road before dying.
‘You’d better wait here,’ Dennisov said.
Taking up position by a fence, Tom tapped a Russian cigarette from its paper packet and glanced casually in both directions. His new shadow was threading his way between an oil drum and a doorless fridge. He stopped the moment Tom looked at him and dipped to tie his shoelace.
Then Dennisov was back, his face grim.
‘There’s a body,’ he said.
Tom was moving before Dennisov could stop him, heading for the door into the smoking ruin. When the
militsiya
man moved to stop him, Dennisov barked something and the policeman hesitated, shrugged and stood back.
‘What did you just say?’
‘I told him you were KGB.’
The ground under their feet was sodden and the walls damp. There were patches of smouldering rubble but the fire itself was out. The ceiling had fallen in halfway along, leaving a cathedral-like gap to stone beams.
The warehouse was far older and better built than the buildings around it, and its brick walls had helped keep the flames in check. There’d been a party, according to the
militsiya
man. A three-day party no one had dared ring in to the police.
‘The body’s at the back,’ Dennisov said.
On the floor, almost against a wall, a carbonized figure twisted in agony. Tom knew its apparent anguish was down to muscle contraction but he looked away just the same andhad to make himself look back. Fire had eaten eyes, ears, lips and hair. The head was thrown back, the mouth open in a teeth-baring scream.
If there had been any clothes, and Tom’s instinct said not, they’d wicked fat from the body as it burned and long since turned to ash. Even given the state the corpse was in, Tom could see there was something wrong with its arms.
Dropping to a crouch, knowing that he was contaminating a crime scene, Tom supported himself on the wall, finding the brick still warm to his touch.
The figure’s wrists were tied with wire.
Fire had eaten the hands and finger bones had fallen away.
As Tom sat back, a circle of metal caught the daylight coming in from above. Tom shook it free from bone, knowing he shouldn’t, and a half-circle of jade dropped away from the cheap steel beneath.
He was holding Alex’s ring.
He
knew
it was Alex’s ring. It was the one she’d been wearing on New Year’s Eve … Retrieving the half-circle of burned jade, Tom looked for the other half and realized it would take several hours and a sieve to sort through the rubble on which he knelt. Dennisov was waiting behind him.
‘You think it’s her?’ Dennisov said finally.
Tom did, but he made himself look again.
Then, before he could give himself time to reject the idea, he lay down in the dirt beside the body to judge its height against his and felt relief sweep through him so fast he had to fight back tears. He’d been wrong. It wasn’t her.
‘You all right?’ Dennisov asked.
Clambering to his knees, Tom brushed off his trousers and brushed half-effectually at his coat. ‘Can you find out when the fire started?’
Dennisov vanished to ask.
Tom had regained control of himself by the time Dennisov returned.
‘The coroner’s van’s on its way,’ Dennisov said. ‘I’ll tell you the rest when we’re out of here.’ Without waiting to see if Tom followed, he limped for the street, not wanting to be found at a crime scene, and nodded as he passed the
militsiya
man, who watched him go with interest. Dennisov might have changed his metal leg for something more discreet but his limp was still noticeable. Tom passed by without acknowledging the man at all.
As he imagined a KGB officer might do.
‘It was called in yesterday by a passing police car,’ Dennisov said. ‘The fire brigade were here until an hour ago. They put out what was left of the fire, called in the body and left.’ He shrugged. ‘This area falls between three districts and is full of undesirables. Our friend back there imagines everyone hoped someone else would deal with
‘You’d better wait here,’ Dennisov said.
Taking up position by a fence, Tom tapped a Russian cigarette from its paper packet and glanced casually in both directions. His new shadow was threading his way between an oil drum and a doorless fridge. He stopped the moment Tom looked at him and dipped to tie his shoelace.
Then Dennisov was back, his face grim.
‘There’s a body,’ he said.
Tom was moving before Dennisov could stop him, heading for the door into the smoking ruin. When the
militsiya
man moved to stop him, Dennisov barked something and the policeman hesitated, shrugged and stood back.
‘What did you just say?’
‘I told him you were KGB.’
The ground under their feet was sodden and the walls damp. There were patches of smouldering rubble but the fire itself was out. The ceiling had fallen in halfway along, leaving a cathedral-like gap to stone beams.
The warehouse was far older and better built than the buildings around it, and its brick walls had helped keep the flames in check. There’d been a party, according to the
militsiya
man. A three-day party no one had dared ring in to the police.
‘The body’s at the back,’ Dennisov said.
On the floor, almost against a wall, a carbonized figure twisted in agony. Tom knew its apparent anguish was down to muscle contraction but he looked away just the same andhad to make himself look back. Fire had eaten eyes, ears, lips and hair. The head was thrown back, the mouth open in a teeth-baring scream.
If there had been any clothes, and Tom’s instinct said not, they’d wicked fat from the body as it burned and long since turned to ash. Even given the state the corpse was in, Tom could see there was something wrong with its arms.
Dropping to a crouch, knowing that he was contaminating a crime scene, Tom supported himself on the wall, finding the brick still warm to his touch.
The figure’s wrists were tied with wire.
Fire had eaten the hands and finger bones had fallen away.
As Tom sat back, a circle of metal caught the daylight coming in from above. Tom shook it free from bone, knowing he shouldn’t, and a half-circle of jade dropped away from the cheap steel beneath.
He was holding Alex’s ring.
He
knew
it was Alex’s ring. It was the one she’d been wearing on New Year’s Eve … Retrieving the half-circle of burned jade, Tom looked for the other half and realized it would take several hours and a sieve to sort through the rubble on which he knelt. Dennisov was waiting behind him.
‘You think it’s her?’ Dennisov said finally.
Tom did, but he made himself look again.
Then, before he could give himself time to reject the idea, he lay down in the dirt beside the body to judge its height against his and felt relief sweep through him so fast he had to fight back tears. He’d been wrong. It wasn’t her.
‘You all right?’ Dennisov asked.
Clambering to his knees, Tom brushed off his trousers and brushed half-effectually at his coat. ‘Can you find out when the fire started?’
Dennisov vanished to ask.
Tom had regained control of himself by the time Dennisov returned.
‘The coroner’s van’s on its way,’ Dennisov said. ‘I’ll tell you the rest when we’re out of here.’ Without waiting to see if Tom followed, he limped for the street, not wanting to be found at a crime scene, and nodded as he passed the
militsiya
man, who watched him go with interest. Dennisov might have changed his metal leg for something more discreet but his limp was still noticeable. Tom passed by without acknowledging the man at all.
As he imagined a KGB officer might do.
‘It was called in yesterday by a passing police car,’ Dennisov said. ‘The fire brigade were here until an hour ago. They put out what was left of the fire, called in the body and left.’ He shrugged. ‘This area falls between three districts and is full of undesirables. Our friend back there imagines everyone hoped someone else would deal with
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