The Death of a Torpedo

“I have money, lots of it,” she stated in a way that was like someone announcing that the sky was blue, winter is cold, and hell is hot. “Is that enough, or should I pack you some fuck to go?”

“You speak the universal language of cash; no translation is needed.”

“Please, stop being so glib; it’s about my father.”

“The murdered man.”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?” He repeated with a quizzical eyebrow raised. “He’s either been murdered, or he hasn’t. There is no half murdered or half alive. Death is final.”

“When he was killed, he had a gun with him, a rifle he kept from his years in Afghanistan. He had it in his hand, but he chose not to use it. He just let himself get shot down without firing a single shot back. He just let it happen. He stood there and took it.”

Volodiya took it all in like a fresh glass of water. He scribbled some details down in his notepad in a rough handwriting that would be an enigmatic cypher to most.

“Any reason?”

“That’s what I’m hoping you’ll find out.”

“Do you know anyone who might have any particular grievances against him?”

“Too many to name.”

“What did he do to become so popular?”

“I’m hiring you to find out.”

“Did you love your father?”

“I tolerated him.”

Volodiya scanned his notes. A case was a jigsaw, with every bit of information being a piece that would slot into others to form a clear image, but he didn’t have many to work with.

“What did your father do for work?”

“He never told me, even when I asked.”

Volodiya considered this answer a clue to who the murdered man might be, or at least the line of work he could have had.

“What did he tell you when you asked?”

“That he loved me. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly. That I was always grateful for, no matter that he did.”

“Did you feel this involved illegal activity? Nalieva?”

Nalieva was a slang term in Russia for working outside the law.

“I can guarantee you it was, but I don’t know the details. Sometimes, I would hear other men he’d meet call him chainik. But he would never speak about work in front of us.”

Chainik. It was a nickname that had often been used to describe a bully among those doomed to serve and then survive Afghanistan—Volodiya knew this from experience. It could also describe a man with a temper shorter than the legs of a leprechaun. The type of man who would resort to violence at the drop of a hat.

“You never answered the question about whether you loved your father.”

“I told you. I tolerated him up to a certain point.”

“What was that certain point?”

“The more I got the feeling he had gone nalieva, the more I came to resent him. Don’t get me wrong, I held my nose and took money from him. I knew the money was tainted, but I still took it, and he kept my mother safe. I loved him and I hated him.”

Volodiya put his pen down and closed his notepad. He placed both hands on his table as he stared at the woman who sat in front of him. He studied her and admired her beauty at the same time. It was like he was sitting in an art gallery looking at a masterpiece that he was trying to interpret the true meaning of. There was the coolness of her character, but there was also a hidden sense of vulnerability.

“Why do you want to spend your money digging through dirt?”

“I want to know who killed him. I want justice. Even a man like my father deserved it.”

“Justice. Something that’s hard to come by these days.”

“But something that’s up for sale, like everything else in this country.”

Volodiya smirked. She remained stoic, revealing no emotions, like a theatre mask, just an icy look that could freeze any man’s heart. She revealed how much she was willing to pay: a base amount per day working the case, plus all expenses covered that could be linked to the job. It wasn’t just money; it was a lot of money. She handed him an envelope with a photo of the dead man and his address.

Then she got up, wished him a good evening, and she left just as he returned the pleasantry.

He sauntered towards the office window to catch a glimpse of the street outside. He put a cigarette between his lips and struck a match.

The scenes beneath him unfolded like a film on a cinema screen, a cinematic tableau where shadows played and danced against the snow. The people walking the streets were all wrapped up in puffy clothes, hats, and gloves in a desperate battle to stay warm. Their faces obscured by woollen hats and scarves, but the tension in their bodies and movements spoke volumes about a historic city that had fallen on hard times, in which oligarchs and gangsters had used it as their private playground. The hurried glances here, furtive steps there, it was like each of them were extras in a play whose story was too complex to determine under the cold light of day.

