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- Herausgeber: Laszlo Reti
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Dozens of foreigners are murdered in Russia, seemingly for no reason. Some of them are historians, businessmen, tourists. Who will be next?
A monster is kidnapping children and burying them alive, horrifying even the most hardened cops. Who will protect the next innocent?
The police are disorganised, impotent, corrupt. The economic crisis and the moral nihilism of the past are soaking everything and everyone. The big dogs, it seems, are allowed to do anything.
Who and what can those who are trying to prevent the next crime against the wind trust? Captain Adrian Varlamov and his rookie colleague are racing against time. And the moment comes that will test all their courage and endurance.
And what can a girl do, who let her lover leave the Netherlands as a happy bride, only to experience the true, unrelenting horror of her country's deepest loss. For all of our worst nightmares are about to come to life.
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László Réti - Town of Tears
Copyright © László Réti
First release: 2007
Contact the author:
www.retilaszlo.hu
Edited by
László Réti (2023)
Cover design
László Réti & MI
Electronic version
László Réti
Larkin Ltd.
ISBN: 978-615-6733-22-1
László Réti
TOWN OF TEARS
The story is essentially a figment of the imagination.
However, certain events have happened.
Elsewhere, at other times. But they happened.
And you'd never guess what these moments are...
1.
THE ROAR was getting louder, but you couldn't see through the curtain of pouring rain . Then the sound gradually intensified into a powerful roar, and a yellowish light shone through the downpour's watery lashes. The source of the light split, slowly at first, then more violently, and became two white points of light, becoming more and more distinct. Their height steadily decreased, and the huge body suddenly pierced the belly of the cloud, which hung almost to the ground. The Kazakh Airways Tu-154 swooped down onto the tiny streamlined runway, landing gears jammed, wheels squealed as they reached the rough surface, and it was spinning. The nose of the plane touched the concrete with what seemed excessive caution. The wingtip lights flickered off, followed by the tail section's flashing light, shrouded in spattered raindrops, and the plane was swallowed up by the rain half a minute later as it began its roll towards the passenger buildings.
- I love watching this! - the potbellied man moaned, looking eagerly at the small, athletic figure standing next to him.
- 'Until he takes your head off one day,' came the calm reply.
- Come on! It's a hundred metres to the pitch.
- It looked to me as if it had landed on my head.
- God, you can almost feel the power!
- Feel alone. I'm going back to work.
- Come on, Ilya! Let's just wait for one more!
- I'm not willing to get any wetter for these dogs.
- You're not getting wet!
Indeed, they were not soaked. They were standing behind the sliding doors of a huge hangar next to the cargo terminal, so the tin roof that stretched a good eight storeys above them protected them from the water of the May downpour .
The hangar has served as a customs warehouse for many years. It was used to store goods and postal consignments waiting to be dispatched to destinations beyond Russia's borders.
The younger customs officer, whom his partner called Ilya, was obviously really bored of doing nothing. He took the filtered Bulgarian cigarette out of his mouth and dropped it on the wet concrete, where it immediately hissed out in a small puddle.
- Let's continue, Dimitrij!
The paunchy man looked wistfully to the west, where the wind was blowing the engine noise of another plane preparing to land. He knew he had no time to stand around waiting for the next one, but it felt so good! If only he could sit in one of those cabins one more time, with a cold can of beer, looking out of the window...
- Dimitrij!
- "I'm coming!" the fifty-two-year-old customs officer snarled, and he too threw away the cigarette butt that was burning on his fingernails.
- What's next?
- KLM.
- Destination?
- Amsterdam, Schipol.
- When do you leave?
- Nineteen fifteen.
- My God!" sighed Dimitri Tyitov. "He'll be home in six hours. Another world...
- Add your customs list here! - Ilya said dryly, and began to study the folder with the clipboard.
- Good luck.
- It says... yes, from J12 to J18. That's just seven small containers. All private consignments. And the post office, of course. We'll make this quick. Where are the J-containers?
-Amarra - beckoned Tyitov, who tried to concentrate on the job at hand.
- Let's go.
In a few steps, they crossed the distance separating them from the cargo and stopped next to the aluminium containers loaded on three standard pallets. On two of the trepnels lay three or four containers, but on the third only one.
- "You start on the left, I'll start on the right," suggested the older man, but Ilya looked at him with a cutting gaze.
- No. We go together. We'll go through everything together and then we'll close them together.
-Come on already, Ilya! We'd be done in half the time, you know that!
-Don't start again! I'm not getting fired because of you.
- What are you implying now?
- You know that.
- Don't insult me! I've been doing this job since before you were still sniffing your willy!
- Then you understand that I want a long career too. I don't want to take any risks.
- You are acquitted.
- I don't care, Dimitri. I don't care what the inquest found or what the judge said. I know what I know, do you understand? Now let's get to work. They're coming for the goods.
Tyitov grumbled as he started to open the first container, while his partner watched his every move with a wary eye.
- What's in it?
- The list includes clothes, books, household items. One hundred and seventeen kilos.
- It seems to fit.
- Go ahead, Dimitri.
- Okay.
The customs officer reached deep into the bags, took out a few books, flipped the pages between his fingers, then threw them back on the clothes.
- Nothing. It's just someone moving.
- Close it!
- Where is the seal?
- For me. Which one do we use today?
- The green one.
- Here you go.
Once they had locked the box back together, and sealed it with a customs seal, they moved on to the next one. It took a quarter of an hour to finish another five containers. Tyitov opened the sixth in a very morose mood, as Ilya had not really let go. But the third one had a very nice silver picture frame. All he had to do was throw the engagement photo in the bin and he could have given it to his wife. She had wanted something like that for a long time, because she wanted to display her older daughter's graduation photo.
Tyitov opened the metal box with the serial number J17 and his eyes lit up.
- What does the list say, Ilya?
- Scrolling, one moment... same thing. Moving. Stationery, clothing.
