by William Ryan
“No more than two or three hours ago, I’d say. I doubt his body temperature will indicate much different. It wasn’t yesterday, that’s for sure. Does that tally with your ideas?”
“It does.”
Korolev looked down at the body and had the sense that everything around him was receding, leaving just him—and the corpse.
“Chief?”
Korolev started, aware that he had somehow become the center of attention. He sighed. That was the thing about death—it had a way of slipping into your thoughts and taking them over, leaving you forgetting where you were.
“Yes, Slivka, yes. I hear you.” Korolev rubbed the palm of his hand across his jaw once or twice, savoring the bristly scrape. He had to focus on the job in hand.
He turned to regard Chestnova.
“Zinaida Petrovna, we can see the bullet hole in the back of his head, and we can draw our own conclusions. The question is, is there anything else you’d like to bring to our attention?”
“No. The bullet killed him, if that’s what you’re asking. I doubt the autopsy will tell us otherwise.”
“Nothing that might indicate a struggle of any kind? Or resistance?”
“Not that I can see,” Chestnova said, placing the head gently back on the desk. “I studied under him at university. An ambitious man—not pleasant about it, either. Have you any idea who killed him?”
“None,” Korolev said. “So he wasn’t well-liked?”
“Not at all,” Chestnova said. “Not by his colleagues and certainly not by the students. Feared, perhaps.”
“Feared? Well that’s useful to know.”
Korolev examined the dead man’s face. It was difficult to deduce a corpse’s personality just from looking at it. Death rubbed away much of a person’s character—and left only a misleading impression at best. But Chestnova was someone whose opinion he could attach some weight to. If she said Azarov wasn’t a pleasant man, then he believed it. Especially since his maid had given a hint or two along the same lines.
“Well, he must have trusted whoever shot him,” Korolev said. “Why else would a man sit at his desk calmly while his killer stood behind him?”
“Just because he wasn’t afraid of the killer, doesn’t mean he didn’t know they despised him,” Slivka said, with a shrug of her shoulders.
“Perhaps. Ushakov, I’d like to have a look at what he was working on at the time of the murder. Can you clean the blood off these?”
Korolev pointed to the blood-caked papers.
“We’ll do our best—I’ll let you know how we get on. In the meantime, I’ve extracted your bullet from the desk.” He held up a small brown paper bag. “It looks like a .45 caliber—big, in other words. It must have been fired from close range but it barely made a dent, really—for its size.”
There was something in Ushakov’s tone that suggested he had some thoughts on this.
“Go on.”
“It’s just a hunch, but I’m thinking a very small pistol. One of those waistcoat weapons, you know the kind. We’ve asked the local Militia station to pull all the firearms certificates for the building. The bullet’s a bit battered but we should have enough to match it to a weapon. If we locate the weapon, that is.”
Korolev glanced toward Slivka.
“We’ll go through the place atom by atom.”
“Well, I’d better go and meet the late professor’s colleagues.”
Korolev said his farewells. On his way out, he wasn’t surprised to find Priudski the doorman still loitering on the landing, barely visible in the gloomy light.
“Comrade Priudski?” Korolev asked.
“Yes?”
“I need to call Petrovka. Can I use your phone?”
“Of course, Comrade Korolev. Of course.”
Priudski led him down the staircase and, when they reached the bottom, ushered Korolev into his small office. The doorman picked up the receiver, tapping three times for the operator.
“I need to call Moscow CID,” Priudski said. “Petrovka.”
“Thank you,” Korolev said, taking the receiver from the smaller man and holding the door open for him.
The doorman left the room with an expression that reminded Korolev of a scolded schoolboy—but if Korolev was going to make a report to Popov on a case like this, he’d rather it wasn’t overheard by a fellow like Priudski.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Korolev had never heard of the Azarov Institute before but he often traveled along Bolshaya Yakimanka and knew the building well enough from the outside. At one time, long before the Revolution, it must have been the residence of someone who’d had money to burn—and had decided to burn a good portion of it on a large and ornate mansion. Since then a revolution, the Moscow winter, and the passage of time had worked on it, turning once bright-red bricks to brown, and white marble to gray. And what time and weather hadn’t managed to alter, man had. Bars and barbed wire guarded each window and ledge—and the high wall that surrounded the grounds was topped with spikes.
Korolev parked the car and got out, first walking to the heavy oak front door, conscious that large raindrops were beginning to spatter the pavement around him, and then, following the directions on a handwritten sign, around the corner and down a narrow laneway, his mood darkening with each step. Two men in black hooded rain cloaks stood waiting for him in front of a small sentry box that guarded the side entrance. They watched him approach with apparent indifference.
“I’m from Petrovka,” he said, showing his identification card to the nearest of the two—a heavyset man with blank blue eyes and a hard face. “I’m—”
“From Moscow CID. Korolev.” The guard said this without bothering to look at his papers. He sounded bored.
“You’re expected, Comrade Captain,” the second guard said.
“You knew I was coming?”
