by William Ryan
‘A good worker?’
‘Very good. I kept him on when we finished building. He has worked tirelessly for the College’s development – not a Party member, but he participated fully in works meetings and always had the interests of the Collective close to his heart. Or appeared to have.’
‘You’re surprised that he turned out to have a secret past?’
‘It’s not so uncommon for people to obscure their past these days, Captain.’ Mushkina spoke flatly, as if stating the obvious. ‘I was surprised to discover that Lenskaya was his daughter, though.’
Yes, who could have told from Andreychuk’s craggy, bearded face that he’d have sired a girl like Lenskaya?
‘Comrade Shymko told me that you have a key to the house, is that correct?’
‘As director I have a key for every building. I walk around the College at least twice a day to see what needs to be done for myself.’
‘When do you take these walks?’
‘In the morning and in the evening, generally. It depends on my responsibilities for the day.’
‘Maria Lenskaya’s office. It was in the closer of the two small turrets to the stable blocks. The ones that overlook the lake.’
‘I know it.’
‘I was wondering, did you see her on your walks? As you passed by?’
‘Often. She was hard-working. I saw her many times late at night and early in the morning, sitting at her desk. If she saw me passing, she would wave. A productive young comrade was my impression.’
‘Did you know her personally?’
‘I knew her to say hello to, that was all.’
‘On the night of the murder, did you attend the film shoot?’
Mushkina seemed to hesitate.
‘Very briefly. I walked down to see what was going on, but I didn’t stay for more than ten minutes.’
‘And what time was that?’
‘Just before eight o’clock I think. They were about to begin filming.’
Around the time the girl was last seen alive, in other words.
‘What did you do afterwards?’
‘I walked back here along the road. It was cold, so I walked quite quickly.’
‘Did you see anyone after you left the village? We’re trying to establish people’s whereabouts.’
‘Not on the road, but I met Andreychuk as I passed the house. He was just closing it up.’
Korolev looked up from his notes. This was news, and confirmation of the caretaker’s statement.
‘He never mentioned it when I spoke to him. Seeing you, that is.’
‘I’m surprised. I spoke to him.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘Nothing much,’ she answered, running a knuckle along her chin. ‘He was in a rush, due to be down at the village, you see. For the film people. I asked him if he’d closed up the other buildings and he said he had.’
‘And how did you find him? I mean to say, in what kind of mood?’
‘A little agitated, perhaps, but I put it down to his being late for the film people.’
Korolev hesitated. Why hadn’t the caretaker mentioned the meeting?
‘So about five past eight?’ he asked, trying to puzzle it out.
‘Not any later, certainly.’
‘And did you by any chance walk past Maria Lenskaya’s window?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’ he asked, thinking that she was making him work hard for the information.
‘The light was on,’ Mushkina said.
‘Did you see Lenskaya?’
‘No, I didn’t, but I’ve thought back to that evening more than once, wondering whether I was walking past at the time of her death – and whether I could have done something to prevent it. I don’t think so, however.’
Korolev studied the old woman, wondering if the ambiguity was deliberate.
‘I’m sorry, do you mean you don’t think you could have prevented it?’
She considered the question.
‘No, if I’d known, I suspect I could have prevented it. But I’m confident she died after I passed her office.’
‘Why do you think that? Was there something you saw?’
‘The typewriter on her desk. It was the American one – the Remington. I noticed it because I used to have a similar one a long time ago. She had two of them, typewriters that is. She also had an old Underwood with Cyrillic keys. When she was discovered, I noticed that the typewriter on her desk, which is visible from the path, was not the same as the one that was there earlier in the evening. So I reassured myself that she must have used the typewriter after I’d walked past her window.’
‘It would have been very useful for the enquiry to have had this information earlier.’
‘As far as I was aware, this wasn’t a murder enquiry until today, Captain. When I heard it was, I came to see you. And I’m telling you everything I know.’
She spoke calmly and she had a point, Korolev had to admit.
