The Bloody Meadow

by William Ryan

  He thought back to the Shishkin case – the file would probably already be shut and that wasn’t unusual. Murder was usually a simple matter, with the victim and the perpetrator well known to each other, and each step of their dance towards death well observed by others. But every now and then a complete mystery came along and then it required patience and time to sift through the facts and decide what was relevant and what could be discarded. Unfortunately for him, the Chekists weren’t renowned for their patience.

  Andreychuk, his flat cap on his knees, his eyes downcast and his shoulders bent, coughed into his hand. It was a question – when are you going to stop looking at me and when are you going to start questioning me?

  ‘You’re the caretaker here, correct?’ Korolev said, after a further pause.

  ‘Yes, Comrade Korolev. We met earlier.’

  ‘I remember. You were the last known person to see Comrade Lenskaya alive.’ Korolev gave the caretaker another long, hard look. ‘And the first known person to see her dead.’

  ‘I was,’ Andreychuk said, not seeming to like the way those two little sentences sounded. Korolev didn’t blame him. There were detectives who’d have stopped the investigation at this point, and procurators who’d have felt happy the case was resolved. Everyone had quotas to fill these days, now that administering justice was considered just as quantifiable a task just as mining coal.

  ‘Well, Comrade?’ Korolev asked, and waited, aware of the value of the open-ended question. Andreychuk lifted his eyes, squinting slightly. He shook his head slowly from side to side. It was true, Korolev thought, the caretaker was in a bad situation.

  ‘I was checking the house,’ Andreychuk began. ‘Everyone was down in the village so I was going to shut the place up. But I saw the light on in the young lady comrade’s office and so I knocked.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘At about seven-thirty. I remember because I was due to be down in the village for the film people, but I know my duty, so when I saw the light on I went to find out.’

  ‘Find out what?’ Korolev said, keeping his voice neutral.

  ‘What she was up to, of course.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She was typing – on a black typewriter.’ He paused, as if remembering the scene. ‘She said she wasn’t coming down to the village and I wasn’t to bother about her. So I left her there, on her own.’

  ‘So she was the only person in the house when you left? There was no one else?’

  Andreychuk looked at Korolev, and then at his feet. ‘I couldn’t swear to that, Comrade Captain. I didn’t check every last room, and I’m not asked to. I was in a rush as well. There might have been someone in one of the upstairs rooms, for example, sleeping perhaps, but there were no other lights on. And if someone wanted to hide themselves – well, I don’t check the place that way. It’s a big house, and I have to lock up the rest of the College buildings as well. I keep the place running – I’m not a watchman.’

  ‘But you saw no one – that’s useful. And you locked the house after you?’

  ‘I did.’ Andreychuk clearly felt more confident about this answer.

  ‘Why did you leave Lenskaya alone in the house?’

  ‘She was like that, Comrade. Always working. It wasn’t unusual for her to be working when the rest would be laughing around the place.’

  ‘I see, and when you returned later the house was completely secure, is that correct? And no signs of a break-in?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘And you were the first person to return to the house?’

  ‘I opened the house for the film people when they’d finished.’

  ‘Tell me exactly what you saw when you found her.’

  The caretaker spoke slowly – as though he were living through the moment of discovery once again so as to describe it the better.

  ‘She was hanging from the bracket in the dining hall, the one you saw. The rope had cut into her neck – it hadn’t cut her skin, but it had been pulled into her neck by her weight as far as it could go, almost to her ears, and her head had fallen forward. There was a chair on the ground beside her – I thought she must have stood on it, and kicked it away before – ’ his voice caught – ‘before she died. Her arms were hanging straight down. She was wearing the clothes you saw her in, and, well, she was dead all right.’

  Korolev wrote down the caretaker’s words verbatim, then looked up at him. ‘How high from the ground was she, Citizen? When you found her?’

  ‘Her feet, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Only a few inches off the ground.’ The caretaker held his hands apart – four inches or so.

  ‘What you did you do?’

  ‘Well.’ Andreychuk’s eyes moved sideways as if wanting to avoid the mental image the question prompted. ‘I dropped to my knees, if the truth be told. I’d just opened the door, the film comrades had finished in the village and everyone was coming back, and I saw her. Hanging there. And I could see she was dead straight off.’

  ‘And then? You cut her down?’

  ‘Yes, we did.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘I know Comrade Shymko was one of them. The others – well, I’ve been trying to remember myself, but the only face I can see now is hers. We stood on a table, and treated her as gently as we could.’

  ‘You liked her?’

  ‘She was a good woman. A fine woman. I think everyone liked her.’

  ‘Any enemies you know of? Any arguments she might have had, anything at all?’

  ‘She was popular as far as I know. But I’m only the caretaker.’

  Korolev felt a stab of frustration that clenched his knuckles white around the pen. Only a caretaker, was he? He didn’t have eyes in his head? He damned well did if his description of finding her was anything to go by.

  ‘What about particular friends, or lovers?’ he said, keeping his voice calm.

  ‘I don’t get involved in other people’s business,’ Andreychuk answered, his eyes dropping to his feet once again. Korolev studied him, wondering what he was holding back.

