Boris Akunin - Special Assignments

'You squat hundred time this morninT Masa asked menacingly when Anisii had had a little to eat and turned pink from the grog. 'You beat pams on iron stick? Show me pams.'

Tulipov hid his palms behind his back, because he was too lazy to pound them against the special metal stick a thousand times a day, and anyway, you know, it was painful. The tough calluses were simply not developing on the edges of Anisii's hands, and Masa abused him seriously for that.

'Have you finished eating? All right, now you can report on business to Erast Petrovich,' Angelina told him and took the supper things off the table, leaving just the silver jug with the grog and the mugs.

Angelina was lovely, a real sight for sore eyes. Light-blonde hair woven into a magnificent plait that was arranged in a bun on the back of her head, a clear, white-skinned face, large, serious grey eyes that seemed to radiate some strange light into the world around her. A special woman: you didn't meet many like her. A swan like that would never even glance at a shabby, lop-eared specimen like Tulipov. But Erast Petrovich was a fine partner in every possible respect, and women liked him. During the three years that Tulipov had been his assistant, several passions, each more lovely than the last, had reigned for a while in the outhouse on Malaya Nikitskaya Street before leaving, but there had never been one as simple, bright and serene as Angelina. It would be good if she stayed a bit longer. Or still better -if she stayed for ever.

'Thank you, Angelina Samsonovna,' said Anisii, looking at her tall, stately figure as she walked away.

A queen - that was the word for her, even though she came from a simple lower middle-class background. And the Chief always had queens. There was nothing so surprising about it: that was the kind of man he was.

Angelina Krasheninnikova had appeared in the house on Malaya Nikitskaya Street a year earlier. Erast Petrovich had helped the orphan in a certain difficult business, and afterwards she had clung to him. She obviously wanted to thank him in the best way she could and, apart from her love, she had nothing to give. It was hard now to remember how they had managed without her before. The Collegiate Counsellor's bachelor residence had become cosy and warm, welcoming. Anisii had always liked being here, but now he liked it even more. And with Angelina there, the Chief seemed to have become a bit gentler and simpler somehow. It was good for him.

'All right, Tulipov, now you're well fed and drunk, t-tell me what you and Izhitsin dug up over there.'

Erast Petrovich had an unusual, confused expression. His conscience is bothering him, Tulipov realised, for not going to the exhumation and sending me instead. But Anisii was only too happy if he could come in useful once in a blue moon and spare his adored chief unnecessary stress.

After all, he was pampered by the Chief in every way: provided with an apartment at public expense, a decent salary, interesting work. The greatest debt he owed him, one that could never be repaid, was for his sister Sonya, a poor cripple and imbecile. Anisii's heart no longer trembled for her, because while he was at work, Sonya was cared for with affection and fed. Fandorin's maid Palashka loved her and pampered her. Now she had even moved in with the Tulipovs. She would run to her master's house and help Angelina with the housework for an hour or two, then run back to Sonya - Tulipov's apartment was close by, on Granatny Lane.

Anisii began his report calmly, working up to the main point. 'Egor Zakharov found clear signs that two of the women had been brutally mutilated after they were dead. The beggar Marya Kosoi, who died in unexplained circumstances on the eleventh of February, had her throat cut and her abdominal cavity slit open; her liver is missing. The woman of easy virtue Alexandra Zotova, who was killed on the fifth of April (it was assumed by her pimp Dzapoev) also had her throat cut and her womb was cut out. Another woman, the gypsy Marfa Zhemchuzhnikova, killed by a person or persons unknown on the tenth of March, is a doubtful case: her throat was not cut, her stomach was slashed open from top to bottom and side to side, but all her organs are in place.'

At this point Anisii happened by chance to glance to one side and stopped in confusion. Angelina was standing in the doorway with one hand pressed to her full breasts and looking at him, her eyes wide with terror.

'Good Lord,' she said, crossing herself, 'what are these terrible things you're saying, Mr Tulipov?'

The Chief glanced round in annoyance. 'Angelina, go to your room. This is not for your ears. Tulipov and I are working.'

The beautiful woman left without a murmur and Anisii glanced reproachfully at his chief. You may be right, Erast Petrovich, but you could be a bit gentler. Of course, Angelina Samsonovna is not blue-blooded, she's not your equal, but I swear she'd be more than a match for any noble-born woman.

Any other man would make her his lawful wife without thinking twice. And he'd count himself lucky. But he didn't say anything out loud; he didn't dare.

'Signs of sexual intercourse?' the Chief asked intently, paying no attention to Tulipov's facial expression.

'Zakharov had difficulty in determining that. Even though the ground was frozen, some time had still passed. But there's something more important than all that!'

Anisii paused for effect and moved on to the main point. He told Erast Petrovich how on his instructions they had opened up the so-called 'ditches' - the common graves for the bodies without names. In all they had inspected more than seventy corpses. On nine of the bodies - and one of them was a man -there had been clear signs of savage abuse. The general picture was similar to today's: someone with a good knowledge of anatomy and access to a surgical instrument had severely mutilated the bodies.

'The most remarkable thing, Chief, is that three of the mutilated bodies were taken from last year's ditches!' Anisii declared, and then modestly added: 'I ordered them to dig up the ditches for November and December just to make sure.'

Erast Petrovich had listened to his assistant very attentively, but now he suddenly leapt up off his chair: 'December, you say, and November! That's incredible!'

'I was indignant about it too. How about our police, eh? A monster like that active all these months in Moscow, and we don't even hear a word about it! If it's a social outcast who gets killed, then it's none of the police's business - they just bury them and forget about them. You know, Chief, in your place I think I'd really give Yurovsky and Eichmann what for.'

But the Chief seemed upset about something else. He walked quickly across the room and back again and muttered: 'It couldn't have happened in December, let alone in November! He was still in London then!'

Tulipov blinked. He didn't understand what London had to do with anything - Erast Petrovich had not yet acquainted him with his theory about the Ripper.

Fandorin blushed as he recalled the insulted look he had given Prince Dolgorukoi earlier when the Governor had said that his Deputy for Special Assignments was rarely mistaken.

It seemed that Erast Petrovich was sometimes mistaken, and seriously so.

The delightful decision has been realised. Only God's providence could have helped me to implement it so soon.

The whole day was filled with a feeling of rapture and invulnerability –following yesterday's ecstasy.

Rain and slush, there was a lot of work in the afternoon, but I don't feel tired at all. My soul is singing, longing for open space, to wander through the streets and waste plots of the neighbourhood.

Evening again. I am walking along Protopopovsky Lane towards Kalanchevka Street. There's a woman standing there, a peasant woman, haggling with a cabby. She doesn't strike a deal, the cabby drives off and she's standing there, shuffling her feet in confusion. I look and see she has a huge, swollen belly. Pregnant, seven months at least. I feel my heart start to race: there it is, it has found me.