Child 44 Part 17

Finally, Nesterov approached Leo: -I want you to go back, call the procurator's officer. I'm going to stay here with the body.

Remembering Leo's concerns, Nesterov added: -It's obvious that Varlam Babinich had nothing to do with this murder.

-I agree.

-These are two separate cases.

Leo stared blankly, bewildered by the a.s.sertion.

-But these children were murdered by the same man.

-A girl has been s.e.xually a.s.saulted and murdered. A boy has been s.e.xually a.s.saulted and murdered. These are different crimes. These are different depravities.

-We don't know the boy was s.e.xually a.s.saulted.

-Look at him!

-I don't believe, nor does the doctor I spoke to, that the girl was s.e.xually a.s.saulted.

-She was naked.

-But they both had bark, tree bark, ground-up tree bark stuffed into their mouths.

-Larisa's mouth was stuffed with soil.

-That's wrong.

-Varlam Babinich has admitted stuffing her mouth with soil.

-Which is why he can't have killed herthe ground is frozen. If it was soil where did he get it from? Her mouth was stuffed with bark just as this boy's mouth was stuffed with bark. The bark was prepared in advance, I don't know why.

-Babinich has confessed.

-He'd admit anything if you asked him enough times.

-Why are you so sure this is the same killer? One child was murdered close to the station: careless, reckless, barely out of sight. The screams could have been heard by the pa.s.sengers. It was an idiot's crime and an idiot has confessed. But this child has been led almost an hour's walk into the forest. Care has been taken, so that no one could interrupt him. This is a different man.

-Who knows what happened with the girl, maybe he wanted to walk further into the woods and she changed her mind so he had to kill her there. Why do they both have string around their ankles?

-This is a different crime.

-Tell me you're not so desperate to prosecute that you'll say and believe anything.

-You tell me what kind of person rapes a girl, kills her, and then rapes a boy and kills him? Who is this person? I've worked in the militia for twenty years. I've never encountered such a person. I've never heard of such a person. Can you give me one example?

-The girl wasn't raped.

-You're right. There was a reason the girl was killedshe was killed for her blonde hair. She was killed by a sick man. There was a reason this boy was killed. He was killed by a different man, with a different sickness.

23 March Aleksandr closed the ticket office, lowering the blind and sitting back in his chair. Although the office was small, no more than a couple of square metres, he liked the fact that it was his. He didn't share it with anyone nor did he have anyone overseeing his work. He had a kind of freedom, unburdened by quotas or productivity reviews. There was just one downside to having this job. Everyone who knew him presumed that he must be disappointed with how life had turned out.

Five years ago Aleksandr had been the fastest sprinter at Secondary School 151. People had believed he was destined for success on a national level, perhaps even an international one if the Soviet Union were to compete in the Olympics. Instead, he'd ended up in a sedentary job manning a ticket office, watching other people embark on journeys while he went nowhere. He'd spent years following a punishing exercise regime, winning regional compet.i.tions. And to what end? Timetables and tickets: work which could be done by anyone. He remembered the exact moment the dream came to nothing. He and his father had taken a train to Moscow, attending the selection process at the Central Army Sports Club, the CSKApart of the Ministry of Defence. The CSKA was renowned for selecting the best athletes from all over the country and pushing them to become exceptional. Ninety per cent of applicants were rejected. Aleksandr had raced until he was sick by the side of the track. He'd run faster than he'd ever run before, beating his personal best. He hadn't made the cut. On the return trip home his father had tried to put a positive slant on the rejection. It would motivate them to train harder, he'd make the cut next year for certain and he'd be the stronger for having been made to fight for his dream. But Aleksandr had given everything and it hadn't been enough. There'd be no next year. Though his father had continued to press, Aleksandr's heart wasn't in it and soon his father's heart wasn't in it either. Aleksandr had left school, begun work, settling into an easy routine.

