Free A Vengeful Longing by R. N. Morris Page A

flimsier, more provisional, staging posts to a future that might never arrive. The Shestaya Street Bureau itself was one of the exceptions: it dominated its jerry-built neighbours with its precise and ruthless geometry, by the power of masonry.
     
    ‘He has been asking for you,’ said Ptitsyn as he led the way to an interview room. ‘He started asking for you this morning. Apparently he has remembered something that can only be divulged to Your Excellency’s ears.’
     
    ‘I thought his memory would improve if we allowed him to stew for a couple of days.’ Porfiry turned to Virginsky, who was beside him, and smiled. ‘You have kept him alone?’ The question was for Ptitsyn, though Porfiry continued to fix Virginsky with a steady gaze.
     
    ‘As Your Excellency requested.’
     
    ‘How does he appear to you?’
     
    The young politseisky stopped walking. He turned to face the magistrates, his expression one of concern. ‘He is in a bad way.’
     
    ‘How do you mean?’ asked Porfiry.
     
    Ptitsyn shook his head gravely. ‘Some kind of sickness, I think. In my view, a doctor should have been called. I have made my opinion known, but my superiors have seen fit to ignore it.’
     
    ‘They are acting under my instructions.’
     
    ‘But Your Excellency! I fear that he is very ill.’
     
    ‘I believe it is a disease that will cure itself if we leave him be. You will continue, please.’ Porfiry gestured ahead.
     
    Ptitsyn bowed slightly and began walking again, without speaking now, however.
     
    ‘What have the symptoms been?’ asked Virginsky.
     
    ‘Alternating fits of indolence and raving. Instability of mood. Loss of appetite. The sweats. Fever. Agonising stomach cramps. Constipation.’ It was Porfiry who had answered.
     
    ‘That’s correct,’ Ptitsyn confirmed over his shoulder, somewhat surprised.
     
    ‘He is withdrawing from a morphine addiction,’ said Porfiry. ‘Why else do you think the maid had such trouble rousing him the day his wife and son died?’
     
    A pungent smell came off Dr Meyer, which was more than simply the odour of a man who had not washed for a few days. It was as if he had sweated something vile and rotten out from his core, and the rancid exudate had soaked into his clothes. He was sitting at a flimsy painted table, the surface of which was pitted and scratched, in a small room with chipped plaster walls. A batch of brilliant sky, disrupted by silhouetted bars, cast a beam of light on to the back of Meyer’s head. When he looked up as the door opened, it seemed that he had aged since they had last seen him, though it was only a little over a week ago. His face was haggard, heavily stubbled, his eyes dazed and adrift.
     
    As soon as he saw them he sprang to his feet, his eyes now blazing with a sudden fervour. ‘Thank God you’ve come! You must let me out. This is all a terrible mistake. I can explain everything. There was a man. How could I have not mentioned it before!’ Meyer struck his forehead in a mime of acknowledged stupidity. ‘I thought nothing of it at the time. Annoying, yes. But . . . uh . . . my mind . . . you have to understand, I had a lot on my mind.’
     
    ‘Please sit down, Dr Meyer,’ said Porfiry. The manic light in Meyer’s eyes died as suddenly as it had sparked. His expression became utterly crestfallen. At those few neutral words from Porfiry, he had lost all hope. He sank back shakily into his seat.
     
    There were two other chairs. Virginsky took one of them; Porfiry ignored the other and instead began to pace the room. Ptitsyn stood by the door. Meyer winced at the sound of the key turning as it was locked from the outside.
     
    ‘How are you, Dr Meyer?’ began Porfiry cheerfully, wrinkling his face into a smile.
     
    ‘How do you think I am?’ Meyer twisted his head to follow Porfiry’s restless movement.
     
    ‘Yes, yes, of course. This is a very bad situation for you. Your wife and son are dead and . . .’
     
    ‘And I