by William Ryan
‘Thank you, you’re very generous in your praise.’ Sorokina smiled her trademark smile at him, open and warm but at the same time humble. Korolev felt a little like a bear trapped in honey.
‘And your suspicion?’ he asked, his voice gruff.
‘Andreychuk.’ Her voice became a whisper and she looked at him with a grave expression. ‘The caretaker. I think he murdered her. I saw them arguing.’
‘What were they arguing about?’
‘I don’t know – I didn’t hear much of it. I was walking down to the village. I know it’s not safe, but you can go stir crazy in this place. It was a clear night and I kept close to the house in case there was any trouble.’
‘Trouble?’ Korolev asked, mystified.
‘With the villagers, of course. The kulak class are everywhere around here, and who knows what other counter-revolutionary elements as well. Priests, Makhno’s bandits, Petlyurists, White Guards, even Trotskyists they say. The resistance to the kolkhoz collectivization movement is still strong – it’s why this film is so important. Some of them are determined to wreck our project, but we’ll struggle with all our might to finish it, and show no mercy to the saboteurs as they’ll show no mercy to us. The Bloody Meadow will be a dagger into the hearts of the Revolution’s enemies – and we mustn’t underestimate the lengths to which these brigands will go to stop us.’
It was quite a speech, and the feeling behind it seemed genuine. Sorokina paused for effect, placed a hand on the table and leant forward for emphasis.
‘I believe poor Masha may have been a victim of just such an enemy in Andreychuk.’
‘So,’ Korolev said, deliberately taking things one step at a time, ‘you think Andreychuk may have killed her because she was working on the film – because he’s against the drive towards collectivization. Have there been other incidents of sabotage?’
Sorokina looked thoughtful for a moment.
‘Not as yet, but you can see it in the way the villagers look at us. They’ve been waiting for their opportunity, the rats.’
‘I’ve met Andreychuk, he didn’t strike me that way. What were they arguing about?’
‘I couldn’t tell exactly. But you’re right, I’d always thought Andreychuk a good fellow, and he seemed to like Masha as well. Well, you know how it is, the way older men treat pretty young girls. They go out of their way for them, bring them little presents – I saw him give her some apples once. And another time I caught him looking at her when he thought no one was watching, and the way he looked at her was more than comradely. Much, much more. And so I was surprised when I found them arguing. And at what I heard him say as well.’
‘And what was that?’
‘He said, “Go back to Moscow, you don’t belong here. It’s dangerous here for you. Get away before it’s too late.”’ She paused and looked at Korolev with a raised eyebrow. ‘Well, what do you make of that, Comrade Detective?’
‘Interesting, certainly. We’ll have to see what his explanation is. Did you hear anything else?’
‘Not a word. Masha saw me and came over and took my arm. She looked frightened. As though she’d seen the Devil. And we walked back here as quickly as we could. I asked her what the matter was but she wouldn’t answer, just shook her head and looked at her feet. She was a confident, happy soul – that’s what men liked about her. But that night she was afraid, I think.’
There was an element of the dramatic in Sorokina’s recollection, and part of Korolev – the tired to the point of hallucination part – felt as though he’d been transported from reality into a cinematic performance, but the rest of him – the part that was still functioning as a detective – decided the actress was telling the truth, although perhaps with a large measure of embellishment.
‘But you said he had seemed affectionate to her previously.’
‘Yes, not affectionate, though. More than that.’ She paused and looked to the ceiling as if for inspiration from God, or perhaps, in her case, Comrade Stalin. ‘Passionate. That’s it. The look he gave her was full of passion. Smouldering. Raw. But it didn’t concern me at the time because there was sadness there as well. I can’t explain it. It was just an impression.’
Korolev looked down at his notes, ‘smouldering’, ‘raw’, ‘sad’. This wasn’t like many other interviews he’d undertaken. But what was this about Lomatkin?
‘The journalist. Lomatkin. You said he and Lenskaya were lovers?’
The question seemed to come as a surprise to Sorokina. ‘Lomatkin? But he was in Moscow. I’ve told you about Andreychuk – shouldn’t you arrest him before he gets away?’
