The Bloody Meadow

Chapter Thirteen

‘Her FATHer?’ Slivka asked, her voice rising in disbelief.

Larisa, who was still typing like the Stakhanovite worker that she was, paused and the carefully neutral expression she’d maintained up until that moment slipped. But after she’d taken a deep breath the pretty blonde typist restarted the clatter that had provided the background music to their conversation.

‘More than that,’ Korolev said, considering young Larisa and wondering whether they should be talking this way in front of her. ‘He was a father who’d fought with Petlyura’s mob during the Civil War and hadn’t had the sense to leave the country with the rest of them – an officer, no less.’

‘A Petlyurist?’ Slivka asked. ‘He doesn’t look the type. And he certainly doesn’t look like an officer.’

Korolev shrugged, wondering what the young woman thought the officer type was. As far as he remembered, many soldiers back then had been conscripted one way or another – a lot of the Red Army had, certainly. And in a place like the Ukraine, where fortunes had ebbed and flowed, it hadn’t been unusual for soldiers to have fought for the Red Army, the Whites, Petlyura’s nationalists and maybe even Makhno’s anarchist bandits as well. And as for being an officer, if you could read and write and had a talent for avoiding bullets, well, the odds were in your favour. He himself had ended up commanding a company of infantry at one stage and, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember how.

‘Well, he’s admitted to it, anyway,’ Korolev said. ‘After the war he tried to keep his head down, live a normal life. He was happy to support the Revolution, he says. But someone denounced him in ’twenty-four and they made a run for it. Sent the girl to her aunt in Moscow, while he and his wife spent six years working in a factory in Kiev using false papers. Then they came back down this way. In the meantime the aunt died and the girl went to the orphanage and knew enough to keep her mouth shut. They thought they’d lost her – and she thought they were dead. And then she shows up with the film crew.’

‘But even if her parents were Enemies of the People, that wouldn’t apply to the child. Comrade Stalin has said as much.’

Korolev looked at her to see if she was joking. Slivka was under a considerable misapprehension if she thought having a Petlyurist officer as a father wouldn’t have been a disaster for the girl if it had become known. She wouldn’t have been going to America with any delegation, that was for sure. The Gulag more likely.

‘Whatever she did or didn’t do,’ Korolev said, deciding to change the subject, ‘it’s Andreychuk who’s been concealing himself using false papers for the last twelve years.’

‘Do you think he killed her?’

He considered the question for a moment or two, organizing his thoughts.

‘Not at the moment. First, there’s the morphine and then the fact that whoever murdered her cleaned the place thoroughly of any evidence. Where would Andreychuk have got morphine? I don’t think it would be easy to obtain around here. And he may have been an officer fifteen years ago, but I’d be surprised if he’s familiar with the way an investigation works – and whoever did it probably knows their way around. On top of which I don’t see a motive for him to kill his own daughter, and the warning that Sorokina overheard is explained by him thinking Mushkin was on to him, and believing that his arrest might endanger her. If we had a shred of evidence I’d be happy enough to try and fit his face into the frame, but for the moment I don’t see it.’

‘Perhaps he was worried that she might unmask him? If she was a loyal Party member.’

‘Except that she didn’t. And she had several months to do it if she’d wanted.’

‘We’ll have to charge him,’ Slivka said, and Korolev sensed that she wasn’t entirely happy with the idea.

‘Yes, false papers if nothing else. I’d better tell Mushkin.’

‘Still, it tells us something about her – now we know she kept secrets. The question is, was this the only one?’

Larisa’s rattling fingers came to another halt.

‘Larisa,’ Korolev said, ‘you’re listening to this because we trust you not to repeat what you hear and don’t forget you’re temporarily working for an Organ of State Security.’

Larisa turned to him, her expression as indignant as a child’s.

‘Comrade Captain,’ she said, ‘my ears might as well be cut off.’

Slivka snorted with amusement before tapping her notebook with her pencil, a more serious expression on her face.

