Field reached into his pocket and flicked open his wallet.
“Which branch?”
“It’s on there.”
“It doesn’t say.”
“S.1.”
“Special Branch.”
“Correct. My colleague here is from Crime. Can we come in?”
Sergei’s eyes darted between them, but Field could not tell whether it was because he had something to hide or because he was nervous of visitors. He stepped back and allowed them to enter.
Inside, it was even smaller than Field had first guessed, and filthy. An unmade bed alongside the far wall jutted out into a sea of discarded clothes and dirty plates, glasses, and coffee cups. There was an abstract oil painting above the bed of St. Basil’s Cathedral just south of Red Square. On a small table an overflowing ashtray rested against the base of a shabby lamp. The flat stank. A violin and trumpet were propped up in the far corner.
Sergei sat down on the bed. Field and Caprisi declined his invitation to take the ragged sofa opposite. Caprisi walked over to the window and, without asking, opened it. He turned back to see if there was any reaction, but Sergei was examining his long, manicured nails.
Sergei looked at Caprisi, then back at Field. “You’re from the Settlement.”
“This is a murder investigation, Sergei,” Field said.
“I don’t want to get into trouble with the French authorities.”
After appraising it distastefully, Caprisi sat down on the sofa. “I wouldn’t worry about that.”
Sergei flexed his fingers.
“When did you last see Lena Orlov?” Caprisi asked.
Sergei thought for a moment. “The night before . . .” He shrugged. “You know.”
“The night before she was murdered?”
“Yes.” He nodded for emphasis.
“Where?”
“At the Majestic. I play—”
“You play there, we know.” Caprisi leaned forward. “I’d like you to take this opportunity to tell us anything that you know about Lena that might be relevant.”
Sergei shrugged.
“You were her—”
“No.” He shook his head. “No.”
“What, then?”
“Friends.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“At the Majestic.” He nodded again.
“How long ago?”
“Two months, three, four. I don’t know.”
“Which?”
“Four, maybe.”
“So you didn’t know her in Russia?”
“No.” He shook his head. “No.”
“You met her at the Majestic?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t know her before then?”
“No.”
“You’d never seen her before?”
He hesitated. “I don’t think so, no.”
“You don’t think so, or no for sure?”
“No.”
“So you came here . . . how many years ago?”
“Four.”
“Four years ago. Nineteen twenty-two. You’ve lived here in Little Russia all that time?”
