The Case of the General's Thumb by Andréi Kurkov Page B

silence, calming at first, began to weigh on Nik. Casting around for loudspeakers or tape recorder, and seeing neither, he was about to go in search of Pogodinsky when the latter brought him an envelope.
    â€œAnything else?” the old man asked with a look of great weariness.
    â€œTwo coffees and the bill.”
    â€œWell, what’s the score?” demanded Sakhno.
    The envelope contained a cheque for ninety thousand DM in favour of Niklas Zenn, which, as Pogodinsky brought the coffee, Nik put out of sight.
    â€œAnd the bill?”
    â€œYou’re not serious?”
    â€œWe are!”
    Pogodinsky made the bill out, and Nik paid over the forty-seven DM it amounted to.
    Pogodinsky stood holding the money as if at a loss what to do with it.
    â€œMay I suggest you don’t try cashing it in Monschau,” he said suddenly. “Go somewhere bigger. Düren or Aachen.”
    Though not clear why they should, Nik nodded.
    Sakhno finished what remained of the vodka, and they left.
    The hearse moved slowly away, restoring to view the well-loved beauty and tranquillity for so long part of Pogodinsky’s unpretentious but far from simple life.
    Pulling off the road, Sakhno leant his head against the door and closed his eyes. Nik got out and strolled amongst the pines until himself overcome with weariness. Climbing into the back of the hearse, he stretched out in the coffin space.
    The surrounding pines made early evening seem like night.

36
    Viktor spent most of the next day in his office awaiting events and telephone calls. At least twice, and secretly laughing at himself for so doing, he went and checked the boot of his car. There were no new corpses. Nor did Georgiy phone.
    Zanozin looked in several times to report that Grishchenko had neither appeared for duty nor returned home. When, towards evening, Georgiy rang to say that the body in the boot was that of Senior Lieutenant Grishchenko, the news came as no surprise.
    â€œAnd tomorrow morning why not just pop back to where you dumped him? Look the house over. You never know what you might find.”
    â€œHow about who lives there?”
    â€œLying in the morgue. They opened fire instead of the door. Go early. You won’t be challenged.”
    Setting off next morning, after once again checking the boot, he was surprised how few people there were about, until he remembered it was Saturday, when normal folk would still be abed. He remembered, too, that he’d not told Ira he was going, but no matter, he would be straight back.
    The garage door was half open, as also the wicket beside the main gate of the house. He came first on an empty kennel, then a dead Alsatian, still attached to a running-leash cable.
    The solid oak door yielded at a push, and he entered. The silence was unnerving. Where, then, were Georgiy’s watchers? The short hall terminated in another open door. He glanced in, then mounted the creaking wooden stairs.
    The attic had been converted into a lounge with three settees, a large dining table and wide-screen Sony television and, in the far corner, a desk littered with invoices, letters and copies of the glossy weekly Itogi.
    The desk drawer, which he opened with his handkerchief, contained a notebook, a Dictaphone, a couple of cassettes, and a stainless steel box with handles, such as syringes for Granny’s injections had been kept and sterilised in, when he was a boy. This one, he saw, lifting the lid, contained a scalpel, three tiny, different-toothed saws, and surgical forceps.
    He returned the handkerchief to his pocket – others had been here disturbing prints before him. He would take what seemed of interest.
    His phone rang.
    â€œHow’s it going?”
    â€œIt’s odd. No security, but any amount of stuff.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œThought I’d take the best of it back to the office.”
    â€œFour plus out of ten! Four for back to the office, but you get a plus for