Филип Керр - Dead Meat

‘Sounds like you know something about it, sir.’

‘Only what I read in the papers, and see on TV.’

‘Then maybe you can tell me,’ he said, consulting his notebook. ‘Radio-biology: is that anything to do with nuclear?’

I shrugged.

‘Haven’t we got a dictionary round here?’

Andrei laughed and shook his head. ‘We haven’t even got a telephone directory.’

‘Well, isn’t there a library in this building?’

‘Not that I know about.’

I picked up the phone and asked the operator to put me through to Colonel Shelaeva’s office in Scientific Research. When at last I was connected I explained my problem to her.

‘Radio-biology?’ she said. ‘It’s a branch of biology that is concerned with the effects of radioactive substances on living organisms. Why do you ask?’

I looked at Andrei.

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Well it might just be a coincidence,’ he explained, ‘what with this Tolya fellow working for Anglo-Soyuzatom Transit, but there’s a Dr Sobchak in Mikhail Milyukin’s address book. She works at the Pavlov — the Medical University here in Peter. Well, when I rang up to speak to her they told me that she was away on holiday. And so I asked what kind of a doctor she was and they said a radio-biologist.’

‘Did you hear that?’ I said to Shelaeva.

‘More or less,’ she said. ‘And you can tell that detective something important from me. Tell him that it’s always a mistake to dismiss things as a coincidence in a criminal investigation. Coincidence is what this business is all about.’

With that advice she rang off.

‘What did she say?’

‘Radio-biology: it’s to do with the effects of radiation on living organisms. And she says to tell you that coincidence is what this business is all about.’

Andrei pulled a face.

‘Bitch,’ he said. ‘Now you know why I didn’t phone her myself. You risk a bloody lecture every time you ask for a lousy fingerprint. Reckon it’s worth calling Grushko on the car phone and telling him? I mean about Dr Sobchak.’

‘Why not?’ I said. ‘Maybe the people at Anglo-Soyuz will have heard of her.’

I lit a cigarette and watched Andrei write down the definition as provided by Colonel Shelaeva.

‘Where is this joint-venture anyway?’ I asked.

‘About seventy-five kilometres west of here, along the coast on the road to Sosnovy Bor.’

I glanced at my watch.

‘Then I may be gone by the time they’re back,’ I said. ‘Look, I’ve got to go to Moscow this afternoon. To pick up my car. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling Grushko that I’ll be back tomorrow, mid-morning with any luck.’

‘Sure,’ said Andrei. He lit a cigarette and gave me a sideways sort of look, as if trying to gauge what kind of character I was. ‘Mind if I ask you a question?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Do you like the ballet?’

‘When I can afford it.’

‘We’ve got a pretty good one here in Peter. I’m a close friend of the director. Maybe I could get you some free tickets.’

I wondered what someone like Andrei could possibly have done for the director of the Kirov.

‘I get it. Do a favour for a good man, right?’

‘Something like that,’ he said.

‘So what is it you want?’

‘Well, when you’re in Moscow, if you happen to see any music tapes — but especially the new Michael Jackson album...’ He took out his wallet and handed me two greasy five-dollar bills. ‘For my son’s birthday,’ he added quickly.

I pocketed his ten dollars.

‘Kids,’ I muttered. ‘They’ve got a lot to answer for.’

Andrei called Grushko after I had left and told him about Dr Sobchak.

‘So where’s she gone on holiday?’ he asked.

‘A friend’s dacha . The secretary wasn’t exactly sure where that was.’

‘So you’d better find out, hadn’t you?’

Then Andrei remembered to pass on my message.

‘Has he gone yet?’

‘About ten minutes ago.’

‘Damn,’ said Grushko. ‘I wanted him to get me some chocolate.’

With the exception of the high wire fence that marked its perimeter, Anglo-Soyuzatom Transit, situated in a remote birch forest on the shores of the Gulf of Finland, did not look like the kind of place that had anything to do with Russia’s nuclear-power industry. There were no tall towers or bubble-shaped reactors. No security guards and no dog patrol. The small collections of buildings that comprised the Russian headquarters of the joint-venture company were all pre-Revolutionary in their construction with the largest a well-restored dacha that might have belonged to some Finnish aristocrat in the days before that part of the coast came to be Russian. Built of white brick with grey pointing and a grey roof, it had a small palladian-style portico and so many different shapes and sizes of window that Grushko was tempted to suppose that the original architect must have had some private deal with a local glazier.

The battered Zhiguli carrying the two detectives drew up alongside a smart new BMW. They got out, admired the other car briefly and then walked up the steps to the front door.

The building’s interior was no less impressive to Grushko and Nikolai than the exterior: wall-to-wall thick wool carpets and expensive hardwood furniture. Near the door was a polished walnut desk on top of which was a computer. Peering at the four-colour monitor were an extremely attractive-looking girl of about twenty and, behind her, an academic-looking type with rimless glasses and a strong line in aftershave. The man straightened when he saw the two detectives.

‘Can I help you?’ he said.

‘This is Anglo-Soyuzatom?’ Grushko sounded uncertain. He hadn’t been expecting anything like this.

That’s right. I’m Yuri Gidaspov, transit controller here.’

Grushko produced his identity card and gave the man a long look at it.

‘Colonel Grushko, from the Criminal Services Department, sir,’ he said. ‘And this is Major Vladimirov.’

Nikolai’s eyes were busy with the secretary’s thighs, easily visible under the remnant of skirt that she was wearing.

‘It’s about Tolya,’ Grushko explained. ‘Anatoly Boldyrev. I understand he worked here.’

Gidaspov’s face registered a fleeting look of discomfort.

‘Ah yes,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I spoke to your lieutenant earlier this morning, didn’t I? Look er... why don’t we go into my office and discuss this.’

‘No calls, Katya,’ he said to the girl on the desk, and ushered them towards a shiny pine door.

Grushko’s eyes crossed the ceiling and the walls.

‘We’re not what you imagined, eh, Colonel?’ said Gidaspov, opening his office door.

‘No indeed, sir.’

The place used to belong to a member of the Politburo. As a matter of fact, he’s still here, in one of the smaller guest-sized dachi on the estate. We can’t get rid of him unless we can prove he came to live here illegally, but there’s no documentary evidence to prove anything either way.’

‘Evidence can be tricky stuff,’ Grushko observed.

‘Not that he gives us any trouble. Keeping his head down, I shouldn’t wonder. Still, he knew how to live well, I’ll say that for him. There’s a sauna, a billiard-room, an indoor swimming pool, a movie theatre — we use it as a lecture theatre — and six tennis courts. The tennis courts are where we park our trucks for the moment. ASA bought the place from the Russian government for $2 million.’

‘Is that all?’ said Grushko.

Nikolai whistled quietly. Gidaspov closed the door behind them. Grushko silently crossed the wide expanse of carpet and came round the mausoleum-sized desk to the picture window. In front of a row of trees he could see the tennis courts and on one of them was parked the most futuristic-looking truck Grushko had ever seen. It looked like one of the UFOs dreamed up by the Director of the Police Academy.