“Comrade Starostin!” he said, almost shouting, before reddening when the footballer laughed in response. However, Starostin stopped immediately when he saw the younger man’s discomfort, stepping forward to put an arm around Semionov’s shoulders then led him toward the stadium.

“No, Comrade, don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “You were a little formal in front of my old friend, Alexei Dmitriyevich, that’s all. So you’re here to investigate our murder?”

“It’s not as if he ever salutes me and I’m two ranks higher than him,” Korolev said to no one in particular. But he smiled at Semionov’s delight in having the famous Starostin walk with him, arm in arm.

“Are you a football fan, Comrade? Spartak also?”

Semionov couldn’t lie, but he had the good grace to look uncomfortable about his preference. “I’m sorry, Comrade Starostin-Dinamo.”

“No reason not to support them, they’re a good team. I toured with some of them a few months back and a nicer bunch of lads you couldn’t meet.”

Semionov nodded in agreement, they were a fine bunch of lads. Not that he’d ever actually met them. But he had just met Nikolai Starostin. He rubbed his chin as he considered his dilemma.

“Perhaps now, having met you, Comrade,” he said, thinking aloud, “I might support Dinamo and Spartak.”

Starostin laughed. “We always welcome new supporters. Alexei, I’ll have to give you another ticket for our new enthusiast. The Red and Whites are always glad to have fine fellows cheering them on.”

“Well, Comrade, when you’re playing those dirty Army bastards you can trust me to be behind you one hundred and ten percent! Komsomol’s honor-believe it!”

And there was something about the vehemence of Semionov’s statement that made the two older men laugh for a little longer than was polite.

During the conversation, Starostin had led them through the open gates and now he pointed toward the Tribune area at the east end of the stadium, where the terraces were open to the elements.

“The groundskeeper found him just there, a few rows back. I waited with him until the Militia arrived so that nothing would be disturbed. He was very badly cut up, you know; the dead man. Some bastard had-”

“Yes, we know. We saw the body in the morgue,” Korolev cut in quickly, not wanting to be reminded. He looked at the spot to which Starostin was pointing. There was nothing much to indicate a body had been there, except the large number of footprints trailing toward it from several directions before meeting in a rutted, overlapping tangle where the snow was tinged pink.

“It’s badly trampled, but do you remember whether there were any tracks when you got here? Any drag marks, for example?”

“Not really, but we can ask Sergei Timofeevich. I’ll go and fetch him; he’s down at the other end of the ground-wait here for a minute.”

Starostin walked toward the far goal post, where men were clearing snow from the pitch. Korolev looked at the muddle of footprints in disgust.

“God knows what happened here. At least Larinin had the sense to have some photographs taken, although I wish we’d seen it ourselves.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s blood in the snow-not that much, but it might mean the man was dropped here quite soon after he died, or even that he was still alive when they put him here. If he was dropped after the snow stopped, the body wouldn’t have had any snow on top of it and if it was dropped while it was snowing, we might have been able to work out what time it was left here by the thickness covering it. Still, the photographs might help. What time did the snow start last night?”

Semionov looked at him with wide eyes. “Deduction! I see, like Sherlock Holmes. Excellent, Alexei Dmitriyevich-really excellent.”

Korolev lifted his hand to cuff the youngster.

“No, I’m being serious.” Semionov, half-offended, took his notebook out. “Anyway, the snow. After midnight, I’m sure. I was out with some friends and didn’t get home until then. It was very cold, but the snow still hadn’t fallen. But I’ll check with the meteorological office when we get back to the office. And what time it finished, yes?”

Korolev nodded agreement and turned to greet the groundskeeper as he approached them, his felt boots moving quickly over the snow and his cap twisted in his gloved hands. Starostin followed behind him, smiling.

“I told them, I told the first lot, the footsteps, look at the footsteps, but they paid no attention. I made them keep away from them all the same, and my boys as well. Look over there.” He pointed to a set of blurred tracks that led toward them from the corner entrance to the northeast of the ground, the furthest away from the main road.

“A terrible thing, a terrible thing. I came in early to get the pitch ready for the reserve match tomorrow, but I always have a good look around in the morning to see if anyone’s been in overnight. Local kids get up to the Lord knows what here in the summer, which is bad enough. I mean they’re young and I was young myself once, but can’t they find somewhere else? No, they can’t, and I’m the one has to chase the little hooligans out all summer long. And only last March we found two drunks frozen under the away team posts. Like this.” He stopped and contorted his face and body into an approximation of rigor mortis. “Very upsetting. Their eyes were wide open, like fish in a tank. So I thought it was a drunk when I saw someone lying in the snow and, I’m thinking, here we go again, but no. It was worse.”

Only the recollection of the dead man stopped Sergei Timofeevich’s monologue. His eyes glistened with tears, which he rubbed at with a threadbare glove.

“Oh it was a horrible sight, brothers. It shouldn’t happen to anyone-a thing like that.”

Korolev seized the opportunity to interrupt. “Sergei Timofeevich? I’m Captain Korolev and this is Junior Lieutenant Semionov. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Ask. I know you anyway, Alexei Dmitriyevich, even if you don’t remember me. A fine central defender in his time, Lieutenant; we used to call Korolev the Steamroller. If Korolev tackled you, you stayed tackled. That I can confirm. But always fair, always fair.”

Korolev looked carefully at the groundskeeper and detected a familiar face changed by drink and age. The eyes were the same though.

“Akunin? The referee?”

“Yes, yes, that’s me.” The groundskeeper was delighted. “Was me, I suppose. Akunin the referee. But then-ah well, now Comrade Starostin allows me to be Sergei Timofeevich the groundskeeper. It keeps me involved in the game and I enjoy the work. But enough-what are these questions you have for me?”

Korolev caught Semionov’s smile from the corner of his eye and deduced that it wouldn’t be long before his old nickname was doing the rounds in Petrovka Street. He turned his attention back to Akunin.

“It’s good to see you, Sergei Timofeevich. We players always thought you were a fine referee.”

“I wasn’t bad, it’s true.” Akunin beamed with pleasure. “So, how can I help you?”

“Well, for a start, could you show us how the body was laid out?”

“Of course, Captain. He was flat on his back, with his hands by his side, like this. The face, the poor face though. He looked terrified. His eyes were like this. I couldn’t turn my head away for a full minute when I saw them.”

The groundskeeper did an imitation of the corpse lying in the snow, with crazed eyes and a wide open mouth. It wasn’t dissimilar to his imitation of the dead drunks.

“And on his chest,” he continued, “God forgive him his sins, were-”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Korolev said, cutting him off. “We know all about that, thank you. But tell me now, was there snow on top of the body, Sergei Timofeevich?”

“A bit. We had about four inches last night, as you can see, but I’d say he only had a dusting. Did I mention how his clothes were hanging off him? It looked like they’d been hacked and cut nearly as bad as him.”