- Really? Then check this out!
The young customs officer walked around the crate and looked inside. The two-metre-long container was full of Sony-branded laptops. The two men looked at each other.
- Oops! Wow!
- How much can it contain?
- I don't know. Wait a minute - the young man unloaded some computers onto the concrete. - They are in two columns, eight boxes per column, and four rows. Sixty-four of them.
- Sony... How much could each of these cost?
- A neighbour bought one on the black market last month. He paid around four hundred euros for it.
- So this stuff... it's like twenty-five thousand.
- More or less.
Ilya shrugged and took another form from the bottom of his packet.
- I will write the seizure papers.
- Ilya - said Tyitov quietly.
- What do you want?
- There's more.
- What?
- This is the envelope. It was here on the inside of the box. It was taped to the lid.
The officer put down the folder and stepped closer.
- Open it!
Dimitri didn't need to be told twice. He tore open the envelope, and ten notes of sazury fell into the palm of his hand.
- What is this?", Ilya looked at him in amazement .
- It means that our people are professionals.
- And you determined that from an envelope of money?
- Don't you understand, you poor thing?! - said the tummy. - This money is ours.
Finally his partner got the message.
- You say they glued it in because...
- Ilya! This is the usual method.
The young officer shook his head thoughtfully.
- I don't need it.
- Then I'll...
- Put it down! I'll put it in the impound report.
- Stop being stupid! What do you want to do?
- We confiscate the money and contraband.
- I understand. But just think for a second! You made the list, all right. Then what do you do with the minutes?
- I will give it to the head of department.
- And what does he do with it?
- He will, of course, forward the official... - Ilya fell silent, and looked quizzically at the strangely smiling Tyitov.
- Ilya. If you don't put the money away, he will. And he'll even remember you. Ilya Ramin doesn't take bribes. You'll be a menace, my boy. How long do you think he's gonna let you do this? He'll soon be a thorn in the side of the audit service that you're the only one handing over confiscated cash. It'd be easy to get audited. Who'd want that?... Of course not, but you'd be carrying something illegal that day. Maybe. Maybe in your locker... Hm?
The young man turned pale.
- You go to hell!
- I'm sorry, Ilya, but that's the way it is. If the head of the department finds out what you're doing... I was just telling you what's going on. You can do what you want," the older officer shrugged with feigned indifference, but his eyes were staring longingly at the envelope.
Ilya looked at the money himself for a minute, then wrote down firmly in the minutes: ten notes of one sazury. Tyitov snarled angrily.
- So let's put at least one laptop aside!
- No.
- Damn.
- I'm not selling out, Dimitri, I'm sorry.
Tyitov pulled his lips away and glanced at the papers. He spotted something between the lines that made him grin wickedly. He tapped his partner on the shoulder.
- What do you want?
- Okay. If that's the way you want it, Ilya, that's the way it will be. I'll book it. In the meantime, open the next crate so we can get on with it. The forklift trucks will be here soon.
The young man looked at the document. He had already written down the laptops and the money. Dimitri cannot undo the entries on the numbered document. He reluctantly handed over the folder.
- Okay. But when the forklift comes, we take J17 off the pallet.
- Good, good, good! Check out J18.
- Why is it on a separate pallet?
- I don't know. Maybe that's how the move came out in the packing.
- "What the hell is HC445?" said Ilya, looking closely at the label stuck to the metallic aluminium crate.
- 'Me neither,' Tyitov growled, forgotten in his fumbling, but he glanced flatly at the young man, who clicked the container's recessed quick-release handles and then lifted the lid with a flourish.
He stared into the container for a long second before taking a giant leap into the air and staggering back from the crate. The lid closed back with a dull thud.
Tyitov wiped his eyes laughing
- What is it, Ilya, are you not checking?
- Did you know? - the other tried to recover his voice.
- Of course. HC445. Everybody knows.
- Why didn't you tell me?!
- You have a lot to learn, Ilya. A lot.
- Open up, Dimitri!
- Well? Aren't you going to look into it, sampler?
- Don't mess with me!
- Whoa! Are there exceptions?
- Now, listen...
- "Good, good," Tyitov raised his palm conciliatory, and handed a green seal to the man moving towards him. I won't tell anyone that you actually missed the inspection.
Within a minute, the J-18 container was officially sealed.
When the shift ended two hours later, Dimitry Tyitov changed into civilian clothes and walked with the other customs officers to a pub near the airport for a few drinks. Soon he was telling his story to his colleagues amidst raucous laughter as, at the same moment, the KLM Airbus A330, on a scheduled flight, was flying at an altitude of just over 3,000 metres, finally breaking through the lead-coloured clouds and out into the red light of the setting sun.
The plane turned west and continued to gather altitude, while the container J18, which had been brought up without customs clearance, lay silently in its hold.
2.
A few tiny clots rested on the iris of BAL'S EYE.
The sight hurt even those who just watched.
The other eye, also wide open, was clear, but it too was dripping with spring rain. He lay on his back. His arms were bound behind his back with duct tape, his legs were locked behind him, his ankles were pressed cruelly against his wrists and secured with the tape. A transparent nylon bag was stretched over his head like a harness, with brown clingfilm visible in the corners. The bastard didn't even bother to use a new bag.
He ate his breakfast and then put it on the victim's head.
The plastic was split open by the corporal's hoe before the head suddenly emerged from under the loose layer of clay. It was then that the grains of soil came into his eyes.
Three men wearing black raincoats stood at the edge of the shallow pit. They were all covered in mud up to their elbows, their fingernails chipped.
They had no strength to move.
The hoe lay at their feet. A few yards away, in the knee-high weeds, the corporal fell to his knees and threw up his fists.
It was minutes before they could move. The man on the far left was shaken, as if coming out of a trance. He opened his mouth to speak, but his gums were dry with shock. Swallowing hard, he tried to wet his lips so he could speak. The figure beside him squeezed his arm and spoke hoarsely.
