“That’s a very good and important question,” Grigory Petrovich said, heavily rising from his crouch and brushing the snow from his knees. “Tell me, Elena Alexeevna, do you happen to have any serious conflicts with your neighbors? Perhaps someone was offended by something, holding a grudge?”
“No, not at all, we get along perfectly fine with all our neighbors. We live quietly, peacefully, never bother anyone, never argue with anyone.”
“And your husband? When exactly did he leave for his trip?”
“Last night, around seven o’clock. He left for a long trip, at least a week, maybe even longer.”
The officer nodded slowly, jotting something down intently in a small, worn-out official notebook.
“So, this person knew for sure that you were home all alone. Very interesting and alarming. He opened the gate carefully, walked in calmly, then closed it just as carefully and left. He wasn’t in a hurry at all, acted with confidence.”
“Grigory Petrovich, what do you think he was even doing here? Why did he come at night, walking around the house?”
“That’s what we need to find out.” The officer looked at her with a very serious, heavy gaze. “There are several possibilities. Maybe he was scoping out what valuables are in the house, preparing for a robbery. Maybe he was carefully checking if someone was actually living in the house, if it was vacant. Or maybe…”
He trailed off meaningfully, but Elena understood perfectly well without words. Maybe this person was preparing for something much worse than a simple robbery. For an assault. For violence.
“Do any of your neighbors have security cameras installed?” Grigory Petrovich asked briskly, scanning the neighboring houses.
Elena thought hard, trying to remember.
“Maria Ivanovna, across the street, I think she has a camera. She installed a system last year, after the Petrovs’ garage next door was brutally robbed.”
“Excellent, that could be very helpful. Let’s go over to her right now and ask to see the recording. The camera might have captured who came and what car they were in.”
They quickly went out the gate and crossed the deserted, snow-covered road. Maria Ivanovna’s house stood directly opposite—a neat, well-kept house painted a pleasant light blue, with beautiful carved wooden window frames. Elena rang the bell at the gate. A minute or two later, the front door of the house opened, and the owner herself appeared on the porch—a plump, good-natured woman in her seventies, in a bright, floral housecoat, her gray hair neatly gathered into a small bun at the nape of her neck.
“Lenochka? What happened, dear? Is something wrong?” Maria Ivanovna squinted anxiously, curiously looking at the uniformed police officer standing beside her.
“Hello, Maria Ivanovna. You see, a stranger was walking in my yard last night, there are clear footprints in the snow. Grigory Petrovich came to investigate. Could we look at the recording from your security camera? Maybe it caught something important?”
“Oh, good heavens!” the neighbor exclaimed, clapping her hands together sincerely. “A stranger was walking around? At night? And you were home alone, with Vitya on a long trip… My goodness, how scary! Yes, come in quickly, of course, come in, we’ll definitely take a look.”
They went inside the cozy house, into a small but very clean and tidy living room, densely filled with old, sturdy dark wood furniture. A modern flat-screen TV hung on the wall, and below it was a black DVR box with flashing green and red lights. Maria Ivanovna, flustered and a little confused, turned on the TV and fumbled with several remote controls for a long time.
“There, I think it’s working and showing. Grigory Petrovich, you go ahead and figure out this technology, I’m not very good with it, my grandson set it up.”
The officer nodded silently and confidently took the remote control. He started to rewind the recording quickly. Elena stood frozen beside him, glued to the screen, afraid to miss anything. The grainy, black-and-white recording clearly showed the street in front of Maria Ivanovna’s house, her own house opposite, the gate to her yard, and part of the yard itself.
“You said your husband left around seven in the evening?” Grigory Petrovich clarified, his eyes fixed on the screen.
“Yes, around seven, maybe a little later.”
He quickly fast-forwarded the recording to eight p.m. and set it to play at normal speed. The picture quality was not the best—grainy, black-and-white, and blurred in places due to the falling snow, but it was generally possible to make out what was happening. The street was completely empty, deserted, snow falling in a thick blanket, visibility was very poor. The time on the recording crept forward slowly: nine p.m., ten, eleven…
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