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.
The upstairs bedrooms, tucked under the roof, contained no bed frames, just the occasional thin mattress on the floor. The older children evidently took their lunch at a time which suited them; no doubt they’d already eaten and taken the best of the food.
Leo stepped into the first room on the landing. He caught sight of a girl hiding behind the door and saw a glint of metal. She was armed with a knife. Seeing his uniform she slipped the knife away, the blade disappearing into the folds of her dress.
– We thought you were the boys. They’re not allowed in here.
Some twenty girls, at a guess aged between fourteen and sixteen, stared at Leo with hardened faces. Leo’s mind was thrown back to his promise to Anatoly Brodsky that the two daughters were safe in the care of a Moscow orphanage. It had been an empty, ignorant assurance. Leo understood that now. Brodsky had been right. Those two girls would’ve been better on their own, looking after each other.
– Where do the boys sleep?
The older boys, some of whom had been in the director’s office, were huddled at the back of their room, waiting, expecting them. Leo entered the room and knelt down, placing an album of photographs on the floor in front of them.
– I’d like you to look through these photos, tell me if any of these men have ever approached you, offered you money in return for sexual favours.
None of the boys moved or gave any indication that his supposition was correct.
– You haven’t done anything wrong. We need your help.
Leo opened the album, slowly turning the pages of photographs. He reached the end. The audience of teenagers had stared at the photos but given no reaction. He turned back through the pages. There was still no reaction from the boys. He was about to shut the album when a boy from the back of the group reached out and touched one of the photos.
– This man propositioned you?
– Pay me.
– He paid you?
– No, you pay me and I’ll tell you.
Leo and Moiseyev clubbed together, offering the boy three roubles. The boy flicked through the album, stopping at a page and pointing to one of the photos.
– The man looked like that man.
– So it wasn’t this man?
– No, but similar.
– Do you know his name?
– No.
– Can you tell us anything about him?
– Pay me.
Moiseyev shook his head, refusing to pay any more.
– We could arrest you for profiteering.
Cutting the threat short, Leo took out the last of his money, giving it to the boy.
– That’s all I have.
– He works at the hospital.
Same Day
Leo drew his gun. They were on the top floor of Apartment Building 7: apartment 14 was at the end of the corridor. They’d been given the address by staff at the hospital. The suspect was off sick and had been for the past week, a length of time which would have meant, if all the MGB officers hadn’t been busy with their interrogations, that he would’ve almost certainly been questioned. It turned out that the beginning of his sickness corresponded with the first wave of arrests against the town’s homosexual population.
Leo knocked on the door. There was no response. He called out, stating their name and rank. There was no reply. Moiseyev lifted his boot, ready to kick at the lock. The door opened.
Seeing the guns pointed at him, Dr Tyapkin raised his hands and stepped back. Leo barely recognized him. This was the same man who’d helped him with the examination of the girl’s body, the prestigious doctor transferred from Moscow. His hair and eyes were wild. He’d lost weight. His clothes were rumpled. Leo had seen men broken by worry; he’d seen how their muscles lost shape and strength, as if they’d been eaten up by fear.
Leo pushed the door open with his foot, surveying the apartment.
– Are you alone?
– My youngest son’s here. But he’s asleep.
– How old is he?
– Four months.
Moiseyev stepped in, smashing the metal butt of his gun against Tyapkin’s nose. Tyapkin dropped to his knees, blood running into his cupped hands. Moiseyev ordered Leo.
– Search him.
Moiseyev began searching the apartment. Leo crouched down, helping Tyapkin to his feet, bringing him into the kitchen, where he sat him down on a chair.
– Where’s your wife?
– Buying food…she’ll be back soon.
– The hospital said you were sick.
– That’s true, in a way. I heard about the arrests. I knew it was only a matter of time before you came to me.
– Tell me what happened.
– I was mad, there’s no other explanation for it. I didn’t know his age. He was young. Maybe fifteen or sixteen, I didn’t want someone who’d talk to me or someone who’d tell anyone else about me. I didn’t want to have to meet them again. Or see them. Or speak to them. I wanted anonymity. I reasoned no one would ever listen to an orphan. His word would count for nothing. I could give him a little money and that would be the end. I wanted someone invisible-can you understand?
Having completed a cursory search, Moiseyev re-entered the room and holstered his gun. He grabbed Tyapkin’s broken nose, twisting the fractured bone right and left, causing him to scream in pain. A baby awoke in a nearby room and began to cry.
– You fuck these boys then kill them?
Moiseyev let go of Tyapkin’s nose. The doctor dropped to the floor, curling up into a ball. It was some time before he could manage to speak.
– I didn’t have sex with him. I didn’t go through with it. I couldn’t go through with it. I asked him, I paid him, but I couldn’t do it. I walked away.
– Get to your feet. We’re leaving.
– We have to wait till my wife comes back-we can’t leave my son alone.
– The kid will survive. Get to your feet.
– At least let me stop the bleeding.
Moiseyev nodded.
– Leave the bathroom door open.
Tyapkin left the kitchen and lurched to the bathroom, leaving a bloody hand print on the door, which remained open as instructed. Moiseyev surveyed the apartment. Leo could tell he was jealous. The doctor had a pleasant home. Tyapkin ran the water in the sink, pressing a towel against his nose and speaking, his back turned to them.
– I’m very sorry for what I did. But I never killed anyone. You must believe me. Not because I think my reputation can be salvaged. I know I’m ruined. But someone else murdered that boy, someone who must be caught.
