The man smiled.

-You've convinced me. You can have it. I only live three stops away. Come on, I'll buy you a ticket.

Petya was about to say that a ticket was unnecessary but he swallowed the words. He didn't want to admit to breaking the rules. Until he got the stamps he needed to maintain this man's good opinion.

Sitting on the wooden seats of the elektrichka, elektrichka, staring out the window at the forests, Petya swung his legs backwards and forwards, his shoes almost touching the floor. There was now the question of whether he should spend his staring out the window at the forests, Petya swung his legs backwards and forwards, his shoes almost touching the floor. There was now the question of whether he should spend his kopeks kopeks on a new stamp. It seemed unnecessary considering all the stamps he was about to acquire and he decided that he'd return the money to his parents. It would be nice if they could share in his good fortune. The man interrupted his thoughts by tapping him lightly on the shoulder. on a new stamp. It seemed unnecessary considering all the stamps he was about to acquire and he decided that he'd return the money to his parents. It would be nice if they could share in his good fortune. The man interrupted his thoughts by tapping him lightly on the shoulder.

-We're here.

The elektrichka elektrichka had stopped at a station in the middle of the woods, long before the town of Shakhty. Petya was confused. This was a leisure stop for people wanting to get away from the towns. There were paths through the undergrowth, trodden down by walkers. But this wasn't a good time for walking. The snows had only recently melted. The woods were bleak and unwelcoming. Petya turned to his companion, looking at his smart shoes and black case. had stopped at a station in the middle of the woods, long before the town of Shakhty. Petya was confused. This was a leisure stop for people wanting to get away from the towns. There were paths through the undergrowth, trodden down by walkers. But this wasn't a good time for walking. The snows had only recently melted. The woods were bleak and unwelcoming. Petya turned to his companion, looking at his smart shoes and black case.

-You live here?

The man shook his head.

-My dacha dacha is here. I can't keep my stamps at home. I'm too worried that my children will find them and touch them with their dirty fingers. But I'm going to have to sell this is here. I can't keep my stamps at home. I'm too worried that my children will find them and touch them with their dirty fingers. But I'm going to have to sell this dacha dacha, you see. So I have nowhere to keep this collection any more.

He got off the train. Petya followed, stepping down onto the platform. No one else had disembarked.

The man walked into the woods, Petya just behind. Having a dacha dacha made a kind of sense. Petya didn't know anyone rich enough to have a summer home, but he knew they were often situated in woods or by lakes or by the sea. While walking the man continued to talk. made a kind of sense. Petya didn't know anyone rich enough to have a summer home, but he knew they were often situated in woods or by lakes or by the sea. While walking the man continued to talk.

-Of course it would have been nice if my children took an interest in stamps but they just don't care for them.

Petya considered telling this man that perhaps his children needed a little time. It had taken him time to become a careful collector. But he was canny enough to understand that it was in his advantage that this man's children were uninterested in stamps. And so he said nothing.

The man stepped off the path, walking through the undergrowth with quite some speed. Petya struggled to keep up. The man took long strides. Petya almost had to run.

-Sir, what's your name? I'd like to be able tell my parents the name of the man who gave me the stamps in case they don't believe me.

-Don't worry about your parents. I'll write them a note explaining exactly how you came into possession of the alb.u.m. I'll even give them my address in case they want to check.

-Thank you very much, sir.

-Call me Andrei.

After some time the man stopped walking and bent down, opening his case. Petya also stopped, looking around for some sign of this dacha dacha. He couldn't see one. Maybe they had a bit further to go. Catching his breath, he stared up at the leafless branches of the tall trees that criss-crossed the grey sky.

Andrei stared down at the boy's body. Blood ran down the boy's head, across the side of his face. Andrei knelt, placing a finger on the boy's neck, feeling for a pulse. He was alive. That was good. He rolled the boy onto his back and began undressing him as though he were a doll. He took off the boy's coat, his shirt, then his shoes and his socks. Finally he took his trousers and underwear. He gathered the clothes in a bundle, picked up his case, walking away from the child. After about twenty paces he stopped beside a fallen tree. He dropped the clothes, a small pile of cheap garments. He put his case on the ground, opened it and pulled out a long piece of coa.r.s.e string. He returned to the boy, tying one end of the string around his ankle. He made a tight knot, testing it by pulling the boy's leg. It held fast. Walking backwards, he carefully unwound the string as though laying the fuse to a stack of dynamite. He reached the fallen tree, hid behind it and lay down on the ground.

