City of Ghosts by Ben Creed (most important books of all time txt) 📕

look like a man who swan dives into a bucket of shit and then discovers it’s an ocean.’

Rossel turned away and stared out of the window into the darkness.

‘I mean, bunch of corpses in the middle of a field and you actually know one of them? Turns out to be a lunatic who fancies himself as a saviour of souls. Any of the other corpses friends of yours too? Maybe one’s your mother? Maybe one’s Tchaikovsky? Maybe one’s an old girlfriend, eh? An old flame?’

Rossel grabbed Pugachev by the collar and bellowed an instruction.

‘Stop the fucking truck.’

‘All right, all right. You need to take a piss? Then why not just say?’

‘Just stop!’

Pugachev pressed his foot down on the brake. They rolled to a halt at the side of the road.

Rossel yanked the handle, flung open the door and jumped down into deep snow. His heart was thundering and he was gasping for air. Waves of panic and dread rolled over him, making him drop to one knee. He grabbed handfuls of snow and thrust them into his face, crying out with the shock, trying to freeze his thoughts and stop his mind exploding out of control. The snow clung to his skin and slid under his collar. A bout of furious coughing took hold but when it passed, he was back in control.

Without a word, the lieutenant clambered back into the truck and slammed the door. He pointed forward. Pugachev, knowing better than to open his mouth, rammed the truck into gear.

21

Wednesday October 24

‘Oy, to nye vyecher . . .’

The song – Sofia’s song – swirled discordantly around his mind; fast, too fast. A perverse lullaby. It mocked his now-brittle sanity.

By the time he got back to Vosstaniya Street, he had convinced himself that his worst fears would be confirmed.

‘I have narrowed it down to six,’ said Taneyev, handing Rossel a collection of crisp files. ‘These are the six missing women who approximately fit the description of the one you and the captain call the Snow Queen.’

Rossel took them.

‘What about her gown?’

‘I have been calling around all the city’s theatres to see if they have any costumes missing, just as Sergeant Gerashvili said she was going to do.’

‘Anything?’

‘As the junior sergeant said, the gown is very good quality – difficult to find something like that in the usual shops. And it is, of course, not an item for a worker. A school or kindergarten might have something like that for a New Year show but a theatre would seem more likely,’ he said.

‘I agree. I think you should try the opera houses, too.’

Rossel’s voice was flat, lifeless.

‘Aren’t you going to look at the files, Lieutenant?’ asked Taneyev. He was after at least a little acknowledgement of his detective work. Even though Rossel was dreading the thought of seeing her name – Sofia’s name – drummed onto a flat, unfeeling page by the keys of a clerk’s typewriter, he nodded.

‘Six women of about the same height – one hundred and seventy centimetres – and aged between thirty and forty. All recently reported missing in this region and far beyond. I even had to send to Moscow for some of them,’ said the sergeant.

Rossel opened the files one by one, pulling out the first sheet with the photograph clipped to it. Then stopped at the fourth page.

‘Are you all right, Comrade Lieutenant?’

Number four gazed up at him through enigmatic, olive-green eyes set above cheekbones as white and strong as stone. He read the name again and again to himself.

Sofia Fedotova . . .

As if it was a charm. As if it was his sacred mantra. As it once had been.

Rossel took a deep breath. Then handed the other five files back. ‘Thank you, Comrade Taneyev,’ he said.

Taneyev took them back.

‘Don’t you need all of them, Lieutenant?’ he asked as Rossel headed for the door. ‘Why only that one? Is she the one? Sofia Fedotova? But she was a hospital cleaner from Ivangorod. Surely she can’t be your Snow Queen?’

*

Dance with me, Sofia.

She had looked at him, surprised.

You, of all people?

Every man in the conservatory was a little in love with Sofia – in some cases, more than a little – and because she smiled at them, many thought they had a chance. She had one long-term boyfriend, a tall, habitually off-key Estonian trombonist who was either very tolerant or oblivious to her occasional one-night stands. She was available but choosy. It alarmed and irritated Felix in equal measure that he had never seen the inside of Miss Fedotova’s chemise.

Dance with me, Sofia.

It was another drunken party and he could no longer contain himself. It had been his policy to wait until she had tired of her admirers and her supposed relationship with the trombonist had blown itself out, so to speak. Then their friendship would blossom into something else – love, of course! – and she would see him anew. But tonight, he could not resist, so he took his courage in both hands, waited for that split second when she was alone – dark, frowning, voluptuous, perfect – and approached.

Sofia took his hand and stood up as somebody struck up a tragic waltz on the piano and somebody else called for more vodka. More couples joined them in the middle of the room – a dusty student room in the hostel, smelling of smoke, of good proletarian food and bad proletarian drink. The beds and tables had been shunted to one side and the dance floor was full. A tenor began to wail as Sofia rested her head on Revol’s shoulder. She was a singer, too, a mezzo.

‘It’s Revol’s night tonight, the lucky devil,’ he thought he heard a voice say in the darkness, but he couldn’t be sure. Her breasts pressed against his thumping heart.

They danced amid the flickering candles and the clinging couples and emptying glasses and bottles, and Rossel held Sofia as if she were a bisque doll. Only as the song