Volodiya killed his cigarette as he stubbed it out on the ashtray on his table. He grabbed his notepad and pen and stashed into his blazer pocket. For a second, he thought about the solitude he was meant to enjoy this evening, before she entered the picture.

He let go of his hopes and dreams for a quiet evening of relaxation with a moment of silence and then proceeded to do what was necessary.

He got to work and made a call to an unreliable, yet reliable source in the police force.

Chapter 5: Two Cognacs

The snow fell softly, and the bitter cold chilled Volodiya’s bones as he strode through the streets of Moscow. Streetlamps cast jaundiced lights that illuminated the cobblestoned path he had to take. They glistened under the lights like polished emeralds and diamonds on a white velvet rug.

Each step Volodiya took was like the sound of a heartbeat. He thrust his gloved hands deep into his pockets, pulling his puffy beige coat snug against his body as if being held in a close, secure hug. The type a mother would give their son when he tells her he’s been conscripted to fight in a war—Volodiya knew that from experience.

The snow continued its descent as the city was coated in it, creating a sense of deceptive stillness. In the white expanse, there lay secrets waiting to be revealed when the snow either melted in the spring or was swept away by the many street sweepers who tried their best to clear the pathways.

It was the very essence of Moscow. A snow-covered city in which millions of souls reside, each with their own stories of love and loss, happiness and despair. The private detective had only the most barebone facts of one of those millions of stories that unfolded in a city in which danger could be lurking around the corner.

Volodiya slipped a few bits of loose change into the weathered hands of an old, plump woman selling flowers at the side of the street. He declined the rose she held up for him to take. Instead, he received a blessing from her before moving forward on his journey.

The bitter cold wind against his face was like a pair of sharp blades cutting away at his cheeks. The chilly air that he breathed in was a reminder that winter had reclaimed the city and transformed it into a vast monochrome landscape that resembled a Christmas card, as the bright white snow clashed with the pitch-black skies.

He strode down the street as old gray Stalinist blocks towered over him, like giant sized guards keeping an eye on their prisoner. He was getting closer to his destination, and as he moved, he pondered the case.

He knew at least one person who kept his ear to the ground. A former comrade-in-arms who worked within the police force, and even better enjoyed a good drink—even more so if someone else was footing the bill. If he plied him with enough free booze, his mouth would flap like a broken shoe.

Volodiya had arrived at his destination, a bar known as The Hermitage . The exterior was lit with decadent red neon lighting that acted as a siren call for anyone chasing a cheap drink and an even cheaper thrill.

As he stepped inside, the air was thick with spilled vodka, cigarette smoke, and cheap perfume. All three mingled in a misty haze that enshrouded the bar and its patrons. The once regal gold-colored walls had given way to decay, as it was now tarnished by time and neglect. The cracked leather of the booths sagged under years of tears and regrets, and there was a scarred wooden bar where a surly bartender took cash and served drinks.

The room was inhabited by a motley crew of dreamers and drifters, the criminal and the innocent, the high and mighty rubbing shoulders with the weak and powerless, those who do what they want and those who do what they can, the puppets and the puppeteers yanking them along by their strings. It was easy to tell who was who judging by their extravagant clothes; those who had made their money through dubious means wore ill-fitting, brightly colored suits that were jarring to the eyes and an affron to good taste. Others wore gray or black suits, typical of the standard office drone.

The man he was looking for sat at the bar, wearing a black leather jacket and black trousers that matched the thick, long black hair that went down to the back of his neck. He had a darker complexion that marked him out as being from one of the mountainous regions in the Caucasus. He had dark brown eyes and a short, clean-cut beard on an angular chin that made him resemble a warrior extra from a film set in Ancient Greece. He was only missing a spear and a shield.

“I take it you'll be having a cognac as always, Sergei.”

“If you really want me to talk, it'll be two cognacs.”

“Are you going to try to avoid being caught drinking and driving this time?”

