Читать книгу Moscow Blue - Philip Kurland - Страница 15

10

Moscow

Holding a folder with both hands, Inspector Burov stood at the side of his desk with all the trappings of a busy working office around him. The room was small and brown, with papers strewn across the desk, coloured folders balanced precariously on the edge of shelves and a full ashtray half buried under an open box-file. The inspector had long, unkempt hair, stood around five ten, and was excessively slim. He looked more like an academic than a cop with his over-large tweed sports jacket. His un-manicured ginger goatee was barely visible against his red and grey check shirt. Half an almost dead Yava hung from his lips.

‘The river is often used to dispose of problem corpses,’ explained the inspector. ‘With the help of the fish, it helps with decomposition, and after only a few days interferes a lot with identification. Fortunately for the police at least, your brother was wearing underpants bought in New York and his shirt had his monogram, I think you call it, on it. You’ll excuse my English, but I’m still attending night school. Fortunately there aren’t many American visitors with the initials P.A.C.’

Crocker nodded but remained silent, recalling the fad his brother had for putting initials on shirts and handkerchiefs.

‘Other than that, Mr Crocker,’ the inspector continued, ‘there’s nothing more of interest to tell you. There were no traces of the perpetrators near the crime scene, but then we would not have expected to find any. Witnesses, if any, would be too frightened to come forward, and anyway, this would have been done in the very early hours of the morning when most law-abiding citizens were asleep.’

‘And that’s all you can tell me?’

‘Yes, unfortunately, except that this type of execution is usually carried out by organised crime. They just want answers. They don’t need reasons. Any excuse would do. The case is still open, but in all honesty, Mr Crocker, the chances of finding those who did it are nil.’

‘So that’s where the police butt out?’

‘I’m afraid so. But tell me: why did you mention “Kolyunov” in your call?’

‘I thought you would be more interested in seeing me if you recognised the name of the victim. I was questioned about him at the airport when I arrived a few days ago and wondered what you knew of his murder. I’d never heard of him.’

‘You must have realised by now that the police don’t think you are involved in this matter, so why are you still interested in Kolyunov?’

Crocker was prepared for this question. ‘For two reasons, really. The first was to ask whether you felt the two cases, Kolyunov’s and my brother’s, are connected, and the second because the airport police who questioned me said my name was on a list carried by the dead man. Now wouldn’t that make you want to know why he died and what the connection was? I know it keeps me awake. If someone wanted him out of the way, maybe I’m on his list as well. That’s my reasoning.’

That’s very understandable, Mr Crocker,’ said Burov, searching for a vacant spot in the ashtray. ‘But to answer your first point, we have no evidence that links the two murders. And as far as the Kolyunov case is concerned, it’s a fact that we’ve nothing to go on at the moment, but the file is still very much open and the chances are that it will remain open for some time, perhaps for ever. But he was an important figure here in Moscow. We are short staffed, of course. Aren’t we all these days?’ He rolled his eyes towards heaven. ‘However, it is police business and I don’t want you interfering in our enquiries. But as you have come all this way, let me see …’ He pushed his hands deep into his sports jacket pockets as he collected his thoughts. ‘Unfortunately, once again there’s not much I can tell you, although it was my case.’ He walked over to the window and stared at children playing outside. He lit a cigarette then ran his fingers through his hair, taking a few wisps from off his face.

‘He’d been dead for some hours when he was found. Cyanide poisoning. Injected. There are many seemingly motiveless killings in Moscow these days, perhaps like your brother’s. But I’m sure this was carried out by professionals for a reason, and for money. Retribution perhaps. Who knows? There’s lots of old scores to be settled in Russian politics.’

He paused, brow furrowed, deep in thought. Then his gaze snapped back to Crocker with disconcerting directness. ‘Usually there was something criminal going on in the victim’s life. One can never tell.’

His expression became pensive as he fingered his ginger goatee beard. ‘Did they say you were a suspect, these airport police?’

‘Not in exactly those words, but I could be, and I’d really like to know why I seem to have become implicated in a murder of which I know absolutely nothing. Especially as I’ve never heard of the guy! You said, Inspector, that you’ve nothing to go on, so why the warning?’ He felt on safer ground now.

Burov paused his smoking, considering. ‘Perhaps you should see this.’

