He awoke just as they came out of the trees onto a flat expanse of land. Laverov peered through the dark at what he hoped was the confluence of the Mezen and Kimzha rivers.
‘There,’ Vladimir said quietly, pointing to a couple of pinpricks of light slightly to their right. ‘Kimzha.’
Sometime in the last hour he had taken off his headphones and for the first time was looking haggard and worn. Above them the night had clouded and a few desultory snowflakes feathered their way to earth.
‘Fifth house as we come into the village,’ he announced confidently.
The idea of getting out of the snug warmth of the truck and going into a cold house seemed like madness, Laverov thought as he peered at his watch. It was twenty minutes past midnight. But when they located the large, two-storey log house a few minutes later, he was relieved to see that the lights were on and smoke was drifting up into the falling snow. He mentally awarded a Red Star to the police chief back in Arkhangelsk. They stumbled through the snowdrifts to find the door unlocked and the house both clean and warm. A couple of beds had been made up and, after stoking the fire, they went straight to sleep.
The morning, when it eventually arrived, did little to disperse the cold mist that had enveloped the village in the night. It looks like my head feels, Laverov thought grumpily as he sipped the hot coffee after breakfast. As a cook Vladimir was a better driver.
‘I’m going out for a while.’
Vladimir made to rise but Laverov gestured firmly that he should remain where he was. ‘You might as well relax here. I hope this won’t take too long and we can rest for the day and then head back tomorrow.’
He left before the driver could protest.
Kimzha was not what Laverov had envisaged. Somehow the last two centuries had passed it by and here, in this unlikely and inhospitable part of the world, he was suddenly in a Russia he had only read about. Despite the cold he stood transfixed by the sight of a farmer atop a pile of silage on a horse-drawn sledge. The horse’s breath jetted dragon-like from its nostrils into the frost. There were no bells on the horse’s traces and the apparition slid past in silence, vanishing into the gloom. Ahead of Laverov stood an exquisite church. He had thought that the huge log houses were impressive, but this was something from a fairytale: five towers and cupolas over a massive log structure. Above the square sanctuary flared four barrel gables, each with its own tower and cupola, the entire building held together by a tall central tower, its crowning cross lost in the mist. Hopefully, if his meeting with the elderly Mikhail Tarasov went smoothly, he would have time to visit the church.
Laverov didn’t hold much hope of getting anything useful from the retired supply officer. Apart from the man’s advanced years, and the problems that might cause his memory, his position would not have allowed him access to whatever secrets were buried beneath the mountains of files back in the locked room in Moscow. On the other hand, it seemed strange that Tarasov had chosen to hide himself away, so far from the rest of the world. The story about his brother-in-law may have been true and may explain the reason Tarasov came to the area, but it hardly explained his bunkering down in this isolated village.
It had been Laverov’s intention to ask the first person he met to direct him to Tarasov’s house, but apart from the farmer and his horse there wasn’t another soul in sight. Laverov trudged down the street until he saw a woman hurrying along in front of him. The sweet yeasty smell that wafted in her wake suggested that she was delivering freshly baked bread.
‘Excuse me,’ Laverov called and the woman turned and waited for him to catch up. ‘Sorry to disturb you, but I am looking for someone. I wonder if you can help me?’
‘There’s not many of us to choose from so it shouldn’t be too difficult.’ The face, wrapped in a woollen scarf, was lined and leathery but the smile was as warm as the bread smell that surrounded her.
‘Tarasov, Mikhail Lvovich.’
The smile vanished from the woman’s face and she crossed herself. ‘He’s not here.’ There was no warmth in the voice now. ‘Go back to Moscow.’
The woman scurried off along the street and turned down a small alley between two of the large wooden houses.