It was eight in the evening by the time he finished. He left the ticket office, locking it behind him. He didn't have far to walk as he and his parents lived in an annexe built above the station. Technically speaking, his father was in charge of the station. However, his father wasn't well. No one at the hospital could say what was wrong with him except that he was overweight and drank too much. His mother was in good health and, her husband's illness aside, generally cheerful. She had reason to bethey were a fortunate family. The pay for working on the State railway was modest, the amount of blat blat, influence, relatively small. But the real advantage was the accommodation. Instead of having to share with another family they had sole use of an apartment with plumbing, hot water and insulationas new as the station itself. In exchange they were expected to be on call twenty-four hours a day. There was a bell which could be rung from the station wired directly to the apartment. If there was a night train or an early morning train they had to be on hand. But these were small inconveniences which, shared across the family, were more than offset by the relative comforts they enjoyed. They had an apartment easily big enough for two families. Aleksandr's sister had married a cleaner who worked at the car a.s.sembly plant, where she also worked, and they'd moved into a new apartment in a good district. They were expecting their first child. This meant that Aleksandr, at twenty-two years old, had nothing to worry about. One day he'd take over the running of the station and the annexe would be his.

In his bedroom he changed out of his uniform, put on casual clothes and sat down to eat with his parents: pea-haddock soup followed by fried kasha kasha. His father was eating a small portion of cow's liver. Though expensive and extraordinarily difficult to come by, liver had been recommended by the doctors. Aleksandr's father was on a strict diet, including no alcohol, which he was convinced was making him worse. They didn't speak over dinner. His father appeared to be in some discomfort. He hardly ate. After washing the plates Aleksandr excused himself: he was going to the cinema. By this stage his father was lying down. Aleksandr kissed him goodnight, telling him not to worry, he'd get up to deal with the arrival of the first train.

There was only one cinema in Voualsk. Until three years ago there'd been none. A church had been transformed into a six-hundred-seat auditorium where a backlog of State-sponsored films were shown, many of which had been missed by the town's population. These included The Fighters The Fighters, Guilty Without Guilt Guilty Without Guilt, Secrets of Counter-Espionage Secrets of Counter-Espionage and and Meeting on the Elbe Meeting on the Elbe, some of the most successful movies of the last ten years, all of which Aleksandr had seen several times. Since the cinema's opening it had quickly become his favourite pastime. Because of his running he'd never developed an interest in drink and he wasn't particularly social. Arriving at the foyer he saw that Nezabyaemy G.o.d Nezabyaemy G.o.d was showing. Aleksandr had seen the movie only a couple of nights ago and numerous occasions before that. He'd found it fascinating, not the film itself particularly, but the idea of an actor playing Stalin. He wondered whether Stalin had been involved in the casting. He wondered what it must be like watching another man pretend to be you, instructing them what they were doing right and what they were doing wrong. Aleksandr walked past the foyer. He didn't join the queue, heading instead towards the park. was showing. Aleksandr had seen the movie only a couple of nights ago and numerous occasions before that. He'd found it fascinating, not the film itself particularly, but the idea of an actor playing Stalin. He wondered whether Stalin had been involved in the casting. He wondered what it must be like watching another man pretend to be you, instructing them what they were doing right and what they were doing wrong. Aleksandr walked past the foyer. He didn't join the queue, heading instead towards the park.

At the centre of Victory Park there was a statue of three bronze soldiers, fists clenched to the sky, rifles slung over their shoulders. Officially the park was closed at night. But there was no fence and the rule was never enforced. Aleksandr knew the route to take: a path away from the streets and largely out of view, hidden by the trees and the bushes. He could feel his heartbeat quicken in antic.i.p.ation, as it always did, as he took a slow lap around the perimeter. It seemed that he was alone tonight and after the second lap he considered going home.

There was a man up ahead. Aleksandr stopped. The man turned to face him. A nervous pause communicated that they were both here for the same reason. Aleksandr continued forward and the man remained where he was, waiting for him to catch up. Side by side both of them glanced around, making sure they were alone, before looking at each other. The man was younger than Aleksandr, perhaps only nineteen or twenty. He appeared uncertain and at a guess Aleksandr supposed that this was his first time. Aleksandr broke the silence.

