Siberian Red

prisoner? Dalstroy wouldn’t let him. The company would never trust a convict with their food.’
    ‘I didn’t think of that.’ Melekov raised his head sharply. ‘None of this was my idea.’
    Pekkala threw the knife away across the floor. ‘Just get up!’
    Gingerly, Melekov dabbed his fingers against his nostrils. ‘I think you broke my nose,’ he muttered bitterly.
    ‘Whose idea was this, Melekov?’
    Reluctantly, the cook shook his head. ‘If I tell you . . .’
    ‘Give me the name,’ growled Pekkala.
    ‘Gramotin,’ he replied in a whisper.
    Pekkala breathed out slowly. ‘Did he say why?’
    Melekov shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. From now on, my life’s worth even less than yours, and yours wasn’t worth much to begin with.’
    Pekkala realised that the time was fast approaching when he would either have to leave this camp or risk becoming the subject of his own murder investigation.
    In the meantime, Ryabov’s death remained unsolved.
    That thought sent a familiar shudder through his bones.
    This was not the first time Pekkala had failed to close a case.

Pekkala and the Tsar stood
     
     
    Pekkala and the Tsar stood on a balcony outside the Alexander Palace. It was an early summer day, the sky powder blue, and pollen lying luminous and green upon the puddles of a rain storm from the night before.
    ‘A man has been found dead,’ said the Tsar. ‘He was a courier for the Turkish Embassy.’
    ‘Where was the body found?’ asked Pekkala.
    ‘It was pulled from the water just beneath a bridge over the Novokislaevsk River, north of Moscow.
    ‘Their Ambassador asked for you by name. Given the value of our relationship with that country, I could hardly refuse.’
    ‘I will begin immediately.’
    ‘Of course, but do not exhaust yourself with this inquiry.’
    Pekkala glanced at the Tsar, trying to fathom the meaning of his words.
    ‘What I am telling you,’ explained the Tsar , ‘is that this is ultimately a matter for the Turks to unravel. It is not our job to oversee their diplomats. Look around, see what you can find, and then move on.’
    Pekkala’s preliminary inspection of the body revealed no marks which would suggest a violent death. The dead man was fully clothed, but did not appear to have drowned. Pekkala quickly ruled out suicide, since the drop would not have killed, or even injured him.
    Every day, during that first week of the investigation, Pekkala returned to the bridge and stood looking down into the water as he attempted to compose in his mind not only the reason for this man’s death but the questions which might lead him to the answer.
    He stood among fishermen, who dangled bamboo poles above the water, smoked their pipes and talked about the body. They had been the first to find it and barraged Pekkala with questions about the case.
    But Pekkala had questions of his own. ‘Could the body have drifted here from somewhere upstream?’ he asked.
    ‘This is a lazy old river,’ one of them replied. ‘Somebody threw him off the bridge. Where he fell is where he sank and where he sank is where we found him.’
    ‘Do you fish here every day?’
    ‘This time of year we do. Carp, pike, dace. They’re all down there in those weeds.’
    ‘Then they knew you would find him. In fact, somebody wanted you to find him.’
    ‘Unless,’ suggested another fisherman, ‘they didn’t know the area and were just getting rid of the body.’
    Pekkala shook his head. ‘This was done by a professional. The dead man is a message. But about what? And to whom?’
    ‘That would be your job, Inspector,’ said the fisherman.
    After one week, without explanation, the Tsar called Pekkala off the case and did not assign a new investigator to take over.
    Ever since, Pekkala had been haunted by his failure to arrest the killer. He felt an obligation to the victim, as if they’d formed a partnership between the living and the dead. Since that day, like stones in his pockets, he had carried the unanswered questions of that murder.

The next day, Melekov showed up
     
     
    The next day, Melekov showed up at the kitchen with a bandage on his face and two black eyes.
    The two men did not speak about what had happened the day before.
    Pekkala was just finishing his breakfast duties, when Tarnowski, Lavrenov and Sedov barged into the kitchen.
    Melekov, with a mound of fresh dough balanced in his hands, stood paralysed with fear.
    Tarnowski grabbed the cook and pushed him to his knees. The dough