white tracksuit is still in the front row, watching the action on the canvas square in the centre of the arena.
Paz pulls out her phone and dials the number we found in Zou’s apartment. I watch the blonde-haired woman, waiting for the moment when she reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone. The moment she hangs herself. But it doesn’t happen. She sits watching the fight without moving, and Paz looks forlorn as her phone rings out.
‘Let’s talk to her anyway.’
We make our way down the stairs towards the ring. The noise is building to a crescendo as the fight reaches its most critical phase. Indian and Irish flags hang above the ring as the two fighters circle below in perpetual motion, their bodies slick with endeavour. We reach the front just as the timekeeper’s bell rings shrilly above the noise of the crowd. The crowd howls as the women’s scores light up on the giant central display, and the fighters move back to their corners to be patched up.
We make our way along the front row until we reach the woman in white.
‘Detectives Carvalho and Paz,’ I say. ‘Can we have a word, please?’
The woman looks at me blankly, and as I lean in so that she can hear me better above the crowd, the guy next to her decides to intervene. He’s bigger than me. A lot bigger. So I don’t let him up. I poke two stern fingers where his chest meets his throat and push him straight back down into his seat. With my other hand, I show him my badge. The combination of physical and psychological pressure does the job. Which is good because he’s a colossus. I lead the blonde out of the arena, and Paz brings up the rear. We head through doors and out into a brightly lit service corridor. I slow up and turn to face her, Paz arriving at my elbow.
‘What’s your name?’
She looks from me to Paz and back again.
‘Galina Orlov.’
She pulls her official credentials from around her neck and hands them to me for examination. The name on her ID card matches, as does the picture of her looking dispassionately into the camera. When I look up, she’s gazing at me with the exact same stare. Paz studies her credentials for a moment and then looks up at the woman in front of us.
‘Russian?’
The girl nods. In the bright light, she looks young and vital. Her grey eyes are alive and alert, her skin is almost pearlescent and her prominent cheekbones are helped by subtle rouge.
‘You’re a diver?’
‘Yes. Can I ask what this is about?’
Paz hands her official pass back, and the girl pulls the lanyard over her head without breaking eye contact.
‘Why are you at the boxing, if you’re a diver? Shouldn’t you be at the pool?’
‘I’m injured,’ she says, turning back to face me. ‘I’ll be at the pool later.’
‘We saw you in the shooting centre yesterday. And at the wrestling. We’ve been investigating athletes in those sports.’
‘There are nine thousand people back there,’ Orlov says, pointing over my shoulder and back into the Riocentro Pavilion. ‘I’m sure some of them were at the wrestling, too. Is that a crime now?’
Her voice is earnest.
‘It’s no crime. But I’m investigating the deaths of Zou Jaihui and Oliver Witt, and the injury to Lucas Meyer. You’ve seen all three of them in the past few days. I’m wondering if that’s just a coincidence?’
‘It’s very sad.’
I agree with her.
‘But, as I told you, I’m injured,’ she continues. ‘I trained for four years to be here, and last month I tore a muscle in my leg. So now I can’t dive. Understand?’
Suddenly her passive features are alive, her eyes welling and her pale brow furrowing. She takes a breath, straightens her back and blinks away the threat of tears.
‘The Russian team asked me to travel to Brazil anyway. Asked me to look after our team’s welfare. So now I make sure someonefixes their dripping taps, and I make sure they have spare shoelaces. Glamorous stuff. It’s not really much of a job, but they
Paz pulls out her phone and dials the number we found in Zou’s apartment. I watch the blonde-haired woman, waiting for the moment when she reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone. The moment she hangs herself. But it doesn’t happen. She sits watching the fight without moving, and Paz looks forlorn as her phone rings out.
‘Let’s talk to her anyway.’
We make our way down the stairs towards the ring. The noise is building to a crescendo as the fight reaches its most critical phase. Indian and Irish flags hang above the ring as the two fighters circle below in perpetual motion, their bodies slick with endeavour. We reach the front just as the timekeeper’s bell rings shrilly above the noise of the crowd. The crowd howls as the women’s scores light up on the giant central display, and the fighters move back to their corners to be patched up.
We make our way along the front row until we reach the woman in white.
‘Detectives Carvalho and Paz,’ I say. ‘Can we have a word, please?’
The woman looks at me blankly, and as I lean in so that she can hear me better above the crowd, the guy next to her decides to intervene. He’s bigger than me. A lot bigger. So I don’t let him up. I poke two stern fingers where his chest meets his throat and push him straight back down into his seat. With my other hand, I show him my badge. The combination of physical and psychological pressure does the job. Which is good because he’s a colossus. I lead the blonde out of the arena, and Paz brings up the rear. We head through doors and out into a brightly lit service corridor. I slow up and turn to face her, Paz arriving at my elbow.
‘What’s your name?’
She looks from me to Paz and back again.
‘Galina Orlov.’
She pulls her official credentials from around her neck and hands them to me for examination. The name on her ID card matches, as does the picture of her looking dispassionately into the camera. When I look up, she’s gazing at me with the exact same stare. Paz studies her credentials for a moment and then looks up at the woman in front of us.
‘Russian?’
The girl nods. In the bright light, she looks young and vital. Her grey eyes are alive and alert, her skin is almost pearlescent and her prominent cheekbones are helped by subtle rouge.
‘You’re a diver?’
‘Yes. Can I ask what this is about?’
Paz hands her official pass back, and the girl pulls the lanyard over her head without breaking eye contact.
‘Why are you at the boxing, if you’re a diver? Shouldn’t you be at the pool?’
‘I’m injured,’ she says, turning back to face me. ‘I’ll be at the pool later.’
‘We saw you in the shooting centre yesterday. And at the wrestling. We’ve been investigating athletes in those sports.’
‘There are nine thousand people back there,’ Orlov says, pointing over my shoulder and back into the Riocentro Pavilion. ‘I’m sure some of them were at the wrestling, too. Is that a crime now?’
Her voice is earnest.
‘It’s no crime. But I’m investigating the deaths of Zou Jaihui and Oliver Witt, and the injury to Lucas Meyer. You’ve seen all three of them in the past few days. I’m wondering if that’s just a coincidence?’
‘It’s very sad.’
I agree with her.
‘But, as I told you, I’m injured,’ she continues. ‘I trained for four years to be here, and last month I tore a muscle in my leg. So now I can’t dive. Understand?’
Suddenly her passive features are alive, her eyes welling and her pale brow furrowing. She takes a breath, straightens her back and blinks away the threat of tears.
‘The Russian team asked me to travel to Brazil anyway. Asked me to look after our team’s welfare. So now I make sure someonefixes their dripping taps, and I make sure they have spare shoelaces. Glamorous stuff. It’s not really much of a job, but they
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