‘You’re sure about the typewriter? You could recognize the difference between the two of them from outside the house?’
‘Oh yes. If you look at the back of it, you’ll see Remington is written in large white letters. Not our alphabet, of course – but it’s quite visible.’
‘I see,’ Korolev said, and wondered what the dead girl had been typing. There hadn’t been any paper in the machine when he’d seen it.
§
For Belakovsky’s interview, Korolev found himself back in the same classroom, but this time in the company of Slivka.
‘Comrades,’ Belakovsky said, as he sat down.
‘Thank you for sparing us some of your time,’ Korolev answered.
Belakovsky acknowledged the remark with a grave nod of his head. ‘When a worker of Maria Lenskaya’s calibre falls victim to violence, we must do everything possible to bring her killer to justice.’
‘And you knew her well, didn’t you?’
‘Quite well,’ Belakovsky replied, slanting a calculating glance up towards Korolev. Well, Korolev thought, they could dance around the question for the rest of the day or they could put it on the table and have a good look at it.
‘You were having an affair with her, I believe.’
Belakovsky looked at Slivka for a moment and Korolev had the impression the Film Board boss would rather not talk about the matter in front of her.
‘Sergeant Slivka is an experienced detective,’ he said, which wasn’t entirely true, ‘and, of course, discreet.’
‘Very good,’ Belakovsky said, after a moment’s consideration. ‘Your information is correct. About the affair. But it was in the past. Masha accompanied me on a delegation to America a couple of years back and one thing led to another. It didn’t last long but we remained friends. We continued to work closely together and there was no tension – ask anyone.’
‘And you were, of course, in Moscow at the time of her death.’
‘Yes,’ Belakovsky confirmed, his face lightening.
‘Excuse me for asking this, Comrade Belakovsky, but you’re married – isn’t that correct?’
‘Yes,’ Belakovsky said, shifting in his seat and looking at Slivka once again. ‘My wife isn’t aware of the relationship with Lenskaya and I’d like to keep it that way.’
‘Where’s your wife now?’
‘In Moscow. She works for the Industrial Procurement Agency. We have a daughter.’
‘I see. Of course, if your wife were to have known about it, that would have provided her with a motive.’
‘A motive to kill me, perhaps. Lenskaya wasn’t the first.’ Belakovsky seemed embarrassed. ‘That was one of the reasons I was glad when it ended. My wife believes in the necessity of a close-knit Soviet family. Who told you?’
‘It seems common knowledge,’ Korolev said.
‘Well, not to my wife. I’d have heard about it if she knew, believe me. Anyway, she was also in Moscow, it’s easily verifiable.’
‘We’ll check, discreetly of cour
se. Now, tell me about the trip to America.’
Belakovsky’s thick eyebrows, which had drawn together in a frown while they’d discussed the dead girl, now twitched upwards and apart. The shadow of a smile suggested itself at the ends of his downturned mouth and despite the general gravity of his demeanour, it was clear the memory was a pleasant one.
‘America was most interesting. And Lenskaya was an invaluable asset to us in our efforts. She spoke English well – it was what decided us to take her, not anything else, believe me. Without her, we’d have ended up relying on translators with no technical expertise.’ He paused. ‘She’s a real loss to the industry and the Party.’
‘And the papers you wanted from her office?’
‘There’s a project arising from the American trip.’ For a moment Korolev thought he’d stop there, but Belakovsky after the slightest of hesitations continued. ‘It’s a project of great significance to the State and the Party. You’ve heard of Hollywood?’
‘Hollywood? Of course.’
‘Then you’ll know it’s an industrial town, Hollywood. You’ll have heard of the factory towns we’re building now. Everything devoted to one industry. Magnitorsk, for example – you’ve seen all about it on the newsreels, heard about it on the radio. What we’re doing for cars, for steel, for armaments – well, we’ll soon be doing the same for cinema. Similar to Hollywood, but not a Capitalist film factory – instead it will be built on Marxist-Leninist lines where the People will rule, not American robber barons. It will be a Soviet Hollywood – Kinograd. Two hundred films a year, all year round. And just along the coast from Odessa is the place for it.’
