Red Moth

Before going to see Kovalevsky

Before going to see Kovalevsky, Pekkala returned to the office in order to tell Kirov where he was going.

When he arrived, he was surprised to find a young woman sitting at his desk.

She took one look at Pekkala and launched herself to her feet. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector!’ she said.

The woman was in her mid-twenties, head and shoulders shorter than Pekkala, with a round and slightly freckled face, a small chin and dark, inquisitive eyes. She had on a dark blue skirt and a grey, hand-knitted sweater, but Pekkala guessed from the faint but particular rub mark at her throat that she had recently been wearing a tight-collared gymnastiorka tunic, and the skirt itself was the same cut and colour as that issued to women serving in administrative and medical positions in the Red Army. His notion was confirmed when he spotted the dark blue beret, with its brass and red enamel star, issued to women in the Soviet military. ‘You must be the friend of Major Kirov,’ said Pekkala.

‘Elizaveta Kapanina.’

Pekkala felt his neck muscles tighten as he recalled his unfortunate conversation with Kirov at the Cafe Tilsit.

‘And this,’ announced Kirov, slouched comfortably in the chair from Hotel Metropol, ‘is Inspector Pekkala.’ Behind him, late-afternoon light filtered through the kumquat tree and other potted plants lined up along the window sill, casting jungly shadows on the floor.

Did he tell me just to be myself? Pekkala struggled to recall. Or was it not to be myself? And if I’m not supposed to be myself, then who the hell am I supposed to be?

‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Inspector,’ said Elizaveta. ‘Yulian has told me all about you.’

Pekkala nodded. ‘Yulian‚’ he repeated slowly.

‘That’s my name‚’ said Kirov‚ ‘which you would know if you ever used it.’

‘Yulian,’ continued Elizaveta, ‘says that your father ran a funeral business where you lived in Finland.’

‘Yes, do you have undertakers in your family?’

‘No, but I was thinking how strange it must have been, growing up with dead people in your house all the time.’

‘It did make my mother nervous,’ admitted Pekkala. ‘She worried that their souls would stay behind when the bodies were taken for burial. And besides, my father talked to them.’

‘To the dead?’

‘That’s right,’ said Pekkala. ‘I used to sit at the top of the stairs and listen to the things he said.’

‘What things?’ asked Elizaveta.

‘He talked about his life. Sometimes, it was just about the day he’d had.’

‘And that never bothered you?’

‘The thing is,’ explained Pekkala, ‘that he believed they spoke to him as well. The only thing that worried me was that I believed it too.’

‘This is how you introduce yourself?’ muttered Kirov.

‘I’m sorry I can’t stay‚’ said Pekkala. ‘I have a meeting I must get to. I just came to drop something off.’ He took off his coat and removed the Webley in its shoulder holster. Then he laid the weapon on his desk.

‘I’ve never seen you do that before,’ said Kirov.

‘Do what?’ asked Pekkala.

‘Leave this room without your weapon.’

As he buttoned his coat again, Pekkala tried to accustom himself to the unfamiliar lightness across his chest and shoulder blade. ‘For this particular meeting, my only weapon is defencelessness.’

When Pekkala had gone, Elizaveta Kapanina slumped back into his chair. Her breath trailed out. The tips of her fingers were shaking.

‘Why did you do that?’ asked Kirov.

‘Do what?’ she replied.

‘Of all the things to ask him about. .’

‘I’m sorry. I was just trying to make conversation. Besides, it was all I could think about. He dresses like an undertaker!’

‘I know,’ Kirov groaned. ‘He buys his clothes at Linsky’s.’

‘He’s a very strange man,’ said Elizaveta, ‘in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘Strange or not, I think he likes you.’

Elizaveta laughed sarcastically. ‘And I think you are a liar, Major Kirov.’

‘No, I mean it. I’ve never heard him tell that story before, to me or to anyone else.’

‘You almost sound as if you’re jealous.’

‘Perhaps I am, a little.’

‘You are as strange as he is, Major Kirov,’ Elizaveta told him. ‘Maybe even more so, since you’re pretending that you’re not.’

From the shelter of his kumquat tree, Kirov shot her a quizzical glance.