He'd chosen a good spot. The position of the tree meant that when the boy awoke he'd be out of sight. His eyes followed the line of string from his hand, across the ground all the way to the boy's ankle. There was still plenty of string left in his hand, plenty of slack, at least another fifteen or so paces' worth. Set up, ready, he was so excited he wanted to pee. Afraid he might miss the moment the boy woke up, he rolled onto his side, unb.u.t.toned his flies and still lying on the ground emptied himself. Done, he shuffled away from the damp soil, adjusting his position slightly. The boy was still unconscious. Time for the last of the preparations. Andrei took off his gla.s.ses, putting them in his gla.s.ses case and slipping them into his jacket pocket. Now, looking back, the child was just a blur. Squinting hard, all Andrei could see was an outline, an indistinct splash of pink skin contrasting with the ground. Andrei reached out, snapped a twig off a nearby tree and began to chew the bark, his teeth turning coa.r.s.e and brown.

Petya opened his eyes, focusing on the grey sky and the branches of leafless trees. His head was sticky with blood. He touched it and looked at his fingers, beginning to cry. He was cold. He was naked. What had happened? Confused, he didn't dare sit up for fear of seeing that man beside him. He was certain the man was close. Right now all he could see was the sky. But he couldn't stay here, naked on the ground. He wanted to be at home with his parents. He loved his parents so much and he was sure they loved him. His lips trembling, his whole body trembling, he sat uplooking right and left, hardly daring to breathe. He couldn't see the man anywhere. He looked behind him, to the side. The man was gone. Petya raised himself into a crouching position, staring into the forests. He was alone, abandoned. He breathed deeply, relieved. He didn't understand. But he didn't want to understand.

He peered around for his clothes. They were gone. They weren't important. He jumped and began to run, running as fast as he could, his feet crunching across fallen branches, the soil wet from rain and snow melt. His bare feet, when they weren't crunching branches, made a slapping noise. He wasn't sure if he was running in the right direction. All he knew was that he had to get away.

Suddenly his right foot was pulled back as though a hand had grabbed his ankle. Unable to keep his balance he toppled forward, falling to the ground. Without waiting to catch his breath he rolled onto his back, looking behind him. He couldn't see anyone. He must have tripped and he was about to stand again when he caught sight of the string tied around his right ankle. His eyes followed its trail into the forests where he could see it stretching across the ground like a fishing line. The string continued all the way to a fallen tree some forty paces away.

He grabbed the string, trying to pull it down over his ankle and off his foot. But it was so tight it dug into his skin. The string was pulled again, harder this time. Petya was wrenched across the ground, his back covered with mud, before coming to a stop. He looked up. There he was, that man, standing up behind the tree, reeling him in. Petya clutched branches, handfuls of soil. But it was no good: he was being pulled closer and closer. He concentrated on the knot. He couldn't undo it. He couldn't break the string. He had no choice but to tug it down, sc.r.a.ping the skin around his ankle. The string was pulled again, this time sinking into his flesh. He gritted his teeth, refusing to scream. He grabbed a handful of wet mud, lubricating the string. Just as the man pulled again, Petya freed himself from the noose. He leapt to his feet and ran.

The string was slack in Andrei's hands. There was nothing at the end of it. He tugged again, feeling his face flush red. He squinted but the distance was too far, he couldn't see anything, he'd always relied on the string. Should he put his gla.s.ses on? No, he'd never had that option as a child.

He'd been stuck like thisnearly blind, alone, stumbling through the forests.

He's leaving you behind.

Andrei jumped up, climbing over the fallen tree. With his nose close to the ground he followed the string.

Petya ran as fast as he'd ever run before. He'd reach the stationthe train would be there. He'd get on. And it would move off before the man arrived. He'd survive.

I can do it.

He turned around. The man was behind him, running, but with his head close to the ground, as though looking for something he'd dropped. What's more, he was going in the wrong direction. The distance between them was growing. Petya was going to make it, he was going to escape.