‘We also now know that she came from this area. Let’s think about it, she comes from here, she comes back for the first time and she dies here. There might be a link, don’t you think?’

‘He says it was just a coincidence, her showing up,’ Korolev replied, seeing where Slivka’s line of thought was pulling her, like a fish to a barbed hook. Yes, the link could well be the band of terrorists, but he wasn’t going to allow the thought to run away with them. It was with some relief he spotted the thin figure of Lomatkin walking towards the house, the journalist’s shoulders stooped against the cold. The very man.

‘Slivka, I’ve spotted our journalist friend from Moscow. I think a quick comradely chat would be useful, don’t you? In the meantime, arrange interviews for us with Savchenko and Belakovsky.’ Korolev’s hand was already on the door handle, and he didn’t wait around for Slivka’s acknowledgement of his instructions.

‘Comrade Lomatkin, I need to talk to you,’ Korolev called across the courtyard and Lomatkin stopped, looking gratifyingly anxious.

‘Of course, Comrade. May I ask about what?’ he said, as Korolev approached.

‘What do you think? I’ll give you a clue – it’s not about the weather.’

Lomatkin’s eyes opened in surprise and Korolev put his hand on the journalist’s arm and steered him back the way he’d come. ‘Come with me, Comrade Lomatkin, and we’ll have ourselves a conversation.’

Shymko had come up with the key to one of the Agricultural College’s empty classrooms and so Korolev positioned Lomatkin in front of the lecturer’s desk, like an errant schoolboy, and himself behind it.

The fellow appeared uncomfortable on the hard wooden seat, but it wasn’t just the discomfort of the chair that seemed to be bothering Lomatkin. He looked nervous, like a bird trapped in a cage. Or perhaps a rat. Korolev would find out which soon enough because there was no doubt in his mind that the fellow had something to tell him – the question was whether he’d spill the information voluntarily, or if he’d have to lean on him a bit.

‘Well,’ Lomatkin said, after still more time had passed, and sitting up a little straighter as if gathering his strength. ‘This seems a strange way to interview someone. I mean to sit there and watch them, and not say anything.’

‘Citizen Lomatkin,’ Korolev said, opening his notebook and observing Lomatkin’s twitch when he addressed him as Citizen and not Comrade. ‘I will ask you questions in due course. At the moment, however, I’m waiting for you to tell me about Citizen Lenskaya and the events that led to her death.’

Lomatkin’s face seemed to lose some colour, and his eyes to grow a little larger – a startled bird now. A trapped startled bird. Possibly in a cage.

‘What do you want me to tell you, Comrade Captain? I don’t know what you mean.’

And panicked as well, thought Korolev. Excellent.

‘I think you must know it’s your obligation to tell me everything. A young comrade is dead, murdered we now know, and I’ve been assigned to investigate her murder. My duty is to get to the bottom of the matter – yours is to stop wasting my time.’

Korolev tapped the wooden surface of the desk with an index finger.

‘And. So. I’m. Waiting.’

Korolev understood the journalist’s dilemma – after all, if Korolev knew things about Lomatkin’s relationship with the dead girl that the journalist didn’t reveal, then he’d place himself in a difficult situation. On the other hand, what if he revealed information that Korolev didn’t know, which might put him in an even more difficult situation? It must be unpleasant, sitting in that chair, knowing that whatever you said might land you in hot water.

Lomatkin exhaled, a barely heard whistle of breath, then looked up at Korolev, his eyes seeming to see the detective for the first time. Korolev nodded encouragingly and Lomatkin half-smiled, as if at the ridiculousness of fate, or perhaps in a plea for sympathy. Korolev remained impassive and the journalist shrugged, then began to speak quietly.

‘Well, you must know, I suppose,’ he said. ‘About me and her, that is?’

Lomatkin glanced up at Korolev, as if to seek confirmation, and Korolev did his best to keep his face neutral, to give nothing away. The journalist swallowed and looked down at his shoes.

‘We were lovers,’ Lomatkin said, risking another glance up at Korolev. ‘For a year now – until this, of course.’

