“What’s going on here, Larinin?” Korolev asked as they approached the two combatants. Larinin turned and then adjusted his eye line upward to take account of Korolev’s greater height.

“The doctor here doesn’t seem to be aware of the Militia’s priority when it comes to the performance of speedy autopsies, Comrade Korolev. I’ve a very important case-the general himself asked me to make sure it was dealt with immediately-and now the doctor is telling me I have to wait. The criminal could be making his escape as we speak, all because she hasn’t time to look at the victim. She’s sabotaging our efforts to do our work efficiently, Comrades. She’s a wrecker, if you ask me. I wonder what her class background is.” The last remark was made with a malevolent glare that would have terrified an ordinary person but seemed to have no effect on Dr. Chestnova, other than to irritate her still further.

“Listen, you barrel of lard,” Chestnova snarled at him, her breasts swinging forward as she approached him, close enough now for her to spray his face with saliva when she spoke. “I’ve told you I’ll deal with your corpse in twenty minutes. At present I have to finish an autopsy for the NKVD. Would you like me to tell the Lubianka that you believe the Militia takes precedence over them? I’m happy to do so.”

Larinin looked for a moment like a man who’d swallowed a hornet. He blinked twice and then looked to Korolev and Semionov for assistance. Korolev shrugged his shoulders with a flat smile, while Semionov was oblivious to the drama, his nose smearing the glass window of the autopsy room where the suicides were piled. Larinin scowled at them and then waved his hand at Chestnova in a dismissive gesture.

“Well, why didn’t you say so, Doctor, instead of wasting everyone’s time? Of course State Security takes priority. Comrade Stalin himself has made that clear on hundreds of occasions. Possibly thousands.”

“Which is what I’ve been trying to tell you for the last five minutes, but you would only listen to the sound of your own voice. Drone, drone, drone. And who the hell are you to be casting aspersions around like your damned traffic tickets? Sherlock Holmes?”

Semionov gave an emphatically negative shake of his head at this suggestion.

“Comrades,” Korolev said loudly, “Remember the proverb: in any argument the wiser one’s to blame.”

Which comment left both Larinin and Chestnova momentarily confused, before each looked at the other with a certain smugness.

“As it happens, I need to see the body as well. Come on, Larinin, I need an update on the murder scene-let’s have a smoke outside. Your corpse isn’t going anywhere and it will give Comrade Chestnova time to attend to her other duties.”

It was freezing on the Institute steps, and their breath and the cigarette smoke were indistinguishable in the cold air. Larinin explained briefly that the body had been found, mutilated, on the terraces behind the goalposts at Tomsky stadium. The large number of tattoos indicated the dead man had been a Thief and there’d been two sets of footsteps leading to and from the body. That was it, as far as Larinin was concerned. Whatever had happened, had happened elsewhere and the body had been dumped. In Larinin’s view, a Thief had fallen foul of his fellows and good riddance. Korolev listened with as much patience as he could muster and then led the others back to the morgue.

Back inside the second autopsy room two attendants rolled a canvas body bag out onto the metal work surface without any ceremony. They quickly undid the cord that ran the length of the bag and peeled it open like a banana, revealing the gray corpse within and also letting out the damp smell of decay. The attendants expertly slipped the bag from under the body, assisted by its stiffness, then left the room without a word. Semionov whistled.

“He must have really got on somebody’s tits, I’m telling you. Look at the poor fellow’s family jewels.”

It was true enough: the Thief’s face and body were battered and bloody from a beating and a smoke-circled hole in the middle of his forehead indicated the probable cause of death. Aside from the obvious violence of his last few hours, the dead man hadn’t had an easy life-hard living, violence and drink had left their marks. A bite-sized chunk was missing from his right ear, his nose looked as though it had been broken several times and his remaining teeth were yellow and uneven. But the reason for Semionov’s shock was the horrific damage inflicted to the fellow’s genitals. Korolev had to look away to collect himself before returning his gaze to the Thief.

The dead man’s face was broad and topped with brown hair that was cut short at the sides and allowed some length on top. Even now he looked imposing, his chest impressively wide and his arms, thick and muscled. But it was the tattoos covering his body that marked him out as a Thief as surely as if his police file were lying open on his chest; they gave almost as much information if you knew how to interpret them.

The door swung open behind him as one of the attendants returned.

“Here’s his bits, the poor lad,” the attendant said and deposited two glass jars containing the missing body parts at the corpse’s feet. The penis reminded Korolev of a discarded scrap of bread dough.

“It makes you feel ill,” Semionov said, and it was true that his pallor had a greenish tinge. Korolev, who was still fighting to keep his own stomach down, had no sympathy to spare.

“So what have we got here?” Chestnova said, coming into the room and picking up one of the jars. She shook the testicle from side to side as she examined it against the light, “A testicle, by the look of things.” Then she looked up at Larinin. “More than one, if I’m not mistaken.” Larinin scowled back at her.

“Reckon it’s our killer, Doctor?” Korolev asked, hoping the question would distract Chestnova. He didn’t think he could watch a testicle being rattled in a jar for very long without disgracing himself.

The doctor looked down at the body and pressed the calf muscle with a speculative finger. “It could be. He’s in full rigor mortis, but it was cold last night. Where was he found?”

“On the terraces at Tomsky stadium, in the snow. It looks like he was dumped there.” Korolev noticed Semionov’s eyes following the jar in Chestnova’s hands as though it were a snake charmer’s flute.

“Hmm-well below zero last night. That makes it difficult to tell when he died. But there’s some decay, so it could be as much as twenty-four hours or even longer. Ah. Look here. Recognize these marks?”

Chestnova pointed out the burn marks around the groin and nipples that Korolev had spotted as soon as the body was laid out on the table.

“The same as the girl?” he asked.

“Made with the same instrument, I’d say. At first glance.” Chestnova leaned closer to examine the body. “Quite impressive tattoos, Captain, if I’m not mistaken.”

Korolev grunted his agreement. Blackish-blue inked pictures covered most of the man’s body-prison tattoos, etched out with a razor or a sewing needle, using ink made from coal dust and urine. Each image told a chapter in the Thief’s life or confirmed his position in the Thieves’ hierarchy; his criminal record, but told from the criminal’s perspective. Ironically, tattoos were often more reliable than Militia files. Policemen could be bribed and official records changed, but a Thief’s tattoos were written in stone-in a prison they were his calling card, and the first question he would be asked was whether he stood by his tattoos. An inaccurate tattoo, one that claimed a position or history that a Thief was not entitled to, would be burned or cut off by his fellows. If the incorrect tattoo was considered sufficiently offensive, the wrongdoer could pay for it with his life.

As Chestnova began to clean the body, the flow of water revealed more. The largest tattoo, an image of the crucifixion, spread across most of the corpse’s chest. A bearded Jesus stared down, the tangled crown of thorns embedded in his bloody hair and thick nails pinning his hands to the cross. It was beautifully done-each rib separately shaded, each tendon and muscle clearly defined. The pain in the Savior’s eyes seemed to reach out from the image and into Korolev’s very soul. A craftsman made this, thought Korolev to himself, and made the sign of the cross with his pocketed hand. The tattoo was a living icon, or at least had been, but it was also the insignia of a senior Thief, an authority in the prison system and on the streets. The tattoo itself was a mark of the man; it would have taken weeks for the tattooist to produce a tattoo of this size and detail, and each insertion of ink would have caused pain. It was no disgrace in the Thieves’ world to have an unfinished tattoo.