- Mine is the same size.
- And mine too, Nikolai... Mine too.
Their third partner felt obliged to say something, but only to break the horror of the moment. Like in the cinema. The almost unbearably exciting scene is always broken up by someone who can't stand the suspense any longer and cracks a silly joke. But he was in no mood for jokes. With a tongue that was hard to twist, all he could say was:
- Who can do such a thing?
Once again, they looked down on themselves.
The five-year-old boy at the bottom of the pit was dead.
And there was nothing anyone or anything could do to help.
Bikov sighed and forced his gaze away from the sight. He looked around.
They stood in the city's old stadium, which was condemned for demolition. Right in the middle of the starting circle. The man recalled the nerve-racking moments of the last three hours.
The desperate mother's announcement, interspersed with screams and wails.
The alarm.
The phone call... the familiar raspy, sarcastic voice, the teasing, the tasteless comments, and finally the deadline.
The puzzle...
The puzzle, which they solved in ten minutes, gave them the information on where the child was.
The siren blaring rush through the city.
The accident, as the Josephs were speeding along on the slippery asphalt in the pouring rain, slid into the power pole.
They couldn't even stop for them!
I wonder what happened to them...?
And finally the arrival at the stadium.
The desperate rush through the weeds that sprawl where the lawn used to be.
As they scraped the ground on their knees with their bare hands, the corporal rushed to their aid with a hoe from who knows where.
Now inertia.
Bikov could feel a tear gathering with slow determination in the corner of his eye. A feeling appeared in his throat that he had only felt before when he had a severe cold. A painful, ever-increasing tightness. He swallowed hard.
He was a thirty-nine year old police officer and an unadulterated careerist. No one had ever seen or heard of him solving really serious cases, but somehow he was always involved in the occasional investigative teams that solved these complex cases. Serial killers, armed robbers, sadistic rapists, and a few kidnappers. When, after a job well done, the detectives would get drunk together in a pub, sooner or later one of them would always ask what Bikov had actually done in the case.
Everyone remembered him sitting in the thick cigarette smoke and black tea at morning briefings and early morning evaluations, but no one could answer the question of whether he had ever brought back any useful information. Had he even interviewed a single witness? Had he found anything useful in the computer records?
A drunk man is honest.
And at these meetings, by evening, many, many sincere people were together, and they always came to the same conclusion: Nikolai Bikov had done nothing during the investigation.
It was just there.
Sometimes he would chime in, humming, confirming a seemingly good idea, but in each case it would come from someone else's brain. No doubt, of course, he never crossed the line, never obstructed an investigation, never did anything stupid, never leaked inside information. But that was all.
And yet: no matter how many perpetrators the company caught, Bikov always somehow found his way to the reward list. And since he was quite effective on paper, he was given higher and higher positions, not least because one of his distant relatives was a captain. Not here in town, of course, but up north, but a captain is a captain. And no captain-in-chief steps on the toes of the other's heel, because you never know how high one will climb in time...
So Bikov rose through the ranks, even though he never signed a single completed report as an interrogator or a single damn report as an investigator. He never actually did anything tangible - and so he never had the opportunity to make mistakes.
And if you don't make a mistake, you get promoted.
Perhaps it was not the last moment in Bikov's career that he was known as Pavel Sharapov's man.
Sharapov, who as director was responsible for the entire criminal work of all the districts of the city and of the General Headquarters itself, now stood beside him, staring with compressed lips at the small corpse slowly being cleaned in the pouring rain.
He appointed Bikov as head of the Violent Crimes Unit, the EBO, when he was appointed director. They had known each other for a long time, Bikov had in fact served under Sharapov continuously, and whenever Pavel was promoted, he took Bikov with him. The trusted back-up man.
But now, as they stood in the middle of the stadium, they did not speak to each other. There was nothing to say. They knew that another failure would whip up waves that would sweep them away. But this time they could not help it. If they had had two perfectly trained professionals in their seats, they would have done the same. And in their hearts they felt it was unfair. They knew that, as time went by, they would draw strength from the fact that no one had been adequately prepared to explain the series of fiascos - but now they were still hurt by the inevitable injustice.
- The ninth," moaned Varlamov, standing next to them.
- No need to repeat! - Sarapov snapped.
The fifty-five-year-old crime director was nervous for several reasons. He did not readily admit to himself that the dead boy at his feet was not the most important factor in his current state of mind.
When he had been summoned by the chief captain, Grigory Karpov, less than a year earlier, he had no idea that he, the captain of one of the most remote districts, would be offered the top job in the criminal profession. When he heard, he felt a drop of sweat run down his spine. Every bone in his body protested against the appointment.
He felt very comfortable in his job, he more or less trusted his people. He even managed to keep corruption in his own little dump down to an acceptable level, so that the inspectorates didn't bother him all the time. Under his ten years of leadership, the district became a kind of island of peace - strictly by Russian standards, of course. There were the safe-crafters, the money changers, the loan sharks, a few money collection teams and one or two really serious economic criminals, but they were known.
The informer network kept bringing in information, so whenever there were rumblings from the top demanding results, Sharapov could always pull out some long-vacant ear from his drawer and within a day or two he had the big score. The headquarters got the result, and Sharapov and his district got the praise, and then they were left alone again for a while.
Goat and cabbage.
Of course, with the data resting in his vault, he could have produced much more results...
But why?
It would only have upset the district.
Then, if you raise the detection rates too high, they will demand even more next year, and then more again. A series of big hits would only have antagonised the other captains of the district, since Karpov would inevitably use his achievements as an example at every management meeting and demand similar results from the others. Sarapov knew that the captains would hate him - and would soon be eliminated, no doubt about it. He knew how it worked. You don't always have to make a big shot. You only have to beat the record by an inch every time.
By just one centimetre.
Like Bubka did in the pole vault.
He could have been fifteen centimetres taller, but what if someone pays extra for each world record?! Then it's better to have fifteen small records than one big one, isn't it?