Laverov was stunned. It wasn’t just the woman’s claim that Tarasov was no longer in Kimzha but the look on her face — as if he had enquired after Stalin or the Devil. ‘Shit,’ he swore quietly, ‘now what am I going to do?’ And why had the mention of Tarasov elicited such a response? He shook his head and, pulling his coat tightly around him, walked on towards the edge of the village, following the tracks of the horse and sleigh. As he expected the farmer hadn’t gone very far and he came across him at the open door of a small barn. Here the smell was not of yeast or bread but of dung and animals. The farmer was unloading the last of his load into a feed tray. From the relative warmth of the barn, half a dozen cows turned their large soft eyes in his direction and then returned to their feeding.
‘Good morning,’ Laverov said as he approached, determined not to get off on the wrong foot with the man and startle him.
The man grunted something and dug his fork deep into the silage. ‘I thought there was foreigners about.’
‘News travels fast even in Kimzha, eh?’
There was no reply for a moment as the man laboriously stripped off a pair of filthy gloves and proceeded to roll a cigarette. He lit it and then, as though suddenly remembering that Laverov was there, handed him the tobacco pouch. ‘Hard not to notice when you make as much noise as you did last night.’
Laverov smiled. ‘You don’t miss much.’
‘Not a lot to miss exactly. Place is pretty quiet, unless the priest has been at the vodka or the old witch Evdokia is in one of her moods and decides to take it out on her husband.’ He spat in the snow.
‘She gives him a hard time?’
‘So she thinks. Poor fellow was killed in a logging accident over ten years ago. Evdokia has never forgiven him. She has a drink from time to time and the next thing you know the whole village can hear her yelling at him.’
‘Sounds entertaining,’ Laverov said lamely.
‘Just the two of you this time?’
Laverov’s fingers were freezing as he fumbled with the cigarette papers. ‘So how could you tell there are only two of us?’
The man looked at him as if he was truly stupid. ‘Only two sets of footprints, I reckon.’
‘Ah . . .’ Laverov nodded and tidied up the end of the cigarette. He hadn’t really wanted one but didn’t think the man was going to be able to avoid him while a stranger was holding his tobacco. ‘I met a woman just now with some bread —’
‘That’s Evdokia.’ The farmer exhaled a cloud of steam and smoke. ‘You’re lucky that she didn’t give you the evil eye.’
‘I think she did.’ Laverov lit his cigarette and drew in a mouthful of acrid smoke. It tasted like the stuff the farmer was feeding his pampered cows. ‘I said I was looking for Tarasov and she —’
‘And are you?’
‘What?’
‘Looking for Tarasov?’ The farmer held out his hand to retrieve his pouch.
‘I only want to talk to him.’
The man thought about that for a moment as he tucked his tobacco away in his trousers then said dryly, ‘Could be a little difficult.’
‘Why?’
But the man knew he had the aces and he wasn’t about to play them until he was good and ready. ‘You are a policeman?’
‘Retired.’
‘Once a cop always a cop, I say.’
Laverov shrugged.
‘You’re not from Arkhangelsk either, I can tell by your accent.’
‘Maybe you should have been the cop.’ Laverov removed a strand of coarse tobacco from his tongue.
‘No. I never liked cops.’
‘Understandable,’ Laverov said. Over the years the Soviet police had done little to endear themselves to the average Russian. ‘So why would it be so hard for me to talk with Tarasov?’
‘Wouldn’t be too difficult if you were Evdokia.’ The man spat again.
‘Why is that?’ For a moment he wondered if the farmer were simple, but then felt a chill run up his spine when he realised what the man was saying. ‘You mean he’s dead?’
‘They don’t get much deader.’
Laverov was suddenly furious, thinking of the deputy police chief in Arkhangelsk. That bastard must have known all along and had probably derived a great deal of pleasure from playing him for a sucker and sending him on a wild-goose chase to Kimzha. He forced down the impulse to swear out loud. ‘Been dead long?’
‘Does it matter? Dead is dead.’
‘It matters.’
‘I thought you lot were all one big happy family.’ The man eyed him quizzically then added slowly, ‘Stupid bastards came out in the middle of the last big storm. Said they just wanted to have a talk to him.’
‘And . . . ?’
‘Seems he didn’t want to talk to them. Shot himself. They buried him the next morning.’
‘That would be . . . ?’
