Viktor Gromov

02:40, a courtyard on Zaitseva Street, Kirovsky District. 8 October 1996.

A cold drizzle had been falling since evening. The asphalt between the two five-storey blocks was black with water, and the blue flashes of the UAZ’s light trembled in the puddles. Neighbours huddled by the entrance in coats thrown straight over their dressing gowns, and old women in headscarves whispered, glancing sideways at the militia.

By the garages, on the wet asphalt, lay a man in a leather jacket. Face down, one arm under his stomach, the other flung out to the side, as if he had been trying to reach someone.

Lyosha Tikhonov stood a little way off from the body, bareheaded, red-haired, rumpled, a folder under his arm. His cigarette had burned almost down to the filter before he noticed.

“So where’s your city boy? — the patrol sergeant grumbled, stamping his feet. — Is the stiff going to lie here till morning?”

“He’s on his way,” Lyosha answered without turning round.

A dark blue Volvo rolled into the courtyard almost without a sound. A very tall man in a brown leather jacket climbed out, straightened up to his full height and stood still for a second. He looked at the lit windows, at the garages. Only then did he walk over to the body.

Viktor Gromov crouched beside it, touching nothing. For a long time he looked at the jacket, at the arm, at the wet asphalt around it.

“Anyone touched him?”

“Our lot didn’t. Before us, I don’t know. We’re waiting for Trofimov and the medic.”

“Lyosh, have you started on the flats?”

“My lads are going door to door.”

“Whose windows look out on the garages?”

“Half the building’s. Mine included.”

“Right. I’ll get my people up. — Viktor straightened. — Sergeant, nobody near the garages.”

Lyosha nodded towards the entrance.

“And there under the porch, that girl. She found him, she’s the one who rang 02.”

You stood under the porch awning, a little apart from the neighbours. Gromov came over and stopped a step away from you, so that the garages were behind his back. Up close you could see two scars on his left cheek and a thin one on his upper lip.

“Major Gromov, criminal investigation. Thank you for calling, miss. — He nodded at the Volvo. — If you like, we can talk in the car: it’s warmer there, and there’s tea in the thermos. Tell me how you found him.”

01:30, Viktor’s flat, a Stalin-era block by Avtovo. 17 October 1996.

A blue-grey haze of smoke hung in the kitchen. On the table: his father’s backgammon board, where one checker had long ago been replaced by a button, a bottle of Pshenichnaya, a jar of pickles and a frying pan of pelmeni set right on a newspaper. Naida dozed under the table, her grey muzzle resting on Viktor’s slipper. Above the door hung a photograph: two lads in panama hats, spring of 1980.

Viktor was winning his third game in a row and knew it had nothing to do with talent. Red-haired Lyosha sat in his telnyashka, his tunic on the back of the chair. He threw the dice without looking and kneaded a half-smoked cigarette. He had come at eleven, without calling, with a bottle. Twice he had dropped a story halfway. Viktor didn’t ask.

Lyosha glanced at the dice. “Six-five. — He looked at the board and leaned back in his chair. — Good throw. Nowhere to move.”

“I’m not in your way.”

“Of course not. You’ve only blocked the whole road.”

“It happens.”

“With you, it happens all the time.”

Viktor glanced at his Komandirskie watch, which always ran two minutes fast, threw the dice and bore off his last checkers. All fifteen of Lyosha’s were still on the board.

“Mars. Pour. Rematch?”

“Bloody hell... Three games, Vit. Have you got no conscience?”

“I have. It doesn’t play backgammon.”

Lyosha poured but didn’t drink. He turned the shot glass in his fingers, looking at the pickles.

“Vit. There’s something I have to tell you. About Moshkin.”

Viktor stopped smiling. He pushed the board aside and said nothing.

And at that moment the doorbell rang. Long, the button held down, and then a fist hammered on the door. Naida leapt up and gave a short bark. Lyosha reached for his belt on reflex, but his hand found nothing there. Viktor gestured for him to stay put, went out into the hall, took the PM out of the holster on the coat rack and went to the peephole, the pistol held low.

