The young man dropped his gaze and made way for them to enter.

A long corridor led deep into the flat. All the doors were tightly shut, and to the left a shorter corridor crowded with hangers and stools led to the kitchen, a bathroom, and the toilet. Maria entered the kitchen. It was dirty—the table was littered with bottles, scraps, greasy knives and forks. A pile of unwashed dishes lay in the sink. Worn cream curtains hung at the window.

“This way,” said the young man, opening the bathroom door.

Maria squeezed between the door and the washing machine. She grimaced, but not with revulsion. A naked man was sitting on the floor with his back to the wall and his legs tucked under him. His short-cropped, scar-pocked head hung oddly forward and sideways. A metal wire coiled from the heated towel rail to his neck. Maria pulled out a camera and took photos. A wide shot, and then a close-up of the neck. The body occupied almost the entire space, as if pushing out the air from this small bathroom with its cold presence. Maria felt a bitter and unpleasant taste. She looked around. No signs of struggle. Bottles of shampoo, razors, water dripping from a poorly tightened tap. A bottle of pills on the shelf. Maria turned it with a knuckle to read the name. Phenobarbital—for a sleeping disorder?

She laid her case on the floor and threw it open, put on gloves, and began cautiously examining the body. There were no visible wounds, but the man’s stomach would need to be examined. Veins swelled under the wire.

Maria measured the distance between the neck and the wall and studied the wire: thick and sheathed, and about one-and-a-half metres in length.

The lieutenant appeared in the bathroom doorway and emitted a puzzled snort.

“Maybe Sanya was right. Strange pose for a suicide. He could have got up whenever he wanted.”

“No, he couldn’t,” answered Maria, measuring the distance between the floor and the neck. “If it’s a sharp movement, the flow of blood to the brain ceases immediately. You lose consciousness. I would have thought, Alexander Yegorovich, they would have taught you that at university. There may also be a fracture in the fifth or sixth lumbar vertebra, because the wire is thin. Instant paralysis. No getting up. The head pops to the side, the trachea is pinched. He may have thought, when he was doing this, that he could change his mind at the last minute. But there’s no changing your mind here. Would you ask the brother if they own a piano?”

The lieutenant turned toward the kitchen and asked loudly: “Hey, have you got a piano here?”

The young man must have nodded. The lieutenant turned to Maria and nodded in turn.

“So where is it?” she said, continuing to study the wire.

“In Mum’s room,” came the voice from the kitchen.

“Got it,” said Maria, raising her voice. “Would you go and check, and start from the left, to see if all the keys work. No, not you Alexander Yegorovich, let the brother do it. The fewer sets of prints the better.”