‘Yesterday. The ground was as hard as granite. Bastards should have left him till spring. Tarasov wasn’t going anywhere.’
‘Shit.’ Laverov took a long drag and studied the cigarette’s glowing tip. He could see the red flags, the fresh tracks in the snow. The temporary road — the zimnik — was carrying more traffic than this frozen hole warranted. Had there really been trouble getting a driver? Or were they keeping him on ice while the sanitation squad came in and cleaned up?
‘Where is Tarasov buried?’
‘There’s only one graveyard. You can’t miss it.’
‘Beside the church?’
‘Behind it.’
‘Thanks for the smoke.’
‘It’ll kill you,’ the man said dryly and retrieving his pitchfork started tossing the last of the silage into the feeder. Behind it the cows chewed their cud, clouds of steam billowing from their nostrils.
The driver Vladimir was not happy at the order to dig up the grave. Neither was the priest. But Laverov, fuelled by anger, was as impervious to their protests as he was to the cold. There was a stalemate while the priest remonstrated with him about desecrating the graveyard and Laverov countered by producing his letter of authorisation. The priest appeared singularly unimpressed by President Putin’s signature, but when Laverov produced the remainder of the previous night’s bottle of vodka he was granted access not only to the graveyard but also the priest’s telephone. This latter concession was important as it was the only telephone in Kimzha.
‘I need a pathologist and your best forensic team,’ Laverov said as soon as he had Volodarsky on the line.
Volodarsky paused before replying and Laverov had the distinct impression that someone else was with him. Eventually he responded, ‘What the hell is going on out there?’
‘Tarasov is dead and I want an autopsy.’
‘Dead? How?’
‘Apparently he shot himself.’
‘Then there’s no need for an autopsy. I suggest you make your way back to Arkhangelsk and I’ll look into it and forward the details to you.’
I bet you will, Laverov thought. Nice clean death certificate. No messy story of visitors arriving when the road was supposed to be impassable. ‘No. I’m staying until I’ve seen the body.’
There was another pause and this time Laverov could hear a muffled conversation taking place.
‘You’re digging up the body?’
‘As we speak.’
‘You need authorisation for that, Laverov.’ The tone was now openly hostile. ‘I insist you stop immediately. I’m sending a team to —’
‘I have all the authorisation I need,’ Laverov said quietly and hung up. As an afterthought he pulled the phone socket from the wall and crushed the plug beneath his boot.
‘The ground is frozen solid.’
Vladimir appeared to be making slow progress. Around him in the fading light stood a group of seven or eight locals. A bottle of vodka was being passed from hand to hand. There was no sign of the priest.
‘Keep digging,’ Laverov ordered and turned to the villagers. ‘I would like one of you to take me to Tarasov’s house.’
Old ways die slowly, he thought, as several of the older residents stepped forward. Authority only had to be assumed to work. He could have been a coal worker from the Ukraine, but if he used the right tone he knew he would be obeyed. He pointed to a fit-looking middle-aged man. ‘What’s your name?’ He kept the tone official but friendly.
‘Medvedev, Valentin Mikhailovich.’
‘Then, Valentin Mikhailovich, you shall be my guide.’
There was nothing outside to distinguish the log house from any other in the village, but inside it was a different story. In the years that Tarasov had lived in the house he had occupied only a couple of the rooms: a living room and a bedroom. Both had been completely trashed.
‘Must have been a very friendly chat,’ Laverov said to Medvedev who, having taken off his cloth hat, was turning it nervously in his hands. He stood in the doorway, obviously shocked by the scene in front of him. ‘Have you any idea who did this?’
The man crossed himself. ‘No, sir.’