When Karpov told him of his decision to work at the headquarters from next week, he was not a bit happy. He himself, of course, had once been on the beat, chasing robbers, interrogating, filing reports, and dealing with crime scenes. But ten years have passed since then. He's distanced himself from the day-to-day problems, he hasn't kept up with the changes in the law. He has quietly admitted to himself that for ten years he has been more of a manager than a professional.
Karpov allowed Sharapov to protest the appointment for a while, then gave him an ultimatum: either accept the appointment or retire.
So Sharapov took over the new job and brought Bikov with him, to have one of the old ones at his side. Bikov had worked for years in the city's headquarters before Sarapov brought him to the remote district, so he had the experience that Sarapov felt he did not have. He was wrong, and now he has had to admit it, which again has not improved his mood.
Fortunately, though, that was all he needed to care. The fruits of his lobbying have been reaped from the first moment he was forced into the unwanted director's chair.
Karpov retired a month ago and his successor has not yet been appointed. Taking advantage of the power vacuum, Mr Sarapov has allowed himself to return to his beloved district from next Monday. He had no intention of taking Bikov with him, and although he felt that he would be immediately outweighed by his departure, he could not afford to take him this time. It would have been like being caught in the middle of this case. No, only Bikov will fall for it now, thought the chief constable to himself.
It was Saturday, and in two days he would be in his new place. By the time the press takes the heat off the poor performance of the EEO and the cumbersome staff apparatus finally gets moving to replace Bikov, another week or two may have passed - and where will he be by then!
Of course the procedure was far from fair, but for Comrade Sharapov?
- "If you catch that animal, Nikolai!" snorted Sarapov, with a hiss of anger. It was time to distance himself a little from Bikov. You should never have allowed this to happen again!
- Yes, Comrade Colonel, said Bikov without any conviction. He looked down thoughtfully at the dead boy, and after a minute, without looking up, he spoke.
- I hear you're going back to the district, Pavel.
Sarapov glanced sideways at the Major.
- Do we have to discuss this here?
- You've been avoiding me for weeks.
- Come on!
- Why did I have to hear from Human Resources that you requested a transfer?
- I didn't have time to tell you.
Bikov smiled mockingly.
- Didn't have time? You brought me here with you, Pavel. You made me a scapegoat in this case. And now you leave me here in the shit - he kicked a boulder into the weeds in anger.
Sharapov pulled out. He is the colonel after all!
- Bikov, don't get emotional on me! I didn't make you responsible, you are responsible! The case is at the EEO, and in case you forgot, you're the head of the department. Who the fuck is responsible if you're not?
- You know what I'm talking about! No one else would have caught this killer...
- We don't know that. What we do know is that you didn't catch it! And it's the ninth child he's caught!
- You throw me a bone.
- That's just your perception. I actually gave you an opportunity and you blew it. I put you in the most powerful department head chair in the department, gave you the best people. You catch this killer, you could have been the hero of the whole country. Instead, you've been stalling for months!
Sharapov has repeated these sentences to himself so many times that he himself has come to believe that Bikov is the one responsible. That it was he who had appointed an incompetent man had never occurred to him.
Bikov turned to face his boss and stopped looking at the body.
- Is it true that Misin is coming to replace you?
Sharapov was poorly concealing his surprise: was this already leaked?
- We're standing next to the body of a child, Bikov!" he growled.
The head of department let the sentence slip out of his ear.
- Is it true that Misin is coming to replace you? - he repeated.
- "So they say," the Colonel finally blurted out, looking at Varlamov, who was oblivious to the action, so as not to have to look at the child or Bikov.
- So it is certainly true.
- Here, only what has already happened is certain. "And it's not certain that it happened that way either," the director quoted the old cop saying, but Bikov was in no mood to wink.
- If Misin comes, he will bring Boris Hrunov with him to replace me.
- "It's possible," the colonel surrendered. In fact, it was a foregone conclusion, but he did not feel like telling Bikov. He would find out somehow. He attacked instead. You'll have time to whine about your own problems.
- "That child doesn't care, but I do", said Bikov dryly. "And I want to talk to you, Pavel! You simply can't leave me here. You've got to get me out of this cesspit!
- Need? Why should you?
- You pushed me into it.
- I don't remember you as a cesspit when I appointed you as head of the EEO.
- Misin who will do it. The first thing he'll do is get it off!
- Then catch the murderer, Nikolai! Catch him and even God will not be able to move you! You have forty-eight hours...
He slipped up.
Bikov opened his mouth to speak, but Varlamov returned.
- Have you made arrangements, Comrade Varlamov? - Sarapov looked at him.
- Yes, Director.
- Do your job, Captain. I'm going back to headquarters.
In the pouring rain, he left Bikov and Varlamov alone by the pit.
Adrian Varlamov pushed back his raincoat hood slightly and looked questioningly at the Major. He was Bikov's deputy. They had never been friends, but their working relationship had proved strangely fair. Until the last few days.
They knew each other from years before, when they were both working as junior detectives in homicide. Then they went their separate ways, with Bikov going to Sharapov's district and Varlamov staying at the headquarters. When Bikov was appointed head of the Violent Crimes Department, he was surprised to be asked to replace him. However, Nikolai Bikov wanted someone who knew the business, the current power relations in the headquarters, the internal power lines and alliances, but who would not stab him in the back at the first opportunity.
Varlamov was the ideal candidate.
The captain was put on a forced course: if he didn't accept the invitation, he would be putting his career on the blind track, and he knew who Bikov would ask a second time. And he didn't want that guy above him. But if he accepts Bikov's offer, he'll be forced to assist in decisions he doesn't agree with.
Then rationality won out: she had two young sons and needed the extra money for a higher position.