The inspector leant over his desk and reached into a drawer. ‘This is Kolyunov’s little book that you mentioned.’ He flicked through a few pages. ‘And here’s the entry which concerns you.’

A heavily nicotine-stained finger pointed with a smoker’s tremor. Crocker was suddenly excited, but having seen the entry for himself felt even more concerned. It was clearly his name, with a big black cross against it, scrawled in a strong, perhaps impatient, hand. He scanned the writing twice. Was the notebook genuine? And was the writing Kolyunov’s? Crocker had a fertile mind, and these questions came to him in a flash. Nonetheless it was still distinctly alarming seeing his name like that, allegedly written by a murdered man.

‘We checked out both you and your company,’ Burov was saying. ‘‘It was easy to tie up your visa number and your arrival in Russia. And as the victim was a high-ranking government official, it was natural that the police should look into the matter with some urgency. But I wouldn’t worry about being connected with him; I’m sure there’s nothing in it for you to be concerned.’

‘And that number at the end of the line, Inspector,’ asked Crocker, pointing to a row of characters adjacent to his name. ‘What’s the significance of that?’

‘I’m afraid we don’t know yet. We’re still making enquiries.’

The Russian replaced the book and slammed the drawer shut. His hair began to fall back onto his face.

‘May I contact you again if I discover anything of interest concerning my brother, Inspector?’ asked Crocker, closing his coat.

‘But of course, Mr Crocker. I would expect you to. For a trader, you seem to be heavily involved in death.’

‘And when can I claim my brother’s body for burial?’

‘Good question. I don’t know the answer right at this minute, but I’ll enquire. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was some time before the state is prepared to release it, especially in a murder case. But I’ll let you know.’

‘I intend to get to the bottom of both murders, Inspector.’

Burov tidied back his hair as he opened the door for his visitor. ‘Be careful, Mr Crocker. Be careful.’

- o -

‘What do you think of our ex-KGB President?’ asked the licensed taxi driver as they headed back towards the centre of Moscow.

‘How about that?’ responded Crocker, not wishing to become involved in internal politics with someone he didn’t know. Having to suffer taxi drivers practising their English was a bore, but as a captive audience, he knew he had to tolerate it for as long as the driver had need. There were more important things on his mind.

‘No more the old USSR,’ continued the Russian, shouting at the windscreen.

‘That’s a pity,’ said Crocker. ‘Now there are fifteen republics to deal with instead of just one.’

Although he said it glibly, this was a real problem for Crocker’s company and the beginning of its financial difficulties. It had been hard enough dealing with one set of established contacts in Moscow. But now the bureaucratic and logistical nightmares multiplied fifteen times, with new and volatile governments, made life very difficult for the company. But this was no concern of the taxi driver.

‘Is that not good for you, mister?’ the driver insisted.

‘Probably not,’ replied Crocker, trying to sound unconcerned, ‘but we’ll just have to wait and see.’

‘Say, Mister. Do you have dollars?’

‘Yes,’ said Crocker, knowing exactly what was coming.

‘You know roubles are, maybe, ten for a dollar?’

‘Yes.’ Crocker tried hard not to sound too uninterested.

‘Well, I can give you twenty roubles for a dollar; special deal, Mister.’

‘No thanks,’ said Crocker, not wanting to break the strict currency laws by falling into a possible trap, commonly set for foreigners.

‘You need roubles, Mister. I can give you twenty-five for a dollar.’

‘I already have my roubles. Thanks anyway. Perhaps next time.’

Business over, the rest of the journey to Crocker’s office was made in comparative silence.

Crocker had barely settled himself behind his desk when the phone rang.

‘This is Burov, Mr Crocker. You remember me of course.’ He didn’t wait for Crocker to laugh at his Russian humour. ‘I’m not sure of the relevance in this case yet, but just after you left we were advised of something you may find of interest. That entry in Kolyunov’s book you asked about. The number. It was one of the reference codes used by Kolyunov’s department and relates to a folder in their “Moscow” area filing system, in what they call the “blue” section. That’s one of the dead, archived financial sections. The “Moscow” area concerns only ministerial matters. It was among several others regarding some financial transactions with Egypt.’

‘Did you say, Egypt, Inspector?’

‘Yes. That’s right, Egypt.’

Crocker’s jaw dropped.