by William Ryan
Korolev put down the phone with the feeling that things could certainly be a lot worse. Yes, he was under strict instructions to see that Ezhov’s name didn’t feature in the case in any way, but that he had expected – particularly after his conversation with Babel. On the other hand, he had permission to proceed as he saw fit, except for the proviso that he should try to avoid disruption to the film – and that was something he’d already agreed with Belakovsky.
All well and good, until the colonel had mentioned the foreigner.
‘What foreigner?’ he’d asked, and so it had emerged that there was a French journalist, a guest of Savchenko. He was to be treated very carefully and if questioning was to be carried out, it was to be discussed with Rodinov first. He could do as he liked with the Soviet citizens, within reason, but this fellow Les Pins was a different story. He was an important supporter of the Soviet Union in the West, and Rodinov wanted it kept that way.
‘Did you know about this foreigner?’ Korolev said, looking up at Slivka.
‘A foreigner?’
‘Some Frenchman. He’s been fighting on our side in Spain, so he’s probably all right. But who knows? Foreigners are always trouble.’
‘Yes, they can be tricky. Those Ukrainians are the worst.’
Slivka’s teasing smile was a surprise. She must be a confident young woman if she felt comfortable making fun of a stranger twice her age with the rank to go with it, but Korolev didn’t mind. It was more pleasant to work in a comradely atmosphere.
‘We’re all Soviet citizens here, Slivka,’ he said, deciding the time had come to drop the ‘sergeant’. ‘Even you Ukrainians. It’s the rest I’ve my doubts about. They should leave all the foreigners to the diplomats if you ask me. If they have to be dealt with, it’s better done by professionals.’
Slivka smiled and took a look around her.
‘So this is where we’ll be working? Will we have to sleep here too, do you think? I wonder: will they give us a couple of mattresses? Maybe a handsome actor as well? Not for you, of course.’
Korolev laughed – Marchuk had probably offloaded her onto him, not quite sure what to do with a sparky young female detective, and Korolev couldn’t swear he wouldn’t have done the same in his shoes.
‘Slivka, I’m not sure I introduced myself properly before. My name is Korolev,’ he said and then, thinking there was no harm in being specific, ‘Alexei Dmitriyevich, Captain, Moscow Criminal Investigation Division. Petrovka Street.’
He stood up and extended his hand, which Slivka took with a surprisingly firm grip.
‘Don’t ask me why I’m running this case, Slivka, but I am, and I plan to catch whoever killed that poor girl, with your help.’
‘A sound plan.’
‘Good, so let’s get down to business.’
‘Agreed,’ Slivka said, ‘but before we start, can I ask a question?’
‘Of course.’
‘Don’t be offended, Comrade Captain, but is this a Moscow investigation, or an Odessa one?’
Korolev rubbed a hand up the back of his neck, feeling the bristly scrub of his short-cut hair.
‘It’s a good question – all I can say is that the responsibility for this investigation falls mainly on us, the two of us. We won’t be reporting to Colonel Marchuk, and we won’t be involving the procurator’s office. We’ll be reporting to Moscow, but we’ll have to make most of the decisions ourselves. I can’t tell you any more than that, except that if we mess this up it could go badly. So we’d better not mess it up.’
Slivka sucked in the last of the cigarette she was smoking, stubbing it out in the ashtray, shrugged as if the strange circumstances surrounding the investigation were but a minor concern to her, reached into her pockets, extracted another cigarette and lit it by scratching a match along the sole of her boot. She inhaled, cupping her hand round the cigarette the way soldiers and policemen, used to smoking in the open, often did.
‘Well, I thought something might be up, Comrade Captain, which is why I asked. I like to know what’s what. You can find yourself in trouble if you don’t know what’s what. And who’s who.’
She blew out a perfect smoke ring, then took two folded pieces of paper from her pocket and handed them to him.
‘One. A list of the cast and the crew, including all the production staff, catering etcetera, etcetera, and the staff of the College who aren’t away with the students, which isn’t many; and, two, a list of the people who have keys to the house. In other words, people who might have had access to the scene of the crime yesterday evening.’
Korolev looked through the longer list. Beside each name was a number from one to three. ‘And the numbers?’
‘I had Comrade Shymko rate each person by the amount of contact they had with Citizen Lenskaya. 1 is daily contact, a 2 means occasional and a 3 means little or none.’
‘Excellent. We’ll start with the people who had daily contact.’ He looked down the list – his optimism was misplaced. ‘Most of them, it would seem.’
‘Yes. More than we’d like, for sure. Thirty-four.’
