Child 44 - Страница 45

— At least let me stop the bleeding.

Moiseyev nodded.

— Leave the bathroom door open.

Tyapkin left the kitchen and lurched to the bathroom, leaving a bloody hand print on the door, which remained open as instructed. Moiseyev surveyed the apartment. Leo could tell he was jealous. The doctor had a pleasant home. Tyapkin ran the water in the sink, pressing a towel against his nose and speaking, his back turned to them.

— I’m very sorry for what I did. But I never killed anyone. You must believe me. Not because I think my reputation can be salvaged. I know I’m ruined. But someone else murdered that boy, someone who must be caught.

Moiseyev was becoming impatient.

— Come on.

— I wish you the best of luck.

Hearing those words Leo ran into the room, spinning Tyapkin round. Embedded in his arm was a syringe. Tyapkin’s legs went slack. He fell. Leo caught him, laying him down on the floor, pulling the syringe out of his arm. He checked his pulse. Tyapkin was dead. Moiseyev stared down at the body.

— That makes our job easier.

Leo looked up. Tyapkin’s wife had returned. She was standing at the entrance to the apartment, holding her family’s groceries.

1 April

Aleksandr closed the ticket office. As far as he was aware Nesterov had been true to his word. The secret of his sexual activities had been contained. None of the customers glanced at him oddly. None of them whispered about him. His family hadn’t shunned him. His mother still loved him. His father still thanked him for his hard work. They were both still proud of him. The price for this status quo had been the names of over one hundred men, men who’d been rounded up while Aleksandr continued selling tickets, answering passenger queries and dealing with the day-today running of a station. His life had returned to normal. His routine was almost identical. He ate dinner with his parents, took his father to hospital. He cleaned the station, read the papers. However, he no longer went to the movies. In fact, he no longer went into the centre of town at all. He was fearful of who he might meet; perhaps a militia officer who would smirk knowingly at him. His world had shrunk. But it had shrunk when he’d given up his dream of being an athlete and he told himself he’d adjust just as he’d adjusted before.

The truth is that he spent every moment wondering if the men had guessed he’d betrayed them. Maybe they’d been told. The sheer number of arrests meant that they were probably forced into cells with each other. What else would they have spent their time doing except speculate on who’d written the list? It was the first time in their life they no longer had anything to hide. And as he thought about those men he’d found himself wishing that he could swap his freedom for the public humiliation of one those cells. However, he wouldn’t be welcome there. He had nowhere, neither this world, nor their world.

He shut the door to the ticket office, locking it behind him and checking the clock which hung over the concourse. He put the keys into his pocket and walked onto the platform. A couple were waiting for the train. He recognized them by sight although not by name. They waved to him and he waved back, walking to the end of the platform, watching as the train approached. This train was on time. Aleksandr stepped off the platform and positioned himself across one of the tracks, staring up at the night sky.

He hoped his parents would believe the note he’d left behind. In the note he’d explained that he’d never been able to recover from the disappointment of failing to become a long-distance runner. And he’d never forgiven himself for letting his father down.

Same Day

Nesterov had spent the last four years promising his family a better place to live, a promise that until recently he used to repeat regularly. He no longer believed that they would be designated a better residence; no longer believed if he worked hard, if his wife worked hard, their labour would be translated into material benefit. They lived on Kropotkinsky Street, on the outskirts of town, close to the lumber mills. The houses on this street had been built haphazardly; all of them were different shapes and sizes. Nesterov spent much of his free time making home improvements. He was a competent carpenter and had replaced the window frames, the doors. But over the years the foundations had sunk and the front of the house was now tilting forward, slanting at an angle so that the door could only open so far before it became wedged into the ground. Some years ago he’d built a small extension which he used as a workshop. He and his wife, Inessa, crafted tables and chairs and fixed up the house, making whatever they needed. They did this not just for their own family but for any of the families on the street. All a person had to do was bring them the raw materials and perhaps, as a gesture, some item of food or drink.

