Child 44 - Страница 35

General Nesterov was frank about the details of this murder, calling it by no other name—murder—and giving no indication of wanting to portray it as anything other than a brutal and horrific crime. His frankness worried Leo. How could he be so cool? The yearly statistics for his department were supposed to conform to predetermined patterns: decreasing crime rates, increasing social harmony. Although the town had undergone a vast increase in population, an influx of eighty thousand uprooted workers, crime should have declined since the theory dictated that there was more work, more fairness, less exploitation.

The victim’s name was Larisa Petrova; she’d been found four days ago, in the forest, not far from the train station. The details regarding the discovery of the body were vague and when Leo had pressed the issue Nesterov had seemed eager to brush the point aside. All Leo could gather was that the body had been discovered by a couple who’d drunk too much and had retreated into the forest to fornicate. They’d stumbled across the little girl, who’d been lying in the snow for several months, her body perfectly preserved in the freezing cold. She was a schoolchild, fourteen years old. The militia knew her. She had a reputation for having a disorderly sex life not just with boys of her own age but with older men; she could be bought for a litre bottle of vodka. Larisa had argued with her mother on the day she went missing. Larisa’s absence had been dismissed; she’d threatened to run away and it seemed she’d followed through on her word. No one had looked for her. According to Nesterov her parents were respected members of the community. Her father was an accountant at the assembly plant. They were ashamed of their daughter and wanted nothing to do with the investigation, which was to be kept secret; not covered up, but not publicized either. The parents agreed not to have a funeral for their child and were prepared to pretend that she was merely missing. There was no need for the community at large to know. Only a handful of people outside the militia were aware of the murder. Those people, including the couple who’d found the body, had been made clear of the consequences of talking. The matter would be concluded swiftly because they already had a man in custody.

Leo was aware that the militia could only investigate after a criminal case had been opened and that a criminal case was only opened if it was certain it would be concluded successfully. Failure to convict a suspect was unacceptable and the consequences severe. Bringing a case to court was supposed to mean one thing: that the suspect was guilty. If a case was difficult, complex, ambiguous, it simply wouldn’t be opened. For Nesterov and his subordinates to be this calm could only mean that they were convinced they had their man. Their job was done. The brainwork of investigations, the presentation of evidence, interrogations and ultimately the prosecution itself were the duties of the State’s investigative team, the procurator’s office and their team of sledovatyel, lawyers. Leo wasn’t being asked to assist: he was being given a tour, expected to marvel at their efficiency.

The cell was small with none of the ingenious modifications typical of those in the Lubyanka. There were concrete walls, a concrete floor. The suspect was seated, his hands cuffed behind his back. He was young, perhaps no more than sixteen or seventeen, with an adult’s muscular frame but a child’s face. His eyes seemed to roam with no particular sense of purpose. He didn’t seem afraid. He was calm although not in an intelligent way and showed no signs of physical abuse. Of course there were ways of inflicting injuries so the marks didn’t show but Leo’s gut reaction was that the boy hadn’t been harmed. Nesterov pointed at the suspect.

— This is Varlam Babinich.

At the sound of his name, the young man stared at Nesterov as a dog might stare at its owner. Nesterov continued:

— We found him in possession of a lock of Larisa’s hair. He has a history of stalking Larisa — lingering outside her house, propositioning her in the street. Larisa’s mother remembers seeing him on numerous occasions. She remembers her daughter complaining about him. He used to try and touch her hair.

Nesterov turned to the suspect, speaking slowly.

— Varlam, tell us what happened, tell us how you had a lock of her hair in your possession.

— I cut her. It was my fault.

— Tell this officer why you killed her.

— I liked her hair. I wanted it. I have a yellow book, a yellow shirt, a yellow tin and some yellow hair. This is why I cut her. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. When can I have the blanket?

— Let’s talk about that later.

Leo interrupted:

— What blanket?

— Two days ago he kidnapped a baby. It was wrapped in a yellow blanket. He has an obsession with the colour yellow. Fortunately the baby was unhurt. However, he has no sense of right or wrong. He does whatever he feels like without regard for consequence.

Nesterov moved closer to the suspect.

— When I found Larisa’s hair in your book, why did you think you’d be in trouble? Tell this man what you told me.

— She never liked me, she kept telling me to go away but I wanted her hair. I wanted it so bad. And when I cut her hair she didn’t say anything at all.

Nesterov turned to Leo, offering the questioning to him.

— Do you have any questions?

What was expected of him? Leo thought for a moment before asking:

— Why did you stuff her mouth with soil?

Varlam didn’t answer immediately. He seemed confused.

— Yes, there was something in her mouth. I remember that now. Don’t hit me.

Nesterov answered:

— No one is going to hit you, answer the question.

— I don’t know. I forget things. There was dirt in her mouth, yes.

Leo continued:

— Explain what happened when you killed her.

— I cut her.

— You cut her or you cut her hair?

— I’m sorry, I cut her.

— Listen to me carefully. Did you cut her body or did you cut her hair?

— I found her and I cut her. I should have said to somebody but I was worried. I didn’t want to get in trouble.

Varlam began to cry.

— I’m in so much trouble. I’m sorry. I just wanted her hair.

Nesterov stepped forward.

— That’s enough for the moment.

With those words of reassurance, Varlam stopped crying. He was calm again. It was impossible to tell from his face that this was a man in the frame for murder.

Leo and Nesterov stepped outside. Nesterov shut the door to the cell:

— We have evidence that he was at the crime scene. Snow prints match his boots exactly. You understand that he’s from the internat? He’s a simpleton.

Leo now understood Nesterov’s bravery in addressing this murder head on. They had a suspect who suffered from a mental disorder. Varlam was outside Soviet society, outside Communism, politics — he was explainable. His actions didn’t reflect on the Party, they didn’t alter the truism about crime because the suspect was not a real Soviet. He was an anomaly. Nesterov added:

— That shouldn’t lull you into thinking he’s incapable of violence. He’s admitted killing her. He has a motive, an irrational one, but a motive. He wanted something he couldn’t have — her blonde hair. He has a history of committing crimes when he can’t get what he wants: theft, kidnapping. Now he’s turned to murder. To him, killing Larissa was no different from stealing a baby. His morality is undeveloped. It’s sad. He should have been locked up a long time ago. This is a matter for the sledovatyel now.

Leo understood. The investigation was over. This young man was going to die.

Same Day

The bedroom was empty. Leo dropped to his knees, putting his head to the floorboards. Her case was missing. He stood up, ran out of the room, down the stairs and into the restaurant kitchen. Basarov was cutting fatty strips off an unidentifiable joint of yellow meat.

— Where’s my wife?

— Pay for the bottle and I’ll tell you.

He pointed to an empty bottle, the bottle of cheap vodka Leo had finished in the early hours of the morning, adding:

— I don’t care if it was you or your wife who drank it.

— Please, just tell me where she is.

— Pay for the bottle.

Leo didn’t have any money. He was still wearing his militia uniform. He’d left everything in the locker room.

— I’ll pay you later. However much you want.

— Later, sure, later you’ll pay me a million roubles.

Basarov continued cutting the meat, signalling his refusal to budge.

Leo ran back upstairs, rifling through his case, throwing everything out. In the back of the Book of Propagandists he had twenty-five-rouble notes, four of them, an emergency stash. He got to his feet, ran out, back down the stairs to the restaurant, pushing one of the notes into the man’s hand, considerably more than a single bottle was worth.

— Where is she?

— She left a couple of hours ago. She was carrying her case.

— Where was she going?

— She didn’t speak to me. I didn’t speak to her.