On the landing, under the flickering bulb, stood you, the neighbour from upstairs. You don’t have a phone of your own: in the whole stairwell only three flats have one, including “that militiaman with the dog”. You had managed to say the main thing through the door: your grandmother is ill, you need a phone.

Viktor put the pistol back in its holster and threw the door open.

“Come in. I’ll call them myself. — He turned towards the kitchen. — Lyokha! Sixth floor, to the grandmother. See what’s going on. Just don’t frighten her half to death, you bear.”

Lyosha nodded, pulled his tunic off the chair and pounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Naida made to dash after him, but Viktor called her back, and she stayed at the threshold, watching the stairs warily.

Viktor went into the other room, picked up the receiver and dialled: zero, three.

“Ambulance? Gromov, City Police HQ. We need a crew. Take down the address. — He gave the street, the building and the sixth floor, covered the receiver with his palm and asked loudly enough to be heard from the hall: — How is your grandmother right now?”

23:10, a Stalin-era block by Avtovo metro. 9 October 1996.

The storm broke all at once: a moment ago it had been quiet and damp, and then the sky cracked right above the roof and rain hammered against the windows.

You had moved into the third-floor flat only yesterday. The boxes stood unpacked, a single bare bulb burned in the kitchen, and you didn’t know a single one of your neighbours yet. When the thunder boomed again, a quiet, desperate whining came from behind the front door. Then something heavy began scratching at it.

When you opened it, a huge grey German shepherd was sitting on the mat. Wet, trembling, tail tucked in. In her teeth she held a black men’s wrist bag by its strap. The dog carefully stepped over the threshold and dropped the bag by the wall, behind the door, which opened inwards. The zip was undone: inside you could see a wad of money and a narrow slip of paper with a column of sums. Next to each one: “T.”

The thunder boomed again. The shepherd pressed her side against your legs and didn’t move away.

A few minutes later quick, heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs, and a low, worried voice:

“Naida! Naida, damn it all... Naida!”

In the doorway, ducking his head, appeared a very tall man in a leather jacket soaked right through. Water ran from his forehead down the scars on his cheek and under his collar. He saw Naida and lunged towards her so fast he almost caught his shoulder on the doorframe.

“There you are, old girl...” he breathed. Then he looked up at you and was instantly embarrassed. “I beg your pardon. For the dog, and for the... — he waved a hand vaguely, meaning, apparently, the “damn it all”. — Viktor. From the fifth floor. This is my Naida. She’s scared to death of storms.”

He crouched at the threshold without stepping over it and held out his palm to Naida. She nudged it with her nose and sighed heavily.

“There now. I’m here.”

He took a sushka ring out of his pocket. Naida reached for it, but another clap of thunder made her hide her muzzle at your feet.

“Not even a sushka? Things are bad. Baba Valya was walking her. When the thunder went, Naida tore off the lead. I got home from work and Valya was beside herself. I went round the whole yard, crawled through the basements...”

He looked at the dog, then at you, then at the boxes.

“She doesn’t usually go to strangers. Even I didn’t get near her straight away at the kennel. — He snorted. — And she came to you on her own, without any sushki. — He was quiet for a moment. — I see you’ve only just moved in, and here we are in the middle of the night. There’s no getting her out of here now: she’ll dig in all four paws like a donkey. May I sit with her a little, until she calms down?”

19:40, a cassette kiosk by Avtovo metro. 10 October 1996.

The cassette kiosk at Avtovo was a cramped glass booth hung with tapes inside and out. Posters of Kino, DDT and Laskovy May had faded in the sun, and an Agata Kristi recording crackled from the speaker above the window. Behind the counter you were surrounded by stacks of cassettes and inserts; next to you stood a mug of cold tea and the notebook for orders.

Under the counter, behind a box of empty cases, lay a parcel in grey paper tied with string. Tolik had left it on Monday evening, a regular customer who bought some blatnyak every week and never haggled. “Let it sit here, someone will pick it up,” he had said. No one ever came for the parcel.

