The Senility of Vladimir P (28 page)

He'd take the watches, he thought. Leave the old Poljot for Vladimir. What did he care? After the crimes that had been committed in this place, that would be nothing.

And then he would leave. Take the watches and go. The dacha and everyone in it revolted him.

Only don't look at me with that look, Vladimir Vladimirovich, he thought. Don't let me see the confusion and fear in your eyes.

Sheremetev glanced at his watch. Eight-thirty. Still no sound from Vladimir's room. Gingerly, he dressed and went to look in on him.

The ex-president was lying in the bed just as he had left him, face up, eyes open – stone cold.

Sheremetev met Dr Rospov
at the door of the dacha. The doctor took one look at the gaping wound on his cheek and grimaced.

‘What happened to you?'

‘Come upstairs,' said Sheremetev, conscious of the security guard watching them. ‘I'll tell you when we get up there.'

They climbed the stairs and walked along the corridor to Vladimir's suite. ‘You're sure he's dead?' said the doctor in a low voice.

Sheremetev nodded. ‘Vladimir Vladimirovich was very agitated last night. He attacked me . . .' Sheremetev gestured towards his face.

‘Did you sedate him?'

‘Eventually. But he managed to do this first. It wasn't an easy situation, I can tell you.'

‘I'll fix you up,' said Rospov. ‘Let's go and see him first.'

Sheremetev unlocked the door. Vladimir was lying where Sheremetev had found him, flat on his back in the bed. Rospov went to the bed and opened his bag.

Sheremetev watched as the doctor began to examine the body, trying to hide his anxiety.

He had had no choice but to call the doctor – you couldn't just throw the ex-president of Russia into a pit full of chickens, as you could apparently dispose of a housekeeper. What would Rospov do? If he had any suspicion over the cause of death, he would be required by law to order an autopsy. After the struggle of the previous night, there was no telling what the findings of an autopsy would be and how they might implicate Sheremetev in Vladimir's death.

But Rospov didn't have to order an autopsy. He could decide that the ex-president's demise was a death from natural causes, and there was no need to investigate further. And Sheremetev had seen enough of doctors to know that the other two physicians involved in Vladimir's care, Kalin and Andreevsky, would be grateful to let it go at that. Why would either of them want an autopsy when there was always the possibility that it would reveal a shortcoming in their treatment?

Rospov felt at Vladimir's neck for a pulse. Then he touched his eye with a tissue and laid a stethoscope on his chest. He listened for a full minute. Finally he put the stethoscope away and closed his bag.

‘Well, there's no doubt about it. He's dead. When did you last see him?'

‘I came up at about eleven o'clock. He was awake. He was talking – quite aggressively. Nothing unusual, but I sensed there might be trouble. I put my head in to try to calm him. He thought I was the Chechen.'

‘Do you know why?' asked the doctor.

Sheremetev shook his head. If he had to describe the reason he was covered in the stink of kitchen juices, a whole new snake's nest in the dacha would be revealed, which would hardly make the doctor feel more confident that there had been no suspicious circumstances surrounding the ex-president's death. ‘He was disorientated, I suppose – he always was when he woke up at night. You know, Doctor, he was a martial arts champion. If he hadn't lost some of his strength because of his age, he would have killed me last night.'

‘Did you fear for your life?'

‘Certainly. At one point he had me down on the ground and he was choking me.' Sheremetev touched his throat, where the thumbprints left by Vladimir were visible as a pair of red, tender weals. ‘I tell you, Dr Rospov, if he hadn't let go of me, I think he might have strangled me.'

Rospov shook his head. ‘So what did you do? Did you hit back at him?'

‘I defended myself. I had no choice.'

‘Do you hit him hard enough to hurt him?'

‘No! Just self defence. I didn't hit him – I was just keeping his punches off me while I tried to get away. I ran to where I keep the tranquilliser. He was coming after me, but I managed to draw it up and then I got the injection into him. After that he was quiet. I got him back into bed, cleaned him up. By then he was asleep. Everything was normal. He was breathing easily. I went to bed. The next thing I knew, it was morning, and this is what I found.'

The doctor gazed at the grazes on Vladimir's face. ‘These,' he said, pointing. ‘Are these from blows you struck?'

‘I don't know, Dr Rospov. I really don't know.'

The doctor scrutinised the grazes. ‘With respect, Nikolai Ilyich, I think I'd better have a proper look at the body.'

