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say individual goodbyes. It was mid-morning when he reached Danilov’s cluttered and over-flowing office, separate from the general squad room because of Danilov’s seniority. Anatoli Metkin, the new Director, was at Lapinsk’s side.
    Danilov guessed a lot of the other investigators would be watching from the communal room further down the corridor. There was nothing for him and Lapinsk to say to each other. They shook hands and wished each other luck. Danilov told the other man he deserved his retirement and Lapinsk said he was looking forward to it but knew already he would miss the job. Danilov said he personally would miss the other man and immediately wished he hadn’t when Metkin smiled, a gloating expression. Throughout the farewell, Lapinsk’s nervous cough seemed more pronounced than usual.
    Metkin made no attempt to move when Lapinsk backed out into the corridor. The man appeared to be speaking to both of them when he said Danilov’s appointment represented an expansion of the Bureau, but Danilov took it as a confirmation of a larger audience he couldn’t see.
    Turning more towards Danilov, Metkin looked around the office in which it was difficult to move for files and folders and reference books and box containers, which made the place look like an animal warren but was in reality Danilov’s own records system. He knew what every bundle and packet contained, and could retrieve material hours ahead of the proper basement archives. Metkin said: ‘This will no longer be your office. Kabalin is senior investigator now.’
    Vladimir Nikolaevich Kabalin had been Metkin’s partner, allegedly specialising in organised gang crime, and had been another on Danilov’s now laughable purge list: Danilov wondered if Metkin would remain, with Kabalin, on the payroll of one or more of the gangs they were supposed to have investigated. There was no reason why they couldn’t double or treble their income now; with Kabalin as senior investigator and Metkin in ultimate charge, the rackets could continue uninterrupted and unchallenged.
    â€˜Where will my office be?’ he asked.
    â€˜It’s a problem,’ dismissed Metkin, enjoying himself. ‘We’ll have to find you somewhere. I want you in my office. An hour.’
    The bastard was staging the performance to mock Leonid Lapinsk, whose protégé he had been, Danilov realised; the outgoing Director stood head bowed in embarrassment, just occasionally looking towards the squad room. Danilov said: ‘So there’s nowhere for me to put my things?’
    Metkin almost over-stressed the sneer. ‘Is there anything in this junk heap worth keeping?’
    â€˜Things that are necessary to keep,’ insisted Danilov. How clever was Metkin: how really clever? This was juvenile.
    Metkin shrugged. ‘They’ll have to be stored somewhere, until we can find accommodation for you. Don’t forget: an hour.’
    As he looked helplessly around the room, Danilov was sure he heard laughter from along the corridor. He got up and started tidying the files to be carried away, but the fury was shaking through him and he did it carelessly, so the fresh piles began toppling and slipping, creating worse chaos. Danilov stopped, forcing control. He could not allow Metkin to reduce him to unthinking, unco-ordinated anger by a few minutes of arrogant, childish pantomime.
    He looked up curiously at another noise from outside, not knowing what to expect, then smiled, relieved. Yuri Mikhailovich Pavin had been his partner, whenever Danilov had been able to manipulate the shifts, a plainclothes Militia major whose heavy, slow-moving demeanour belied the astute brain that made him, in Danilov’s opinion, the best scene-of-crime officer in the department.
    â€˜Hear you’ve got to pack up,’ greeted Pavin. ‘Thought you might need help.’
    Danilov saw Pavin had several cardboard boxes – a rarity like