The Bloody Meadow cadk-2

by William Ryan

  He wrote ‘keys’ and ‘end of day’ in his notebook, so that Shymko would know he was not to be trifled with.

  Chapter Six

  The dead woman’s office was located in the main house, in one of the round turrets. Its three windows gave a panoramic view over the lake and woods, or at least they would have if it hadn’t been dark outside. The room was furnished with a table, a stiff-backed wooden chair and a scarred filing cabinet that looked as though it might miss its previous life in the office of some tsarist functionary or other. A pre-revolution Underwood typewriter sat on the table, nearly as scratched and dented as the cabinet, but with a new ribbon. A second typewriter with the Latin alphabet sat on the higher of two planks fixed to the wall, which served as shelves and were sagging under the weight of books and paperwork. Korolev didn’t want to enter until forensics had done their job, but he ran an eye along Lenskaya’s small library from the doorway. Books in English, French, German, Italian. He was impressed – not many girls from an orphanage could speak Russian that well, let alone foreign languages. He turned to Babel.

  ‘We’ll need to have translations of these titles. Isaac Emmanuilovich – do you speak any of these languages?’

  ‘My French is good, my German passable, but for the rest…’ Babel shrugged and Korolev turned to look at him with what he hoped was a Mushkin-like stare.

  ‘I thought you wanted to assist us.’

  ‘All right, all right, I’ll get you the list,’ Babel said.

  ‘I speak a little English,’ Slivka said. ‘And Italian, if that helps.’

  ‘Italian?’ Korolev couldn’t help but be surprised.

  ‘Well enough, an Italian comrade gave lessons to our Komsomol cell. Nice fellow.’ Slivka’s smile hinted at just how nice she’d found him.

  ‘Good.’ Korolev spoke a little more brusquely than he’d intended. The idea of the Italian offering her private tuition had distracted him. ‘If necessary I speak a little English as well. And some German.’

  Everyone looked at him in surprise. Well, it was a very little English and it had been some time ago, and the German was mainly of the ‘ Hande hoch, Kamerad ’ variety that he’d picked up when a soldier. But if everyone else was bragging about their linguistic talent, he wasn’t going to be left behind. Babel raised a sceptical eyebrow.

  ‘Zhenia, my ex-wife, made me go to classes. I can read their script and even understand some of it. Look – English-Russian Dictionary. ’

  ‘It’s written in Russian as well.’

  ‘Well, it’s not the Russian I’m reading, Comrade Babel,’ he said, giving the writer another of his best glares. ‘And we’ll need to look through the paperwork too.’

  Korolev could feel Belakovsky pressing against his shoulder – the Film Board boss, having been excluded from the ice house, seemed determined to be excluded no longer. Korolev ignored him, turning to one of the uniforms who’d come up from the village. With his rosy cheeks and straw-coloured hair, Sharapov looked as though he should be in school rather than wearing a peaked Militia cap one size to big for him. An older, more battered-looking version stood beside him; his superior, Sergeant Gradov. The two other village uniforms, a thin wiry tough from Odessa by the name of Blumkin and a lump of a lad called Olejnik, were already guarding the dining room and the room where the girl had slept.

  ‘So, young Sharapov,’ Korolev said, and the boy’s crystal blue eyes looked up at him eagerly. ‘No one goes in until the fingerprint team have been over the place. This is where she was last seen alive, so that makes it likely this is where she died.’

  ‘Understood, Comrade Captain.’

  ‘Sergeant Slivka?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We need to set up an investigation room, then prepare questions for the initial interviews. Where people were last night, who they saw, what they saw, what they know about the deceased, that sort of thing. Gradov?’

  The older uniform stood a little straighter.

  ‘You and your boys will be working under our direction for the next few days, asking those questions.’

  ‘Of course, Comrade Captain,’ the sergeant said. Korolev didn’t much like the look of him – unless he was wrong, Gradov liked to throw his weight about with ordinary citizens. He just had that look about hin – a brute, and not a bright one either.

