Tom Smith - Child 44

— And if you catch him, what will you do?

Remarkably, it was the first time Leo had been asked that question. Until now they’d concentrated on whether it was even possible to catch him.

— I’ll kill him.

Once Leo had explained the nature of his personal investigation, Fyodor wasted no time with insults or recriminations. It evidently didn’t cross his mind to refuse them assistance or doubt their sincerity or worry about the repercussions. Nor did those thoughts occur to Fyodor’s wife or his mother, at least not in any significant way. Fyodor would take them to Galina’s apartment immediately.

The shortest route there involved crossing the railway tracks, where Arkady had been found. There were several train tracks running parallel, a wide space, lined with ragged shrubs and trees. With the fading evening light, Leo appreciated the appeal of this secluded no man’s land. In the heart of the city it felt eerily empty. Had the boy run across these sleepers, chased by that man? Had he fallen to the ground, desperate to get away? In the dark, had a train raced past, indifferent? Leo was glad to get off the tracks.

Nearing the apartment, Fyodor argued that Leo should remain outside. Galina had been terrified by him before: they couldn’t risk him scaring her into silence again. Leo agreed. It would just be Raisa and Fyodor.

Raisa followed Fyodor up the stairs, reaching the apartment door and knocking. She could hear the sound of children playing inside. She was pleased. Of course she didn’t believe a woman had to be a mother to appreciate the gravity of this case but the fact that Galina’s own children were in danger should make her easy to enlist.

The door was opened by a gaunt woman in her thirties. She was wrapped up as though it was the middle of winter. She appeared ill. Her eyes were nervous, taking in every detail of Raisa’s and Fyodor’s appearance. Fyodor seemed to recognize her.

— Galina, you remember me? I’m Fyodor, father of Arkady, the little boy who was murdered. This is my friend Raisa. She lives in Voualsk, a town near the Urals. Galina, the reason we’re here is because the man who murdered my son is murdering other children, in other towns. That is why Raisa has travelled to Moscow, so that we can work together. We need your help.

Galina’s voice was soft, barely a whisper.

— How can I help? I don’t know anything.

Expecting such a reply, Raisa pointed out:

— Fyodor isn’t here as an officer of the MGB. We’re a group made of fathers and mothers, any citizens outraged at these crimes. Your name won’t appear in any documents; there are no documents. You’ll never see or hear from us again. All we need to know is what he looks like. How old is he? Is he tall? What colour is his hair? Were his clothes expensive or cheap?

— But the man I saw wasn’t with a child. I told you that.

Fyodor answered:

— Please, Galina, let us in for a second. Let’s talk out of the hallway.

She shook her head.

— I can’t help you. I don’t know anything.

Fyodor was becoming agitated. Raisa touched his arm, silencing him. They had to remain calm, they couldn’t bully her. Patience was the key.

— OK, that’s OK, Galina. You didn’t see a man with a child. Fyodor explained that you saw a man with a tool bag, is that right?

She nodded.

— Can you describe him for us?

— But he didn’t have a child with him.

— We understand. He didn’t have a child with him. You’ve been clear about that. He just had a tool bag. But what did he look like?

Galina considered. Raisa held her breath, sensing she was about to break. They didn’t need the information written down. They didn’t need a signed testimony. They just needed a description, thrown away, deniable. Thirty seconds, that was all it would take.

Suddenly Fyodor cut through the silence, saying:

— There’s no harm in telling us what a man with tool bag looked like. No one can get in trouble for describing a railway worker.

Raisa stared at Fyodor. He’d made a mistake. People could get in trouble for describing a railway worker. They could get in trouble for much less. The safest course of action was always to do nothing. Galina shook her head, stepping back from them.

— I’m sorry, it was dark. I didn’t see him. He had a bag, that’s all I remember.

Fyodor put his hand on the door.

— No, Galina, please…

Galina shook her head.

— Leave.

— Please, please…

Like a panicked animal, her voice became shrill with worry:

— Leave!

There was silence. The noise of the children playing stopped. Galina’s husband appeared.

— What’s going on?

In the corridor apartment doors opened, people were staring, observing, pointing: alarming Galina further. Sensing that they were losing control of the situation, that they were about to lose their eyewitness, Raisa moved forward, hugging Galina, as if saying goodbye.

— What did he look like?

Cheek to cheek, Raisa waited, closing her eyes, hoping. She could feel Galina’s breath. But Galina did not reply.

Same Day

The cat perched on the window ledge, its tail flicking from side to side, its cool green eyes following Nadya around the room as if it were considering pouncing on her, as if she were nothing more an over-sized rat. The cat was older than her. She was six years old; the cat was eight or nine. That fact might go some way to explain why it had such a superior attitude. According to her father the area they lived in had a problem with rats and therefore cats were essential. Well, that was partly true: Nadya had seen plenty of rats, big rats and bold too. But she’d never seen this cat do anything useful about them. It was a lazy cat, spoilt rotten by her father. How could a cat think itself more important than her? It never allowed her to touch it. Once, as it had happened to pass by, she’d stroked its back, to which it had replied by twisting around, hissing, before bolting to the corner with its fur stuck out as though she’d committed some sort of crime. At that point she’d given up trying to befriend it. If the cat wanted to hate her, she’d hate it back twice as much.

Unable to remain in the house any longer with the cat staring at her, Nadya set off, even though it was late and the rest of her family were in the kitchen, preparing uzhin . Knowing that she’d be refused permission to go for a walk she didn’t bother asking, slipping on her shoes and sneaking out of the front door.

They lived on a bank of the river Don, her younger sister, her mother and father, in a neighbourhood on the outskirts, cratered streets and brick hut-houses. The city’s sewage and factory waste fed into the river just upstream and Nadya would sometimes sit and watch the patterns of oils, filth and chemicals on the water’s surface. There was a well-trodden path along the riverbank which ran in both directions. Nadya turned downstream, out towards the countryside. Even though there was very little light she was confident of the route. She had a good sense of direction and as far as she could remember she’d never been lost, not once. She wondered what kind of jobs a girl with a good sense of direction might get when she grew up. Maybe she’d become a fighter pilot. There was no point becoming a train driver since they never had to think about where they were going: a train could hardly get lost. Her father had told her stories about female bomber pilots during the war. That sounded good to her, she wanted to be one of them, her face on the front of a newspaper, awarded the Order of Lenin. That would get her father’s attention; that would make him proud of her. That would distract him from his stupid cat.