He pledged his loyalty to Bikov, but added that he would only stand by him as long as he could commit to supporting his decisions. And so it was until two weeks before. Bikov then refused to accept Varlamov's assessment of a case, and the captain soon found out the sole reason: a friend of Bikov's might have been involved in the investigation. He questioned his boss, who shrugged and, to his surprise, signed the report anyway. Varlamov was confused. How could he trust Bikov if he backed down at the first sign? What would he change his mind about the next time he was backed into a corner? The good working relationship was over. There was no more trust.
- I sent the corporal to stop the men at the entrance, and as soon as the detectives arrive, they start looking for clues and witnesses outside. CSU's on their way, Nikolai. Nothing else to do until they get here.
- Thanks for taking care of it.
- Someone has to take care of the dead body, right?
- What?" snapped Bikov sharply, but Varlamov held his gaze.
- Are you still thinking about your career here, comrade Major?
- What do you know about this?
- Boris contacted me.
- Hrunov?", Bikov looked up in shock.
- He. The crime chief of the 15th district.
- What did he want?
- It comes to your place. From Monday.
Nikolai Bikov's throat was tight. So Sharapov wasn't lying: there is a decision, but they forgot to tell him. But he would never have admitted that to Varlamov, so he looked back at the dead boy and said nothing. After a while the silence became uncomfortable.
- "What did Hrunov want?" the Major spat.
- Maybe I can get a job?
- What did Hrunov want?
- He said that Yevgeny Misin would replace Sharapov. And Hrunov is Misin's man.
- That's no way to talk about your future boss, Adrian.
- Thanks for the advice. "Your word's worth a lot anyway," the captain remarked epically.
- Stop fucking with me! The dead lion...
- You were never a lion, Nikolai.
The head of the EEO gave his deputy a cutting look.
- What about you?
- What? I'm staying.
- Like us?
- Which is now. Hrunov also needs a deputy. Slaves are not replaced, Nikolai. But now I'd like to get to work. There's a dead child here, you know?
- Until he brings in his own man from the district, he'll need you. Soon as he gets the hang of it, he's gonna shovel you out too, Adrian.
Varlamov nodded grimly. He saw the future in the same way, but he did not want to give Bikov the satisfaction of sharing his fears.
- Let's deal with this little boy, Nikolai!
Bikov looked up and snorted angrily as he saw a figure approaching.
- Wasn't the corporal instructed not to let anyone in?
- De.
- So...
He suddenly recognised the figure emerging from behind the curtain.
- 'Talk about a jackass,' Bikov growled, then forced a formal expression on his face and took two steps towards the man who was coming with long strides.
- To what do we owe our good fortune, Major Hrunov?
The future head of department was a lean, eagle-nosed man. He had spent only the last ten of his forty years in the Criminal Investigation Department, the rest in the Personnel Department. His deep-set black eyes looked with horror at the corpse of the murdered child.
It was a minute before he was able to shake hands with the other two officers.
- Good afternoon, Major Bikov. Adrian - he nodded to his future deputy.
- What brings you here? - the head of the EEO repeated the question.
- Were you not told, Major Bikov? - Hrunov snorted.
- No, Boris, they didn't. No one officially said a word.
- "I see," he bit his lower lip, but he simply could not take his eyes off the corpse. - Well, informally, he must already know that...
- That you were replaced?
Hrunov felt uncomfortable. It was not his job to have this conversation with Bikov, but he was not at all surprised that the people in charge had evaporated before the unpleasant news was announced. He had been there himself, so he had some empathy for the head of the EEO.
- I'm sorry, Nikolai. I was informed that you already know.
- 'It's not your fault,' Bikov growled, but the venom was boiling inside him.
- "Gentlemen, perhaps we should get down to work," suggested Varlamov, to ease the tension.
- "No," Bikov shook his head firmly, "I have nothing to do with this.
- But...
Hrunov glanced at the already soaked Varlamov, but instead he crouched down beside the small body and tried to study it more closely, to see if he could see anything to go on. Bikov, meanwhile, turned on his heel and was about to leave the stadium, but he bumped into the newcomer. They clung to each other for a moment to keep from falling in the wet grass, and when they were firmly standing, Bikov pushed the raincoat-clad man away in a huff.
- Who the hell are you?!
- The officer on duty sent me here. I'm looking for Major Bikov.
- It's me. What do you want?
- I am reporting for duty, Sub-Lieutenant Marja Fedorovna.
The Major had only just seen the shoulder-pads under the black nylon jacket. He remembered that he had been told a few days ago that the EBO was to have a female officer. He could not remember the name he had seen on the form. The newcomer was a girl in her mid-twenties, with strong zygomatic bones, blue eyes and brown hair. Colourless raindrops ran down her face as she looked up at the taller man.
- 'I'm not interested in that any more, Lieutenant,' said Bikov hoarsely, then he pushed back over his shoulder. - There is Major Hrunov. Report to him.
He hurried off, water drops splashing thickly from the tall grass.
Varlamov, who had been crouched a little further away, now stood up. He, unlike Bikov, would have a subordinate in the new man's employ, so he eyed her carefully.
A small, perhaps one hundred and sixty centimetre tall, slender woman looked back at him, perplexed. She wore a dress that stretched tightly over her thick thighs and overly wide hips. A perfectly ordinary face, slightly shy eyes. The deputy head of the EEO quickly assessed that Fedorovna was unlikely to break up any marriages in her group. Not a bad start.
She stepped closer.
- Major Hrunov?
- It's me, Lieutenant. Welcome to the team.
- I'm applying for service.
- Okay. Although I'm only working here from tomorrow. Until then, discuss the details with Captain Varlamov, my deputy.
- Captain...
- "Hello, Fedorovna," Varlamov offered his hand, but before he could say anything else, his mobile phone rang. He apologised and moved away, tucking the phone under his hood to keep out the rain.
As she spoke, Fedorovna stepped closer and saw the child.
- "Poor thing," he muttered.
- You're not really shaken, colleague," Hrunov noted.
- I was transferred from the traffic police. I've seen a few things there.
- I see.