  ‘Comrade Shymko,’ Korolev said, ‘it will be less disruptive if you can find us an office nearby, seeing as this is where the cast and crew are based and we’d like to minimize disruption. We understand the importance of this film politically and bringing the cast and crew backwards and forwards to the village station isn’t going to make your life any easier.’

  ‘We’re pretty tight for space,’ Shymko said, looking to Belakovsky for support. The film supremo considered the problem.

  ‘All right,’ he said after a few moments. ‘Give Captain Korolev the big room beside the production office. Is there anything else we can do to assist you?’

  ‘But Comrade Belakovsky-’ Shymko began.

  ‘Captain Korolev needs to start immediately, Shymko. And he’s right – we have to keep disruption to a minimum. This film is far enough behind as it is.’ Belakovsky turned to Korolev. ‘If we can work together to reduce disruption to the filming schedule, we’d be grateful, but we understand your investigation takes priority.’

  ‘Thank you, Igor Zakharovich,’ Korolev said. ‘I’ll certainly do my best to keep the disturbance to a minimum. We’ll need a telephone line, some desks. A typewriter, probably.’

  ‘Shymko will see to it. This has come as a shock to us all, but now we must come to terms with the news and do everything in our power to assist you. There’s one thing I’d like to ask, however. Comrade Lenskaya was working on a special project for me. There’ll be some papers in her office which I’ll need to recover as soon as possible.’

  ‘Sergeant Slivka?’ Korolev said. ‘As soon as the forensics men have been in, allow Comrade Belakovsky to look through the papers.’

  ‘Willingly.’

  ‘And we’ll need to interview both of you.’ Korolev nodded towards Belakovsky and Shymko. ‘Sergeant Slivka?’

  ‘I’ll arrange a time.’

  ‘And Sergeant, find the caretaker, Andreychuk. I want to talk to him first. We need to have some lines of investigation to work on by tomorrow morning – all we have at the moment is a dead girl and a lot of questions.’

  As Slivka set to work, Korolev took Babel’s arm and they walked away from Lenskaya’s doorway towards the back of the house. Korolev opened the nearer of the French doors and led Babel out onto the terrace.

  ‘What do you make of her?’ Korolev asked, walking down the steps that led towards the garden. ‘Not many female detectives – but she seems bright.’

  ‘I wouldn’t play cards with her, put it that way. A good Odessa girl, bright as a button and pretty as a picture, but tough as a miner’s boot for all that.’

  It was true – she was pretty, despite the serious mouth and the shapeless leather jacket. Like so many of the young women whom the Revolution had allowed to pursue traditionally male professions, she’d adopted a mannish mode of dress, but even her leather jacket and her trousers couldn’t hide the shape of her body, and it was a pleasant shape. And while at first her mouth had seemed to have a permanent downturn, when she’d smiled he’d seen high cheekbones, the flash of white teeth and a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. All in all, a much better-looking colleague than his old friend Yasimov.

  ‘Well,’ he said, as they took a path towards the lake, ‘as long as she gets the job done.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Babel looked over his shoulder to see if they could be overheard. ‘And do you mind me asking what that job is?’

  ‘I’d have thought that was clear. We find the fellow who killed Citizen Lenskaya and put him where he belongs.’

  Babel unstrapped his wrist watch and looked at it absently, his demeanour pensive. ‘Yes, but why did they send a Moscow detective all the way down here
to investigate? And who sent you, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  Korolev considered how to respond for a moment, before deciding to start with a question.

  ‘What did they say when they involved you?’

  ‘The message came from Major Mushkin, who doesn’t give explanations.’

  ‘I see. Well, I can’t tell you much more. The first I knew about it was at two o’clock this morning and since then I’ve been running to catch up. They wanted me to have a look at the girl – if it was suicide, I was to have a holiday. If not, lead the investigation – under their direction.’

  ‘Their?’

  ‘The Chekists.’ Korolev spoke with a certain amount of reluctance, not least because the conversation was underlining a problem for his upcoming enquiries. If the murder really was to do with the dead girl’s relationship with Ezhov, and Ezhov’s name couldn’t be mentioned, it was going to be difficult.