Reaching the end of the string, the noose, his heart beating fastAndrei stopped and stared all around, squinting hard. He felt tears forming; he couldn't see him. The boy was gone. Andrei was alone, abandoned. Then, there, to the right, movementa light colour, the colour of skin, a boy.

Petya checked behind him, hopeful that the distance between them had grown even more. This time he saw the man running very fast and heading in his direction. He was taking long strides, his jacket flapping about his sides. He was smiling wildly. Petya could see that his teeth were for some reason completely brown and he stopped, understanding that there was no escape. Feeling weak, all the blood had left his legs. He raised his arms to his head, as if this could protect him, and closed his eyes, imagining himself back in his parents' arms.

Andrei collided with the boy at such speed that they both fell to the ground. Andrei was on top, the boy wriggling underneath; scratching and biting his jacket. Keeping himself flat on the boy to stop him escaping Andrei muttered: -It's still alive!

He pulled out the long hunting knife attached to his belt. Closing his eyes, he jabbed the blade underneath him, cautious jabs at first, stabbing only with the tip, small stabs, listening to its screams. He waited, savouring this moment, feeling the vibrations of the struggle in his stomach. What a feeling! Excited, the blade went in further and faster, further and faster until finally the blade went in all the way up to the hilt. At this point the child was no longer moving.

THREE MONTHS LATER.

South-Eastern Rostov Oblast The Sea of Azov 4 July Nesterov sat with his toes buried in the sand. This stretch of beach was popular with people living in the nearby city of Rostov-on-Don, some forty or so kilometres to the north-east. Today was no exception. The beach was crowded. As if the inhabitants of the town had emerged from hibernation, their bodies were drained of colour by the long winter. Could he guess what kind of jobs people held from the shapes of their bodies? The fatter men were important in some way. Perhaps they were factory managers or Party officials or high-ranking State Security officers, not the kind who kicked down doors but the kind who signed forms. Nesterov was careful not to catch their eye. He concentrated on his family. His two sons were playing in the shallow water, his wife lay beside him, sleeping on her sideher eyes closed, her hands tucked under her head. At a glance they seemed content: a perfect Soviet family. They had every reason to be relaxedthey were on holiday, allowed the use of an official militia car, with a State voucher for fuel, as a reward for the successful, discreet and efficient handling of the two separate murder investigations. He'd been told to take it easy. Those had been his orders. He repeated the words in his head, sucking on their irony.

The trial of Varlam Babinich had lasted two days with his defence lawyer entering a plea of insanity. According to procedure the defence were forced to rely upon the testimony of the same experts used by the prosecution. They couldn't call their own independent witnesses. Nesterov was no lawyer and didn't need to be in order to understand the enormous advantage this set-up handed to the prosecution. In Babinich's case the defence had to prove insanity without being able to call a witness who hadn't first been groomed by the prosecution. Since there were no psychiatrists working at Hospital 379 a doctor with no specialist training had been selected by the prosecution and called to make a judgement. This doctor had stated that he believed Varlam Babinich understood the difference between right and wrong and knew murder was wrong; the defendant's intelligence was limited certainly but sufficient to grasp concepts such as criminality, after all he'd said upon arrest:

I'm in so much trouble.

The defence then had no choice but to call the same doctor and attempt to argue a contradictory point of view. Varlam Babinich had been found guilty. Nesterov had received a typed letter confirming that the seventeen-year-old had died on his knees, shot in the back of the head.

Dr Tyapkin's case had taken less time, barely a day. His wife had testified that he was violent, describing his sick fantasies and claiming that the only reason she hadn't come forward before was because she'd feared for her own life and for the life of her baby. She'd also told the judge that she renounced her religionJudaism. She would bring her children up to be loyal Communists. In exchange for this testimony she'd been transferred to Shakhty, a town in the Ukraine, where she could continue her life without the stigma of her husband's crime. Since no one outside Voualsk had heard of the crime, there wasn't even any need to change her name.