‘I’ll certainly be talking to Citizen Andreychuk again and I’ll confront him with your information, you can be sure of it. But please tell me about Lomatkin.’
Sorokina seemed to focus on him as an individual rather than as an audience for the first time, and interestingly it was with the wary gaze of someone who thought they were being made fun of. Her lower lip began to harden into the stubborn pout of a spoilt child.
‘Babel said you were an unusual Militiaman.’
‘I’m not unusual at all, Comrade. I just shake the tree till all the apples come down, then work out which one is the rotten one. I don’t presume it’s the first that falls into my lap.’
‘I like Andreychuk, I hope you understand that. But I saw what I saw. And I heard what I heard.’
‘I believe you, and I’m sure your memory of the incident is correct, but there could be an innocent explanation.’
Sorokina seemed satisfied with that and gave a brief nod.
‘Well, I’ve done my duty in any event. That’s what matters most.’
‘And Lomatkin?’
‘Lomatkin and she, well – I don’t know. I think she loved him, perhaps – there was something there. You’ll have to ask him. But I’ve seen them at parties, her big eyes drinking him in like a woman dying of thirst gulping down a glass of cold water. She didn’t look at the others that way. He was different. And I’m sure he felt the same way as well.’
Korolev nodded, and underlined Lomatkin’s name in his notebook. ‘And what about these others?’
Sorokina shrugged, ‘They were men, she was a woman. They were helpful to her – and she gave them what they wanted.’
‘Belakovsky?’
‘You won’t mention me as the source for any of this,’ Sorokina said, as though she’d suddenly remembered who she was gossiping about. Korolev couldn’t imagine Belakovsky or Savchenko would be grateful – and even such a famous actress as Sorokina had to think about her career.
‘You have my word.’
‘Well, one thing led to another and she went with him on some delegation to America. He was smitten with her. She went as a translator and came back as one of his key assistants. She was bright, better at her job than most others at the Film Board – but, well, conclusions were drawn.’
‘Is that where she met Savchenko? In America.’
‘Oh no, Savchenko was a much earlier conquest. She was Nikolai Sergeevich’s student at the State Film School. I told you, she was a clever girl. I don’t mind saying that I sympathized.’
Korolev lifted his gaze to meet Sorokina’s and, for a moment he caught a glimpse of her own past in those green, green eyes of hers – the compromises, the practical decisions, the unwelcome attentions that had had to be welcomed. There was a tilt to her chin that defied his judgement, not that he was making any. Sometimes you had to do things to survive and he’d done worse things than she ever had, he was sure of it. You didn’t fight in wars like the ones he’d been through and come out whiter than white, or redder than red for that matter. He looked at his watch – it was time to finish.
‘Thank you, Comrade. We may have some more questions in due course. But you’ve been very helpful.’
She nodded, looking for a moment almost as tired as he felt, and rose to her feet. He walked with her to the door, and wasn’t surprised to feel his body resisting each step he tried to ta
ke forward. How long had he been without proper sleep? Too long – far too long.
As if on cue, Slivka appeared in the doorway as they approached and held it open for Sorokina with a respectful smile. The actress turned and gave Korolev a small wave, but didn’t say farewell. He nodded in return. Slivka watched the actress go and then smiled at him, fondly – the sort of look that a girl her age might reserve for a grandfather.
‘You look exhausted, Chief.’
‘I don’t just look it. Listen, roust out Andreychuk, will you? Sorokina says he and Lenskaya argued a couple of days ago.’ He consulted his notebook. ‘Apparently he warned her to go back to Moscow, that it would be dangerous for her if she stayed.’
‘I see.’
‘I’d like to know what he meant by it.’
‘Are you sure you’re happy for me to talk to him on my own?’
‘I’ve a feeling he’ll respond well to you.’ Korolev’s voice sounded slurred with tiredness even to him. He made one more effort. ‘Any news from the other interviews? Or the forensics man? Firtov, is it?’