  ‘Why wouldn’t they use their own people?’ Babel asked, interrupting his train of thought. ‘Or leave it to the local Militia?’

  ‘The NKVD is not specialist in criminal investigations, I suppose,’ Korolev said. ‘And they remembered me from the icon business.’

  ‘It’s just that I’ve heard a rumour that Lenskaya was friendly with a certain Commissar of State Security,’ Babel continued, ‘that’s all. And if that’s really the case – well, I’m wondering if that’s why you’re here. If it’s something to do with him.’

  ‘Friendly with Ezhov?’ Korolev said with what he hoped sounded like genuine surprise. ‘I know nothing about that, but even if it were true, what could her death have to do with Ezhov?’

  Babel shrugged. ‘Ezhov is well protected, physically at least. But politically he’s as vulnerable as everyone else. More so. Stalin doesn’t mind what Ezhov gets up to, so long as his dalliances don’t affect his usefulness to the Party. But if this death turned out to be compromising to him, it wouldn’t be too difficult to think of people who would benefit from it. Both within the State and outside it.’

  ‘Compromising?’ Korolev said, not liking the suggestion. ‘In what way, compromising?’

  ‘I don’t know, but why were you sent down here? Ezhov has enemies within the NKVD, you know. Perhaps that’s why you were picked – because he doesn’t trust his own people. Be careful, Alexei – this could turn out to be a nasty business.’

  ‘It’s already that.’

  ‘Yes,’ Babel said with a sigh. ‘You’ll have to be careful how you proceed. So – what do you know about Lenskaya? Perhaps I can add something.’

  Korolev told him what he knew and Babel nodded when he’d finished.

  ‘Well, she was intelligent and lucky with it, that much is certain. And she was ambitious – that much is also true, and flexible in the means she used to get ahead. Ezhov wasn’t the only one she was friendly with, if I can put it that way. It wasn’t luck and intelligence alone that took her from the orphanage and got her chosen for delegations to Hollywood.’

  ‘When you say “friendly”…?’

  ‘She was a good-looking girl and she didn’t want to spend her life queuing for bread. I know she was with Belakovsky. Savchenko as well. As for Ezhov – well, the rumours are they weren’t strangers.’

  ‘I see,’ Korolev said. ‘Others?’

  ‘Probably. They send orphanage children where the labour demand is greatest,’ Babel continued. ‘She could have ended up in a factory the other side of the Urals, or at a kolkhoz farm by the Sea of Azov. Who knows who her parents were? Most probably peasants with a couple of cows who woke up one morning and discovered they’d been classified as kulaks and therefore class enemies. What happened to them we may never know, but that she took control of her fate is certain and who can blame her?’

  ‘Are you saying she was the child of a class enemy?’ Korolev asked, before cursing himself. Of course that’s what Babel was saying. And what’s more he was likely right. It made sense.

  ‘All I know is that she had a past before the orphanage, and she kept quiet about it. But if it were the case, it would reflect badly on the People’s Commissar of State Security if it came out.’

  ‘Not that we know anything for certain,’ Korolev said.

  ‘Of course not,’ Babel said, sighing. ‘By the way, watch out for Mushkin.’

  ‘Mushkin?’

  ‘Mushkin. When Soviet Power reached Odessa in ’nineteen, he drove round the city with the corpses of executed enemies dragging behind his car. Just to show everyone who was boss – and he hasn’t turned into a priest since then, believe me. You know what happened in these parts a few years back. It wasn’t pleasant, and Mushkin has a reputation from then that would scare the Devil. He’s here now because even the NKVD thought he’d gone too far and needed a rest.’

  Korolev remembered the stories that he’d been told about the winter of ’thirty-two. How frozen bodies, skin and bone, had emerged from the snow when the spring came. How the people had boiled any leather they’d had for soup. If the stories he’d heard were true, people had eaten grass until the snow covered it, tree bark, the recently dead, their own children, anything. And still the authorities had come searching for grain, and had found none. And Mushkin had been a part of that.