Sergei rolled his eyes like a teenager who was annoyed at being told off by their teacher. He hated being reminded of his many discrepancies; his most recent was being caught drunk driving on duty behind the wheel of his police car.

“I wasn't drinking and driving. I got drunk and then I went driving,” he protested, with conviction behind his words, like an innocent man in a courtroom pleading his case to a sceptical jury.

Volodiya ordered two cognacs. The surly bartender grabbed two glasses and filled them before sliding the glasses towards both men.

“I saw you couldn't have picked a more discreet place for discussing a case,” Volodiya said.

"It's a dirty, cheap old bar inhabited by shifty characters and loose women. It's why I love it," Sergei said with a smile.

“It has a quaint charm to it,” said Volodiya before he added: “And a certain scent.”

“I take it you're not here to talk about the finer drinking venues in Moscow.”

Volodiya removed the envelope Valeriya had given him and emptied out the picture inside. Sergei picked up the picture and studied it for a second before he let it drop out of his hands onto the bar table.

"That charming gentleman. The last I saw of him, they were loading him into a body bag in his own apartment. Someone didn't like him, or his taste in tattoos."

“Anything interesting about him?”

"As opposed to the other thousands of tattooed vory living in Moscow? As you know, the devil lives in still waters. He's just one of many, another shark among the fish."

“Someone hooked this shark.”

“A few other sharks have been hooked.”

“What do you mean?”

Sergei dug deeply into the pocket of his black leather jacket and pulled out an envelope of his own.

“You probably owe me another drink for this,” Sergei said.

“Whatever you're giving me has to be worth another drink.”

Sergei smiled. He reached into his pocket and placed an envelope full of photographs on the table.

“Have fun,” he said.

Volodiya withdrew the photographs inside the envelope. Each one had a recurring theme: a heavily tattooed man lying in a pool of his own blood. The only exception being one sat slumped behind the wheel of a car.

“It's an epidemic,” Sergei said. “Someone seems to have made a habit of doing the police's job, only this guy is going one better and wiping them out. Maybe I should buy him a drink.”

“Okay, but aside from a questionable taste in tattoos, what do these dead guys have in common with my dead guy?”

“Look closer at the tattoos. Find the one they all have in common, and you'll find your answer.”

Volodiya studied the tattoos on the dead bodies and was met with a variety that ranged from the cliched, the esoteric, and the blasphemous. Tattoos of barbed wire fences, stars, and even army tattoos were to be expected, but some that were not expected included an image of an eroticised Virgin Mary with her breasts exposed, a tattoo of Lenin with a saint's halo around his head, and then Volodiya found the recurring theme in every picture. Each one had a tattoo of a torpedo.

This meant one thing. Nikolai Volkov was a contract killer whom Moscow's criminal underground hired for what they referred to as wet work.

“Am I worth an extra drink or not?” Sergei asked while ogling one woman in the bar. He then slipped his wedding ring off his finger and put it in his pocket.

Volodiya reached into his pocket and slammed a few rubles down on the bar table in response.

“Why don't you drink with me?” Sergei asked. “See who's the last man standing?”

“The same reason I never get into a pissing contest with a skunk. It has a natural advantage.”

Chapter 6: The Deadman's Apartment

The dowdy, old landlord opened the apartment door with a single turn of a rusty key. He gave Volodiya the go ahead to walk inside the room where Nikolai Volkov had seen his killer standing in the doorway before being gunned down.

“Enjoy,” growled the landlord, not too happy with being called in to open the apartment on “police business.” Volodiya wasn't a cop, but he knew how to sound and act like one. Therefore, the landlord gave him access to the dead man's apartment.

Before the landlord left, Volodiya hit him with a quick question.

“Has anyone come to claim any of his personal artefacts?”

“Nobody, the only other people who had a look around were other cops.”

Right. Other cops, Volodiya thought.

“Not even his daughter?”

“Nikolai had a daughter?”

“Never mind.”

The landlord left with a scowl and a word that would be offensive to the ears of a nun.

