'My G.o.d,' murmured Blagosvetlov. 'It's . . . grotesque!'

'Yes, well, the water has reacted with the tissue in certain places. But you will note the heavy pockmarking of the face, and the distinctively small eyes. Oh yes, and he appears to have been a Jew. Does that description, coupled with the photograph, bring to mind anyone any a.s.sociates of Mr Kozodavlev's, for example?'

'He does not look human.'

'Be a.s.sured, he was . . . human.'

Blagosvetlov shook his head. 'I don't know all Kozodavlev's friends.'

Porfiry smiled. 'Of course not. You are not his keeper, after all. Neither his brother nor his keeper.' Porfiry signalled to Virginsky to retrieve the poster then turned back to Blagosvetlov. 'Tell me, do you have any theories about these fires? My colleague here, Pavel Pavlovich I am Porfiry Petrovich, by the way Pavel Pavlovich is of the view that the fires may not have been started by disaffected students and radical elements, as many commentators are suggesting, but they may rather be due to the general combustibility of our city. Do I have that right, Pavel Pavlovich?'

Virginsky merely frowned.

'He is of the opinion, I believe, that the blame must be laid at the door of the regime. In short, it is all the Tsar's fault. That's Pavel Pavlovich's theory, anyway. Do you have one?'

Blagosvetlov regarded Virginsky with interest. 'You are an investigating magistrate also?'

'Yes,' confirmed Virginsky with a slight nod, possibly constrained by embarra.s.sment.

'Oh, we have radicals in the department too, you know,' continued Porfiry brightly. 'So, what do you think, sir? About the fires, if I may press you.'

'You may discover my opinions easily enough,' said Blagosvetlov. 'By subscribing to our journal.'

'Ah! Very good! I like that! Never miss the opportunity to recruit a new subscriber, and why not. I dare say Pavel Pavlovich subscribes already. Perhaps he will bring some of his back copies into the department. Will you, Pavel Pavlovich?'

'If you wish.'

'Well then, I look forward to reading your views,' said Porfiry with a smile that suggested he was happy to let the matter drop. 'I wonder, does Mr Kozodavlev have a desk here in the office?'

'We all share desks.'

'Of course. That's precisely what I would expect!' cried Porfiry delightedly. 'You share desks. But each person must have somewhere to keep their own papers, the material they are working on from day to day? Did Mr Kozodavlev keep any papers here?'

Blagosvetlov bristled. The fire came back to his eyes.

'I understand your reluctance to co-operate with the authorities,' began Porfiry, speaking apparently to Blagosvetlov but in reality addressing them all. 'But I would ask you to bear in mind that I have come here today openly, in good faith, asking honest questions. I have not engaged in subterfuge or any of the filthy tricks to which other departments resort. I come in my service uniform, not in disguise. I have not sent spies or agents provocateurs. It is not my wish, or my intention, to close down your journal. On the contrary, I personally believe that the open airing of all shades of opinion is vital if Russia is to progress as she must. I may not share your opinions, but I wish to hear them, and I wish others to hear them too. In short, I am not here to suppress you. I am here solely in my capacity as an investigating magistrate looking into the death of an unidentified man. I believe that your friend Kozodavlev knew something about that man. I believe also that he wished to share that knowledge with me. You may now condemn him as a police informant, and consider him a discredited comrade. However, before you do so, I ask you to remember the Kozodavlev you knew, to remember his principles and integrity, and ask yourself, would he have written this note unless he had good reason? I can only a.s.sume that what was a good reason for Kozodavlev will be a good reason for you too.'

The plea was met with silence, their faces sealed off in resentful misery.

'We were talking about the fires,' resumed Porfiry. 'Well, here is a theory for you. The fire in Kozodavlev's building was started deliberately with the sole purpose of killing Kozodavlev or perhaps of incinerating his already-dead body. The other five victims were merely incidental. Collateral damage, we might say. The murderer's sole intention was to prevent Kozodavlev from going to the authorities with what he knew about the dead man in the Winter Ca.n.a.l. In which case, if that theory is true, then I am here investigating not only the death of the unknown man retrieved from the Winter Ca.n.a.l but also that of Demyan Antonovich Kozodavlev, your friend, your colleague. Your comrade. Please, I beg you, look deep into your heart before you wilfully obstruct me.'