Sheremetev nodded, feeling sick with foreboding. Why had he even talked about a fight? Why hadn't he said that he had fallen – or something – and torn open the laceration on his cheek? Nothing to do with Vladimir. The doctor might not have even noticed the grazes that he now found so interesting.

Rospov unbuttoned Vladimir's pyjama top and examined his chest and abdomen. There was a faint bruise on the left side below the ribs. Sheremetev stole a surreptitious glance at Rospov and saw that the doctor had noticed it. ‘Let's lift him up,' said Rospov. They sat the corpse up and Vladimir's chin flopped onto his chest, exposing the back of his head. Another bruise discoloured the skin, detectable through the wisps of Vladimir's hair. Rospov looked questioningly at Sheremetev, who couldn't bear to meet his gaze. They laid him down and then removed the pyjama trousers and Rospov examined the legs.

‘Alright,' said the doctor.

‘I only did what I had to do to defend myself,' said Sheremetev.

‘Of course, Nikolai Ilyich.' Rospov took a step back and folded his arms. ‘Please.'

Sheremetev rearranged the pyjamas and then pulled the sheet up over Vladimir's face.

‘And the tranquilliser, Nikolai Ilyich . . . You said you injected him. How much did you actually give?'

‘The usual dose.'

‘How much was that?'

‘Five milligrams,' muttered Sheremetev.

‘Five?'

‘Yes. Five. That's the usual dose.'

‘You didn't give him a little more, perhaps, considering how agitated he was?'

‘Maybe I gave him ten.'

‘Was it ten or was it five?'

Sheremetev's mind raced.
Why
had he said that? Why had he said ten?

‘Professor Kalin said he could have up to ten if necessary,' he murmured at last.

‘So you gave him ten?'

‘Ten, yes. I think it was ten.'

‘Perhaps you got confused. From the way you described the situation, it sounds as if it might have been difficult to be precise when you drew it up. Perhaps you gave him more than ten.'

‘No, ten. Definitely no more. The door was locked.'

‘The door?' said the doctor.

‘I keep the tranquilliser in a cupboard in my room. I got back to my room and locked the door behind me. That way I was safe – then I could draw it up. I gave him ten, Doctor. Ten milligrams. No more.'

Rospov peered at him, eyes slightly narrowed. ‘Do you think, when you fought him, something could have happened?'

‘Like what, Dr Rospov?'

‘Oh, I don't know, like a blow to the upper part of the abdomen perhaps, on the left, where it might have ruptured his spleen.'

‘Ruptured his spleen?' Sheremetev remembered the sensation of the top of his head connecting with Vladimir's belly. ‘No, Doctor. Definitely not!'

‘Or a blow to the back of the head, perhaps?'

Sheremetev shook his head, hearing in his mind the crack of Vladimir's skull hitting the floor, and again, as he struggled up with his hand on Vladimir's face.

‘In an older person, Nikolai Ilyich, even a relatively mild blow to the head can cause bleeding around the brain.'

‘I only held him off, Doctor, like I said. I was only trying to keep his blows off.'

‘Hmmm,' mused the doctor. He gazed at the body, which was now covered. Vladimir's nose made a point in the sheet. ‘Well, under normal circumstances, I would just write a death certificate: he was old, he had dementia – something in him gave up. But there has been some kind of a fight, drugs have been used, and he was our president, after all, so we can't take shortcuts. No disrespect to you, Nikolai Ilyich, but in view of these facts, I have to conclude that an autopsy is in order.'

Sheremetev stared at him. He felt clammy with fear.

‘Nikolai Ilyich, are you alright?'

Sheremetev hesitated. ‘I have . . . some money,' he murmured in barely more than a whisper.

The doctor laughed. Sheremetev's reputation for probity was known even to him.

‘Thirty two and a half thousand —'

‘What? Rubles?'

‘Dollars!'

‘Of course you do. And where is it, under your mattress? I'm a professional man, Nikolai Ilyich. You're insulting me.'

‘I have it! I swear I have it.'

‘Thirty-two and a half thousand dollars? Really? How?'

‘It doesn't matter how.'

The doctor eyed Sheremetev for a moment, then turned back to the corpse, as if weighing up the offer. After a minute, he was still staring.

Sheremetev peered around to see that he was looking at. It wasn't the corpse – it was the bedside table, where the watches left by Belkin still lay in a jumble.

Suddenly Rospov turned back to him.

