Field of Mars by Stephen Miller

up, eh?’
    â€˜Yes, sir, I will.’
    â€˜Then we can get back to something resembling normality. Not that pursuing these misguided radicals isn’t of value. Yes.’ Zezulin smiled, patted his pockets trying to find something he’d lost, padded around behind his desk and started opening the drawers one at a time. He seemed comparatively alert and Ryzhkov decided that he might as well take the opportunity.
    â€˜I wanted to speak to you about the Lvova case, if there’s a chance. I’m convinced that there is something more to it all, sir.’
    â€˜Lvova, Lvova . . .’ Like Hokhodiev, Zezulin was a big man. Strong, with bushy dark hair and almost blond moustaches. He looked like a sleepy wolverine with a pair of spectacles. ‘What’s that again? Perk me up.’
    â€˜The girl that was . . . defenestrated in June. When I spoke to the police I got nothing—’
    â€˜Well, those cretins couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag if it had two holes.’
    â€˜And as well, the mortuary report raised some questions. I thought that perhaps further investigation was needed. Blue Shirt was there, that night, after all. And someone is attempting to call it a suicide when it wasn’t—’
    â€˜Certainly, Pyotr Mikhalovich. Absolutely. You have my complete trust. Circumspect. Diligent . . .’ Zezulin had forgotten about the desk drawers and their contents. He was staring out through one of the little attic windows that overlooked the canal.
    â€˜Thank you then, sir. I’ll start on the paperwork.’ Zezulin continued his vigil. Ryzhkov might as well have been invisible. ‘Well, then. Will there be anything, else, sir?’
    â€˜Well, there’s always something else, isn’t there!’ Zezulin laughed at his own joke. ‘So! Well, good to have you back, Inspector. And keep me up to date on that . . . on your . . . project. Sounds suspicious, to me. Don’t like it.’
    â€˜Yes, sir. Nor do I.’
    â€˜Good, good . . . whatever you need.’ Zezulin gave him a kind of salute, a spinning motion with his hand, a cross between a wave goodbye and a Moorish salaam.
    â€˜Very good, sir.’
    At the end of that same night Ryzhkov, Dudenko and Hokhodiev treated themselves to a visit to the Egorov baths. At five in the morning they almost had the place to themselves. They passed a bottle of vodka back and forth and talked. Ryzhkov told Hokhodiev about what he had been doing: the Lvova reports, what Bondarenko had said and the odd way he had said it. Hokhodiev just listened and nodded. When it was all over he spat into the drain and sat there for a long moment. ‘Big people,’ he said and shook his head. ‘Real aristocrats.’
    â€˜It’s an expensive place, that whorehouse,’ Ryzhkov said.
    â€˜So, you don’t know what to do now? That’s not like you. What do you care anyway?’
    Ryzhkov looked at his friend for a moment, shrugged. It was a good question. ‘I don’t know. Someone killed her, Kostya. Someone is lying about it, now someone is going to get away with it . . . with doing something like that.’ He shrugged again. What did he care? It was hard to put into words.
    â€˜Fine, fine. You have a sense of justice, I know, even if she was a whore. It’s touching and it’s why you have so many friends in the police force, but do you really think there’s the slightest chance of getting to the bottom of it? These big shots, they have resources, brother . . .’ Hokhodiev wagged a finger and even tried to laugh, but it didn’t sound happy.
    â€˜Well, I guess I’ll try to see if there are any witnesses, talk to the madam—but I thought I should tell you about it at least.’
    â€˜Look, I don’t give a damn if you have to slip it through the cracks, I’ll help you, brother, and he will too, won’t you—’ Kostya turned to elbow