Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

Karpov’s apartment block was comparatively new and therefore, by that definition, prematurely old and decaying. It had been one of the last developments under the Brezhnev diktat promising a home of their own for every Russian family. The limited success of the program had been secondary to the million-plus kickbacks Brezhnev and his immediate family received from prefabricated material suppliers, incompetent architects, and cowboy builders. Some of the average-size rooms were smaller than the alloted space, and chicken coops at the rear of each apartment allowed the occupants some self-sufficiency in meat and vegetables they’d never been able to buy because Brezhnev and his ministers had run the country’s food supply and distribution as a private enterprise, too.

Karpov’s apartment was a surprising exception when Naina Karpov admitted them. In the living room there was a matching suite of two chairs and a sofa and a glass-fronted cabinet displaying a set of matching goblets. As they passed the open-doored kitchen, Danilov had seen an impressively large refrigerator/freezer, and the television looked new and had a very good picture: It was a cartoon program for the girl of about ten who whined in protest at being told to turn it off and go and read in another room. It was only when Danilov turned to see the child open a linking door that he realized that it was not, in fact, one apartment but two, connected by what must have been a later, additional door.

“What’s happened?” she demanded at once as the door closed behind the girl.

“It’s serious,” said Danilov. Naina Karpov, the woman in the photographs the man had been carrying, was neatly dressed in uncreased skirt and sweater. She wore no makeup or jewelry, and she had about her an uncaring resignation that reminded him of Olga, which was scarcely fitting because if she had been made up and dressed differently Naina Karpov still might have been an attractive woman. The incongruous reflection reminded Danilov that he hadn’t bothered to call Olga from Gorki the previous night or telephoned today to tell her he was back. He didn’t imagine she’d be interested. There was still plenty of time.

“What?” said the woman.

“I’m afraid your husband has been killed,” said Pavin.

“He didn’t come home last night,” declared the wife, as if it was a contributory fact.

“It happened yesterday,” said Pavin.

“How?”

Pavin looked at Danilov, who nodded, watching the woman curiously. Pavin said, “He was shot. With another man.”

Naina Karpov nodded without any obvious emotion. “I told him.”

“Told him what!” demanded Danilov.

“That it had to be wrong, what he was doing.”

Danilov suppressed the sigh. “What, exactly, was he doing?

“Selling stuff from the factory,” she declared bluntly.

“What sort of stuff?” coaxed the more patient Pavin.

She frowned. “Metal, of course. That was his job, ordering a lot of the metal they use there: making sure there was always a supply. Keeping a proper account of it. Which made it easy. He ordered more than they needed and sold the surplus. Said it was easy. That he’d never be caught.” She made a vague gesture around the connected apartments. “That’s how …”

“Who’d he sell metal to?” queried Danilov.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. He said other factories who didn’t have their supplies organized like he did. And garages. Places like that who always needed metal.”

“He told you all about it then?” said Pavin.

The shrug came again. “Not really. Not like I’m telling you. It just came out, in bits and pieces.”

“So he’s been doing it for a long time?”

“I suppose so.”

“How long would you say?”

“Two or three years.”

“Which?”

“Three, I suppose.”

“And you warned him to stop?”

“I told him I was frightened.”

“Why-and of what-were you frightened?”

“I didn’t like the friends he was making.”

“So you met them?” seized Danilov.

“No. That was the problem. I never met any of them. He said it was business- his business-but there wasn’t any socializing. He said the men he dealt with only liked dealing with other men.”

“You weren’t surprised when he didn’t come home last night?” challenged Danilov.

“He said he might be late.”

“Late?” qualified Pavin. “Not that he wouldn’t be coming home at all?”

“No.”

Danilov said, “Were there many nights he didn’t come home at all, Mrs. Karpov?”

The woman didn’t answer for several moments. “A few times.”

“Once or twice a week?”

“About that.”

Danilov said, “You’re sure you never met any of Valeri’s friends?”

“I asked, in the beginning. Wondered why we didn’t go out together. That’s when he told me it was business, but I didn’t believe him. Not that it was entirely business.”

Despite the denial, Danilov took the Gorki police file picture of Nikov from his briefcase and offered it to her. “Do you know this man?”

She dutifully studied it. “No.”

“Did he ever speak about any of his friends by name?”

“No, never.”

“Does the name Viktor Nikolaevich Nikov mean anything to you?”

“No, nothing at all.”

“Did he ever talk about Gorki?”

“No.”

“Go there?”

“Never, as far as I know.”

Pavin looked to Danilov for guidance. Danilov said, “Is there a desk anywhere where Valeri kept his papers? Bills, official letters, things like that?”

“A box in the bedroom.” Without being asked she led the way into a room off the entry hall of the apartment that they were in. Again the suite matched and there was a fitted, silklike cover over the bed. The box was at the bottom of the closet. When she opened the closet Danilov saw there were three good-quality suits-one with the familiar sheen-with a separate pair of shoes neatly arranged beneath each. The box wasn’t locked. There was the couple’s marriage certificate and birth certificates of both girls and some photographs. The leases for the two apartments were pinned together, and at the very bottom there were photographs of an elderly couple-the man in uniform-and old, tattered food allowance books.

The woman said, “They’re Valeri’s parents. His father fought in the Patriotic War. He said he kept the ration books as a reminder: that he’d never let himself be as poor as they were.”

“There’s no bank statements?” said Pavin.

“Who trusts banks in this country!” she said almost indignantly. “Valeri certainly didn’t.”

“Or letters?”

She shrugged. “Who’s there to write to us? Both our parents are dead. Valeri always dealt personally, face to face, with anything official. There’s no point in writing.”

“Have you got a car?” asked Pavin.

“Foreign. An Audi. He was very proud of it.”

“They’re not easy to get in Moscow. And they’re expensive,” said Danilov.

“Valeri said they were easy to get when you had friends like he did. I told you, he sold metal to garages.”

“Did he drive it last night?”

She shook her head. “He didn’t like using it at night. Leaving it. Too easy to get it stripped.” She pointed toward the dressing table. “There are the keys.”

Danilov led the way back into the main room. As they reached it, Naina Karpov blurted suddenly, “Was it a fight over a woman?”

“No,” said Danilov. “It was a gang murder. Mafia.”

For the first time she reacted, eyes widening. “Mafia! How could it be mafia?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” said Pavin. “And we’re going to have to ask you formally to identify the body. Not today. Possibly tomorrow or the day after.” It would take at least until then for the postmortem to be completed.