legs could go, but Reikhman shot him twice: first in the right leg, then the left. Vysoky buckled, fell, and ended up lying on the ice, clutching his right leg, a pool of blood spreading out from his wounds. Reikhman circled him, staring while he loaded a fresh round of bullets into his gun and then pointed it straight down and fired into the ice, moved and fired again, letting off six more shots in quick succession, tracing a half-circle around Vysoky. He slammed in a second fresh clip and completed the circle. Then the newly created ice floe, sodden with blood, started to upend. Vysoky lost his balance but managed to grab on to the uppermost tip of the ice with his right hand. The tug of the current made the upended floe wobble but Vysoky held on, one-handed, desperate to survive. Reikhman crouched down and Iryna zoomed in; through the viewfinder she saw him take out a knife and slash at Vysoky’s fingers. Vysoky let go and slid down into the river, the current under the ice, strong and fast, doing the rest, dragging him under. Reikhman threw rod and hand drill after him into the hole in the ice, its edge rimmed with blood, and started walking back to the SUV.
‘He’s psycho,’ said Konstantin. Iryna gestured to the blinking red light on the camera monitor, still picking up sound. Konstantin closed his eyes, sickened by his mistake. Iryna knew she should delete Konstantin’s remark but she felt frozen by her fear of Reikhman. In the end, she did nothing.
‘Two down, one to go,’ said Reikhman when he got back into the SUV. The others stayed silent.
For Anna Shakhmatova, the old schoolmistress, Reikhman had special instructions. To review the case, he plugged his headphones into the micro-recorder and listened to Iryna coaxing the story out of the old babushka. She had a good way with people, this Iryna; she got them to talk naturally.
‘Little Zoba was the quietest child I ever taught. His home life was so very miserable. His father, well, he wasn’t there, and his mother had come here, found a new man, who didn’t like him one bit. A sadness, an unhappiness about this boy. The other kids, they sensed this. Children can be so cruel. They picked on him, calling him the devil’s bastard. Because he was so alone and unpopular, it seemed he had to prove himself, to do manly things. Once he went into the countryside and ended up in a thorn bush. I heard that one of the other children pushed him into the bush, deliberately. They used to bully him so. The poor boy, his back was covered in thorns, like a porcupine. I took out the thorns he couldn’t get to, the best I could. There was lots of blood. The strange thing was, he didn’t cry, not a sound from him. Poor, miserable thing, you sensed that no one loved him. I felt sorry for him but he stuck to me like a cat. I never felt . . . None of us back then ever dreamt that he would one day end up where he is now. Such a sad little boy.’
Reikhman switched off the micro-recorder and stared out the window of the Mercedes, watching snow on snow, the endless forest filing past: silver birch, larch, a few pines.
The old schoolteacher lived on the fourth floor of a Brezhnev-era block of flats close to the centre of town. They parked the car a few blocks away, to be on the safe side, and left Konstantin to his own devices.
Iryna led the way, punching in a key code and pushing the steel door wide open. They entered an unlit hallway, stinking of piss, boiled cabbage and cheap tobacco. She pressed the button for the lift and they got in; it climbed up the shaft as if it had asthma.
She spent the whole time looking down, Reikhman noted. Neither she nor Konstantin had made proper eye contact with him since the Elephant; nor had they uttered a surplus word. That was fine by him.
The schoolteacher was small, ancient, dumpy, a little arthritic, but she had some vim about her. As he set up the camera equipment – just a formality, he explained – Anna’s face furrowed
‘He’s psycho,’ said Konstantin. Iryna gestured to the blinking red light on the camera monitor, still picking up sound. Konstantin closed his eyes, sickened by his mistake. Iryna knew she should delete Konstantin’s remark but she felt frozen by her fear of Reikhman. In the end, she did nothing.
‘Two down, one to go,’ said Reikhman when he got back into the SUV. The others stayed silent.
For Anna Shakhmatova, the old schoolmistress, Reikhman had special instructions. To review the case, he plugged his headphones into the micro-recorder and listened to Iryna coaxing the story out of the old babushka. She had a good way with people, this Iryna; she got them to talk naturally.
‘Little Zoba was the quietest child I ever taught. His home life was so very miserable. His father, well, he wasn’t there, and his mother had come here, found a new man, who didn’t like him one bit. A sadness, an unhappiness about this boy. The other kids, they sensed this. Children can be so cruel. They picked on him, calling him the devil’s bastard. Because he was so alone and unpopular, it seemed he had to prove himself, to do manly things. Once he went into the countryside and ended up in a thorn bush. I heard that one of the other children pushed him into the bush, deliberately. They used to bully him so. The poor boy, his back was covered in thorns, like a porcupine. I took out the thorns he couldn’t get to, the best I could. There was lots of blood. The strange thing was, he didn’t cry, not a sound from him. Poor, miserable thing, you sensed that no one loved him. I felt sorry for him but he stuck to me like a cat. I never felt . . . None of us back then ever dreamt that he would one day end up where he is now. Such a sad little boy.’
Reikhman switched off the micro-recorder and stared out the window of the Mercedes, watching snow on snow, the endless forest filing past: silver birch, larch, a few pines.
The old schoolteacher lived on the fourth floor of a Brezhnev-era block of flats close to the centre of town. They parked the car a few blocks away, to be on the safe side, and left Konstantin to his own devices.
Iryna led the way, punching in a key code and pushing the steel door wide open. They entered an unlit hallway, stinking of piss, boiled cabbage and cheap tobacco. She pressed the button for the lift and they got in; it climbed up the shaft as if it had asthma.
She spent the whole time looking down, Reikhman noted. Neither she nor Konstantin had made proper eye contact with him since the Elephant; nor had they uttered a surplus word. That was fine by him.
The schoolteacher was small, ancient, dumpy, a little arthritic, but she had some vim about her. As he set up the camera equipment – just a formality, he explained – Anna’s face furrowed
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