‘It was a cold day,’ said Dmitri. ‘She might have been well wrapped up.’
‘Dmitri Alexandrovich!’ said the caretaker, shaking his head pityingly. ‘Do you think we wouldn’t have seen a figure like that? No matter how it was wrapped up?’
Peter Profimovich grunted three times.
‘In any case,’ said the caretaker, ‘there wasn’t much on yesterday morning and we remember everyone who went through. There was young Nikita, going out to see that girl of his – we always know it’s getting on towards lunchtime when we see her appear at the gate of the park. There was Serafim Serafimovich going out for his usual drink – that was about eleven o’clock. There were a couple of clerks going to fetch things for Peter Ivanovich. There was a woman – ’
‘Ah!’ said Dmitri and Novikov. ‘A woman!’
‘Who wasn’t a bit like Anna Semeonova.’
‘Disguise?’ hinted Dmitri.
‘She’d have to disguise her height as well,’ said the caretaker caustically. ‘She was about half the height of Anna Semeonova. And her hair. Anna Semeonova is a true blonde, a real Russian, you might say, whereas this girl’s hair was as dark as a Tatar’s. Which is not surprising,’ said the caretaker, ‘since that’s what she was.’
Peter Profimovich laughed.
Dmitri refused to be put off.
‘You saw her face?’
‘We certainly did. Both of us. That’s right, isn’t it?’ he appealed.
Peter Profimovich grunted.
‘Cheekbones and all,’ said the caretaker. ‘If she was Anna Semeonova then I’m Tsar of Russia!’
‘You watch out!’ said Novikov. ‘We don’t want that kind of talk!’
‘Saving His Reverence!’ added the caretaker, crossing himself automatically.
‘Anyone else?’ demanded Dmitri.
‘I’ve checked them all,’ said Novikov seriously.
‘She must have gone out the back, then,’ said Dmitri.
‘Dmitri Alexandrovich!’ The caretaker bent over, convulsed. ‘Forgive me, Dmitri Alexandrovich, but you don’t know what you’re saying! There’s mud a foot deep – ’
‘I saw it!’ snapped Dmitri.
‘There’s guards on the gate, there’s soldiers everywhere. And then there are all those brutes! A respectable girl like Anna Semeonova? Forgive me, sir, you’ve got to be joking!’
‘She couldn’t have gone through the gate,’ said Novikov positively. ‘The guards would have seen her.’
‘And don’t tell me they wouldn’t have remembered!’ said the caretaker, with a knowing wink at Peter Profimovich.
‘Shut up!’ said Dmitri. ‘Well, I don’t know how she did it,’ he said to Novikov, ‘but I’m sure that’s what she did. Because what else could have happened?’
‘It’s true,’ admitted Novikov, ‘she’s got to be either here or not here.’
‘She’s somewhere else,’ said Dmitri. ‘And almost certainly with someone else. Which brings us to the question of friends. I’ve been talking to her parents and got a list.’
He showed it to Novikov.
‘You’re the Chief of Police. Where would you suggest I made a start? I’m looking especially for a political connection.’
‘Political?’ said Novikov doubtfully. He looked at the list. ‘I don’t think you’ll find that any of these are what you might call political. They’re all quite respectable.’
And that was basically the problem with Larissa Philipovna. She would have been so much happier talking about ponies than about politics. She seemed to Dmitri to be unbelievably young. How she could be an intimate of someone as poised and elegant as Anna Semeonova (who was improving all the time in his recollection), Dmitri could not think. If the image that Anna Semeonova had left with him was that of an ice-cool nordic heroine, the picture that her friend presented was that of a puppy in pigtails.
She received him, perched anxiously on the edge of her chair, in what her mother irritatingly referred to as ‘the salon’. Oh, yes, (wide-eyed) she was Anna Semeonova’s friend, her very closest friend. They saw each other all the time. They visited each other’s houses almost every other day. Or used to. They wrote verses in each other’s albums. Would Dmitri Alexandrovich care to …?
Dmitri winced and handed the book back.
Used to?
Well, yes. Just the last week or two, or perhaps it wasn’t even weeks but months, they hadn’t seen quite as much of each other. Anna Semeonova was studying.
Studying? What?
Books. Larissa Philipovna lowered her voice. This was serious; indeed, possibly more than serious: grave. Terribly difficult ones. She had shown some to her once and Larissa Philipovna had not been able to understand a word. Even Anna Semeonova herself had found them difficult. She had said so.
Then why had she taken to reading them?
Oh, it was because she was so very clever. She wanted to know about things. And why things were the way they were.
Politics?
Politics! Larissa Philipovna was aghast. No, no, definitely not! Anna Semeonova wasn’t that kind of girl, not that kind of girl at all! Larissa Philipovna was sure –
‘All right, all right,’ said Dmitri. ‘I just wondered. Now, tell me, was there anyone she liked to talk to about all the reading? Any new friends, perhaps?’
Well, there was that new doctor, Vera Samsonova –
‘Ah, Vera Samsonova?’ said Dmitri, pricking up his ears.
She had gone to her once to ask her about something in a book she had been reading.
‘Something medical?’
‘It was to do with numbers,’ said Larissa Philipovna hesitantly.
Ah!
‘The Health Question?’ Larissa Philipovna put forward, emboldened.
‘I see. And Anna Semeonova called on her, did she?’
‘Yes. And she was very nice. She told her everything she wanted to know and a lot more besides. And she said she could come again if she wanted. And I think she did go again. Only …’
‘Only what?’
‘Only I don’t think that makes Vera Samsonova a friend, does it, Dmitri Alexandrovich? Not a real friend, the way Anna and I are friends? I mean, she’s so much older. She couldn’t be, could she?’
Blue eyes looked up trustingly at Dmitri.
‘Not a real friend,’ said Dmitri, and immediately kicked himself. Why had he let her wheedle that out of him?
‘I know,’ breathed Larissa Philipovna.
‘There are different kinds of friendship,’ he said sternly.
‘Oh, yes!’ said Larissa Philipovna.
This examination was not going the way he had intended.
‘Tell me about her friends,’ he said firmly. ‘Did she have a boyfriend, for instance?’
‘Oh, Dmitri Alexandrovich!’ she cried, and