Филип Керр - Dead Meat

‘If it appeared on a report that I was moonlighting, then I could lose this job.’ He spoke sullenly, like a schoolboy who had been caught stealing fruit. ‘I’ve already lost any real prospect of getting on in the militia. I suppose you know I was invalided out of the OMON squad with no compensation?’

‘I know it,’ said Grushko.

‘I’ve got a wife and family, and I can’t afford to lose this job. I need the money. And any extra that I can earn.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Besides, it’s not as if there’s much to tell.’

‘Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?’

‘All right.’ Rodionov poured himself some apple juice from the jug on the table. Really it was little more than water with a few slices of apple core floating in it.

‘I head up a small syndicate of militiamen offering private security to people. You know the kind of thing I’m talking about. Mostly it’s shop owners, cooperative restaurants, and joint-ventures — people trying to make an honest living who find themselves coming up against the Mafia. Occasionally we get an individual client. Like Mikhail Milyukin.

‘He contacted me. Said that he’d been threatened by some people. At first I assumed he was talking about the Mafia, but it later transpired that it was some people in the Department who had him really spooked. He didn’t say what they wanted from him, just that they were trying to intimidate him. Apparently there was some Mafioso, a pimp whom Milyukin had helped to send to the zone, and these KGB people had told him that they were going to see to it that this fellow obtained an early release. Milyukin was worried that if he did get out, then he might come looking for him.

‘Well, I went to his apartment and we talked. I worked out a plan and a price for him but he said that it was too much. He offered me fifty roubles in cash, on account — and I turned it down.’ Rodionov shrugged. ‘Simple as that, sir.’

‘When was this?’

‘A couple of days before he was shot.’

‘Morning or afternoon?’

Rodionov thought for a moment. ‘Morning. Between nine and ten o’clock.’

‘It must have been just before the burglary,’ I said.

Rodionov looked surprised.

‘Burglary? The papers didn’t mention any burglary.’ His surprise turned into a frown. ‘Come to think of it though, there was something...’

‘Let’s have it,’ said Grushko.

‘It was when I was on my way out of the building where Milyukin lived. I saw this face. Fellow with a long record for petty thieving. Mainly a pickpocket, but he’s done a bit of burglary in his time. Name of Pyotr Mogilnikov. Anyway, he was talking to these two characters in a car parked right outside. But I didn’t think anything about it at the time. I mean, Milyukin was worried about being killed, not ripped off.’

‘Can you describe the two men in the car?’

‘I didn’t get much more than a glance at them sir. But they were dark and one of them was smoking American cigarettes. I remember him throwing the pack out of the car.’

‘Brand?’

Rodionov shrugged and shook his head.

‘What make of car was it?’

‘Er... an old Zim. Black. Red upholstery. A nice clean car.’ He stubbed his cigarette out with some ferocity. ‘You know sir, for what it’s worth, I’m not very proud of myself — considering what happened to Mr Milyukin. I mean, he was a nice fellow. But fifty roubles, it just wasn’t enough, for a syndicate.’

Grushko nodded sombrely. He wiped his soup bowl with a piece of black bread which he then ate.

‘Then we’ll say no more about it, this time,’ he said and, because I had also finished eating, he stood up from the table. At the same moment one of the dinner-ladies arrived bearing three plates of steaming sausage.

‘Thank you for the soup,’ said Grushko, ‘but we have to get back now.’

‘Here, what about your sausage?’ said Rodionov. ‘You eat it,’ said Grushko. ‘With two jobs, you probably need it.’

When we returned to the Big House we found the corridor outside Grushko’s office busy with OMON squad militia and the Georgians they had arrested in the gym at the Pribaltskaya. We saw Sasha still wearing one of the new flak jackets that had just been supplied to the Criminal Services Department, and Grushko waved him towards us.

‘Any trouble?’ he asked.

‘One of them gave us the slip, sir,’ admitted Sasha. ‘But we’ll pick him up.’

‘See that you do.’

We watched the gang being led into the interrogation-room. They were attracting quite a bit of attention with their dark good-looks, their smart clothes and their macho swagger. Georgians always do. Seeing Dzhumber Gankrelidze, Grushko added, ‘I’ll want a word with that one. He’s got some explaining to do.’

Sasha nodded.

‘Is Nikolai Vladimirovich back yet?’ asked Grushko.

‘In the office. He’s got Lieutenant Khodyrev with him. And some kid.’

We retreated down the corridor. The door to the detectives’ room was open. Catching sight of Grushko, Andrei, still pursuing his telephone inquiry, stood up nervously, as if expecting to be yelled at once again.

‘Still nothing to report, sir,’ he said awkwardly.

Grushko grunted, his interest apparently reserved for the youth sitting in front of Nikolai and Khodyrev, his left hand manacled to a statue of Lenin. He wore a black leather jacket with a painting of the Buddha on the back, and several earrings. His hair was fashionably quiffed and he looked as if he had been crying. He was reading through the statement he had given to Nikolai.

‘If you’re happy with what’s written there, then sign it,’ said Nikolai, and handed him a pen.

The youth nodded and then sniffed unhappily. He took the pen, wet the end on his yellowish tongue, laid the statement on the desk and signed it carefully. Nikolai collected the statement, inspected it to see if Mickey Mouse had given him his autograph and, seeing Grushko, stood up and came towards us.

‘Is this the kid who washed Milyukin’s Golden Calf?’

That’s right sir. His name is Valentin Bogomolov. He’s a rope-swallower.’

Grushko frowned. Before he had joined Grushko’s team, Nikolai had spent several years with the drugs squad. His knowledge of drug-users’ slang was second to none.

‘I mean, he smokes a bit of hash.’

‘Thank you,’ growled Grushko.

‘He lives with his mum and dad in the flat upstairs from Milyukin.’

‘So what’s his story?’

Nikolai handed Grushko Bogomolov’s statement. The older man glanced over it and then nodded.

‘Perhaps I’d better hear this for myself,’ he said and perching himself on the corner of Nikolai’s desk, picked up the Golden Calf, nodded at Khodyrev and then faced the youth sternly.

Nikolai took out his cigarettes and shoved one in Bogomolov’s mouth as if he had been feeding a baby.

‘This is Colonel Grushko,’ he explained, and lit the cigarette. ‘I want you to tell him what you’ve been telling us. Let’s start from where you first saw these men outside Milyukin’s door.’

Bogomolov took an unsteady chestful of smoke and nodded meekly.

‘Well, I was on my way downstairs when I saw them,’ he said tremulously. These three men. At first I thought they might be plainclothes militiamen or something. I mean, they didn’t look like thieves, but I knew they didn’t live in that flat. Plus the fact that they had keys. Two of them let themselves in the door while the third one stayed outside. He looked like he was keeping watch, and I guess then I knew they were up to something. Actually, he seemed less well-dressed than the other two who went in, and more like a thief, if you know what I mean.’