-I know somewhere we can go.

The young man looked around once more and then nodded, saying nothing. Aleksandr continued: -Follow me, keep at a distance.

They walked separately. Aleksandr took the lead, getting a couple of hundred paces ahead. He checked. The other man was still following.

Arriving back at the train station, he checked his parents weren't at the window of their apartment. Unseen, he entered the main station building, as though he were about to catch a train. Without turning on the lights he unlocked the ticket office, going inside and leaving the door open. He pushed the chair aside. There wasn't much s.p.a.ce but there was enough. He waited, checking his watch, wondering why the man was taking so long, before remembering that he walked fast. Finally, he heard someone enter the station. The door to the ticket booth was pushed opened. The man stepped inside and the two of them looked at each other properly for the first time. Aleksandr stepped forward to shut the door. The sound of the lock excited him. It meant they were safe. They were almost touching and yet not quite, neither of them sure who should make the first move. Aleksandr liked this moment and he waited for as long as he could bear it before leaning forward to kiss him.

Someone was hammering on the door. Aleksandr's first thought was that it must be his fatherhe must have seen, he must have known all along. But then he realized it wasn't coming from outside. It was this man, hammering on the door, calling out. Had he changed his mind? Who was he speaking to? Aleksandr was confused. He could hear voices outside the office. The man was no longer meek and nervous. A transformation had occurred. He was angry, disgusted. He spat in Aleksandr's face. The glob of phlegm hung on his cheek. Aleksandr wiped it away. Without thinking, without understanding what was happening, he punched the man, knocking him to the floor.

The door handle rattled. Outside a voice called: -Aleksandr, this is General Nesterov, the man you're with is a militia officer. I'm ordering you to open the door. Either you obey or I call your parents and bring them down here to watch as I arrest you. Your father's ill, isn't he? It would kill him to discover your crime.

He was right.i.t would kill his father. Hurrying, Aleksandr tried to open the door but the office was so small that the man's slumped body was blocking the way. He had to drag him to the side before he could unlock and open the door. As soon as the door was open hands reached in, grabbing him, pulling him out of the office onto the concourse.

Leo looked at Aleksandr, the first person he'd encountered after getting off the train from Moscow, the man who'd fetched him a cigarette, the man who'd helped search the woods. There was nothing he could to do to help him.

Nesterov peered into the ticket office, staring down at his officer, still dazed on the floor, embarra.s.sed by the fact that he'd been overpowered.

-Get him out of there.

Two officers went in and helped the injured officer to a car outside. Seeing what he'd done to one of his men, Nesterov's deputy cracked a blow across Aleksandr's face. Before he could hit him again Nesterov intervened.

-That's enough.

He circled the suspect, weighing up his words.

-I'm disappointed to catch you doing this. I would never have thought it of you.

Aleksandr spat blood on the floor but he didn't reply. Nesterov continued.

-Tell me why.

-Why? I don't know why.

-You've committed a very serious crime. A judge would give you five years minimum and he wouldn't care how many times you said you were sorry.

-I haven't said sorry.

-Brave, Aleksandr, but would you be so brave if everyone found out? You'd be humiliated, disgraced. Even after serving your five years in prison you wouldn't be able to live or work here. You'd lose everything.

Leo stepped forward.

-Just ask him.

-There is a way to avoid this shame. We need a list of every man in this town who has s.e.x with other men, men who have s.e.x with younger men, men who have s.e.x with boys. You will help us create this list.

-I don't know any others. This is my first time...

-If you choose not to help us we'll arrest you, put you on trial and invite your parents to court. Are they getting ready for bed right now? I could send one of my men to find out, bring them down.

-No.

-Work for us and maybe we won't need to mention anything to your parents. Work for us and maybe you won't need to go to trial. Maybe this disgrace can stay a secret.

