The Case of the General's Thumb Read Online Free

You’re the blue-eyed boy. I’ve got an officeful of cadets. Come and feast your eyes.”
    The five skinny, lookalike young cadets in militia uniform were, like most of their generation, pale, pimply, wary.
    â€œAll keen to get cracking, eh?” demanded the Major.
    The “
Yes, Major
!” was unenthusiastic and not in unison.
    â€œLieutenant Slutsky, here,” he continued, giving Viktor a grin, “will now address you and give you your case files. After which, all questions to me. Stupid questions will forfeit rations. OK?”
    Exit Ratko, grinning.
    â€œI’ll fetch your files,” said Viktor before darting out after him.
    â€œ
Address them
? What about?”
    â€œGot to be an address. It says so in regs. And it’s not for an old cynic like me to witter on about honesty, probity, duty … Shoot ’em the odd slogan, bung ’em their case files, and pick an assistant. He can brew your coffee, fetch beer, but that’s about the best you can expect.”
    He spoke for three minutes – the limit of their attention span – and as he gave out files, noted down names: Polishchuk, Petrov, Plachinda, Kovinko, Zanozin.
    â€œAny questions?”
    â€œThe waiting list for a flat, how to get on it?” one asked, clearly speaking for all.
    â€œQuestion for the Major,” Viktor said calmly. “All been assigned offices?”
    â€œOne between the lot of us,” someone said.
    â€œTo your office then!”
    He went over to the window. From first-floor level the city looked surprisingly green and peaceful. Kids playing, as if it were high summer.
    â€œPicked your man?” Ratko asked from the door.
    â€œNot yet. I haven’t seen enough of them.”
    â€œI’ve grabbed your spare desks … Post mortem findings due twenty minutes from now, so don’t go sloping off.”
    â€œPost mortem?”
    â€œEven dead generals have to have one. And now, having warmed my office, do the same to your own.”
    Returning to the file and photographs, Viktor read:
    Bronitsky, Vadim Aleksandrovich, b. Kresty, Donyetsk Region, m., one son. Address: Kiev, Suvorov St, 26, Flat 133.
    Surprisingly, there was no mention of service or place of employment, and while Viktor pondered the fact, gazing at sunlit foliage seen through cracked glass, the phone rang.
    â€œCome.”
    With Ratko was a man in civilian clothes. He handed Viktor keys and a plastic folder of vehicle documents, and advised taking it easily at first, as he’d find the Mazda livelier than the Zaporozhets.
    â€œNose back to grindstone then,” said Radko when the man had gone. “Show ourselves deserving of the high trust reposed in us.”
    The day was drawing in. Viktor made tea, then tackled the postmortem report. Death from cardiac arrest ran the verdict. He shrugged. In which case Murder was out, and Malicious Hooliganism or Desecration of the Dead was in.
    Odd, though, to get strung by the neck to a balloon when dead, and sent skywards.
    The address and telephone number of the forensic laboratory were as legible as the pathologist’s signature was not.
    Now at 7.30 no-one would be there. Gathering everything into the file, he picked up the car keys.
    â€œYou’ve got remote locking,” volunteered the sergeant on guard approvingly, and taking the key from him, demonstrated what could be done.
    Viktor drove slowly and cautiously, incurring derisive hoots from similarly fast and flashy cars.
    He was half way over Southern Bridge, when a mobile phone warbled in the dashboard recess.
    â€œLike it?” a man’s voice inquired.
    â€œVery much! But who’s that?”
    â€œGeorgiy Georgievich. I’ll be your sidekick – like in American cop films.”
    â€œWhen?” asked Viktor, mystified.
    â€œAs of right now. You’re no longer solo, so get used to it. It’ll be easier that way, and safer.