Zugzwang by Ronan Bennett Read Free Book Online Page A

anything about these murders.’
    â€˜You’re quite sure about that? With one’s children,’ he said in a rueful, worldly tone, ‘one never quite knows what they get up to.’
    â€˜I know my daughter would never get up to murder.’
    He smiled, point taken. ‘Is there anything else?’
    I had already decided not to tell him about the intrusion ofKavi and Tolya and their theft of Rozental’s file. It would give the impression that my affairs must be more complicated than I was letting on and therefore more suspicious.
    â€˜No,’ I said, ‘except to emphasise again that I am completely unable to help the police in this matter.’
    â€˜If you are innocent you have nothing to fear,’ he said.
    â€˜Of course this is true,’ I replied. ‘But it is equally true that mistakes are sometimes made. Suspicion can and does on occasion fall on those who are blameless.’
    Zinnurov sipped his drink and lapsed into silence, as if following up some vague line of thought. I could smell the wine’s dense bouquet in the air between us.
    â€˜What would you have me do?’ he asked.
    â€˜If there was someone in authority to whom you could explain this error, I would be very grateful.’
    Zinnurov clasped his hands together and leaned back in his chair. ‘My daughter says you are an honourable man, Spethmann, and I have no reason to doubt her estimation of you. But my difficulty is that I do not know you. You understand my position? I cannot go to, say, Maklakov, who is the minister of the interior, on behalf of someone for whom I am unable personally to vouch. You could be, for all I know, a Bolshevik or’ – Did I detect a sly look here? – ‘a Bundist. I am sorry, Spethmann,’ he said with a helpless gesture, ‘I never like to disappoint my daughter, but on this occasion I am afraid I simply cannot assist you.’
    I got to my feet. ‘Thank you for finding the time to see me,’ I said formally. I did not feel disappointment, rather distaste – for the man in front of me but also for myself. What had I been thinking in coming here? To this man?
    His smile was equally formal, a slight, quick tightening of the corners of his mouth. We walked to the door.
    â€˜How do you know my daughter?’ he asked conversationally.
    â€˜I am her doctor.’
    He threw his head back and squinted long-sightedly at me. ‘I thought Dautov was her doctor.’
    â€˜I am a neurologist,’ I said, ‘and a psychoanalyst.’
    â€˜I see,’ he said uncertainly. His features took on a thoughtful cast. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I may have been hasty.’ He indicated the sofa. ‘Please …’
    Pride and principle dictated I refuse his invitation; my fears for Catherine directed otherwise. I settled in my seat again while he refilled my glass.
    â€˜Spethmann?’ he mused aloud. ‘I do not know the name. How long have you lived in St Petersburg?’
    â€˜I was born here.’
    â€˜Really?’
    The Mountain’s own origins were obscure. It was rumoured his grandfather had been a serf and his father a conscript in the war in the Crimea. What was certain was that all that he possessed, which was a very great deal, he had created for himself. His spectacular rise in the world was the work of an especially powerful personality. Everyone knew how, in the chaotic days following the Revolution of 1905, he made a speech in the first Duma declaring that those who sought to bring down tsarism might just as well try to demolish Mount Narodnaya with wooden spoons and subsequently earned himself his nickname – the Mountain.
    â€˜A psychoanalyst, you say? Is something wrong with Anna? Is there some doubt as to her … sanity?’
    â€˜Not at all,’ I hastened to assure him. ‘Anna is perfectly sane.’
    â€˜It’s the nightmares, isn’t it,’ Zinnurov said, a