Mark Blair - Stroika

‘I’m sure it’s just a formality. His apartment was turned over…’

He could see her hesitating, undecided as to what to do. ‘Call him tomorrow from here or your apartment. I’ll have one of my men drop you off early if that’s what you want. Let’s go back to bed. I’m sure Mikhail will not be up to much tonight.’

She relaxed a little. ‘You’re probably right. Yes, if someone could drop me back early that would be good.’

Konstantin gave a silent gesture of dismissal to Bazhukov. Konstantin slid his hands inside her silk robe and followed the curve of her stomach. She moved closer to him and kissed him on the mouth.

Konstantin looked into her eyes and not for the first time that night felt himself aroused.

‘Erik Harkov.’ Ivan said when Misha finally emerged from the police station.

‘Who?’

‘The man who did this… How’s the head?’

Misha reached up and touched the clean dressing; his head still throbbed.

‘Fine… How do you know it’s him?’

‘I had you followed. Rodion recognised him leaving your building. He’s a petty criminal, used to hang out on the islands.’

‘I thought I said I didn’t want any protection.’

‘ God keeps them safe who keep themselves safe . Besides, anything happens to you and we are all in trouble.’

Misha looked at his watch – two fifteen in the morning. He had been questioned for over two hours. The police had emptied the entire contents of Sveta’s handbag on the table in front of him and rummaged through its contents: two hundred dollars, three condoms, a make-up bag, fifty roubles and a business card for the Angels escort agency. It was clear what she did . Had there been some dispute over money, a service he had demanded that she hadn’t been prepared to provide? What and trash his apartment into the bargain? he had replied. He’d been attacked and had no idea why. At least, not one he would share with them.

‘Where does this Harkov live now?’ asked Misha.

‘Fifteen Sovetskaya.’

‘That was quick.’

‘Friends in high places…’

He pointed at the Lada parked on the corner. Misha could see Nestor at the wheel and Rodion sat beside him gesturing with a lighted cigarette. Life going on, he thought. Anger welled up in him for the girl who had been killed. She was no innocent but she hadn’t deserved such a fate.

Sovetskaya was a sixties’ concrete apartment block in the east of the city. Misha climbed out the rear of the car and took the beany out of his coat pocket and pulled it down gently over his bruised ear and dressing. Nearby a dog nosed rubbish by an open bin. It stopped and watched a man enter the building opposite before resuming its business. The dull thud of a door closing echoed down the street.

‘This is it,’ said Ivan pointing at a building with an outsized ‘15’ painted above the main entrance.

Here and there, lights burned in windows; an old lady on the second floor looked down at them.

‘Nestor, you take the rear,’ ordered Ivan.

The stench of urine overwhelmed them when they entered by the main entrance.

‘Rodion, you wait here,’ said Ivan. Rodion held up a scarf to his face.

‘Thanks, boss.’

Misha followed Ivan up the concrete stairwell, suddenly conscious that the shoulder of his jacket was covered in dried blood. They stopped for a moment before moving on to the next floor. A black shape scurried by, glancing his foot. Involuntarily, Misha kicked out and caught the tip of its thin tail with his boot.

On the fourth floor a flickering fluorescent light illuminated the plastic number ‘25’. Ivan pressed the doorbell. A grinding sound escaped from the mechanism. A door opened three doors down. A woman peered out before closing it again quickly.

Misha put his eye to the small square frosted-glass door panel of number twenty-five and banged the door loudly.

‘Who is it?’ It was a woman’s voice, high and anxious.

‘Ivan Antonovich Pralnikov and Mikhail Dimitrivich Revnik,’ Misha said, trying to reassure her. ‘We’ve come to ask you some questions about Erik Fyodorvich.’

‘I’ve already spoken with the police,’ she answered, making no move to let them in. Misha looked at Ivan. There was no way the police could have found out about Harkov.

‘I doubt they were the police…’ There was no response. Misha sensed her thinking on the other side of the door, her hand resting on the catch, trying to decide. ‘Look, if those people get to your partner first… well, I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.’

For a moment Misha thought they might have to put their shoulders to the door and force it open, but the rattle of a security chain being unhooked and bolts being slid back signalled otherwise. The door swung open and a short young woman with mousy hair in her early thirties stepped back to allow them in. She directed them into a small living room furnished with a fading brown tweed sofa, a coffee table and small plastic-topped dining table with two pine chairs. The three of them pretty much filled the space.

‘Thank you,’ said Misha, appreciating that the presence of two men in such close quarters must be intimidating. ‘We are trying to locate Erik,’ he went on. ‘This is his address?’

She nodded.

‘I don’t know where he is though,’ she said. ‘I’ve only known him a few months.’

‘Is he from Leningrad?’ asked Misha.

‘Kalinin, I think, although he never calls or has any calls from family there… I shouldn’t be talking to you really.’

‘Have you any idea where he might be?’ said Ivan.

‘No, he pretty much keeps himself to himself,’ she said, pulling her dressing gown tight around her. She looked exhausted.

‘Where did you meet?’ Misha asked.

‘At the Imperial on Kirpichny. It’s a nightclub. He promised we would be moving to a new apartment … That doesn’t look like it will be happening any time soon now.’

Misha felt sorry for her. He guessed she had no part in this but had been caught up in it anyway.

They fell silent. Misha looked around the room. On the coffee table, next to a half-empty cup of cold tea, stood a photograph in a metal frame of three people standing in front of a fountain smiling broadly at the camera. Ivan recognised the girlfriend immediately, looking a lot happier than she did at that moment, with two men standing either side of her. The girlfriend caught him looking at the photo and picked it up.

‘This is Erik,’ she said, pointing at the man on the right.

‘And who is this?’ said Ivan, indicating the other man.

‘Stef Baturin, a friend of his, someone he used to work with years ago. We met him one Sunday afternoon for coffee. He lives somewhere in Oktabrsky… more than that I don’t know. Wait a minute. I might have his telephone number, I wrote it down… in my diary I think. He had just moved, and I was the only one with pen and paper at the time.’

The young woman rearranged her dressing gown.

‘Wait here,’ she said, and disappeared from the living room. She returned a few moments later with her handbag. From inside she pulled out a small diary and began leafing through it; recognising an entry, she paused.

‘Here you are. This is him, the man in the photo.’ She read out his telephone number. Ivan took it down.

‘And you think he lives in Oktabrsky district?’ he asked her again for confirmation. She nodded.

‘Look, here is my number. If you think of anything else, let me know… and thank you,’ Misha said sympathetically. For a moment he thought she might cry.

‘We need to find a phone box,’ Ivan said once back in the car. They found one after a couple of blocks. Ivan jumped out of the car. Misha checked his watch – three fifteen in the morning. Rodion lit another cigarette and took a long drag. Misha’s head had at last stopped throbbing. What he really needed now was a strong black coffee – not the best for concussion, he knew. Ivan climbed back into the car.