  ‘I’ll ask that question again, Citizen. Had she a lover, or a particular friend or friends?’

  ‘She was friendly with most people. I don’t know about her having a lover. I’d tell you if I knew something. I know my duty.’ The words were barely audible.

  ‘Can you write, Citizen?’ Korolev asked, allowing his voice to harden.

  ‘Yes, Comrade Captain. I can write all right.’

  ‘Well, I want you to write me a list of everyone you thought she was “friendly” with. When she saw them and so on. Bring it back to me in an hour.’

  Andreychuk nodded, still not meeting his eyes.

  ‘And another question. The doors to the house – you’re certain all of them were locked when you left and when you returned?’

  Andreychuk took a bunch of keys from his pocket, as though to remind himself, then nodded slowly.

  ‘I’m certain they were locked when I left, and I know the front door was locked when I returned because I was the one who opened it. As for the others, after we found her . . .’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘Everything was in confusion, I’m sure. Do you remember unlocking them though? When things had calmed down.’

  ‘No, but others have keys to the house and some of the doors can be opened from the inside without a key. Do you think she might have let him in? The killer?’

  Korolev looked up from his notebook.

  ‘I don’t think anything at the moment, Comrade,’ Korolev said. ‘My job is to establish possibilities and then prove them or disprove them.’

  But at the moment it seemed there were a lot of possibilities and not much to disprove any of them.

  ‘Will there be anything else?’ Andreychuk asked.

  ‘For the moment that’s all,’ Korolev said and then, when the caretaker made to rise, he looked up at him. ‘One thing. You said earlier that Lenskaya told you she was from these parts? When was
that?’

  ‘I’m not sure I remember it. Perhaps I was mistaken.’

  ‘You seemed sure enough earlier. Did she say from where?’

  The caretaker seemed to be considering the question. He didn’t look comfortable.

  ‘I don’t think so. I think I was mistaken.’

  ‘You’re sure she said nothing, then?’

  Andreychuk shrugged.

  Korolev didn’t say anything, but he was sure the fellow had more to tell them. He’d let Slivka have a go at him in the morning. And perhaps one of the other interviews would shed some light on the matter in the meantime. He made a quick note to himself.

  ‘You can go, but we’ll want to talk to you again. And if I were you, Citizen Andreychuk, I’d work on that memory of yours.’

  The caretaker nodded, bobbed his head in thanks, and quickly left the room. Korolev considered joining one of the Militiamen, already, he hoped, presenting the first interviewees with their menu of questions, but decided against it. It would only confuse them if he deviated from the script. Instead he looked at his list for the next interviewee Slivka had lined up for him – Sorokina, the actress. Well, if nothing else, this case had at least one compensation.

  Anyone who’d been to the cinema in the last ten years had almost certainly seen Barikada Sorokina shining in the darkness. She’d grown up on the screen, at first a child and then a young girl and now a beautiful woman. As might be expected, she was often either defending the barricades for which she was named, or storming them. Born to Party members in the tsar’s time, her name spoke of the struggle that had preceded the Revolution, and now, twenty-five years later, she was the embodiment of the People’s hope for the future, and their determination to defend all that had been achieved. Whenever Barikada stepped before the camera it was to lead them onwards, and whether it was to move impossible quantities of earth in order to complete a delayed canal project or to attack a White fortress Barikada always led by example. Of course, it often resulted in her own tragic death, but Soviet citizens knew it was their duty to put the Party and the State’s welfare before their own. And if they didn’t, Barikada’s selfless heroism reminded them.

  Korolev looked at his watch – he still had a few minutes before she arrived so he decided to go back over his notes of the Andreychuk interview in case there was something he’d missed. He’d barely started when there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he called, without looking up, still focused on Andreychuk’s notes. The door opened and he waved the person to the desk in front of him. There was no movement, however, and so he lifted his eyes to see who it was.

  Barikada Sorokina stood in front of him like a fully limbed and clothed Venus de Milo, a brown fur coat hanging over her shoulders against which her blonde hair shone like gold. For a moment, Korolev was so surprised by the vision before him that it didn’t occur to him that she might be waiting for something. Then, to his surprise, he found his body had got to its feet, marched across the floor and given a suspiciously tsarist-like bow to the beautiful actress, who extended her hand, not to be shaken, but to be kissed. Korolev, cheeks burning, found himself complying with her wishes.

  ‘Comrade Captain,’ the actress breathed, ‘have we met before?’

  Her eyes were a green that was close to emerald, and she seemed well aware of the effect they were having on a bumbling Militia captain. But where else to look? Her breasts stretched against a khaki shirt that seemed to have been tailored so as to make normal breathing difficult for her. He would have to convince his eyes they absolutely did not exist, and hope that she might cover her chest with the fur coat in due course. Her fine white teeth might have made an acceptable alternative except for the slight hint in her smile that her full red lips were his to do with as he wished, should he only ask. He settled at last on her forehead. It was a good forehead, sculpted, uncreased by worry, and it had the advantage that it didn’t make his throat constrict with inappropriate desire.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he managed to say. ‘Although I was fortunate enough to see your last film. So in a way, I’ve met you, if not the other way around.’