Volodiya entered the apartment, and the room's darkness swallowed him whole, as if he had dived headfirst into the open mouth of a great white shark. He tapped away at the wall until he reached a light switch, which he flicked on. The light hanging from the ceiling illuminated the room, giving him a clearer look at his surroundings. The lightbulb above buzzed in a dull droning tone, like an annoying fly around a room, when it realises it can't get back out. With every step he took on the wooden floorboard, there was a high-pitched squeal.

The light cast Volodiya's stretched-out shadow, which seemed to glide across the faded, peeling wallpaper.

The apartment was thick with the musty smell of old cigarettes and stale vodka. The scent came from an empty bottle which lay on its side on a bedside table, like a fallen soldier. A half full packet of cigarettes lay next to the bottle, the perfect bedfellow of bad habits. It lay there, backing anyone to help themselves to a smoke.

He worked under the watchful eyes of photographs that hung on the wall, watching him every move the way a wolf would watch a sheep in the distance. The chill of the past made itself known on the back of his neck as he moved in their presence.

Volodiya scanned the place for anything that could give him some more clues as to what he was chasing. He was like a mouse stuck in a maze that didn't have an exit. He opened the wardrobe in the room. The hinges squealed as he opened it. There was a messy pile of old clothes, but beneath them he could see what looked like a stack of photographs. He reached into the wardrobe and took it.

The private investigator now held a treasure trove of memories of a life frozen in time and preserved on glossy paper. Each one bore the weight of moments of happiness, jubilation, and even sadness.

The first picture depicted a group of men in the old Red Army uniform. Volodiya remembered the uniform as the final clothes that some of his closest comrades wore in death, with the green color of the uniform caked in blood. The group of men smiled whilst pointing their rifles at the camera. He turned the photograph over, and there was a date scribbled in the lower right-hand corner: 03/07/1985.

Volodiya flicked through more pictures of a young Nikolai, yet to put on the barrel of fat around his stomach that comes with years of life experience. There were pictures of him holding a Dragunov rifle in multiple poses that looked like they were stills from an old war movie. In one image, he was sitting in front of a T-64 tank which loomed large behind him, like a huge green dragon. The date: 07/08/1987.

The man looked more aged and withered in the pictures from the early 90s. With every picture of him there was a transformation as his belly got larger; it was like watching a balloon inflate. Even in pictures that depicted him smiling, there seemed to be a look of sadness, a tragic encrypted in the veneer of a triumphant smile, as shown by an image of the man holding a giant fish in his hands whilst in a small wooden boat. Someone dated the picture 07/21/1991.

One picture was of Valeriya. She looked just as she had when she turned up at his office. But in this picture, she looked so carefree, not the woman made of ice who gave him this case. Even in the grainy image that he was holding in his hand, she still exuded a radiant beauty, as her bright blue eyes shone through even with the inferior quality of the old photograph. He flipped the photograph over. The date, 10/04/1992, was scribbled on the back. A more recent one, as most of the other photos ranged from the mid-80s to the early 90s.

He flipped over to the next picture, and one thing that was hard to miss struck him, like a brutal left hook to the jaw. The photograph depicted a serene landscape in the background. A sunset over a huge, clear blue lake. The vibrant hues of orange and red were reflecting on the surface of the lake. From the picture, it looked like a beautiful day for Nikolai and his daughter to stand in front of the lake, posing for a picture with another man. Valeriya stood between the two men. Nikolai Volkov's face was visible, but someone had sabotaged the picture, removing the other man’s face. A lit cigarette had been driven through the face of the person who was once in the picture. Somebody didn’t want to see this person’s face anymore and removed them from this memory like a cancerous tumour.

He held the picture in his hand; he turned it over to look at the back. The picture was dated 08/08/1993.

He placed the photograph into his pocket; he now had something to work with.

His mobile phone rang with a shrill shriek. He picked it up, and there was a familiar voice on the line.

“Volodiya,” said Valeriya between deep, loud breaths.

