's face. It looked pinched as if he had aged several years in a couple of minutes.
Colonel Trebenko came in and sat down at Saam's table after checking the place out. They sat in silence for a long time, peering at the pattern on the napkins, unable to bring themselves to talk about Savely Savage.
«I used to have a friend who was a real daredevil,» said Saam suddenly. «He went skydiving, drove around at 140 without a seatbelt, slept with other men's wives and ate off his knife. He didn't make it to 30…»
«Why? Didn't the parachute open?» snorted Trebenko.
«No, he went out to get cigarettes in the morning and was hit by a car on a pedestrian crossing.»
The colonel raised his eyebrows.
«So?»
«So, we're rushing around in circles like hares all over the wood and fate's like a hunter watching us from a helicopter, keeping us in its sights. And however much we try to dodge it…» Saam narrowed his eyes into razorblades. «If it's someone's fate to be shot, what does it matter if a cop kills you or some bystander?»
Trebenko knew that Saam and Coffin had had their issues. The town had long anticipated a bloody ending and wondered who would come out on top. But now Coffin was lying in the morgue, stretched out as if he owned the place, and even as a corpse he was as terrifying as ever.
Many years ago, several ancient refrigerators arrived in the morgue for storing bodies but early next day they were put on a lorry and driven off to an undisclosed location. Rumour had it that Antonov had bought the refrigerators for a pittance and that they were now in his warehouse, full of frozen fish and ready meals. The morgue had just one room. Coffins and funeral wreaths were pushed back against the walls while the doctor slept behind a screen, feet up on the couch, and the attendant squeezed between the tables, swearing. The door was ajar and anyone outside could catch a glimpse of the sheet-draped bodies, the soles of their feet protruding and tags on their big toes like the ones usually put on newborn babies to prevent any mix-ups in hospital. Wielding his mop, the attendant drove away the little boys glued to the door to gape at the dead gangster, a mere mention of whom sent shivers up and down their spines.
«If you find Savage, let us have him,» said Saam, leaning back and starting to rock on his chair. «We'll deal with him ourselves.»
«Are you crazy?» asked Trebenko in astonishment. «Perhaps you'd like to hold a public execution in the square as well?»
«If you find him, just hand him over,» Saam insisted.
He gave a short, dry laugh as if he'd cocked a pistol. When he did cock a pistol, it sounded like a laugh so that, hearing the familiar noise, Trebenko shuddered, not sure what it was. Saam just grinned balefully and played with his fork.
«It's a shame Coffin will never know who killed him. I'd love to see his face!»
Investigator Lapin, a callow youth and none too tall, who was just out of college, was hanging around near the police cordon. Lapin had his own issues with Coffin's gang. He would never forget the evening his Dad had come home later than usual. There was blood on his face and stains on his clothes and he reeked of alcohol. His mother was just about to tear a strip off him when he burst into tears, his face turned to the wall. He'd gone for a drink with his mates after work when a group had come round the corner already half cut. He wasn't scared when he made out Coffin's fleshy face. His Dad was a big guy. Tall and broad-shouldered, he stood a full head higher than the gangsters but legless Shorty held his knife as high as he could reach and his Dad's stomach turned to ice. The gang laid into him more out of boredom than anything else, nonchalantly and without enthusiasm, and then let him go as grudgingly as they had beaten him up. Lapin's Dad couldn't endure the humiliation no matter how much his wife consoled him. He took to drink, promising with every glass that he'd shoot the lot of them, the bullies, but before long he was dead. His son, short and skinny and not a bit like his father, dreamt of vengeance, sticking to Coffin's gang like a burr. He dusted down the files, kept tabs on Severina and looked for witnesses but, fearing for their lives, no-one would speak out against the gang. His superiors, irritated by his zeal, were too cowardly to do anything obvious but behind his back paperwork got mixed up, test results vanished and records went walkabout. But the investigator didn't give up.
Lapin looked at the dried blood on the floor of the veranda and fought down a desire to touch it as if it wasn't real. He looked over the shoulders of the scene-of-crime officers and questioned the witnesses hovering uneasily off to one side. He shoved a greasy note into the bouncer's pocket and from him he discovered what had happened the previous evening.
«Ah, Lapin, you're here too!» drawled Colonel Trebenko, screwing his eyes up after the darkness of the bar.
The investigator stretched, hands behind his back like a naughty schoolboy, and Trebenko hid the displeasure that made the vein on his forehead stand out behind a half-a-street-wide smile. He wasn't happy that Lapin had been allowed access to the murder scene and he was looking for someone to take his anger out on.
After college Lapin joined the police but he didn't last long. He would spend the night at work, digging into old files and in the mornings would wash off the archival dust in the sink, badger witnesses and search all the hide-outs and abandoned building sites. He slept in short bursts, ate standing up and when he was bowed down and oppressed by fatigue and despair, he would go to his father's grave to boost his morale. He didn't know himself what he was looking for but he hoped he would find the end of a thread and that when he pulled it he would be able to unravel the snarls that entangled the town.
«They'll kill you, lad,» rasped the sallow old man who guarded Antonov's warehouse. «As sure as eggs is eggs, they'll kill you!»
Lapin knew the gang brought hostages to this remote spot in the middle of nowhere and held them in the cold cellar where there was an iron bedstead and a water bowl. Sensing there was a lot the old man knew, Lapin latched on to him like a tick. He pestered him with fictitious checks and turned up with threats or presents, but the old man, chuckling into his moustaches, stubbornly held his tongue, looking at Lapin with his faded eyes.