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son died.
    Leo shut his pad.
    —Thank you.
    —Will there be any further questions?
    Before Leo could answer, Fyodor took the woman by the arm.
    —You saw a man.
    The woman pulled her arm free. She looked about the room, at all the eyes on her. She turned to Leo.
    —Will you need to visit me at a later date?
    —No. You can go.
    Galina dropped her face to the floor, hurrying to the front door. But before she reached it the elderly woman called out:
    —You lose your nerve so easily?
    Fyodor approached the elderly woman.
    —Please, sit down.
    She nodded, neither disgusted nor approving.
    —Arkady was your son.
    —Yes.
    Leo couldn’t see Fyodor’s eyes. He wondered what silent communication was passing between these two people. Whatever it was, she took her seat. During all of this Galina had slipped away.
    Leo was pleased Fyodor had intervened. He hoped that they’d reached a turning point. Scratching together gossip and rumour served no one. Fyodor returned to Leo’s side.
    —Forgive my mother, she’s very upset.
    —This is why I’m here. So we can talk this through within the confines of this room. What cannot happen is that once I leave this room, the conversation continues. If anyone asks you about your son you cannot say he was murdered. Not because I order you to but because it is not true.
    —We understand.
    —Fyodor, I want you to take tomorrow off. This has been authorized. If there’s anything more I can do for you…
    —Thank you.
    At the door to the apartment Fyodor shook Leo’s hand.
    —We’re all very upset. Forgive us any outbursts.
    —They’ll pass unrecorded. But, as I said, this ends here.
    Fyodor’s face stiffened. He nodded. As though the words were bitter he forced them out:
    —My son’s death was a terrible accident.
    Leo walked down the stairs, breathing deeply. The atmosphere in that room had been suffocating. He was glad to be done, glad the matter had been resolved. Fyodor was a good man. Once he came to terms with his son’s death then the truth would be easier to accept.
    He paused. There was the sound of someone behind him. He turned around. It was a boy, no more than seven or eight years old.
    —Sir, I am Jora. I’m Arkady’s older brother. May I speak to you?
    —Of course.
    —It’s my fault.
    —What was your fault?
    —My brother’s death: I threw a snowball at him. I’d packed it with stones and dirt and grit. Arkady was hurt, it hit him in the head. He ran off. Maybe it made him dizzy, maybe that’s why he couldn’t see the train. The dirt they found in his mouth: that was my fault. I threw it at him.
    —Your brother’s death was an accident. There’s no reason for you to feel any guilt. But you did well telling me the truth. Now go back to your parents.
    —I haven’t told them about the snowball with dirt and the mud and the stones.
    —Perhaps they don’t need to know.
    —They’d be so angry. Because that was the last time I ever saw him. Sir, we played nicely most of the time. And we would’ve played nicely again, we would’ve made up, we would’ve been friends again, I’m sure of it. But now I can’t make it up to him, I can’t ever say sorry.
    Leo was hearing this boy’s confession. The boy wanted forgiveness. He’d begun to cry. Embarrassed, Leo patted his head, muttering, as though they were the words of a lullaby:
    —It was no one’s fault.

The Village of Kimov One Hundred and Sixty Kilometres North of Moscow

    Same Day
    Anatoly Brodsky hadn’t slept in three days. He was so tired that even the most basic tasks required concentration. The barn door in front of him was locked. He knew he’d have to force it open. Even so the idea seemed far-fetched. He simply didn’t have the energy. Snow had begun to fall. He looked up at the night sky; his mind drifted and when he eventually remembered where he was and what he was supposed to be doing snow was settling on his face. He licked the flakes across his lips and realized that if he