"Smith, Martin Cruz - Polar Star" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Martin Cruz)

'And resurrection,' Arkady said. Slava blinked. 'It's like rehabilitation, but it's supposed to last longer. Never mind.' Arkady eyed the cigarettes inside the cabinet; they were papirosis, cardboard tubes with tobacco wads. But the cabinet was locked. 'Where's the doctor?'

'Look at the body.'

'Cigarette?'

Caught off-stride, Slava fumbled in his shirt before coming up with a pack of Marlboros. Arkady was impressed. 'In that case, I'll wash my hands.'

The water from the sink tap was brown, but it rinsed the slime and scales off Arkady's fingers. A mark of veteran seamen was discoloured teeth from drinking water from rusting tanks. Over the sink was the first clean mirror he'd looked into for a year. 'Resurrection' was a good word. 'Dug up,' he decided, described him better. The night shift on a factory ship had drained what colour his skin had ever had. A permanent shadow seemed to lie across his eyes. Even the towels were clean. He considered getting sick sometime.

'Where were you an investigator?' Slava asked as he lit the cigarette for Arkady, who filled his lungs.

'They have cigarettes in Dutch Harbor?'

'For what sort of crimes?'

'I understand that in the store in Dutch Harbor the cigarettes are stacked to the ceiling. And fresh fruit. And stereos.'

Slava lost patience. 'What sort of investigator?'

'Moscow.' Arkady exhaled. For the first time he delivнered his whole attention to the table. 'And not for acciнdents. If she fell overboard, how did you get her back? I never heard the engines stop to pick her up. How did the body get here?'

'It is not necessary for you to know.'

Arkady said, 'When I was an investigator I had to look at dead people. Now that I am a simple Soviet worker I only have to look at dead fish. Good luck.'

He took a step towards the door. It was like pressing a button. 'She came up in the net,' Slava said quickly.

'Really?' Arkady was interested in spite of himself. 'That is unusual.'

'Please.'

Arkady returned and pulled the sheet off.

Even with her arms stretched back over her head, the woman was small. Very white, as if bleached. Still cold. Her shirt and pants were wrenched around her like a wet shroud. One foot wore a red plastic shoe. Slack brown eyes looked up from a triangular face. Her hair was short and blonde, but black at the roots. A mole, a beauty mark by the mouth. He lifted her head, let it drop limply onto the table. Felt her neck, arms. The elbows were broken, but not particularly bruised. Her legs were stiff. More than from any fish, the reek of the sea came from her. There was sand in her shoe; she'd touched bottom. Skin was scraped from her forearms and palms, probably by the net on the way back up.

'Zina Patiashvili,' Arkady said. She'd worked in the cafeteria ladling out potatoes, cabbage, compote.

'She looks different,' Slava said analytically. 'I mean, from when she was alive.'

A double difference, Arkady thought. A death change and a sea change. 'When did she go over?'

'A couple of hours ago,' Slava said. He took an execuнtive stance at the head of the table. 'She must have been at the rail and fell over when the net was pulled in.'

'Someone saw her?'

'No. It was dark. Heavy fog. She probably drowned as soon as she hit the water. Or died from shock. Or couldn't swim.'

Arkady squeezed the flaccid neck again and said, 'More like twenty-four hours. Rigor mortis starts from head to foot and it leaves the same way.'