-What is this about?

-The murder of a young boy. You'll be doing a public service and making amends for your crime. Will you make this list?

Aleksandr touched the blood running out of his mouth.

-What will happen to the men on the list?

29 March Leo sat on the edge of his bed contemplating how his attempt to re-launch an investigation had instead precipitated a city-wide pogrom. Over the past week the militia had rounded up one hundred and fifty h.o.m.os.e.xuals. Today alone Leo had arrested six men, bringing his count to twenty. Some had been taken from their place of work, escorted out in handcuffs while their colleagues watched. Others had been taken from their homes, their apartments, taken from their familiestheir wives pleading, convinced that there must be some mistake, unable to comprehend the charges.

Nesterov had reason to be pleased. Quite by chance he'd found a second undesirable: a suspect he could call murderer murderer without upsetting the social theory. Murder was an aberration. These men were an aberration. It was a perfect fit. He'd been able to announce that they were now instigating the largest murder hunt ever launched by the Voualsk militia, a claim that would've cost him his career if he hadn't been targeting such an unacceptable subgroup. Short of s.p.a.ce, offices had been converted into makeshift holding cells and interrogation rooms. Even with these improvised measures it had been necessary to lock several men in each cell with guards given clear instructions that the men needed to be watched at all times. The cause for concern had been the possibility of spontaneous incidents of s.e.xual deviancy. No one quite knew what they were dealing with. But they were certain that were such s.e.xual activities to take place within the militia headquarters they would undermine the establishment. It would be an affront to the principles of justice. In addition to this high level of scrutiny every officer had been timetabled to work twelve-hour shifts, with suspects questioned constantly, twenty-four hours a day. Leo had been obliged to ask the same questions again and again, picking through answers for even the smallest variation. He'd carried out this task like a dull automaton, convinced even before they'd made a single arrest that these men were innocent. without upsetting the social theory. Murder was an aberration. These men were an aberration. It was a perfect fit. He'd been able to announce that they were now instigating the largest murder hunt ever launched by the Voualsk militia, a claim that would've cost him his career if he hadn't been targeting such an unacceptable subgroup. Short of s.p.a.ce, offices had been converted into makeshift holding cells and interrogation rooms. Even with these improvised measures it had been necessary to lock several men in each cell with guards given clear instructions that the men needed to be watched at all times. The cause for concern had been the possibility of spontaneous incidents of s.e.xual deviancy. No one quite knew what they were dealing with. But they were certain that were such s.e.xual activities to take place within the militia headquarters they would undermine the establishment. It would be an affront to the principles of justice. In addition to this high level of scrutiny every officer had been timetabled to work twelve-hour shifts, with suspects questioned constantly, twenty-four hours a day. Leo had been obliged to ask the same questions again and again, picking through answers for even the smallest variation. He'd carried out this task like a dull automaton, convinced even before they'd made a single arrest that these men were innocent.

Aleksandr's list had been trawled through name by name. On producing the list he'd explained that he could create it not because he'd been promiscuous, at least not to the extent of having s.e.xual encounters with a hundred or so men. In fact, many of the names on the list were people he'd never even met. His information came from conversations with the ten or so that he'd had s.e.x with. Each man recounted liaisons with different men so that, added together, it was possible to draw a s.e.xual constellation with each man knowing his place in relation to each other. Leo had listened to this explanation, a hidden world opening up, a hermetically sealed existence constructed within society at large. The integrity of the seals was critical. Aleksandr had described how men on the list met by chance in routine situations, standing in a food line buying bread, eating at the same table in a factory canteen. In these everyday surroundings casual conversation was forbidden, a glance was the most that was allowed and even that needed to be disguised. These were rules that had come about not by agreement or decree, no one needed to be told them, they arose out of self-preservation.