- "Yosif Sonyin and his family are in hospital," the captain came back to them, and then added by way of explanation, "They slipped on the wet asphalt on the way here and hit a light pole. Sonyin has broken both legs and will be out for months.
Hrunov nodded.
- I'm sorry. Is this one of our investigators?
- Yes, Major. I'll have to pass your cases on to someone else, but actually everyone is working on this children's case anyway.
- Hm... Fedorovna will take over Sonyin's affairs. She hasn't dug into this file yet anyway , and she doesn't have her own cases yet .
Varlamov looked at the woman as if he were just looking at her. For seconds he said nothing, but the wheels were turning in his mind as to the best course of action.
- You ever worked a homicide before, Lieutenant?
- No.
- Where did it come from?
- Urban traffic police.
- Well, that's great.
- I didn't ask to be here, Captain.
- What?
- I didn't ask to be here. The decision was made in the personnel department. But as it happens, let me tell you, I'm learning everything.
- "I wanted to hear something like that, when you have no experience at all," Varlamov said bluntly, but he knew in his heart that he had no choice. He'll go back to the headquarters and take over Sonyin's cases. He reports directly to me.
- Understood. Any specific instructions on the cases?
- Just make sure you don't screw anything up. All you have to do is give the prosecution the impression that work is ongoing in those cases. A few irrelevant interviews, some data collection, a few reports. It's just scenarios, nothing more. Do you understand?
- Meg.
- As soon as someone is released here in a few days, I'll send them to you immediately and you'll work together from then on.
Varlamov spotted the approaching team above the girl.
- The detectives and forensics are here, Major.
- Adjust them, Captain.
- Understood.
Varlamov waved to one of the approaching officers.
- Marja Fedorovna, this is Lieutenant Igor Zajkin. He will probably be your instructor. Igor, escort the lieutenant to the headquarters. He will take over Sonyin's affairs. Give him the files, then come back. Now go.
Varlamov turned to the police doctor when Fedorovna spoke softly.
- Captain!
- Yes?
- What was the child's name?
Varlamov looked at the cold little body, and for a second his throat tightened again.
He suddenly realised that he didn't know.
She can't remember the boy's name, even though she spoke to his mother. He swallowed before looking sternly at her.
- I said go!
3.
BABAKOCSI was blue. It had huge wheels, a sunshade that could be attached, and a bag in a colour to match the cover, in which you could stow the massive amount of jars, bottles, bottles, nappies and a thousand other things essential for baby care. She watched him thoughtfully, moving the handle with her hand to check that the trolley sprung softly enough.
One step behind her, a thin young man of medium height staggered around. He was dressed in a blue suit with a dark grey tie and shiny black shoes. His white hair was combed in the middle and his pale face was framed by a thin, short-cropped beard. He looked stealthily at his watch. They had to be at the party in just over an hour. He glanced at her again and tapped her shoulder gently.
- Honey!
- Yes?
The man showed me his watch.
- Nina, I really don't want to rush you, but we should be at Robert's in an hour. I don't want to be late, you know they won't adjust to us. If they have to bathe the baby, they'll take him away and we won't be able to see him. It would be a nice baby visit!
- I know, Dirk, I know. But we still haven't bought anything! - the girl protested
- "Well, that's just it, honey," the man remarked, pulling his lips away, "You've been in this store for almost forty minutes, we've been through the children's department twice and you still don't have anything in your cart!
- I'll do my best.
- Then stop looking at prams, please. Obviously that's not what we're going to get them as a present, is it?
- True.
- Well then?! Let's not stall here, sweetie.
- "All right, all right," she surrendered, picking up the basket and heading for the shelves full of clothes. "I'll get Benny some clothes, and you go over to the toys and get something for a little boy!
- Little train?
- Only six weeks old!
- And? What's the problem?
- Are we joking or in a hurry?
After she had evened the score in this way, they laughed and after a quick kiss, they both went off to complete their part of the purchase.
In just ten minutes, Nina Rafikova has bought a plush jumper with a cardigan and a small jacket. Dirk van der Kloet, meanwhile, was browsing through the toys with sparkling eyes, and finally settled on some chew toys and a musical spinner for a cot. He packed the presents in a paper bag and hurried towards the exit.
The girl was the first to arrive, waving her pouch cheerfully.
- These little dresses are so cute!
- If you say so.
- What did you buy him? I hope it wasn't a football.
- There were a couple of discounted mousetraps...
- Well! You don't always have to fool around. So?
Dirk opened the bag and she quickly reached inside.
- They are beautiful. But don't you think that's a bit too little?
- No. They, for example, have never bought us anything like that.
- We don't have any children, Dirk.
- Then maybe that's the reason.
- But really! Won't that be too little?
- I have no idea. "If you feel like it, buy something else," he shrugged, but immediately regretted it, "Whoa! Not that one. You've been picking for an hour. I think that's enough. Now run to the car, because we're really late!
- There will not be much traffic.
- Never mind, let's go anyway.
Five minutes later, they were in the Volkswagen Golf and Dirk was ushered into the really thin traffic.
- Where are you going? - the girl asked.
- I'm going out to the coast, that's the easiest way.
Crossing a small bridge, they passed Haarlem the city centre, and then, between the typical terraced walls of brown-brick houses, along a cycle path lined with carefully trimmed bushes, the man sped up the car.
- So many cyclists! - mused the girl in the right front seat.
- It's a national sport here, Nina.
- In our country it is a symbol of poverty. People who can't afford a car are on wheels.
- You come from a very different world.
The mobile phone in Dirk's pocket started playing an unpleasant tune. He rummaged around for the device and glanced at her.
- I know what you mean. I hate that ringtone too.
- It drives me crazy. You promised you'd replace it.
- I'll replace it. I'm thinking of downloading Katyusa, huh? Kááááálin-kákálin-kákálin…
She smiled and slapped him.
- You're teasing me again!
