Child 44 (30 page)

—Would it be possible to speak to the children on our own? They might be intimidated by your presence.

The director smiled.

—They won’t be intimidated by me. But by all means…

He gestured to the flight of stairs.

—The older ones live on the top floor. It’s very much their fiefdom up there.

The upstairs bedrooms, tucked under the roof, contained no bed frames, just the occasional thin mattress on the floor. The older children evidently took their lunch at a time which suited them; no doubt they’d already eaten and taken the best of the food.

Leo stepped into the first room on the landing. He caught sight of a girl hiding behind the door and saw a glint of metal. She was armed with a knife. Seeing his uniform she slipped the knife away, the blade disappearing into the folds of her dress.

—We thought you were the boys. They’re not allowed in here.

Some twenty girls, at a guess aged between fourteen and sixteen, stared at Leo with hardened faces. Leo’s mind was thrown back to his promise to Anatoly Brodsky that the two daughters were safe in the care of a Moscow orphanage. It had been an empty, ignorant assurance. Leo understood that now. Brodsky had been right. Those two girls would’ve been better on their own, looking after each other.

—Where do the boys sleep?

The older boys, some of whom had been in the director’s office, were huddled at the back of their room, waiting, expecting them. Leo entered the room and knelt down, placing an album of photographs on the floor in front of them.

—I’d like you to look through these photos, tell me if any of these men have ever approached you, offered you money in return for sexual favours.

None of the boys moved or gave any indication that his supposition was correct.

—You haven’t done anything wrong. We need your help.

Leo opened the album, slowly turning the pages of photographs. He reached the end. The audience of teenagers had stared at the photos but given no reaction. He turned back through the pages. There was still no reaction from the boys. He was about to shut the album when a boy from the back of the group reached out and touched one of the photos.

—This man propositioned you?

—Pay me.

—He paid you?

—No, you pay me and I’ll tell you.

Leo and Moiseyev clubbed together, offering the boy three roubles. The boy flicked through the album, stopping at a page and pointing to one of the photos.

—The man looked like that man.

—So it wasn’t this man?

—No, but similar.

—Do you know his name?

—No.

—Can you tell us anything about him?

—Pay me.

Moiseyev shook his head, refusing to pay any more.

—We could arrest you for profiteering.

Cutting the threat short, Leo took out the last of his money, giving it to the boy.

—That’s all I have.

—He works at the hospital.

Same Day

Leo drew his gun. They were on the top floor of Apartment Building 7: apartment 14 was at the end of the corridor. They’d been given the address by staff at the hospital. The suspect was off sick and had been for the past week, a length of time which would have meant, if all the
MGB
officers hadn’t been busy with their interrogations, that he would’ve almost certainly been questioned. It turned out that the beginning of his sickness corresponded with the first wave of arrests against the town’s homosexual population.

Leo knocked on the door. There was no response. He called out, stating their name and rank. There was no reply. Moiseyev lifted his boot, ready to kick at the lock. The door opened.

Seeing the guns pointed at him, Dr Tyapkin raised his hands and stepped back. Leo barely recognized him. This was the same man who’d helped him with the examination of the girl’s body, the prestigious doctor transferred from Moscow. His hair and eyes were wild. He’d lost weight. His clothes were rumpled. Leo had seen men broken by worry; he’d seen how their muscles lost shape and strength, as if they’d been eaten up by fear.

Leo pushed the door open with his foot, surveying the apartment.

—Are you alone?

—My youngest son’s here. But he’s asleep.

—How old is he?

—Four months.

Moiseyev stepped in, smashing the metal butt of his gun against Tyapkin’s nose. Tyapkin dropped to his knees, blood running into his cupped hands. Moiseyev ordered Leo.

—Search him.

Moiseyev began searching the apartment. Leo crouched down, helping Tyapkin to his feet, bringing him into the kitchen, where he sat him down on a chair.

—Where’s your wife?

—Buying food…she’ll be back soon.

—The hospital said you were sick.

—That’s true, in a way. I heard about the arrests. I knew it was only a matter of time before you came to me.

—Tell me what happened.

—I was mad, there’s no other explanation for it. I didn’t know his age. He was young. Maybe fifteen or sixteen, I didn’t want someone who’d talk to me or someone who’d tell anyone else about me. I didn’t want to have to meet them again. Or see them. Or speak to them. I wanted anonymity. I reasoned no one would ever listen to an orphan. His word would count for nothing. I could give him a little money and that would be the end. I wanted someone invisible–can you understand?

Having completed a cursory search, Moiseyev re-entered the room and holstered his gun. He grabbed Tyapkin’s broken nose, twisting the fractured bone right and left, causing him to scream in pain. A baby awoke in a nearby room and began to cry.

—You fuck these boys then kill them?

Moiseyev let go of Tyapkin’s nose. The doctor dropped to the floor, curling up into a ball. It was some time before he could manage to speak.

—I didn’t have sex with him. I didn’t go through with it. I couldn’t go through with it. I asked him, I paid him, but I couldn’t do it. I walked away.

—Get to your feet. We’re leaving.

—We have to wait till my wife comes back–we can’t leave my son alone.

—The kid will survive. Get to your feet.

—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!