‘Nothing serious happened in the fight?' said Rospov.

‘No.'

‘You just fended off his blows? You didn't strike him yourself?'

‘No.'

‘And you gave him only ten milligrams of the tranquilliser? No more?'

‘No more.'

Rospov stepped forward to the bedside table. Six watches. Each, he knew, would put his Breitling Chronospace in the shade, each worth five or six times as much.

Rospov ran his fingers over them as one might over the delicate skin of a newborn child, gently turning them this way and that.

‘Vladimir Vladimirovich was strongly opposed to the idea of an autopsy being carried out on him, wasn't he?' murmured Rospov, still caressing the watches. ‘I remember once, when I first met him, he told me explicitly.'

Sheremetev could remember no such thing.

‘One shouldn't go against a person's wishes in such a thing, not unless there's an overwhelming need.'

‘No,' said Sheremetev.

‘And there's no such need, is there?'

‘No,' said Sheremetev.

The doctor looked around at Sheremetev. Their eyes met. Both men knew exactly the bargain they were about to strike. Rospov knew what Sheremetev's offer of a bribe signified – and Sheremetev knew what Rospov's greed for the watches portended. Nothing even needed to be said.

As Sheremetev looked on, the doctor opened his bag and put the watches in, one after the other. He stopped only when it came to the seventh watch on the table, lying a little apart from the others, the old Poljot that Belkin had thrown away. ‘Rubbish,' he muttered, and he left it where it was. Then he closed the latch over the other watches in his bag with a snap.

The doctor turned back to him. ‘I don't think we need an autopsy. The case is clear.'

‘I agree,' said Sheremetev.

‘You held him off in self defence. He had the same dose of drugs he'd had a hundred times.'

‘Yes,' said Sheremetev.

Rospov smiled. ‘Good. I'll write the death certificate. A man of his age with dementia – sooner or later his heart's going to give up.'

The doctor picked up his bag and headed for the door. ‘Take me to the housekeeper, please. You were going to introduce me last time, remember? I should inform her that Vladimir Vladimirovich has passed on and that I will be letting the appropriate authorities know.'

‘Ah, the housekeeper, Dr Rospov . . .' Sheremetev tried to think of a plausible excuse for her absence. But after all the lies he had told, it seemed that this was one lie too far. His mind went blank.

‘What, Nikolai Ilyich?' demanded the doctor, turning the door handle.

‘Well, she . . .'

He stopped as Rospov pulled back the door. The corridor outside the suite was full of people. Word had spread in the dacha that the doctor had arrived for the boss, and somehow everyone sensed the worst. For the last fifteen minutes, they had been coming up the stairs and waiting for that door to open

But the doctor wasn't taken aback. ‘I have bad news!' announced Rospov, who relished the opportunity to be the centre of attention provided by births, deaths and major injury. ‘I have just been to see Vladimir Vladimirovich. The great man, Russia's great leader, is dead.'

The inhabitants of the dacha stared back at him, stunned. They couldn't care less how great a leader – or how terrible – Vladimir had been. Their concerns were entirely more selfish.

‘He died of natural causes. No foul play is suspected! I am going to inform the authorities. In the meantime, Nikolai Ilyich will stay with the deceased to ensure that nothing is disturbed.'

Sheremetev gazed at his fellow denizens of the dacha. Maids, gardeners, security guards, all had come to find out if they would continue to feast on the living corpse of the ex-president or if the party had come to an end – and now they knew.

He recognised four or five of the guards who had been in the dining room last night when Barkovskaya was dying. Near them stood Eleyekov with a frown on his face, wondering, no doubt, what would happen to his highly tuned vehicles. Stepanin was there along with his potwashers, unshaven, heavy bags under his eyes, misery etched into his features. He didn't look as if he had had much sleep the previous night. Their eyes met for an instant before the cook looked away. What fuckery, thought Sheremetev. Eh, Vitya? You beat Barkovskaya, and now Artyusha's boys will clean you out of every kopeck you've saved.

And there was Goroviev, gazing at him knowingly, with even a faint hint of a smile. It occurred to Sheremetev that the gardener wouldn't grieve for the loss of his illicit income, no matter how large it had been. Things live, things grow, things die. That was what Goroviev had said to him. That was the truth of life. He was the only one, thought Sheremetev, who knew how to live in the Russia that Vladimir had created. To hate quietly, and to take. He was the only one who had got it right.