‘A few things to follow up – Firtov thinks he has a partial fingerprint in the dining room. And Peskov called, the doctor. He asked if we wanted to attend the autopsy. What do you think? He’ll do it tonight, if you wanted to go in.’
‘I’ll be honest with you,’ Korolev said, thinking that his tiredness was making him more open than usual, and being too exhausted to care, ‘I don’t much like watching people poke about inside other people.’ Which didn’t sound like the words of a man prepared to his duty – he sighed, a long sigh. Children had been born and wrapped in a towel in less time than his sigh took. ‘How long would it take to drive there?’
She shrugged, ‘An hour, no more. If I’m driving that is.’
‘Look at me, Slivka, I can barely stand. Let’s tell him to go ahead – speed is important here – but we’ll visit him tomorrow morning for his conclusions. We can discuss the case on the way, and the uniforms can carry on with the initial interviews in our absence. Tell him we’ll be there at eight o’clock. An early start. Afterwards we can go and see Firtov, and find out if this fingerprint of his comes to anything.’
‘Perhaps I should stay here?’
‘No, if I’m assigned to another matter, you’ll still be involved in the case, so we should both go.’ He caught the beginning of a yawn and pushed a fist in front of his open mouth. ‘Are any of the uniforms from the village able to use a typewriter?’
‘No, but Comrade Shymko offered us one of his girls in the end. Larisa.’
‘I met her. Put the fear of God into her – I don’t want her blabbing if she’s typing up the interviews of people she knows.’
Slivka smirked.
‘All right, all right. I know God doesn’t exist.’ Another lie to be forgiven by that non-existent Lord. ‘Put the fear of a prison cell into her, how about that?’
‘With pleasure.’
‘Has anyone bothered to find us accommodation?’
‘They’ve found a bed for you in the house, but I’m not sure about me, at least so far. Still, if the worst comes to the worst, I’ll take the blanket from the car and sleep in the armchair here. I’ve slept in worse places.’
The thought of a bed produced a feeling of intense longing but, on the other hand, he didn’t like the idea of his having a bed while his subordinate made do with an armchair.
‘We’ll toss for it,’ Korolev said, feeling around in his pocket and producing a ten-kopek coin.
‘We won’t,’ Slivka said. ‘Your bed comes with a good-looking Frenchman in the bed beside it. The girls in the production office think he’s safer with you than with me. Or maybe they think you’re safer with him – who knows? He’s good-looking, that much is certainly true.’
‘You’ve met him? This Les Pins character.’
‘It has been a day of many meetings.’
‘What did you make of him?’
‘A handsome man. Missing part of his ear, though, a clean cut. A knife, I’d say. Or a bullet perhaps. A tough customer, gentle with it and speaks Russian like a grand prince. Anyway, it’s been decided. The Frenchman will be “enchanted” to have your company.’
Korolev accepted defeat.
‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘And one last thing?’
‘Yes?’
‘See if you can get me some cigarettes?’
Chapter Nine
BEFORE HE called it a day, Korolev made one final effort and telephoned Yasimov in Moscow. Because of the late hour he called him at home, explaining the situation to him briefly – Yasimov was smart enough not to ask any questions once he heard where Korolev was calling from. Instead he spoke only to agree to Korolev’s requests, which were simple enough. Poke around at the orphanage and see what he could find out about the dead girl’s background, ask around at the Film Board and the State Film School about her and, finally, do a little bit of digging into Comrades Lomatkin, Savchenko and Belakovsky and any other lovers who came to light. Korolev knew Yasimov well enough to presume that if Ezhov’s name came up in the process, he’d forget he’d ever heard it, which was exactly what he wanted him to do. It was a weary Korolev who put down the telephone and made his way to the main house and the small room he’d been allocated to share with Les Pins.
He was unsurprised to discover that Slivka had been right about the Frenchman – he did indeed speak beautiful Russian, and with a precise yet flowing elegance that for a native would lead to a ten-year stretch in the gold mines of Kolyma, but for Les Pins resulted in a flock of adoring production girls. It was, Korolev thought, not for the first time that day, a very strange world.