Yet in the end no amount of tinkering could compensate for the property’s shortcomings. There was no running water — the nearest well was a ten-minute walk. There was no plumbing — there was a pit toilet at the back of the house. When they’d moved in the pit toilet was filthy and falling apart. It had been far too shallow and it was impossible to go in without gagging at the smell. Nesterov had constructed a new one, in a separate location, working through the night to finish. It had decent walls and a much deeper hole with a barrel of sawdust to throw in afterwards. Even so, he was aware that his family lived cut off from the advancements in comfort and hygiene, with no promise of a better future. He was forty years old. His pay was less than many of the twenty-something workers at the car assembly plant. His aspiration — to provide a decent home — had come to nothing.

There was a knock on the front door. It was late. Nesterov, still wearing his uniform, could hear Inessa answer the door. A moment later she appeared in the kitchen.

— It’s someone for you. He’s from your work. I don’t recognize him.

Nesterov walked into the hallway. Leo was standing outside. Nesterov turned to his wife.

— I’ll deal with this.

— Will he be coming inside?

— No, this won’t take long.

Inessa glanced at Leo and then left. Nesterov stepped outside, shutting the door.

Leo had run all the way here. The news of Aleksandr’s death had wiped out any sense of discretion. He no longer felt the disappointment and melancholy that had wracked him all week. He felt unhinged, part of a horrific, absurd charade, a player in a grotesque farce — the naive dreamer, striving for justice but leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. His aspiration — that a killer be caught — had been answered with bloodshed. Raisa had known all along, she’d known in the forest, she’d known two nights ago, she’d tried to warn him and yet he’d pressed on, like a child on an adventure.

What could one man achieve?

He had his reply: the ruin of two hundred lives, the suicide of a young man and the death of a doctor. A young man’s body cut in two by a train: this was the fruit of his labour. This was what he’d risked his life for; this was what he’d risked Raisa’s life for. This was his redemption.

— Aleksandr is dead. He killed himself, threw himself under a train.

Nesterov dropped his head.

— I’m sorry to hear that. We gave him a chance to sort himself out. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was too sick.

— We’re responsible for his death.

— No, he was ill.

— He was twenty-two years old. He had a mother and a father and he liked going to the cinema. And now he’s dead. But the good thing is if we find another dead child we can just blame it on Aleksandr, solve the case in record time.

— That’s enough.

— What are you doing this for? Because you’re not doing it for the money or the perks!

Leo stared at Nesterov’s lopsided house. Nesterov replied:

— Tyapkin killed himself because he was guilty.

— As soon as we started arresting those men he knew we’d question those children, he knew we’d track him down.

— He had the surgical skill necessary to cut out a child’s stomach. He gave a false testimony to you regarding the girl’s murder to confuse us. He was devious, cunning.

— He told me the truth. That little girl’s stomach was cut out. Her mouth was stuffed with bark just as the boy’s stomach was cut out and his mouth was stuffed with bark. She had string tied around her ankle and so did the boy. They were killed by the same man. And it wasn’t Dr Tyapkin and it wasn’t that teenager Varlam Babinich.

— Go home.

— There was a body in Moscow. A young boy, called Arkady, not even five years old. I didn’t see his body but I was told that he was found naked, his stomach cut open, his mouth stuffed with dirt. I suspect his mouth was stuffed with bark.

— Suddenly there’s a murdered child in Moscow? That’s very convenient, Leo. I don’t believe it.

— I didn’t believe it either. I had the grieving family in front of me, telling me their son had been murdered, and I didn’t believe it. I told them it wasn’t true. How many other incidents have been covered up? We have no way of knowing, no way of finding out. Our system is perfectly arranged to allow this man to kill as many times as he likes. And he’s going to kill again and again, and we’re going to keep arresting the wrong people, innocent people, people we don’t like, or people we don’t approve of, and he’s going to kill again and again.