Laverov looked at him for a moment. No, he wouldn’t know anything. Nobody ever did. He turned on the lights and spent the next hour sorting through the mess. It appeared that nothing had escaped the visitor’s attention. Chairs had been smashed and their stuffing removed, drawers had been emptied of their meagre contents and even the wallpaper had been torn from the walls to reveal the sacking behind. This too had been slashed. He stooped and picked up a silver cigarette case. It was empty but undamaged. Whoever had done this to Tarasov had obviously been in a hurry if they had overlooked such loot. Laverov slipped the case into his pocket. The remains of Tarasov’s life didn’t amount to much — old newspapers, a few books and the bare essentials of existence. In the bedroom clothing had been tossed onto the floor and the single bed stripped and overturned, its wooden frame twisted, the headboard broken in two. Laverov wondered what they had been looking for and if they had found it. He supposed not. The violence of the search was too extreme, as though carried out in frustration. He also wondered why they had left the place in such a condition, knowing, as they must have done, that he was on his way and would inevitably end up here. Maybe that was it. Maybe they were saying ‘look what we can do’.
In the wreckage of what had been a bedside table he found a torn photo of a young woman. The photograph must have been about fifty years old. The eyes looking out at him, faded and yellowed, held no answers, only questions. He held the pieces of the photograph together and turned it over. Whatever had been written on the back had long departed into illegibility. Some scraps of paper caught his eye but again revealed nothing. A postcard from Prague with a picture of the Charles Bridge, but no words on the back. The postmark indecipherable. Nothing.
Laverov was about to investigate the kitchen when Medvedev tugged at his sleeve. The man looked alarmed.
‘What?’
‘Sir . . .’ He pointed to the ceiling.
‘What is it?’ Laverov demanded impatiently. Then he realised why the man was looking so agitated. They hurried outside into the now dark afternoon. The beating sound was growing louder and the throaty cough of the engine was unmistakeable.
The Hind came in low and fast over the village, its landing lights beaming down through the snow that swirled up from the rotor’s downdraught. Damn it! He hadn’t even considered the possibility that they would use a helicopter.
Medvedev stood transfixed on the doorstep, the look of hatred in his eyes a link back to some long-remembered and unforgiven incident. Whatever it was suddenly empowered him. Taking Laverov’s arm, he propelled him down the steps and around to the side of the house. For a second they were illuminated in the fringe of a spotlight strong enough to cut through the flurries of snow. The sound of the Hind was now deafening and Medvedev had to yell to make him
self heard.
‘Come on! We have to get away from here.’
Laverov nodded and plunged after him, floundering through a snowdrift that lay across the laneway. When they reached the street that led to the graveyard he turned and watched as the helicopter circled the house. ‘What the fuck do they think they’re doing?’
But before Medvedev could answer the building was hit by two rockets fired in quick succession.
‘Cleaning up the mess.’
The payloads had been incendiary and within seconds the village was illuminated by the flames roaring from the old wooden structure.
‘Come on, I have to see the body before those bastards get there.’
But Medvedev shook his head. ‘You want to end up like the house?’
Laverov peered at the man through the dark. He couldn’t be serious? But then he felt Medvedev take his arm again and he was steered firmly towards the church.
‘The body can wait. We have to make you disappear.’ He pushed Laverov up the steps in front of him and then slipped around to open the heavy wooden door. ‘Don’t worry, they won’t find you here.’
The only illumination in the sanctuary was from a small electric light that had been installed inside an older oil lamp with red glass. It looked out of place. Laverov followed Medvedev across the sanctuary floor to a small room at the rear. From there a ladder led up into a hole in the ceiling. It hardly looked like a secure hideout but he followed the man up until they came to a landing. A second ladder continued up, but Medvedev paused and pulled at what looked like a solid piece of timber. To Laverov’s surprise, it moved to reveal a small niche in the wall.
‘Inside,’ Medvedev ordered. ‘It’s cramped but there’s a seat. Just keep still and quiet. I’ll be back for you after those pigs have gone.’ And with that he closed the opening behind him, leaving Laverov to fumble for the seat.
He found a small wooden stool and sat, getting his breath back, calming his mind. After sitting in the dark for a couple of minutes he realised that the small cubbyhole was not as black as he had first thought. In front of him a small observation slit had been cut in the wall, through which — if he leaned forward and pressed his face against the logs — Laverov had a view down over the village.
Delicate Indecencies Page 6