'The heart is merely a physical organ pumping blood around the body,' put in a young man seated along one of the arms of the T of desks. Someone else sn.i.g.g.e.red.

Porfiry regarded the speaker with interest, taking note of his intensely dark, almost black eyes. There was an arrogance to his hostility that was lacking in most of the others, a self-conscious sneer that disfigured his good looks.

'And you must be Mr Bazarov,' said Porfiry, with a sarcastic smile.

The young man snorted derisively at the reference to Turgenev's archetypal nihilist. 'Bazarov is a fictional construct. A distorted character from a failed novel written ten years ago by a superfluous writer.'

'An interesting judgement, my friend. But am I correct in thinking that you believe all writers to be superfluous? That is the position of the radical youth, is it not? If it's a choice of Pushkin or a boot, you would take the boot.'

'Naturally. If a man has any talent for writing, he should devote himself to propaganda and publicity. For the cause, I mean. Utilitarian writing is the only kind that can be countenanced.'

'You are talking about manifestos?'

'Are you trying to entrap me?'

'I wouldn't dare. To have such a dangerous beast as you in my trap would surely earn me a savaging. I am simply interested in learning the opinions of young people today. If the human conscience does not reside in the heart as natural science insists it cannot where then would you place it? Or would you deny the very existence of human conscience?'

'What we experience as conscience, our moral outlook if you like, arises from the conditions of our upbringing, and from the norms of the society in which we are born. It is a mental construct, and therefore it resides in the brain.'

Porfiry considered for a moment. 'So conscience is relative, is that what you are saying? Different societies, different upbringings, will create different moral outlooks. There is no absolute right and wrong?'

'Amongst cannibals, it is perfectly acceptable to eat people.'

'And G.o.d? There is no room for G.o.d in this?'

The young man merely gave another derisive snort, by which he meant to repay Porfiry for the insult to his intelligence.

'And if a society with norms is that the word you used?' Porfiry waited for the young man's dismissive nod before continuing. 'And if a society with norms that prohibit a certain act is changed to one that allows that same act, what happens to the conscience of those living in that society? Are they able to transform their consciences as easily as the society was transformed?'

'Those living at the time of the transformation will have to be retrained so that their consciences are brought in line with the new norms. All future generations who are brought up, once the transformed society has been established, will naturally have consciences that correspond to its norms.'

'I see. Thank you. I understand now. And if we go back to a time before the transformation has been effected, when it is in the process of being brought about, before its norms are established . . . this I would imagine would be a time of great turmoil and confusion for the human conscience?'

'It need not be.'

'It need not be? Please, elucidate, if you would be so kind.'

'A man, or woman, must simply choose whether his or her moral outlook is to be governed by the future or the past. Once that choice is made, everything becomes clear.'

'And if he '

'Or she.'

Porfiry acknowledged the correction with a bow. 'If he or she chooses the future, then everything that pertains towards bringing about that future becomes permissible, and need not trouble his, or her, conscience?'

'That is correct.'

Porfiry turned back to Blagosvetlov. 'These are your views too?'

'Broadly speaking, yes.'

'And Kozodavlev's?'

'I believe so.'

'And was Kozodavlev I am sorry to speak of him in the past, but a.s.suming that he has perished in the fire was he such a man as to choose his conscience from the past or the future?'

Blagosvetlov's eyes shone with certainty. 'The future.'

'He was a rational man too, I presume?'

'Eminently.'

'And so, everything that he did would be done in accordance with that choice? He would not be inconsistent?'

Blagosvetlov looked momentarily abashed, the hesitant aspect of his expression gaining precedence. 'It is impossible to say for certain . . .'

'But from what you know of Kozodavlev?' encouraged Porfiry.

'From what I know of him, then yes, I would agree with that statement.'