With these two cases concluded, the court had processed close to two hundred cases against men accused of anti-Soviet behaviour. These h.o.m.os.e.xuals had received hard-labour sentences of between five and twenty-five years. In order to deal with the sheer number of cases swiftly the judge had devised a formula for sentencing which depended upon their employment record, the number of children they had and finally the quant.i.ty of perverse s.e.xual encounters they'd been alleged to have experienced. Being a member of the Party was counted as a strike against the accused since they'd brought the Party into disrepute. They should have known better and their membership was stripped from them. Despite the repet.i.tious nature of these sessions Nesterov had sat through all of them, all one hundred and fifty or so. After the last man had been sentenced he'd left the court only to find himself being congratulated by local Party officials. He'd done well. It was almost certain he'd have a new apartment with the next couple of months, or if not then by the end of the year.

Several nights after the conclusion of the trials, as he'd lain awake, his wife had told him it was only a matter of time before he agreed to help Leo. She wished he'd just get on and do it. Had he been waiting for her permission? Perhaps he had. He was gambling with not only his own life but with those of his family. It wasn't that he was doing anything technically wrong by asking questions and making enquiries, but he was acting on his own. Independent action was always a risk since it implied that the structures put in place by the State had failed: that the individual could somehow achieve something the State could not. All the same he was confident that he could begin a quiet kind of investigation, a casual investigation which would appear to be no more than conversations between colleagues. If he discovered that there were no similar cases, no other murdered children, then he could be sure that the brutal punishments he'd been instrumental in bringing about had been fair, just and appropriate. Though he mistrusted Leo and resented the doubt he'd stirred up, there was no escaping that the man had posited a very simple question. Did his work have meaning or was it merely a means to survive? There was nothing shameful about trying to surviveit was the occupation of the majority. However, was it enough to live in squalor and not even be rewarded with a sense of pride, not even to be sustained by a sense that what he did served some purpose?

For the past ten weeks Nesterov had operated on his own without any discussion or collaboration with Leo. Since Leo was almost certainly under surveillance the less contact between them the better. All he'd done was to scribble Leo a short noteI'll helpincluding instructions to destroy the note immediately.

There was no easy way of accessing regional criminal files. He'd made phone calls and written letters. In both forms of communication he'd mentioned the subject only in pa.s.sing, praising the efficiency of his department for the swift resolution of their two cases in an attempt to provoke similar boasts. As the replies began to arrive he'd been forced to make several off-duty train journeys, arriving in towns and meeting with his colleagues, drinking with them, discussing relevant cases for no more than a fraction of a minute before boasting about other things. It was an extraordinarily inefficient means of collecting information. Three hours of drinking might provide two minutes of useful conversation. After eight weeks Nesterov hadn't unearthed a single unsolved crime. At this point he'd called Leo into his office.

Leo had entered the office, shut the door and sat down. Nesterov had double-checked the corridors before returning, locking the office door and reaching under his desk. He'd taken out a map of the Soviet Union, which he'd spread across the desk, weighing down the corners with books. He'd then picked up a handful of pins. He'd stuck two into the map at Voualsk, two in Molotov, two in Vyatka, two in Gorky and two in Kazan. These pins formed a row of towns which followed the train line west towards Moscow. Nesterov hadn't been to Moscow, deliberately avoiding its militia officers who he'd feared were likely to be suspicious of any enquiries. West of Moscow, Nesterov had been less successful in gathering information, but he'd found one possible incident in Tver. Moving south, he stuck three pins in the city of Tula, two in the town of Orel and two in Belgorod. Now into the Ukraine, he picked up the box of pins, shaking at least twenty into his hand. He continued: three pins in the towns of Kharkov and Gorlovka, four in the city of Zaporoshy, three in the town of Kramatorsk and one in Kiev. Moving out of the Ukraine, there were five pins in Taganrog and finally six pins in and around the city of Rostov.

Nesterov had understood Leo's reactionstunned silence. In many ways he had collected this information in a comparable frame of mind. At first he'd tried to dismiss the similarities: the ground-up material stuffed into the children's mouths, whether officers called it soil or dirt, the mutilated torsos. But the points of similarity were too striking. There was the string around the ankles. The bodies were always naked, the clothes left in a pile some distance away. The crime scenes were in forests or parks and often near train stations, never household crimes, never interior. Not one town had spoken to another even though some crimes had occurred less than fifty kilometres apart. No connecting line had been traced, joining up these pins. They'd been solved by blaming drunks or thieves or convicted rapistsundesirables, to whom any allegation would stick.