“Please come with me, Comrade Captain.” The second guard spoke as if he were persuading a temperamental child to perform an unpleasant task. “The deputy director will answer your questions.”
He stepped aside so that Korolev could pass and, after a brief pause, Korolev did just that. After all, the rain was beginning to come down fatter and faster—pittering and pattering around him on the laneway’s cobbles.
It was unsettling, of course, that they’d been expecting him, but perhaps Popov had thought it wise to call ahead. Or Priudski. Anyway, he was a senior detective from Petrovka—it wasn’t likely that entering the place on his own would be dangerous. These were just ordinary guards, doing their duty—same as he was.
But as he followed the guard along the gravel path, he caught sight of two concrete buildings. They were invisible from the street because of the institute’s high perimeter walls—they were only two stories and set well back—and, at first glance they looked like ordinary office buildings or some such. A second glance, however, revealed the heavy metal doors and the shuttered windows, the thick walls and the regular lampposts that surrounded them. And it occurred to him that these were buildings designed not to keep people out—but to keep them in.
* * *
The man behind the large desk stood as he entered, giving him a smile that seemed genuine enough.
“Captain Korolev, I’m pleased to meet you.”
The deputy director was young, not yet forty, broad-shouldered and in good shape. In fact he had the sort of rude health that suggested he’d be more comfortable working in a field than sitting in an office.
“Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,” Korolev began, before a roll of thunder seemed to rattle the very building itself. A simultaneous gust of wind sent splashes of rain through an open window onto the wooden floor. The deputy director stood up and, with an incongruous half-bow, moved quickly to close it.
“The storm has come at last,” he said. “Let’s hope it means the air will be cleaner—cooler too, with luck. I’m Shtange. The deputy director.”
“Korolev,” he said, still feeling the strength of Shtang
e’s grip, “but you know that.”
Korolev was surprised at how rough Shtange’s hands were—they didn’t feel like a doctor’s hands, far from it.
“Yes, they told us you’d be coming. I’ve been instructed to be as cooperative as possible.”
“Thank you.”
“We’re all shocked by the news, of course.”
For an instant Shtange was silhouetted against the window by lightning, which was followed almost immediately by a deafening blast of thunder—even closer now, it seemed. A real summer tempest, Korolev thought, not without some satisfaction.
“Professor Azarov was a tireless striver for Socialism, a Stakhanovite worker of the highest productivity. With more like him, the State would be completing Five Year Plans in two years not four.”
Shtange had to shout to be heard over the wind and rain lashing at the windows, but even so, his words sounded formulaic, almost as if he were embarrassed by what he was saying.
“We’ll investigate his death with every resource available to us, of course.”
“I don’t doubt it, Comrade Korolev, I don’t doubt it. Such an important figure in Soviet science—well, the State will expect nothing less.”
Shtange extracted a metal cigarette case from the pocket of his dark jacket, took one out and tapped it on the table. Korolev noticed with interest the engraved propeller design on the case’s lid—wondering to himself what Shtange’s connection with airplanes might be. Shtange caught the glance and, misreading his interest, offered Korolev a cigarette.
“I have my own,” Korolev said, embarrassed, and pulled his Belomorkanals from his pocket.
Shtange shrugged and closed the case with a snap. Korolev could see there was an inscription beneath the propeller, but it was illegible from this distance. Maybe he should have taken a cigarette after all.
“I presume Azarov’s death will have a serious affect on the institute’s work?” Korolev asked.
“We operate as a collective, Comrade Korolev, like all Soviet organizations. The institute bears Comrade Azarov’s name, of course, but whoever of our number falls away, there will always be another ready to step forward to replace them.”
“You, perhaps?” Korolev said, feeling his bait being taken. “I mean to say—will you be appointed the new director of the institute?”
“Comrade Korolev, if I’m appointed director it will be because someone higher up decides I should be—not because I ask for it. As it happens, I think they’ll find someone else. Unless I’m wrong, my remaining time here will be very short.”
He spoke with a certain satisfaction and Korolev had the impression the fellow wouldn’t miss the place at all.
“Anyway,” Shtange continued. “You’re here to investigate Comrade Azarov’s death—what can I do to assist?”
Korolev looked around him—it was a large room, overlooking the garden. The desk that Shtange sat behind was also large and on it two wooden trays sat either side of a wide leather-cornered blotter. The trays were marked “in” and “out”—the “in” tray was almost empty, whereas the “out” tray was piled high.
“You’ve been busy,” Korolev said.
“Not me, Comrade. The director attended to these papers himself this morning.”
“The director?” Korolev asked and then worked it out. “This is his office, then?”
Korolev let his eyes wander round the wooden paneling that covered the walls, the obligatory portraits of Stalin and Lenin, Marx and Engels, the filing cabinets ranked along one wall—but this time with a different eye. So this was where the dead man had worked. He turned his attention back to Shtange.
“You’ve moved in quickly.”
The deputy director laughed, a genuine laugh—rich and good-humored. It was unusual to come across such a laugh during a murder investigation.