“You’ve either just finished running a marathon, or you’re in big trouble.”

“I don’t need sarcasm. I need you here. Now.”

Volodiya hurried out of the block and made a dash for the nearest metro. He kept the phone to his ear as Valeriya screeched out the address.

He kept the address in mind.

He paced through the snow-covered pavement like a shadow slipping through the cracks of an alley at midnight. Volodiya moved at lightning pace, taking no notice of the many others who trudged their way through the blanketed streets of Moscow.

Chapter 7: Bullets in Broad Daylight

Volodiya arrived at the address. He was late. Too late. Shots were fired. Shell cases littered the floor. Bullet holes had punctured a car door. Five black holes. Police officers kept the crowd at bay. Red and white tape cordoned off the tragic scene. Red drops were splattered against the purity of the snow. Someone lost their life.

Volodiya surveyed the scene. The large tower blocks surrounding the scene stood defiant against the backdrop of bright blue skies. Everyone below received a reprieve from the snow's burial as it stopped falling.

The apartment blocks that surrounded Volodiya were an immense structure of dark granite and polished marble. Their windows were eyewitnesses to a shootout and a murder. Ornate granite balconies jutted out from the buildings like the fangs of a ferocious beast. Residents watched the events unfolding beneath them from each adorned balcony.

This street would be an idyllic place to live if it wasn’t for the body that lay sprawled out on its back. Vacant eyes looking up at one of the few rarities of a winter’s day in Moscow, a bright blue sky. Those eyes could look, but they couldn’t see. All the life in that body had gone, like the juice in an orange that had been squeezed dry.

It was the body of a man dressed in a black suit with a blood-soaked shirt that had once been white. The body lay in front of a car in the middle of the road. Dead as a plant left to wither in the alleyways of Moscow.

Police officers surrounded the scene.

Someone had peppered the driver's door with shots. The passenger door at the back was wide open. Whoever was there had bailed.

Volodiya made a note of the car. A grey Mercedes. Expensive. As rare in Moscow as a warm winter.

Valeriya stood behind the car, talking to a police officer and a detective who scribbled into a tiny notepad. Despite the circumstances and distance, Volodiya couldn’t help but admire her composure. Her hair looked dishevelled, yet her face still maintained its natural beauty. She looked elegant, draped in a fur coat that cloaked her body, shielding it from the icy temperatures. Even through the thick layer of fur, he could imagine her slim and slender figure.

The police officer was a giant of a man, barrel chested and tall. Decked out in the navy-blue police uniform, complete with the shapka hat. Ear flaps down. The detective scribbling down notes was much shorter; in fact, he only reached the shoulders of the officer towering over him, yet he was a burly man. Middle-aged in appearance and heavy set. A stubbled face and messy, unkept black hair added to his rough appearance and demeanour.

Her eyes turned away from the detective to Volodiya. The detective scribbling notes turned to face Volodiya. Valeriya and the detective exchanged words while Volodiya stood at a distance. It was like he was the subject of gossip, as they talked until the detective turned to the officer next to him. The detective muttered something to the officer, who then turned and paced towards Volodiya.

Here we go, Volodiya thought.

He wondered what would have happened had he left his office earlier on the day Valeriya strutted into his life. He’d have spent that evening curled up with a book and a shot of whiskey. Instead, he was out in the cold, freezing and due for an interrogation.

“You, the detective wants to ask you some questions,” the officer said in the most commanding voice he could muster. The way he spoke was like a drill sergeant barking orders at the fresh-faced rookies.

“Any chance he’s keen on finding out my star sign?”

“Come with me,” the police officer said as he beckoned him to move past the police cordon.

Volodiya followed the officer and sped towards Valeriya and the detective as snow fell once more. Before she could say anything, the detective cut her off.

“Mr Volodiya Chaika, I’m Detective Ivan Kavinsky,” he said as he balanced a lit cigarette between his lips. “The lady here says she hired you as a private investigator.”