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Sarlov, under the heading Pathology, then Maretsky under Modus Operandi, and finally the corner office that Ruzsky and Pavel had shared for many years with the words Chief Investigator/Deputy Chief Investigator, Murder inscribed heavily in black. Ruzsky pushed open the door of his cubicle, flicked on the wall light, took off his coat, and threw it onto the stand in the corner. He removed his gloves and bashed the last of the snow from his boots before sitting down at his desk.
    “See, I tidied up,” Pavel said.
    Ruzsky was gratified that no one had occupied his desk, but it was obvious that Pavel had simply spread the mess during his absence and swept it up and dumped it back on his own desk prior to his return. “You’re a pig,” Ruzsky responded.
    Pavel took a piece of chalk and wrote the date at the top of the blackboard on the wall beside him. Underneath, in capitals, he scrawled NEVA BODIES. He turned around. “A great start.”
    He moved to the city map next to it, took a black pin from its edge, and placed it in the center of the river Neva. “Black for murder, red for muggings, green for random street violence, orange for anti-Jewish violence. Vladimir puts his up. It’s a kind of competition. We get five points per pin to Vladimir ’s one. We ran out of pins so many times last year, I got bored of it, but today we can begin again…”
    “Did you call Sarlov?”
    “Yes.”
    “He said he was on his way?”
    Pavel raised an eyebrow. “This is Sarlov we’re talking about. He didn’t say anything.”
    Pavel straightened, turned, and walked out of the office. A few moments later, Ruzsky heard the door to the toilets at the end of the corridor bang shut. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the roll of banknotes taken from the dead man’s jacket, and put it in one of his drawers.
    He sat down. In the center of the desk was a piece of wood with a carved inscription carrying the words of the oath all soldiers and officers of the Imperial Army swore to the Tsar. I promise and do hereby swear, it read, before Almighty God, before his Holy Gospels, to serve His Imperial Majesty, the supreme Autocrat, truly and faithfully, to obey him in all things, and to defend his dynasty, without sparing my body, until the last drop of my blood.
    It had been given to Ruzsky by his brother as a joke. In the light of the carnage at the front, it no longer appeared funny.
    Ruzsky pulled over his “in” tray and took out the only item that had been placed within it. It was a clipping from the newspaper Novoe Vremia.
    He glanced over it. The article had been written by the liberal Maklakov and it compared Russia to an automobile being driven at breakneck speed toward a precipice by a mad chauffeur whose passengers were too scared to attempt to seize control of the steering wheel.
    Ruzsky opened the central drawer of his desk and was surprised to find that his old notebook was still there. He opened it and flicked through the notes of his last case, that of the ill-fated girl from Sennaya Ploschad. He turned over a fresh page and wrote Neva Murders.
    One of the office telephones rang and Ruzsky got up to answer it.
    “Ruzsky.”
    There was a confused pause, then the caller spoke.
    “Ruzsky? Is it really you? It’s Veresov.”
    Ruzsky was heartened by the pleasure he detected in Veresov’s voice. He was a small, studious man who occupied the tiny fingerprint bureau, located, much to his chagrin, in the basement, between the canteen and the cells.
    “You’re back,” Veresov said.
    “Don’t sound so surprised.”
    Veresov was silent. “Not the best of times to return to,” he said.
    There was a moment’s silence. “I have the dagger,” Veresov continued. “Is it criminal suspects only?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “We don’t have automatic access to the Okhrana’s files of political suspects anymore. If I have to apply to work through their records as well, it’s going to take twice as long.”
    “I thought we