You recognised the tall man in the brown leather jacket from a long way off. This was the third time in two weeks he had come, always after seven and always with the same question. He finished his cigarette on the way and came up to the kiosk without it.

He bent to the window out of habit: at his height he would otherwise have been talking to the top of the frame. Scars on his cheek, light eyes, a tired smile at one corner of his mouth.

“Good evening, miss. Got the new Nautilus? Wings?”

Last time, hearing “no”, he had nodded as if he had expected it, bought the first cassette that came to hand and left. The time before, the same. Today a newspaper was tucked under his arm, folded crossword side out. Half the squares were empty.

The man was silent for a moment, looking at the cassettes behind the glass. Then he smirked, more at his own stubbornness than anything.

“Look at me, hung up on these Wings. Even I think it’s funny.”

He moved the newspaper from one hand to the other, reached into his pocket and took out a “Mishka” chocolate. He put it on the counter next to the notebook.

“This is for you.”

And at once he looked away at the display, as if something very interesting had suddenly appeared there.

“I never did introduce myself. Viktor.”

The pause came out longer than he seemed to have planned.

“Are you working late tonight? There’s all sorts hanging around the metro in the evenings. And I’m driving past anyway. I could give you a lift.”

14:10, Mikhalych’s Garage, Tallinn Highway. 12 October 1996.

The grey brick bay stood right by the highway, behind a petrol station: a rusty sign reading “TYRE FITTING. REPAIRS. FOREIGN CARS”, a heap of tyres, two dogs on chains. Inside it smelled of oil, petrol and strong tea.

Mikhalych, a lean, wiry man with a grey buzz cut and a “DRA 1980” tattoo on his wrist, lay under an Audi, cursing the German car industry under his breath. Viktor sat on a stack of wheels: leather jacket open, a faceted glass of tea in his hand, a half-solved crossword on his knees. In the far corner a wet-asphalt grey devyatka was gathering dust.

“Mikhalych. River in Africa, five letters.”

“Congo,” came from under the car. “Finish your tea, I need the glasses.”

“Next you’ll be sending me a bill for the tea.”

“I won’t charge you. I don’t fleece my own. You’d do better to tell me who’s going to pay me for that devyatka if the owner doesn’t pick it up till spring.”

Viktor didn’t answer. He wrote in “Congo” and turned the page.

Outside, gravel crunched and the dogs burst out barking. A tow truck dragged a red kopeyka with a dented roof up to the gates, piled with chequered bags. Right behind it, with one more bag in your hands, you walk into the bay. You had left Narva that morning for the Apraksin Dvor market, and at kilometre 42 the kopeyka coughed, jerked and died. The tow truck driver had charged you as if it were a taxi to Moscow and recommended Mikhalych: “He’ll fix anything and he won’t rip you off.”

Mikhalych rolled out from under the Audi on his creeper and looked over the bags, then the car, then you.

“Well, here we are. Did she stop on her own, or did someone help her?”

He walked round the kopeyka, rapped his knuckle on the roof and looked under the bonnet.

“A beauty. Held together with wire, runs on a prayer. Fuel pump, carburettor, or maybe the previous owner’s conscience. Half a day’s work. A hundred and fifty thousand for the labour. Parts extra. — And he grumbled: — Oh, put that bag down. You’ll pull your arms off.”

“You might find out what’s broken first, Mikhalych. Then name your price.”

“I’ll find out. Have you ever once seen me take a kopeck more than I should?”

“It’s happened.”

“Liar. It hasn’t.”

Mikhalych shone his torch in and checked the hoses. He was already straightening up when his eye caught on the metal by the body number. He wiped it with a rag. Stopped grumbling.

“Semyonych. Come here.”

Viktor set down his glass and bent to the number. The digits ran unevenly; under one of them showed the edge of an older stamp.

“Just look at the craftsmen,” Mikhalych said quietly. “A red kopeyka from Grazhdanka was on the list back in August. You brought me the bulletin yourself.”