Les Pins welcomed him and pronounced himself, as Slivka had also predicted, ‘enchanted’ at the prospect. Korolev decided ‘enchanted’ was not intended to be taken literally, but was just what French people felt obliged to say when they had foisted on them a large Muscovite policeman who looked as though he might snore like a hibernating bear. But then again, with words like that in your repertoire, it must be difficult not to walk on the sunny side of the street, and Les Pins seemed to be a determinedly ebullient character, a firm smile permanently fixed to his face, and a pleasant, melodious, laugh that hovered on a hair trigger, ready to tinkle out at the slightest excuse. It was only when Korolev shook hands with him that he felt the missing fingers. Something must have shown in his face because Les Pins looked down with a smile.
‘A German bayonet. Verdun. And you?’ Les Pins nodded to the sabre scar that ran down the side of Korolev’s jaw to his chin, so old now that he hardly noticed it any more.
‘A sabre. A Russian one.’ Korolev shrugged, thinking back to the Cossack, his horse rearing, leaning down to slash at him for a second time. At such moments a man’s life ends or continues. His had continued and the Cossack’s had ended. ‘But the Germans gave me a few scrapes too.’
Korolev couldn’t help but think of two old dogs meeting in the street, sniffing each other out. For all the Frenchman’s smiling suavity, those eyes had stared down the barrel of a gun more than once, and from either end, if he wasn’t mistaken.
‘So I hear poor Masha was murdered?’ The Frenchman turned away and began to undress. His shoulder was bandaged, Korolev noticed, and he moved stiffly, but he was still a relatively fit man. Korolev sat down on the spare bed and pulled off his boots, feeling the stretch in his back as he leant down and resisting the urge to topple forward and fall asleep right there on the floor, and damn the Frenchman.
‘Who said that?’ Korolev asked, trying to keep his tone offhand.
‘Oh please, Captain Korolev, it really isn’t my business – but it’s your arrival that tells me it wasn’t suicide, not somebody’s tittle-tattle. I’m curious, though – who do you think killed her?’
Korolev took his time before answering, constructing his response carefully. It was sensible to be careful with foreigners.
‘I don’t know how it works in France, Comrade,’ he said eventually
, ‘but here in the Soviet Union the Militia don’t discuss such things with citizens, even welcome and honoured visitors like you.’ Korolev reached into a pocket of his coat for his last cigarette and then wondered whether it would offend the Frenchman’s sensibilities if he lit up in the man’s bedroom.
‘Do you mind?’ he began and showed a corner of the packet of Belomorkanals.
‘Not at all, I’ll join you,’ Les Pins said, producing a blue packet. ‘So it wasn’t murder, then?’
Korolev raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh really,’ the Frenchman said, striking a match, ‘you’re impossible.’
Although strangely, the way the Frenchman said it, it sounded like a compliment.
They focused their attention on the cigarettes for a while, smoke shrouding them, stirred occasionally by an exhalation.
‘So you knew her a little bit,’ Korolev asked, having considered whether asking him the question was a good idea and then finding himself unable to resist. Well, it wasn’t really questioning as such, was it? It was more of a conversation. Yes, that sounded about right. Rodinov would understand.
‘A little bit.’ The Frenchman put his finger and thumb about an inch apart. ‘You mustn’t misunderstand me, I’m sympathetic. You know how it is – death isn’t unusual in my line of work. I can see you think I’m heartless, but it’s not that at all, believe me. My heart is full of tragedies. This is just one more. But I keep smiling, what else is there to do? Tears don’t stop bullets – well, not that I’ve ever seen. Bullets stop bullets and sometimes words.’
Korolev remembered that the fellow was some sort of a journalist. A war reporter, Rodinov had said. The Frenchman flicked ash onto a plate that he’d placed beside the bed for the purpose and for a moment looked almost embarrassed.
‘At least I hope my words help – help people to understand that we need to struggle for a new kind of world, a world where war is no longer necessary. You would think we’d have learnt from the last one, but it seems we learnt nothing.’