Филип Керр - Dead Meat

‘Yes, sir.’

Kornilov picked up his fountain-pen. His yellowing fingers began to write.

‘That’s all,’ he murmured.

When the old man, whose name was Semyonov, had answered all our questions, Sasha thanked him for coming in and, wishing to humour him a little, asked him how he had come by the impressive row of medals he was wearing on his jacket.

‘During the blockade of the city,’ said the old man. ‘I was on the Pulkovo Heights. Four years facing the German 18th Army. Most of them are service medals. But this one I got for commanding the execution of eight German officers. We built a gallows right here in the centre of Leningrad and after a bit of a trial we put them on four trucks, two apiece, parked under the beam and then strung them up. Half of Leningrad came to watch.’ The old man grinned cariously. ‘First decent bit of entertainment folks had seen in three years.’

Sasha nodded politely but I could see that he was shocked. Neither of us was old enough to think of the nine-hundred-day siege, when over a million citizens of Leningrad had died, as anything more than another morbid statistic in our country’s bitter history. Distracted from his continuing telephone inquiry by old Semyonov’s story, Andrei nodded grimly.

‘Still,’ he sniffed, ‘I expect they deserved it.’

‘That they did,’ said Semyonov. ‘They were war-criminals. The only pity is that we didn’t hang more of them.’

Grushko emerged from his dressing-down in General Kornilov’s office and directed a face the colour of blood towards Andrei.

‘Haven’t you finished making those calls yet?’ he snarled. ‘What’s the matter with you: sleeves too long or something?’

I smiled. Sleeves that were much longer than a man’s arms had been a mark of the privilege that the tsars enjoyed, showing that they did no work.

Andrei picked up the phone and extinguished his cigarette. ‘No, sir.’

‘Well get on with it then. And where’s Nikolai Vladimirovich?’

I stood up and walked towards him. I was just about to remind Grushko that Nikolai and Alek Svridigailov had spent half the night keeping an eye on the Georgian gang at the Pribaltskaya when the two of them appeared in the corridor behind him.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ said Grushko, but before either one of them could answer he had turned to me. ‘And who’s the Hero of the Soviet Union with Sasha?’

‘Mr Semyonov,’ I said. ‘Reckons he saw Milyukin on the night he was killed.’

‘Why the hell doesn’t anyone tell me what’s going on around here?’ Advancing on the old man he fixed a grumpy sort of smile to his face.

‘Hello, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m Colonel Grushko.’

The old man rose half out of his chair and touched his forehead with his forefinger in what looked like a salute.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I know. You were on television last night. I saw you. That’s why I came.’

Grushko winced at the memory of it, and I saw Nikolai and Sasha exchange a smile.

‘I hear you think you saw Mikhail Milyukin on the night that he was murdered.’

‘It’s what I’ve been telling the two detectives here,’ said Semyonov. ‘I was in the Poltava Restaurant, at the Peter and Paul Fortress, dining with some old army friends. We were in the blockade together, you know, and we always meet around this time of year. Of course the Poltava is expensive and so we have to save up a bit, but it’s always worth it.’

Grushko nodded patiently.

‘Milyukin was at another table and he seemed to be waiting for someone.’

‘When was this exactly?’

‘Well, we got there at around eight. And he came in not long after that I think. He waited almost two hours, until about ten.’

Semyonov drew the sleeve up his bony old arm to reveal a new army watch of the kind you could buy from any street-corner spiv.

‘I’m sure about the time, because my daughter bought me this watch for my birthday and I kept looking at it all evening. Anyway, whoever Mr Milyukin was waiting for didn’t show up. He kept looking at his watch too. That’s why I noticed him in the first place. I wondered if he had a new watch as well.’

‘And you’re sure it was him?’

The phone rang and was answered by Andrei.

‘Oh yes,’ said Semyonov. ‘It was him all right. He’s on television as well, you see. And I never forget a face that’s been on TV.’

‘Thank you, Mr Semyonov,’ said Grushko. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

‘I know this restaurant, sir,’ said Nikolai.

‘You would.’

His hand covering the mouthpiece of the telephone receiver, Andrei waved it at Grushko.

‘I’ve got a Lieutenant Khodyrev on the line,’ he explained. ‘From Militia Station 59. She says that Milyukin reported a break-in there, two days before the murder.’

‘So where the hell have they been?’ said Grushko. ‘On holiday?’

‘Do you want a word with her?’

Grushko reached for the phone and then seemed to think better of it.

‘No,’ he said glancing at his watch. ‘Tell her to meet us at Milyukin’s address in half an hour. We can go there on our way to this restaurant, Nikolai.’

As Andrei relayed the message, Grushko looked at me inquiringly.

‘Yes, I’ll come.’

‘Sounds like a few of our pigeons coming home,’ said Nikolai.

‘You’ve got a car, haven’t you?’ Grushko said to Andrei when he had finished the call.

‘Yes, sir.’ There was no mistaking the alacrity in Andrei’s young voice. Later on, Nikolai told me that this was Andrei’s first month with Criminal Services.

‘Good. Because there’s something I want you to do. I want you to take Mr Semyonov home.’

Andrei’s face fell, but he knew better than to argue with a man like Grushko.

Lieutenant Khodyrev was an attractive-looking woman in her early thirties, with dark hair gathered in a bun at the back of her head and the healthiest teeth I had ever seen in any Russian’s mouth. No one goes to the dentist very much these days: the cost of any kind of health care is hugely expensive and most people rely on folk remedies and old wives’ tales when they get sick.

She was wearing plainclothes and although Grushko seemed too preoccupied to pay Khodyrev much attention, it was clear to see that Nikolai was very taken with her, holding open every door for her as if he had learned his manners at the court of the tsar.

‘Have you been with the militia very long, Lieutenant?’ he asked her as the four of us came upstairs to Nina Milyukin’s flat.

‘Four years,’ she said. ‘Before that I was a gymnast with the Olympic team.’

Which explained her generally healthy demeanour.

‘Colonel Grushko, sir,’ she said, ‘there’s something else I’ve discovered.’

‘Something else that slipped your mind? Or are you intending to impress us with your investigative abilities in instalments?’

‘No sir,’ she said patiently. ‘The fact is I’ve only just been transferred to Station 59 and it’s taken a little while to find my feet there. I found out about this other thing just after I called the Big House.’

We arrived on the landing outside the flat.

‘Well, what is it?’

‘About three months ago, before I went to Station 59—’

‘All right,’ said Grushko, ‘I get the picture. None of this is your fault.’

‘Thank you, sir. Mikhail Milyukin came into the station and asked for police protection. He said that the Mafia was after him. He would have got it too, only my predecessor, Captain Stavrogin, was ordered to turn him down.’

‘Ordered? By who?’

‘Someone in the Department. I don’t know why exactly. But the official reason was that no Russian citizen should be given any special privileges.’