As soon as the first wave of arrests had begun, news of a purge must have spread throughout their ranks. The secret meeting placesno longer a secretwere abandoned. But this desperate counter-measure had been to no avail. There was the list. The seals around the world had broken. Nesterov didn't need to catch anyone in a s.e.xually compromising act. Seeing their names in print, one after the after, and realizing that their ranks had been broken, most of the men succ.u.mbed to the pressure of this betrayal. Like U-boats which had for so long remained unseen under the water's surface, suddenly they found all their positions had been given away. As they were forced to the surface they were presented with a choice, not much of a choice but a choice all the same: they could reject the charges of sodomy and face public prosecution, certain conviction, imprisonment, etc. Or they could identify the h.o.m.os.e.xual among them responsible for this terrible crime, the murder of a young boy.

As far as Leo could ascertain, Nesterov seemed to believe that all these men suffered from a sickness of some kind. While some were sick in the mildest sense, plagued by feelings for other men as a normal person might be racked by persistent headaches, others were dangerously ill, symptoms which expressed themselves in the need for young boys. This was h.o.m.os.e.xuality in its most extreme form. The murderer was one such man.

When Leo had shown photos of the crime scene, photos of the young boy with his guts cut open, all the suspects had reacted in exactly the same waythey were horrifiedor at least they appeared to be. Who could've done such a thing? It wasn't one of them, it wasn't anyone they knew. None of them had any interest in boys. Many of them had children of their own and so on the answers had gone. Every man was resolute: they knew of no killer amongst them and they wouldn't protect him if they did. Nesterov had expected a prime suspect within a week. After a week they had nothing to show for their work except a longer list. More names were added, some merely out of spite. The list had become a brutally effective weapon. Members of the militia were adding the names of their enemies onto it, claiming the person had been mentioned in confession. Once a name was on the list it was impossible to claim innocence. So the number in custody had grown from a hundred to nearly one hundred and fifty men.

Frustrated with the lack of progress, the local MGB had suggested they take over the interrogations, shorthand for the use of torture. To Leo's dismay Nesterov had agreed. Despite floors flecked with blood there'd been no breakthrough. Nesterov had been left with little choice but to initiate prosecutions against all one hundred and fifty men, hoping this would make one of them speak. It wasn't enough that they were humiliated and disgraced and tortured: they needed to understand that they would lose their lives. They would, if the judge was so instructed, receive twenty-five years for political subversion rather than a mere five years for sodomy. Their s.e.xuality was considered a crime against the very fabric of the nation. Faced with this prospect three men had cracked and begun pointing the finger. However, none of them had picked the same person. Refusing to accept that his line of investigation was flawed, Nesterov considered himself up against a kind of perverse, criminal solidarityhonour amongst deviants.

Exasperated, Leo had approached his superior officer.

-These men are innocent.

Nesterov had stared at him, puzzled.

-All these men are guilty. The question is which one is also guilty of murder.

Raisa watched as Leo kicked the heels of his boots together. Dirty chunks of snow fell to the floor. He stared down, unaware that she was in the room. She found his disappointment impossible to bear. He'd believed, sincerely believed, that his investigation stood a chance. He'd pinned his hopes on a fanciful dream of redemption: a final act of justice. It was an idea she'd mocked that night in the forest. But it had been mocked far more cruelly by the turn of events. In the pursuit of justice he'd unleashed terror. In the pursuit of a killer, one hundred and fifty men would lose their lives, if not literally, then on every other levelthey'd lose their families, their homes. And she realized, seeing her husband's hunched shoulders and drawn face, that he never did anything without believing in it. There was nothing cynical or calculating about him. If this was true then he must also have believed in their marriage: he must have believed it was built on love. Steadily all the fantasies he'd createdabout the State, about their relationshiphad been shattered. Raisa was envious of him. Even now, even after everything that had happened, he was still able to hope. He still wanted to believe in something. She stepped forward, sitting beside him on the bed. Tentatively, she took his hand. Surprised, he looked at her but said nothing, accepting the gesture. And together they watched as the snow began to melt.