'So in writing to me, his conscience was governed by his commitment to the future? Whatever he hoped to initiate by this letter which none of us can guess at it would be consistent with his overriding desire to bring about this particular future? A future that you, and all of these here, are also working towards. That is where logic takes us, is it not?'

Blagosvetlov conceded Porfiry's point with a series of small but decisive nods.

'May I see Mr Kozodavlev's drawer?'

The opposing aspects of Blagosvetlov's expression shimmered momentarily in his eyes. A soft groan of conflicted anguish broke from his lips. His head fell in a gesture that might have been one of defeat or shame. Porfiry took it for a.s.sent.

In Kozodavlev's drawer.

The opening of another person's private drawer is always an act freighted with a sense of transgression, even when it is committed by a magistrate going about his official duties. It may be done in the name of justice and in the interests of the law still, when it comes down to it, one is simply prying. When the person in question is dead or thought to be this sense is even more acute. No permission can be either sought or granted. There is the mitigating feeling that it does not matter now, that they cannot be hurt by whatever is found; but for a man such as Porfiry, a man who could not shake off such outmoded ideas as the eternity of the soul, this was hardly persuasive. If he consoled himself with any thought, it was that Kozodavlev seemed to have led him to this drawer. He had a sense of the missing journalist standing at his shoulder, urging him to go on. This was a delusion, no doubt. Had Kozodavlev actually been there encouraging Porfiry's investigations, he would have been going against the grain of sentiment in the room. All that Porfiry could sense behind him was the sullen hostility of the younger radicals. Blagosvetlov had retired from the office, as if he could not bear to witness what he had set in motion.

Porfiry allowed himself a moment after opening the drawer to take in the sense of the s.p.a.ce that had been revealed. He imagined himself as Kozodavlev, looking down on the drawer's interior. To the journalist, it would have appeared so familiar as to be hardly considered. And yet to Porfiry, it had all the strangeness and mystery of another man's soul laid bare.

If so, Kozodavlev's soul comprised: pencil parings and curls of tobacco, gathered in the corners with the darkness and dust; a copy of Chernyshevsky's What Is to Be Done?; a number of issues of the conservative journal, Russian Soil; a collection of writing materials, a couple of pens, a bottle of ink, some pencils of varying lengths; an empty cigarette packet; a loose pile of papers, in truth, not as many as Porfiry had hoped for; and a photograph in a dog-eared cardboard frame.

Porfiry seized most greedily on this last item. He called over the young man who had first gone to fetch Blagosvetlov. 'Which one is Kozodavlev?' There were about twenty people in the photograph, arranged loosely around a central group of five seated on a sofa. Even as he asked the question, Porfiry knew which of the figures the young man would point out. He recognised a number of the people shown as the young radicals of the magazine's staff. Blagosvetlov was there too, in the very centre of the composition. Of those he did not recognise, one man stood out. He was seated on the sofa, next to Blagosvetlov. This individual was not at all attractive, unlike almost everyone around him. But it was not for that reason alone that he drew Porfiry's eye. His face had a haunted expression. He looked towards the camera as if he believed it capable of capturing the secret that he undoubtedly nurtured.

The young man confirmed Porfiry's suspicion.

Porfiry handed the photograph to Virginsky. 'We will take that with us, Pavel Pavlovich.'

The young man let out a small cry of protest, then hurried through the door at the back of the office.

Leafing through the papers, Porfiry discovered what appeared to be two drafts of the same article, a review of a novel recently serialised in Russian Soil, which was presumably why Kozodavlev had copies of that journal in his drawer. Porfiry remembered that the novel in question, ent.i.tled Swine, had caused something of a sensation because of the interesting circ.u.mstances surrounding its author. Known only as D., he had supposedly once belonged to a secret revolutionary cell but had now renounced his former beliefs. The book was presented as a novel, but it was evidently to be taken as a memoir. Porfiry also found a letter from the editor of Russian Soil, in which this basic information was provided and the novel was heartily commended to Kozodavlev.