  ‘Appointment at Dawn?’

  ‘Yes – you were executed by counter-revolutionary brigands. At dawn. It was very moving.’ It was true, Korolev had found himself wiping his eyes on the back of his overcoat sleeve, grateful for the darkness in the cinema. ‘You were inspiring.’

  ‘Do you remember this?’ she asked and pulled her shoulders back and looked at him with utter disdain. ‘You may shoot me, but the Revolution will never be defeated!’

  ‘Bravo!’ Babel said, entering behind her. ‘I’m surprised the firing squad didn’t turn Red immediately.’

  Which was strange, because Korolev could indeed feel a blush warming his cheeks.

  ‘You’ve met the beautiful Barikada, then.’

  ‘Yes,’ Korolev said, pleased that his voice seemed to sound relatively normal. ‘Isaac, we’ll need privacy for Comrade Sorokina’s interview.’

  Babel looked a little nonplussed for a moment then nodded in agreement.

  ‘A shame. I should have liked to see how the best detective in Moscow sets about such an interview. Be careful now, Barikada, don’t go giving away your intimate secrets. He’s a terrier, this one.’ And Korolev found himself looking at Babel with a sudden professional curiosity – his words had sounded almost like a warning. But Babel had already turned to leave and Korolev caught only the briefest glimpse of his face in the light before it was gone. Not enough to come to a conclusion, but still – a strange thing to say.

  ‘Will you take a seat, Comrade? I just have a few questions.’

  ‘Anything I can do to assist you in your efforts, of course. Poor Masha, how thankful she would have been to know that a detective of your experience is searching for her killer.’

  ‘Killer? Who said anything about a killer?’

  ‘Everyone is saying it,’ Barikada replied, her eyes widening. ‘Although I must admit I’d my suspicions from the first.’

  ‘Well, we’ll come to that. But for the moment this is just a routine interview to gather all the facts about Citizen Lenskaya’s untimely death.’ Korolev sat down at the desk to face her, not knowing quite how he was going to go about things.

  ‘Let us begin at the beginning.’ It was the best place to start, after all. ‘How long had you known Citizen Lenskaya?’

  ‘Masha? Oh, quite some time. We used to see each other at parties and she was at the State Film School, of course. She was friendly with people I’m friendly with – you know how it is. Moscow is a small town, in many ways.’

  Yes, Korolev imagined it was – if you were part of the elite. Artists like Sorokina and Babel, senior Party cadres, the technocrats and the Lenin Prize winners, they were no doubt all as thick as thieves.

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard it said Moscow is surprisingly small,’ he replied, thinking of the teeming millions of Muscovite workers who queued outside bakeries for bread that there was never enough of and that was often too expensive. ‘But more to the point, was there anything in Comrade Lenskaya’s private life you’re aware of that might have a bearing on this investigation?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m afraid I have to ask about lovers, associates. Whether she drank too much, had enemies – things like that. I’m sorry – it must seem disrespectful to her memory.’

  ‘Oh no – you must ask me anything you like. I consider it my duty as a loyal citizen to answer any question you may have for me.’ The actress seemed animated, and Korolev wondered whether she did indeed have something to hide, but then it occurred to him that, as an actress, this was a role she had played several times before.

  ‘Well, shall we consider first whether she had any enemies? Have you any thoughts as to who might have done this?’

  ‘Enemies? Masha? Well, a few of the girls might have been a little jealous of her, but the men all loved her. It was strange, really, because I always thought s
he was a little mousy. Not that she wasn’t pretty, you know – because she was, I don’t deny that – but she spent so much of her time reading books, and that makes you squint a little, and then, next thing you know, you begin to look like a mouse.’

  ‘A mouse?’

  ‘In my personal opinion, yes – sometimes you can go too far with education. But the men adored her. Perhaps because she was adventurous, if I could express it that way. And didn’t restrict herself to one person in particular. She behaved, in many ways, like a man – but still she retained her femininity and charm so that none of them blamed her for it. It was strange how she dealt with them. I admired her for it, I can tell you.’

  ‘Any men in particular?’

  ‘Oh. Well, you probably know about Savchenko, and Belakovsky, of course. Everyone knows about them.’

  Korolev made quick notes. So everyone knew, did they?

  ‘And then that journalist Lomatkin,’ she continued.

  ‘Lomatkin?’ So the fellow from the plane had been her lover – no wonder he’d looked shaken earlier.

  ‘Yes, very much so.’

  ‘She had a lot of lovers?’

  ‘I’ve known her since she was a student, ten years nearly. I might not be acquainted with all of them, but there were certainly a few. I could name several in Moscow off the top of my head, including a very important person indeed.’

  Sorokina pursed her lips, as though resisting telling him, although at the same time almost begging him to ask. Well, she’d be waiting a lifetime for him to ask that question.

  ‘How about here?’

  ‘Well, there was something, and I want to discuss it with you frankly. I have a small suspicion – I’m not unobservant, you know. In fact in Red Militia I played a policewoman myself. You may remember the role.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Korolev said – if he remembered rightly she had died a hero’s death, not an unusual ending to her films. ‘You were excellent, as always.’