Korolev sighed. He was beginning to feel the dead weight of exhaustion again, as if the last of his energy was being sucked into the floor through the soles of his feet. He rallied himself for one last push.
‘Well, the sooner we start – the sooner we finish.’
‘I agree. Can I suggest we use Shymko’s people to arrange the interviews; it will be less disruptive for them if they know what we’re up to.’
‘Good thinking,’ Korolev said. ‘Let’s try and keep them short – we’ll interview them again tomorrow likely as not, but our first objective is to identify potential motives and perpetrators, and anyone who could have been in the house at the time of death.’
‘And cherchez l’homme, right?’
‘Possibly,’ Korolev said, thinking that the most obvious lover to have been responsible for Lenskaya’s death was probably Ezhov and that wasn’t something he wanted to think about too much. ‘As it turns out, she may have been romantically inclined, if you take my meaning. Savchenko for one, or so it seems, and probably Comrade Belakovsky as well, although as Savchenko was filming down in the village and Belakovsky was in Moscow, that doesn’t take us too much further. Still, there may have been others – let’s find out who. It doesn’t feel like a crime of passion, though; whoever did this was careful and covered their tracks, or tried to at least. My suspicion is that it was premeditated. Also, whoever did it must have been quite strong. How much did Lenskaya weigh? Sixty kilos or so? It must have been difficult to lift her up to the bracket.’
‘Indeed,’ Slivka said, writing in her notebook.
‘We need to find out as much as we can about her background as well,’ he continued. ‘I have her Party record, but there’s a lot missing and not much about her private life. And nothing about her relationships with the people on the filmset. Here, you’d better read it.’
Slivka took the report and again there was that slight raising of the eyebrows.
‘Her Party record? It takes us a bit of time to get them even when they’re held in Odessa.’
‘Perhaps things are different in Moscow.’
‘I’ll go through it. Anything else I should have? Or know?’
Korolev decided to give her the report on the film and the other information Rodinov had provided. He handed her the envelope and Slivka took the documents out, looked through them and whistled.
‘Not to be discussed other than with me. And I mean with anyone. For both our sakes.’
Slivka nodded her agreement, slipping the papers back into the envelope.
‘I have Andreychuk waiting outside for you,’ she said when she’d finished.
‘Good, I’ll see him as soon as I’ve spoken to the forensics men. In the meantime – ’ Korolev tapped Slivka’s lists – ‘we need to whittle these down – opportunity, ability and motive. That’s what we’re looking for. Same as always.’
‘They filmed the
crowd. Maybe we could identify some people from it – rule them out perhaps?’
Korolev considered her proposal: the problem was he didn’t know any of the people on the film – not yet anyway – and neither would Slivka.
‘It’s a good suggestion – look into it. We’ll need help, though. I know the writer Babel from Moscow. He’s offered to assist – perhaps we should take him up on it.’
‘Babel?’ Slivka said. ‘I get to work with the author of Odessa Tales? My mother might even forgive me for joining the Militia. Tell me he can he type as well, and it will be like New Year.’
‘I suppose he can. He’s a writer after all – in fact, I’ve seen a typewriter in his study.’
‘Good, because I’m a detective, Captain, not a typist. Just so we’re clear about that. It’s a point I sometimes have to make.’
Korolev smiled – he liked this Slivka.
‘Well, I’m no typist either, but I’ll pull my weight. Still, it’s a good point. I want the interview notes to be typed and clear – if we’re to crack this case, it’s because we organize the information well. Let’s see if any of these uniforms from the village can drive a typewriter. If not, we’ll have to see if we can persuade Comrade Shymko to lend us someone. And the uniforms won’t have done too much work like this before – let’s make sure they know exactly what questions to ask.’
‘As per your instructions, Chief. Where were they? When did they last see the girl? Who did they see at the film shoot? What did they know about her? Did anyone dislike her? Who was she most friendly with? I’ll have it all set out and typed up for them.’
Korolev found Andreychuk outside in the cold and told him to wait in the investigation room until he came back, then he started to walk towards the house, allowing himself a little smile as he did so. All right, it was true this case was likely to turn out to be a terrible mess – but at least Slivka seemed as though she’d be useful to have around. Nadezhda. Hope. And not just for the investigation: youngsters like Slivka were the future and, maybe, with citizens like her, a country would emerge from all this turmoil and fear that would shine as an example to the world of how humans could live together, working as one, striving for a common goal. Maybe.
By the time he arrived at Lenskaya’s office, the forensics men were packing their equipment while the youngster Sharapov watched them with keen interest.
‘Sharapov. Out to the stable block. Sergeant Slivka has plenty of work that needs doing.’
The young Militiaman gave a cheerful salute and followed his instructions.
