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they?”
    “Civvies, all smiles … Polite but persistent. Twice waylaid me leaving the house. ‘Would I show your mug shot to my boys?’ What the hell had you been up to?”
    “Are they still around?”
    “No idea. Shall I find out?” Grey Hair asked, reaching for his mobile.
    “No, don’t bother.”
    “If they are, they can’t be looking too hard. I’m Andrey Pavlovich, by the way.”
    “Viktor Zolotaryov.”
    The Mercedes passed out through the cemetery gates and gathered speed. With the other cars they were now travelling along Gorky Street in the direction of Moscow Square. Viktor’s thoughtsas he looked out the window were of Lyosha, the coffin bomb, and the significance of “does, or did, know him”.
    “How many got killed?” he asked the man beside him.
    “Five or six. But no-one escaped injury. Your friend Lyosha lost his legs, I heard. Might still be alive.”
    They drove on in silence through Moscow Square, finally turning into the private estate of Goloseyevo Park. Viktor glimpsed the lake with its sandy beach and mushroom sunshades. Five minutes later they stopped.
    “We’re here,” said Andrey Pavlovich.
    “Where?”
    “At the wake,” he said gazing thoughtfully at Viktor through half-closed eyes. “Come on, you’ve done the funeral, time now to drink to his memory.”

8
    Viktor found himself frisked. The contents of his pockets were carrier-bagged and he was motioned to join the others.
    Most did not sit for long at the long table in the spacious lounge with its blazing fire, but having toasted the departed went their way. Eight or so stayed on. They were, Viktor gathered, at the house of Andrey Pavlovich, whose daughter Natasha, one of those still at table, was the departed’s widow. Her husband had been shot while hunting, a drunken military party shooting in the same area, having mistaken him for an elk.
    “As,” declared Andrey Pavlovich, raising his glass, “might happen to anyone.” At which point, one of Viktor’s friskers entered to whisper in Andrey Pavlovich’s ear and give back Viktor’s carrier bagof possessions.
    Andrey Pavlovich delivered a few brief words concerning the departed, and was followed by two others who stumbled through banalities culminating in the inevitable “May earth repose light as thistledown upon him”.
    “What a glum lot we are!” declared Andrey Pavlovich, flushed with drink, and ordering a minder to nip off to Kreshchatik Street “to get some music”. Forty minutes later said minder reappeared with a crumpled, unshaven, pale and sickly busker, carrying a guitar and clearly ill at ease.
    “This,” Andrey Pavlovich announced, “is a house of sorrow – got any sad songs?” The busker nodded. Vodka and black bread were brought, and standing by the fireplace, he gave vent to a raucous, “Lonely gainst the dark of sky / Burns bright a lonely star.”
    Beaming with satisfaction and helping himself to vodka, Andrey Pavlovich came and sat beside Viktor.
    “Bored?”
    “Not at all.”
    “Good. You’re an interesting chap, I see, and soon to go to Moscow.”
    “When I’ve found my penguin.”
    “Look, I’ll help you over that, and you can do something for me on your courier run to Moscow. You must be a good man if those people trust you. One in a million.”
    “Could you find out about Lyosha?” Viktor asked, sensing that there was nothing Andrey Pavlovich couldn’t do,
    “I could,” he said, raising his glass. “Here’s to friendship!”
    Viktor was about to clink glasses but Andrey Pavlovich prevented him. “Not done at funerals. We’ll talk later,” he added, getting up and returning to his place.
    The busker was now singing of the hard life of the druggie. Timehad flown, it was getting dark, but Viktor was asleep already, head rested on the table where, until thoughtfully moved aside, had been a plate of cabbage rissoles. Roused by one of Andrey’s men, he saw, through bleary eyes, that the fire was out and he was