- Hello!", Dirk finally fished out the phone. He was silent for a while, then answered in a surprised tone.
After a minute, he said goodbye to the caller and closed the phone. He put the indicator out and pulled the car over to the curb.
- Who was it, Dirk?
- Robert.
- What did he want?
- They called off the party. Little Benny has a bad cough and is on his way to the doctor.
- I'm so sorry," she said, and she seemed to mean it.
- What do we do now?
- What time is it?
- Quarter to six.
- Let's go down to the beach," she suggested.
- Good. It's been a long time since I've been there anyway.
The Golf covered the remaining few kilometres to the sea in less than twenty minutes. The car was left on the edge of the deserted tarmac road at the top of the dunes, and they set off, arms in hand, along a hard-packed path through the boulders. A strong breeze was blowing from the sea, the tall grass bushes swaying obediently under the pressure of the wind.
- 'I'm not really dressed for a beach walk,' she remarked, stepping out of her high heels, which she then took in her hand and waved as she walked. - 'Won't you take your shoes off? The leather soles won't be comfortable in the sand.
- "Why not?" he shrugged, and slipped out of his casual shoes himself. He took off his socks and tucked them into his shoes.
A minute later they reached the top of the dune. The North Sea was lapping at their feet. In the distance, a giant container ship was heading for the port of Amsterdam, and a little closer, two sailing yachts were taking advantage of the wind. Although it was only the end of May, the temperature was pleasant enough for the crew of the yachts to enjoy the water sports.
Without a word, they made their way down the slope to the beach.
- Shall we put our foot in it? - Dirk suggested.
- Come on! It's fine if the water can be ten degrees.
- So what? Since when can't the Russians stand the cold?
- The Russians usually like it. But I can't stand it.
- Then wait here.
Dirk walked down to the water and waited for a wave to run up to his feet, then carefully lowered his bare feet into it. With an inarticulate howl, he acknowledged that the sea was unbelievably cold and quickly ran back to her.
- Did it feel good?
- No! It's cold as hell.
- I told you.
- You didn't say that! You have no entrepreneurial spirit.
- Even this barefoot walk is a bit chilly for me, Dirk.
- Are you cold? - the man was worried.
- No. But I'm not gay either.
- "Let's go up to the roof there," Dirk pointed up into the hills, "There's a little pub with a big balcony. We can see the sea from there.
She nodded, and a few minutes later she was sipping hot chocolate on the terrace of the restaurant, which had a truly magnificent view of the water. The sea glowed a yellowish-grey in the setting sun, and she watched it with a stunned expression.
- It's always grey," he remarked in a half-voiced voice.
- What?
- The sea.
- Why, what should it be like?
- For example, blue, like the Aegean. Or greenish.
- I still do not understand.
- Didn't you notice? This sea is always grey. Slate grey, asphalt grey, lead grey, pigeon grey, and now grey mixed with ochre. But always grey.
The man grinned and took a sip of his own chocolate
- Where do you get these?
- What?
- The grey ones. Grey is grey. It is grey precisely because it is boring. At most there are light grey and dark grey, but that's it!
- "Come on," she slapped his knee, teasingly, "The grey is interesting.
- All right, you're the art historian, all right! Make it interesting! That's what you learned at university, right?
- This one too.
- Would you like a glass of wine? - Dirk suddenly changed the subject and looked for the waiter.
- No," she shook her head.
- "You don't drink any alcohol these days," the man remarked without much thought, but as soon as he said the sentence, it suddenly took on a meaning .
He looked at Nina.
- Really! You don't drink anything these days.
- And?
- Why?
Nina Rafikova had an omniscient expression on her face.
- Okay. I can't stand it any longer.
- What? - the man asked suspiciously, and, suspecting something was wrong, pulled his bare feet under him
- Look, that's not how I wanted to say it, but I can't keep it inside any longer.
- But what? Tell me!
- "I'm expecting a baby," she finally blurted out.
Dirk van der Kloet looked at Nina for half a minute, then smiled broadly.
- Are you serious?
- Absolutely.
- That's great!" he exclaimed, hugging her.
They stayed clinging together for minutes, just stroking each other's backs quietly. When they finally untangled themselves from each other's arms, Dirk was full of questions.
- I can see why you've been wandering around the baby ward so much! And that stroller too! My God, how could I have been so blind?! You weren't picking for Robert and Robert!
- Well, not just for them.
- What a witch you are! When were you going to tell me?
- I haven't really thought about it, you know...
- But how long have you known? - interjected the father-to-be.
- I went to the doctor a week ago.
- And how old is he?
- Seven weeks. You'll be a dad by January.
- I am very happy about that.
- Really?" asked Nina, looking seriously into the other's eyes.
Dirk sensed that this was no time to fool around.
- We should get married, Nina.
Now it was her turn to be surprised .
A warmth washed over him, his throat constricted. He had been waiting for this conversation for some time, and now it had taken a different turn than he had expected. He was happy. There was no better word for it. She looked at him with a pensive look. Finally, she was going to have a family! A husband. A child. She could really start a new life. Here. Not in Russia, but here.
They talked for another hour, planning for the future, until the sea breeze became really chilly. Then they paid and walked back to the Volkswagen with their arms around each other.
4.
MOSTLY TIRED out, the tourist group was already. Since ten o'clock in the morning, they had visited three onion-domed cathedrals, a monastery, a famous writer's birch-lined dais and, as their last stop, the World War II memorial site where, according to the inscriptions, one hundred and thirty thousand German and Soviet soldiers had died in the months-long battle for the city sixty-five years earlier.
In fact, Marion Jennings joined the organised group of British tourists solely for this latter programme. The local tour guide didn't mind if she joined the party for a little extra baksheesh. She didn't care whether there were twenty-one or twenty-two people on the bus, but the unexpected €30 was a welcome change. Little Katya needed new sandals.