“Look, Korolev—I’d nothing to do with Professor Azarov’s death, nothing whatsoever. I’ve been asked to take over in the short-term, at least until a decision is made as to the institute’s future—so here I sit. There are aspects of the institute’s work I simply don’t know about and this is the place to find out about them.”
“Of course, you serve Socialism in whichever capacity you’re asked to.”
Shtange raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn’t react.
Korolev, disappointed, let the conversation go silent. But it soon became clear that the silence didn’t bother Shtange at all. In fact the deputy director sat back in his chair and began to give every appearance of enjoying it.
“I’d like to look through this paperwork of his,” Korolev said, feeling a little irritated at the fellow’s calm reaction. “If that’s all right, of course?”
“I’m afraid you can’t,” Shtange said, leaning forward to stub out his cigarette.
“I can’t?”
“I’m afraid not. The professor’s work was, and remains, strictly confidential. If you’d like to get access to his correspondence or anything similar, you’ll have to ask permission from the organization that the Azarov Institute forms part of. And thirty minutes ago the responsible person at that organization informed me that such permission will be refused.”
Korolev had a fair idea what organization that might be—his encounter with the guards at the front gate should have made it clear to him that this visit was a waste of time. But he dutifully scratched his head and pretended to look puzzled.
“I’m sorry, Comrade Shtange, I don’t understand. You said you would be cooperating with the investigation.”
“Only as far as is possible. I think I was clear about that.”
“I see,” Korolev said, understanding all too well. “So you’ll be helpful to the extent you’re able to—which is not at all.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way—I can’t discuss the work carried out by the institute. Or the identities of any of my colleagues working here. Or any information of any sort concerning the institute. That’s all true.”
Shtange smiled.
“But then, even I don’t know everything that goes on here—it’s nothing to do with wanting to obstruct your investigation. Our research would lose its value if we went around telling everyone about it.”
Korolev found himself scratching his head again.
“So what can you tell me?” he asked.
“I can tell you that I met with the professor this morning—he came into the institute first thing. I wrote a report which he…” Shtange paused, seeming to consider his words carefully, “which he wanted to discuss.”
“He seemed normal, to you?”
“His normal self,” Shtange said, and Korolev wondered whether the careful way the answer was phrased was deliberate. Shtange smiled, as if acknowledging Korolev’s observation.
“How shall I put it, Comrade Korolev?” he continued. “The professor could be forceful and direct. We didn’t always see eye to eye—and certainly not on this matter.”
“I see—an argument?”
“You could call it that.”
“About your report?”
“Yes.”
“But you can’t tell me what was in the report.”
The deputy director gave him a wry smile.
“No. But I can tell you that the guards at the gate keep a record of everyone who enters and leaves and they can confirm I’ve been here since seven. I’m sure, if you ask them, they can also tell you precisely when the professor arrived and left this morning.”
“Will they be allowed to tell me though?”
“They will be. I requested it. I don’t want my time taken up by your investigation any more than it has to be. I thought you’d inevitably want to—how shall I put it?—ensure yourself of my innocence. I anticipated your frustration, Captain Korolev, and so, at my further request, I’m allowed to give you some assurances.”
“Assurances?”
“Yes, and impressions.”
“Impressions? Well, I’d be grateful.”
Korolev decided to light the cigarette
that had been hanging forgotten from his mouth since he’d put it there. Shtange took a sheet of paper from a drawer.
“Firstly,” he said, looking to the page for guidance, it seemed, “I’m instructed to assure you that Director Azarov’s death did not arise from any connection he might have had to this institute, to any of its staff, or to the work he performed here.”
“I see,” Korolev said. “That’s reassuring.”
Shtange smiled once again.
“I’m also instructed to assure you that, notwithstanding the previous assurance, a separate investigation will be undertaken as a matter of course into Comrade Azarov’s death—in so far as it might possibly relate to his connection with this institute, its staff, and the work he carried out here. In fact it’s already begun. I’m further permitted to tell you that if any such connection emerges and such connection indicates any culpability in relation to his death—then it will be dealt with as part of that investigation.”
Korolev frowned. Here he was, being assured Azarov’s death had nothing to do with the institute, but at the same time that someone would be investigating whether there was in fact a connection between the murder and the institute. And, if by any chance there was, then that would be dealt with separately, thank you very much for your interest. It was confusing.
“Who?”
“I beg your pardon,” Shtange said.
“Who’ll be investigating it?”
“I’m afraid that information is classified.”
“You surprise me.”
“It couldn’t possibly be in safer hands, however.”
If Shtange wasn’t talking about Korolev’s old friends in State Security then he’d be even more surprised.
“Could you pass me the ashtray?” Korolev asked, and Shtange gave it a quick push so that it slid across the desk’s polished surface toward him. Korolev stopped it just before it reached the edge and tapped his papirosa into it twice. Then he took one more drag from it and stubbed it out altogether.
“Thanks for your time, Comrade Shtange,” he said and stood. This was, after all, a conversation that had probably gone on for far too long already.