“I remember. It needs checking.”

The bay went quiet. Only something dripped from under the Audi. Gromov lowered the bonnet, wiped his fingers on a rag and turned to you.

“Vit, don’t you go scaring the girl.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“I know you. — Mikhalych pushed a stool over to the workbench. — Sit down, miss, the stool’s sturdy. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Viktor gave you time to settle. He himself stayed on his feet.

“Gromov, Viktor Semyonovich. Criminal investigation. I won’t lie to you: you’re in trouble with this car. Let’s start from the very beginning. Where did you get it?”

15:20, City Police HQ, 4 Liteyny Prospekt. Major Gromov’s office. 15 October 1996.

Gromov’s office was as small as a train compartment: a desk, a safe, a city map, a sagging sofa and the major himself. Today it held two more people, and that was already too many.

Dima Kornilov sat on the floor by the socket, fixing the coffee maker with a kitchen knife, electrical tape and a great deal of enthusiasm. Lapin, sunk into the corner of the sofa, was reading him the manual aloud and pushing his glasses up his nose.

“...‘Do not allow water to get inside the housing.’ Dmitry, the word ‘not’ is in bold here.”

“Professor, I didn’t fill it with water. I rinsed it.”

“Ah, well, then the manufacturer is worrying for nothing.”

Gromov stood at the window with the receiver. The whole office could hear Tikhonov’s bass.

“...Vitya, I swear to you, I was going out for cigarettes! Bondar turning up with the witnesses, that’s just circumstances.”

“Lyosha.”

“What, ‘Lyosha’? You’d have gone too, only the day after tomorrow.”

“Then explain why I’m hearing about it first thing in the morning from Berezhnoy.”

“But I never told him!”

“Lyosha.”

“That’s what surprised me too.”

Meanwhile, out in the corridor, Zhanna Kovalchuk was leading the new girl to the office. That is, you.

Since nine in the morning she had kept you on a hard chair with your transfer order from Personnel: the major would be in “any minute”, then he was “with the management”, then “at lunch”. Now Zhanna adjusted her platinum fringe and smiled sweetly.

“Now don’t you worry. Viktor Semyonovich is... particular. The main thing is, don’t start making excuses. Well, go on in.”

And she flung the door open without knocking, at the exact second Gromov said into the receiver:

“Lyosha, I’m asking you nicely for the last time...”

And, without turning, over his shoulder:

“Who is it now? — His voice was quiet, but it made the office go cold. — Did I not make myself clear that I’m busy? Get out and shut the door.”

Dima dropped the knife. Zhanna didn’t budge behind your shoulder. Gromov turned round and saw you in the doorway, a girl he had never seen before, holding papers.

“Lyosh, I’ll call you back.”

The receiver went down on the cradle carefully, almost gently. Gromov ran a palm over his face as if wiping off the last five minutes.

“Well, I’ll be... I’m sorry. That wasn’t meant for you, honestly. Please, come in.”

He took the transfer order from you and ran his eyes over it.

“So you’ve been waiting since the morning. — And very softly: — Zhanna. When were you planning to tell me about the new officer?”

“I thought you knew...”

“You thought. And a person has been sitting out there half the day. Close the door, please. From the other side.”

The door shut behind Zhanna a little louder than it needed to.

“Kornilov, step away from that invention. Go to the canteen and bring this person some tea. And pirozhki, before they run out.”

Dima squeezed past to the door and whispered to you on the way: “Don’t be scared, he’s not usually like this. Usually he...”

“Kornilov.”

“Gone, Comrade Major, I’m already gone!”

Gromov sat on the edge of the desk so as not to loom over you with all of his hundred and ninety-five centimetres, took a “Mishka” chocolate out of the drawer and put it down in front of you, like a pass.

“Well, let’s get acquainted properly. Gromov, Viktor Semyonovich. Today hasn’t gone our way. This isn’t a department, it’s a branch of the madhouse. But I won’t bite. Not you, at least. Go on, tell me. Where have they transferred you from?”