They stopped at the top of a green hill, and in the neglected parking lot, paved with cracked asphalt, passengers piled out of the bus to take in the surroundings. The guide escorted the group to a reinforced concrete railing built at the edge of the hilltop, gave them the dry details of the dramatic events of the middle of the last century, and then gestured broadly to show where the opposing troops were and how they were trying to embrace each other.
- Down in the valley you can see the place where the river narrows. Of course, it's still hundreds of metres wide there, but the Red Army had no chance to cross anywhere else. In that area, day and night, barges, boats, boats and any other available craft carried men and equipment to the besieged city. The Germans, meanwhile, were setting up cannons on those hills and firing on the crossing. They kept the river under constant fire. From the air, Stukas and Junkers bombed everything that moved on the water. Thousands and thousands died before they could even set foot on the other bank. Even today those sandbanks are not safe. Millions of grenades, shells, mines and bombs have hit the shoals and the banks, and what has not exploded has simply not been picked up. Not a year goes by without three or four people dying or being seriously injured by the explosives of the Great War... But let's go back to 1943! - the guide suddenly changed his voice and pointed to the rusty tank on the hillside. - As you can see, some of the...
His voice slowly melted into a buzzing in Marion Jennings' ears, and she turned away into the distance. She took a few steps to her left and looked up at the sky-scraping monument of poured concrete, decorated with a bronze relief a good thirty metres above. It depicted a battle scene, which was not strange in this place. Over the years, due to lack of maintenance, the relief had acquired a greenish patina from the weather, which was then washed away by rainwater. Dirty juice dripped down the white concrete slabs, leaving a greenish-grey stain several metres long on the once proud monument.
A BLACK car was parked in front.
It was an old Mercedes C180. It was covered in dust, with a thick layer of mud behind the wheels. Close behind it was a grey Opel Omega, all its windows down in the warm evening. The two men sprawled in the comfort of the Mercedes. In the driver's seat sat a young man in his twenties with a three-day beard, his left elbow resting on the window frame. He took a long drag on his cigarette. His head was covered with curly hair that clung greasily to his scalp.
His companion was also in his early twenties, his wide, Caucasian face scanning the outside world with small, pitch-black eyes. His hair was spiked, or perhaps he had simply let it grow to three millimetres since his last clean shave. He twirled a toothpick between his lips.
Some rock music was playing on the radio, and inside the car four or five tired flies were doing their bored rounds. When one of them finally sat down on the dashboard, one man or the other immediately struck. The leather upholstery, cracked from the sun and lack of care, was already covered with several smashed fly corpses.
The driver fished a half-litre of Fanta apple juice out of the door pocket and pulled it without a word.
- 'Shit, it's like piss,' he snorted in disapproval.
- So why don't you just throw it out?
- It will be.
The driver stretched out his arm and splashed the soft drink on the asphalt next to the car.
They were parked in a run-down side street, just a few blocks from a downtown hotel row that was already home to crowds of tourists at the start of the season. The spiky-haired man glanced at his wristwatch, then sighed and wiped the sweat beading on his forehead with the back of his hand. It was at least thirty degrees in the car waiting between the concrete buildings.
THE WOMAN looked up with narrowed eyes, watching the five-pointed star on the top of the concrete spire. For a second, she was tempted by the grotesque thought that it was actually a giant, communist Christmas tree, made of concrete, with the star on top representing the same thing that Christians all over the world had come to expect. As Marion smiled at the strange idea, her grey hair framed her face and wrinkles gathered. She was forty-three, but she looked at least fifty, thanks in part to her undyed, now heavily greying hair and tanned skin. He wore no make-up and spent a large part of his life outdoors. She had never been a fan of wearing sunglasses, and now had severe crow's feet around her eyes from constant squinting.
He was a professor of international history at the University of Chicago. In addition to his academic lectures, he has written books. Two of them even made the bestseller lists, which is not insignificant as they were academic works. She usually published a new work every two years, and the months of writing were preceded by long months of field research. This is how she came to Russia.
He was in the final stages of gathering documentation, his hotel room was already filled with several folders full of photocopied documents from local archives, and his suitcase contained several flash drives with the faltering accounts of living and surviving eyewitnesses. A draft of the volume was already completed and waiting in the memory of his laptop to be sent to the university publisher's email address. All that was missing was this trip. To see the battlefield for himself. To feel the breeze blowing through the area. Maybe touch the souls of the dead.
There was nothing the guide could tell him that he did not already know, and probably even Professor Jennings could have given him a lecture on what had happened. Now he had joined the group of Brits on their early holiday so that he wouldn't have to drive up alone. He turned away from the monumental structure and looked down into the depths.
The DRIVER looked into the bin between the two seats and picked up the old, battered Nokia mobile phone.
- Speak up!
- "Relax," his partner waved.
- We have been waiting for hours.
- And maybe for hours - the spiky-haired one was unflappable.
- I have to pee.
- Then go! We'll be there as soon as we get the call, so pee while you can.
The stubbled figure grunted as he climbed out of the seat and stretched out beside the car. On his back, a wide bead of sweat appeared where he had been leaning against the seat for hours.
He walked over to the advertising pillar on the right side of the car and relieved himself. He was apparently studying the millions of advertisements taped to it as he went about his business. As he tugged open the zipper on his trousers, he caught sight of a tag. He tore it off and went around the car and back to his seat.
- Look what I found!
- What? - asked the spiky-haired one without any apparent interest.
- It says: " blonde, big-breasted schoolgirl looking for teacher to punish for mistakes ." There is also a phone number.
- So what?
- Sounds good, right?
- You are stupid. The city is full of these whores. What makes that interesting?
- It says is blonde and has big boobs .
- They all say.
The driver shrugged.
- I'll just put this away. When we're done, maybe I'll call you.
- When we're done, you'll be drinking like a fish, not thinking about fucking.
- It can be.
They had nothing to say, so they fell silent.
The sun slowly dipped behind the houses, and suddenly it was setting. The shadows converged and the streetlights flickered to life.