The first draft of the review was extremely critical. In it, Kozodavlev condemned the writer's portrayal of radical types as crude caricature. He denied, in fact, that the novel had any basis in reality and was rather the fantasy of a disordered and irredeemably reactionary mind. The novelist's supposed radical credentials were called into question; and even if true, they merely served to render his turn to conservatism all the more lamentable. The final verdict on the book was that it was a cynical fraud, designed to cash in on public fears about phantom revolutionary groupings. At the head of this article, Kozodavlev had written 'Affair piece', which was underlined three times.

The second draft under the heading 'R. E. piece', also triple underlined took almost entirely the opposite stance. The novel under discussion was a warning to society, a work of visionary genius. The truth of the portrayal could not be doubted, given the novelist's own former radical credentials. The anonymous novelist was to be praised not only for turning his back on the errors of his youth but also for harnessing his undoubtedly painful experiences in order to create a work of art of such high moral conscience and integrity. Both versions were drafted in the same hand, which bore a striking resemblance to the hand the anonymous letter had been written in.

The only other item in the drawer was a scrawled note, on a sheet torn from a notebook. 'I don't give a d.a.m.n what you do. Do you think I have ever cared?' This was the full extent of the missive, apart from the single initial serving as signature: 'D.'

Was it possible that this was the same D. as the anonymous author? It was too tempting a question to be answered in the affirmative. Porfiry recognised it as one of those traps of coincidence that are often met with in the course of an investigation.

Blagosvetlov came back into the room with the same mixture of combativeness and shyness that Porfiry had noticed earlier. He was beginning to find it endearing, and felt himself wanting to ease the man's suffering if he could.

'What have you found?' Blagosvetlov's tone was aggressive. He seemed to blame Porfiry for his own acquiescence in the search.

'I found this.' Porfiry handed him the brief note. 'Do you have any idea who this D. might be?'

Blagosvetlov shrugged. 'It might be anyone.'

'Might it be the author of the novel Swine? I believe Kozodavlev was working on a review for your magazine.'

'It might, I suppose.' Blagosvetlov drew himself up a.s.sertively. 'Ivan Ilyich tells me you intend to confiscate a photograph.'

'It's not a question of confiscating. That implies that I do not have your consent. Whereas, I am sure that you would consent to our taking anything that might shed light on the disappearance of your friend.' Porfiry did not wait for Blagosvetlov to respond. 'Is it possible that Kozodavlev knew the author of Swine? Perhaps he was about to reveal his ident.i.ty?'

'You would do better to talk to Trudolyubov about that.'

'Trudolyubov?'

'The editor of Russian Soil, which serialised that trash.'

'Of course. That is a very good suggestion.' Porfiry studied Blagosvetlov in silence for a moment. 'Thank you.'

'Have you finished?'

'Yes, for the time being. If there is anything else that we need to know, I trust we may call upon you again.'

Blagosvetlov made no answer.

'In addition to the photograph, I am taking several other articles back to my chambers for further examination.' Turning to Virginsky, Porfiry added, 'Pavel Pavlovich, you will ensure that an official receipt of evidence is sent to Mr Blagosvetlov.'

Virginsky gave an automatic nod, a.s.senting, and then shook his head like a horse that had just been stung.

Porfiry led the way out of the office and had in fact taken two steps onto the landing before he turned back, walking straight into Virginsky. The collision was observed with suppressed hilarity by the staff of Affair. Their laughter was made up of equal parts contempt and relief. This investigating magistrate was evidently something of a buffoon.

Begging Virginsky's pardon, Porfiry bowed past him to present himself once again in the office. He grinned sheepishly. 'I just remembered something as we were leaving. Pavel Pavlovich was right behind me. We had a little accident. But then, you all saw that, I imagine. It was my fault, my fault entirely.'

'Was there something else?' prompted Blagosvetlov impatiently.

'Oh, yes, thank you for reminding me. I nearly forgot again! What a dunderhead I am this morning. Were you aware that Kozodavlev wrote for other journals?'

'Other journals?'

'Yes.'

'He may have placed the occasional piece in The Contemporary. Its politics did not exactly coincide with his, but he could see the virtue of extending his readership. A liberal might be stung into radicalism.'