‘Kinograd?’
‘The same. Take my word for it, Korolev – we’ll be producing more films than Hollywood in ten years’ time. In many languages, not just Russian or even the other languages of the USSR. French, German, English – the workers of the world will demand to see them. Comrade Stalin himself approves. Lenskaya was a vital part of the planning stage – and her latest draft of the report for the Central Committee is missing. I have the previous version, but it’s a mystery as to where it could be.’
Korolev considered the possibility that a Hollywood gangster had been sent to kill Lenskaya and steal the Kinograd plans, and decided it was unlikely. But then, look at all the old Bolshevik revolutionaries and senior Party members they were uncovering as French and British spies and the like. Nothing could be ruled out these days, it seemed.
‘We’ll certainly look into it, Comrade Belakovsky,’ Korolev said, wondering if there was anything about this case that wasn’t political in some way or another. ‘Have you any questions, Slivka?’
‘Yes,’ Slivka said, looking down at the notebook she’d been writing in throughout the conversation. ‘Did anything unusual happen on the trip to America? Anything connected with Citizen Lenskaya perhaps?’
Belakovsky considered the question.
‘There was that rat, Danyluk. He defected in New York – before the boat home. He made life difficult for us on our return, I can tell you.’
‘A defector – and she knew this fellow?’ Korolev asked, thinking about Kolya.
‘Yes, a Ukrainian – the Ukrainfilm delegate, in fact. He defected to the Americans – there are plenty of Ukrainians in America, White Guards, Trotskyists and Petlyurists. They’re all there. We didn’t know what he was up to until he disappeared from the hotel, but he turned up soon enough in the American newspapers spreading lies about collectivization. I hope State Security track the traitor down and treat him as an enemy should be treated.’
Korolev glanced at Slivka, whose face revealed no surprise. Good for her, he thought.
Chapter Fifteen
KOROLEV and Slivka sat in silence.
‘What do you think?’ she asked after a while, her eyes turning to look out of the window. Troubled grey clouds rolled across the steppe towards them. Korolev wouldn’t be surprised if they saw snow again before the morning.
‘What do I think?’ he said, after having considered her question carefully. ‘I think this Danyluk fellow seems to fit in with Kolya’s story. I think Andreychuk being a Petlyurist fits in with his story too. The only question is does Lenskaya fit Kolya’s story. I wish I’d met the girl, then I might have a better idea of what kind of person she was – but look at her Party record. She was a loyal citizen and a committed socialist from the moment she entered the orphanage. What age was she then? Twelve? Could she really have just been waiting for an opportunity? She’d no contact with her father for fifteen years and, according to Belakovsky, Danyluk had almost no contact with her. Was she a traitor? I just don’t know.’
‘Kolya thinks she was,’ Slivka said, reaching into her pocket and producing a packet of cigarettes. ‘Maybe we should turn this over to Mushkin.’
‘No, not yet.’ Korolev considered what Rodinov’s reaction was likely to be if he denounced Ezhov’s lover as a spy. ‘We’ve nothing to back up the theory except a gangster’s story and a couple of coincidences. Let’s see what else we turn up before we go running to the Chekists.’
§
It was coming towards dusk as he made his way through the woods. Slivka had pointed out a path through the trees to where Savchenko was filming and Korolev followed it as it wound through the winter-stripped trees, their bare branches black against the last of the light. The famous director was expecting him and, after Belakovsky’s interview, Korolev wanted to find out what the famous director had to tell him.
