Alright, I'll go and interview them all. What about other evidence?
I have a weapon, which the witnesses say was used at the time and I have a shirt.
A shirt?
Yes, the one worn at the time. It's got blood on it.
Great. How did you come across these articles?
They were sent to me by an old woman called Petrova Abdulova. I also have the letter she wrote at the time. Slava placed a bag on Igor's desk. All the things you need are inside the bag. I know you will do me proud, Igor. Thank you for your friendship over the years, and I do hope our paths will cross a bit more often that they have in the last couple of years.
Let's chat about old times this evening. I'll pick you up at your hotel at seven.
Octavia, oh Octavia her mother cried as the bullet proof limousine, dropped her outside the White House. What have you been up to, we were worried sick about you. Promise me never to run away like that again.
Octavia didn't say anything. She looked at her mother, the First Lady. A woman of average height and above average looks. A brunette, not a hair out of place, she had married Octavia's father when she was just nineteen. She was more popular than her husband among the public, because she was always on TV raising funds for children. Your father has canceled all his appointments this afternoon. We're going to sit down and have a nice chat.
Octavia hoped the 'nice chat' didn't turn into a monolog lecture. She went up to their apartment and into her room. It was predominately white and full of cuddly toys that well-wishers had sent her at various points during her life. The journey from London had tired her, and she undressed, had a shower and slipped under the sheets. She woke when her mother called her at around three pm.
Octavia, her father exclaimed. It so lovely to see you. Come here. He took his daughter in his arms and hugged her. She was surprised how warm he was towards her. They were in the sitting room in the Presidential Suit in the White House. It wasn't a large room; it was cozy. There was a large round window in one wall, and double doors in the other wall leading to the rest of the suit. There were two sofas, opposite each other and a glass table between them. Octavia's father sat next to her mother with Octavia opposite them.
Your mother and I are so happy that you are having a baby. We're really proud of you, and we want to tell you we will give you all the support you need throughout your pregnancy. If you think Slava will be a good father, and you love him, we will support both of you equally. He looked at his wife who nodded in agreement. Where we do have a concern, is with you traveling around unprotected.
Mum, Dad, Octavia began. I hate Harvard and law. I want to be a writer. I want it so much I was prepared to run away from you. Slava and I have found a way to make our dreams happen. He wants to sail, and I want to write. That's what we'll do. Live on his boat and follow our dreams.
Alright, if that's what you want. What about your baby. He or she will have to go to school one day, the President asked.
Of course, and we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, we have our plan, and we're going to follow it.
Okay then. Now we understand what you want we can support you. Why didn't you tell us you were so unhappy at Harvard? her mother asked.
Because I was worried what you would think. I could see the headlines. President's daughter drops out.
Leave the press to me. When I'm finished with them, they won't dare to mention you anymore, her father said.
As he was about to leave for the airport, Slava's phone bleeped. It was an Email. He opened it and read:
Hi Slava, please find attached the first in the series of articles. I hope you like it.
Igor.
Slava clicked on the attachment and began to read.
St Petersberg 2015
Night of Knives - The First In A Series of Articles About The Unsolved Murder of A Woman.
She was a woman in her forties. A woman to whom life had not been at all kind. Neighbors remember her as being slight and extremely pretty. What stood out most, though, to those that are able to recall her, was her kindness. She was willing to help anybody and regularly looked after some of the older women in the street. The street where she lived was a just like most of the other residential streets in St Petersberg, apartment buildings, and play areas. It was a close-knit neighborhood, where people knew each other and took an interest in each other.
You could be forgiven for thinking that the woman in question worked in a local factory or shop, but you would be wrong. Illona Kuklov was a prostitute. On the night of thirteen January 1985, it was bitterly cold, and she had just let her last client of the day out of her apartment. Somewhere around ten pm, there was a scream. It was a scream that makes those I have interviewed about the incident, still have sleepless nights.
When neighbors rushed to her apartment, they found Illona struggling for breath in a pool of her own blood. She had been repeatedly stabbed, and the weapon was still poking from her chest. Illona's murder has remained unsolved ever since, but it shouldn't have. There is more than enough evidence to bring the murderer to trail. Several witnesses, a murder weapon, and a shirt are all pieces of vital evidence that have been ignored by investigators.