  ‘Still,’ Babel said, the smile not quite reaching his eyes, ‘remember the saying – if you’re destined to die at sea, you won’t be hanged.’

  Chapter Seven

  Korolev found Shymko standing in front of the newly designated investigation room, his face yellow in the light that spilt out of it. He raised a hand in greeting.

  ‘I’ve got you a typewriter, paper and ribbon, and there’s a phone line. If you need anything else, let me know.’

  ‘Thank you, Comrade.’

  ‘And Larisa is typing up those lists you wanted.’

  Korolev saw that once the man had a job to do, he did it well and efficiently. There weren’t so many of his kind around that Korolev didn’t appreciate his abilities.

  ‘Excellent,’ Korolev said, meaning it, and was about to continue when the arrival of Marchuk and Mushkin, along with two forensics men, distracted him. After brief introductions, he sent the forensics men to the dead girl’s office, saying he’d catch up with them in a few minutes.

  ‘I see you’re settling in, Korolev,’ Mushkin said, looking round the investigation room.

  ‘I thought it best to take a few practical steps; they’ll assist another detective if I’m not released by my chief.’

  ‘Or if it turns out to be suicide,’ Mushkin said in a flat tone. ‘Anyway, your chief was only too pleased that Moscow CID should be in a position to assist their Odessa colleagues. Isn’t that right, Marchuk?’

  That same snide undercurrent again, Korolev thought. He found himself hoping that a day would come when the leadership would point out to these arrogant protectors of the State that the People they were meant to be protecting were the same people they spent their time harassing and intimidating.

  ‘Yes,’ Marchuk agreed, his eyes slipping away from Korolev’s with something approaching shame. ‘Comrade Popov was most impressed that you put the State’s needs before your own. We’ll do everything we can to assist, of course. Peskov will have a full autopsy report ready by the morning and I’ll have the forensics men work through the night if need be.’

  ‘Thank you, Comrade Colonel. I take it I’ll report to you, then.’

  The abashed colonel turned to Mushkin, his mouth opening as though he felt he should say something but he wasn’t quite sure what.

  ‘No,’ Mushkin answered instead. ‘It’s been decided you’ll report to Moscow. The case has sufficient connections with the capital to justify it. Your investigation will be independent of Odessa CID at this stage, as well as the local procurator’s office.’

  ‘Unusual,’ Korolev replied, thinking he’d never heard of a case not involving the procurator’s office. After all, it was the procurators’ role to take the case to court, so they usually had some oversight
of the investigation to ensure the evidence was properly gathered. In theory Militia detectives acted under their direction, although, of course, it didn’t always work out that way in practice. Still, it was the way things were done.

  ‘Why? We aren’t even certain it’s murder yet, are we? Officially you’re investigating a suicide: be sure to make that clear to anyone you speak to.’

  ‘Of course, Comrade Major.’

  ‘I’ll leave you and Marchuk to discuss the details. Be quick though, Korolev – you’ll be receiving a phone call in the next few minutes.’

  Korolev looked at the back of Mushkin’s leather coat as he marched away, then at the colonel, whose pale face didn’t offer any reassurance.

  ‘Comrade Colonel, we may have hundreds of interviews to do so I’ll need all the help I can get. Sergeant Slivka? Is she to work with me?’

  She was, it seemed, as well as Gradov and the other uniforms from the village. In fact, the colonel gave the impression that he’d have happily given the Moscow detective his first-born child if it would get him shot of his involvement in the investigation any faster, and as soon as the conversation had finished, the colonel’s car was rattling down the driveway.

  Korolev sat behind the desk farthest from the door. The phone rang just as he felt his eyelids begin to close under their own weight and he picked up the receiver tentatively.

  ‘Korolev,’ he said, his voice sounding much more confident than he felt.

  ‘Well, Korolev, I hear you have a murder on your hands.’ It was Rodinov, and the colonel listened silently as Korolev brought him up to date on developments. When Korolev had finished he gave a series of instructions – Sergeant Slivka came in to hear Korolev repeat the word ‘Yes’ several times and then thank the Comrade Colonel for his time. She sat down in front of him and waited for him to finish.