By his count there were forty-three in total. Nesterov had reached over, taken another pin from the box and stuck it into the centre of Moscow, making Arkady child 44.

Nesterov awoke to find the side of his face pressed against the sand, his mouth open. He sat up, brushing the sand off. The sun had disappeared behind a sheet of cloud. He looked for his children, searching the stretch of beach, the people playing. His eldest son, Efim, seven years old, sat near the water's edge. But his youngest sononly five years oldwas nowhere to be seen. Nesterov turned to his wife. She was cutting slices of dried meat, ready for their lunch.

-Where's Vadim?

Inessa looked up, her eyes immediately finding their eldest son but not their youngest. Still holding the knife, she got up, turning around, checking behind her. Unable to see him, she dropped the knife. They both moved forward, arriving by Efim, kneeling down beside him, one on either side.

-Where's your brother?

-He said he was going back to you.

-When?

-I don't know.

-Think.

-Not long ago. I'm not sure.

-We told you to stay together.

-He said he was going back to you!

-He didn't go out into the water?

-He went that way, towards you.

Nesterov stood again, staring into the water. Vadim hadn't gone out into the sea, he hadn't wanted to swim. He was on the beach, somewhere amongst these hundreds of people. Images from the case files rose into his mind. One young girl had been murdered off a popular riverside trail. Another young girl had been murdered in a park, behind a monument, one hundred yards from her house. He crouched beside his son: -Go back to the blankets. Stay there no matter who talks to you, no matter what they say. Even if they're your elders and demand your respect, you remain in the same place.

Remembering how many children had been persuaded into disappearing into the forest he changed his mind, taking his son's hand.

-Come with me. We'll both look for your brother.

His wife went up the beach, in the opposite direction, while Nesterov walked down, weaving in and out of people, walking at a brisk pace, too quick for Efim so he picked his son up, carrying him. The beach came to an end, tapering off into long gra.s.s and reeds. Vadim was nowhere to be seen.

Efim knew a little about his father's work. He knew about the two murdered children in his home town because his parents had spoken to him about them, although they'd made him swear not to mention the murders to anyone. No one was supposed to be worried about them. They were meant to be solved. Efim knew his little brother was in danger. He was a talkative, friendly boy. He'd find it difficult to be rude to anyone. Efim should've kept a better watch on him and realizing he was to blame he began to cry.

At the other end of the beach Inessa called for her son. She'd read the doc.u.ments pertaining to her husband's investigation. She knew exactly what had happened to these missing children. Panicking, she blamed herself entirely. She'd told her husband to help Leo. She'd encouraged him, advising on basic precautions to keep the investigation a secret. He was by nature blunt and this work needed caution. She'd read his letters before they were posted, suggesting the insertion of certain phrases should the letters be intercepted. When he'd shown her the map marked with pins; she'd touched each pin individually. It was an impossible number and that night she'd slept in the same bed as her sons. Tying their holiday into the investigation had been her idea. Since the greatest concentration of murders had taken place in the south of the country, the only way Nesterov could make a substantial expedition unnoticed would be to use his family holiday as a cover. Only now did she fully understand that she'd put her children in danger. She'd taken them into the heartland of this mysterious evil. She'd underestimated the power of this thing they were searching for. No child was safe. They were seemingly taken at will, murdered only metres from their homes. Now it had taken her youngest son.

Short of breath, shouting for her son, calling his name into the face of the bathers, her eyes filled with tears. People circled her with their dumb, unconcerned eyes. She begged them to help her.

-He's only five years old. He's been taken. We have to find him.

A stern-looking woman tried to take hold of her.

-He'll be here somewhere.

-You don't understand: he's in terrible danger.

-From what?

She pushed the woman out of the way, turning around and around, calling his name. Suddenly she felt a man's strong hands on her arms.

-My little boy's been taken. Please help me look for him.

-Why don't you calm down?

-No, he'll be killed. He'll be murdered. You have to help me find him.