Perhaps Korolev was a little distracted, his mind going backwards and forwards over the case, but at first the movement in the bushes to his left didn’t register. It was only when a flurry of snow was dislodged from a branch that he became conscious that this was not the first time he’d heard something from that direction. At first he thought it might be a small animal, a fox perhaps, but it would be odd for a fox to be tracking a human. Korolev stopped for a moment and looked over to where the sound had come from, but the wood was thick with scrub and brush and he could see nothing. He resumed his walk and there was another rustle of leaves, a little ahead of him now, although this time he didn’t stop but instead surreptitiously moved his Walther from under his armpit to his coat pocket and placed his thumb on the safety catch. Perhaps he was being paranoid, but after what Kolya had told him and Belakovsky’s story about the spy he was taking no chances. He maintained an even speed, conscious now that whoever or whatever had been moving in parallel and was now in front of him, but still invisible in the thick brush. An ambush? His breathing quickened, the air chill in his nostrils and adrenalin surging through his veins so that he had to clench his teeth to stop them from chattering.
If whatever was up ahead was human and had a gun he’d be an easy target, but there was a wide clump of overgrown topiary that might provide an opportunity to turn the tables. He quickened his pace, reassured by the butt of the automatic warm in his palm, and then ducked and ran crouching towards the bushes, expecting bullets to whip through the branches around him at any moment.
Reaching cover, he knelt down on one knee and listened, his gun out of his pocket and the safety catch off. The fuggy smell of the inside of his coat came up to him and he stayed absolutely still, listening to the sound of someone moving carefully through the scrub, and he lifted the barrel of his gun a little higher with each approaching step.
He waited. And then the sounds stopped abruptly. They were just the other side of the dense bush, no more than ten metres away, close enough for him to be able to hear a strange snuffling noise. And then he worked it out – whoever was stalking him was laughing.
‘You can come out now, I can see you,’ Korolev said, his voice sounding a lot more confident than he felt, and the reaction was a giggle, and then the blond boy from the day before came out into the clearing, a toy rifle in his hands and a wide grin on his face. For a moment he didn’t see Korolev and that brief interval gave the shaken detective time to slip his gun back into his pocket and rearrange his features in
to something approaching normality. The Lord save him, he was jumping at shadows now, a wreck.
‘I thought I had you,’ the boy said, pointing his wooden gun at Korolev, ‘but you were too smart for me.’ His smile turned downwards and the rifle dipped in disappointment. The similarity to Korolev’s own son, Yuri, was as apparent as the first time he’d seen him and for a moment he wanted to take the child in his arms to comfort him, or himself, he wasn’t quite sure. He smiled at the boy and stood up.
‘You did well, Pavel, but why on earth are you sneaking around in the woods, trying to ambush innocent passers-by?’
‘Even children have to be prepared to defend the Motherland – I was practising for when the enemy comes.’
His eyes were grave under his black flat cap, dislodged snow on the peak. A button nose, the kind of clear blue eyes that only the very young have, a healthy complexion, cheeks pink with the cold. He’d make a good soldier with those eyes, thought Korolev – those eyes didn’t worry about right and wrong. Not yet, anyway.
‘Practising for the enemy, you say,’ Korolev said, putting his hands in his pockets.
‘I’ll be a sniper when I’m older and I’ll parachute behind enemy lines. When did you first spot me?’
‘About a minute ago.’
‘Not bad, not bad. I had you under observation from when you entered the wood. If I’d had a real rifle I’d have got you easily.’
‘Under observation? Where do you learn this kind of thing?’
‘In the Pioneers, of course. I’m a deputy team leader. Pavel Riakov, at your service.’
‘Korolev,’ he said, shaking the boy’s hand. ‘Alexei Dmitriyevich.’
‘The famous detective?’
‘The ordinary detective.’
‘But you’ve been sent from Moscow to investigate poor Masha’s killing and you’ve arrested Andreychuk the caretaker.’
‘Not for her murder, for something else,’ Korolev replied, wondering what Rodinov would make of the fact that even children knew why he was here. Well, at least the youngster didn’t seem to know about Ezhov.
‘I hope it isn’t for something serious.’