‘You were quick. Any luck?’ Korolev said to the forensics men.
The older of the two, whom Colonel Marchuk had introduced as Firtov, looked up, a grey-haired man with solid shoulders, silver-grey eyes and a cavalryman’s moustache. When he stood, he had the bow-legged stance of a man more comfortable on a horse than on his feet.
‘We haven’t found much, to be straight, and if you ask me, someone cleaned the place,’ Firtov said. ‘There’s not a fingerprint in there, and that’s not natural. Not even on the keys of the typewriter. A few human hairs and that’s it, and no telling when they were left here. Papadopoulos found those.’
The other forensics man looked up – he was smaller, rounder, with black hair that swirled in tight curls on his close-cut scalp. When he smiled his teeth were bright in his dark face.
‘Papadopoulos? That’s not a Ukrainian name, is it?’ Korolev asked, thinking he’d end up surrounded by foreigners in this case if he wasn’t careful.
‘The Greek is as good a citizen as you or I.’ Firtov’s voice had dropped to a growl. ‘Born and raised in Odessa. As his father was before him. Isn’t that right, Greek?’
The Greek nodded, his smile flashing like a lighthouse once again.
‘No offence meant,’ Korolev said, offering his much-depleted packet of cigarettes as a peace offering.
‘None taken,’ Firtov said, helping himself. The Greek didn’t seem to smoke. Just as well, thought Korolev, looking at his few remaining cigarettes. Two, after he took one for himself.
‘We’ll look at the dining room, and wherever else you want, but it’s as though a human never stepped into this room.’
‘What about the books?’ Korolev asked, looking up at the shelves.
‘Well, we haven’t gone through them page by page,’ Firtov said. ‘But the covers are clean. It’s unusual, as I said.’
The forensics men finished packing their equipment and made their way to the dining room, but Korolev remained, examining the office carefully.
The room wasn’t that big and books loomed in from the walls to make it that little bit smaller. Savchenko’s Theory of Film was there, with Lenin and Stalin; Marx – as you might expect – and other writers of the Revolution. But there was something about the way the paper was stacked, and the books lined up spine against spine in a perfect row – it was just a little too tidy. Someone hadn’t just cleaned up fingerprints if his hunch was right – they’d carefully rearranged the entire room. And why would they have done that?
Of course, the most likely reason was that it had been the scene of the crime. After all, this was where she’d last been seen by Andreychuk and the dining room was only a few steps away. He looked at the desk once again, imagining Lenskaya sitting in front of the typewriter, her assailant behind her. Perhaps he’d spoken to her – she might even have answered, not turning round from her typing, recognizing the voice, and then had come the flash of the cord as it passed before her eyes and the bite as it cut into her neck. Korolev had once throttled a German back in the war, not a memory he liked bringing to mind – the fellow had managed to get his hand under the thin rope and had hung on to life with a fervour that had been extraordinary. But the fact was Korolev had been unlucky about the hand. Usually, once a rope was tight round the victim’s neck, resistance ceased almost immediately. That was something he’d learnt early on as a detective.
‘What are you thinking? Your jaw has that hard look to it. And there’s a vein pumping in your forehead. You’ve gone pale and I can hear your teeth grinding.’
Babel had appeared, wearing a pair of carpet slippers and a surprisingly vibrant silk dressing gown. Korolev looked at the writer, then turned his attention back to the dead girl’s workplace. The killer had to have made a mistake. Babel’s appearance had distracted him, but, still, there had to be a mistake.
‘This is where she died,’ he said at last, the words coming out as though he’d been holding his breath, and perhaps he had. ‘That’s what I’m thinking. That this is where he killed her.’
Chapter Eight
When Korolev returned to the investigation room, he found Andreychuk sitting in front of the desk Korolev had appropriated for himself. He nodded to the caretaker, sat down and opened up his notebook.
His first impression was that the fellow didn’t look strong enough to have lifted the girl up to the bracket, or even to have strangled her if she’d resisted. But he quickly corrected himself – the old were often stronger than they looked, and Andreychuk clearly led an active life. Indeed, on closer examination the man’s shoulders were broad, as was his chest, despite the fact he was no longer young. And, of course, there was always the possibility he’d had assistance, that there had been two involved in the attempted deception, and perhaps the murder itself. Andreychuk seemed to have had the opportunity to commit the crime, but what motive could he have had? None that Korolev could immediately think of, and then there was his very obvious grief. Not that that could be trusted. And if the office had been cleaned of any forensic evidence, did that point to the perpetrator of the crime having been a simple caretaker? It seemed much more likely that it pointed to someone with connections to the Security Organs.
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 obser
ved 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.