30 March Orphanage 80 was a five-storey brick building with faded white lettering painted on the side: WORK HARD LIVE LONG WORK HARD LIVE LONG. On the roof there was a long line of chimney stacks. The orphanage had once been a small factory. Dirty rags hung across the barred windows, making it impossible to see inside. Leo knocked on the door. No response; he tried the handle. It was locked. Moving to the windows he tapped on the gla.s.s. The rags were jerked back. The face of a young girl appeared for little more than a second, an apparition of filth, before the rags fell back into place. Leo was accompanied by Moiseyev, a militia officer who Leo had pegged as little more than a uniformed thug. After a long wait the main door opened. An elderly man with a fist full of bra.s.s keys stared at the two officers. Seeing their uniforms his expression changed from irritation to deference. He dropped his head slightly.

-What can I do for you?

-We're here about the murdered boy.

The main hall of the orphanage had once been the factory floor. All the machinery had been cleared and it had been converted into a dining room, not by the addition of tables and chairs, for there were none, but by the fact that the entire floor was covered with children sitting cross-legged, pressed up against each other and trying to eat. Every child clutched a wooden bowl filled with what appeared to be a watery cabbage soup. However, it seemed only the eldest children had spoons. The rest either sat waiting for a spoon or drank straight from the bowl. Once a child had finished, they licked the spoon from top to bottom before pa.s.sing it onto the next child.

This was Leo's first experience of a State orphanage. He stepped closer, surveying the room. It was difficult to guess how many children there weretwo hundred, three hundred, aged from four to fourteen. None of the children paid Leo any attention: they were too busy eating or watching their neighbours, waiting for a spoon. No one spoke. All that could be heard was the sc.r.a.ping of bowls and slurping. Leo turned to the elderly man.

-Are you the director of this inst.i.tution?

The director's office was on the first floor, looking out over a factory floor covered with children as though they were being ma.s.s-produced. In the office were several teenage boys, older than the children downstairs. They were playing cards on the director's desk. The director clapped his hands.

-Continue this in your room, please.

The boys stared at Leo and Moiseyev. Leo could only suppose that their irritation came from being told what to do. They had intelligent eyes, experience beyond their years. Without a word they moved together, like a pack of wild dogs, collecting up their cards, their matchesused as chipsand filed out.

Once they'd left, the director poured himself a drink and gestured for Leo and Moiseyev to take a seat. Moiseyev sat down. Leo remained standing, studying the room. There was a single metal filing cabinet. The bottom drawer had been dented by a kick. The top drawer was partially open and crumpled doc.u.ments jutted out at all angles.

-There was a young boy murdered in the forest. You've heard about this?

-Some other officers were here showing me photos of the boy, asking if I knew who he was. I'm afraid I don't.

-But you couldn't say for sure if you were missing any children?

The director scratched his ear.

-There are four of us looking after three hundred or so children. The children come and go. New ones arrive all the time. You must forgive our failings regarding the paperwork.

-Do any of the children in this facility resort to prost.i.tution?

-The older ones do whatever they want. I can't keep tabs on them. Do they get drunk? Yes. Do they prost.i.tute themselves? Quite possibly, although I don't sanction it, I'm not involved in it and I certainly don't profit from it. My job is to make sure they have something to eat and somewhere to sleep. And considering my resources I do that very well. Not that I expect any praise.

The director showed them upstairs towards the sleeping areas. As they pa.s.sed a shower room he commented: -You think that I'm indifferent to the children's welfare? I'm not, I do my best. I make sure they wash once a week, I make sure they're shaved and deloused once a month. I boil all their clothes. I will not have lice in my orphanage. You go to any other orphanage and the children's hair will be alive with them, their eyebrows thick with them. It's disgusting. Not here. Not that they thank me for it.

-Would it be possible to speak to the children on our own? They might be intimidated by your presence.

The director smiled.

-They won't be intimidated by me. But by all means...

He gestured to the flight of stairs.

-The older ones live on the top floor. It's very much their fiefdom up there.