Korolev nodded and made a quick note, his pencil’s scratch loud in the silence of the empty classroom. He looked up at the journalist and noticed a small bead of sweat roll along Lomatkin’s jawline despite the chill.

‘Go on,’ Korolev said.

Lomatkin nervously pushed back a string of hair that had fallen over his forehead.

‘I met her through Belakovsky – she’d been seeing him at one stage. I knew about that, in case you’re wondering. And I knew she had other lovers as well. I didn’t mind, she was her own woman.’

Korolev looked up from his notebook, wondering had there been a slight emphasis on the word ‘other’? Was there no one who didn’t know about Ezhov and the girl? But Lomatkin’s eyes seemed glazed, as though he were looking at the dead girl, only at some time in the past when she’d still been alive. Perhaps he’d imagined the inference about Ezhov, Korolev reassured himself.

‘We had a relationship based on respect, you understand. She didn’t have much truck with bourgeois concepts like love. We understood there were complications that made our relationship difficult, but we hoped to overcome them. We felt we were a good match and that we would serve the Revolution better together rather than as individuals. We would form our own collective, she used to say, within the wider collective.’

Lomatkin seemed calmer now – he’d tilted his chin upwards and some iron revealed itself in his gaze. Korolev thought that the relationship sounded very business-like – not at all like the relationship Barikada Sorokina had described. But if Korolev knew anything, it was that he didn’t know much about love.

‘I had nothing to do with her death, and if I knew anything about it I would tell you.’

Korolev considered the man, conscious that at the same time the journalist was considering him in return. He wasn’t bad-looking, this Lomatkin; his clothes were of a good standard and his hair well cut. He looked like what he was, someone who’d been successful under Stalin and whose loyalty had been rewarded. But there’d be people who wanted his position no doubt, or envied his success, and where there was envy, these days, there were denunciations. Yes, to be in the public eye in 1937 was not something for the faint-hearted – and now poor Lomatkin had arrived in the Ukraine to find his lover dead and a Militia detective poking around in his private life. Yet the man seemed to be regaining his confidence. Had Korolev missed something?

‘Why are you here, Citizen Lomatkin? Was it to visit Citizen Lenskaya? Or is it just a coincidence?’ Korolev gave him his hardest, most quizzical stare.

‘I had some business down here. I’ve been sent to interview the Frenchman, Les Pins, for Izvestia. Then I’ve some pieces to write about our western defences, and after that I’m off to Sebastopol. A busy week.’ He hesitated, a thought seeming to occur to him. ‘I’ll admit it was my suggestion that I interview Les Pins, but not from an individualist perspective – he’s a renowned fighter for Socialism. I’d never put my personal interest before the Party. Once I discovered he was here with Savchenko, it seemed a good opportunity to come and see him. It was a coincidence that Citizen Lenskaya was here as well.’

‘Citizen Lenskaya?’ Korolev asked, putting an intonation into the question that was intended to remind the journalist that he’d effectively been engaged to the dead girl.

‘Masha,’ Lomatkin said, as though feeling his way round the name.

‘Masha?’ Korolev repeated and Lomatkin had the good grace to look embarrassed. ‘Poor dead Masha. And just a coincidence, you say. Do you know I’m all worn out with the number of coincidences that are coming to light today. An astrologer wouldn’t believe half of what I’ve heard.’

‘I know nothing about that.’

‘We’ll see. You said there were complications with Masha that restricted your relationship. What complications were these?’

‘Comrade Korolev, you ask me about complications and you talk to me about coincidences.’ Lomatkin appeared annoyed for a moment before the annoyance was replaced with a hint of a bitter smile – the kind of smile that would disappear like smoke if you tried to get a hold of it. ‘Why, if you don’t mind me asking for a change, are you here, Comrade Captain? Is it just a coincidence that you arrived the day after her death? A coincidence that Major Mushkin was at the airport to pick you up? I think you might know about the complications we faced. It doesn’t mean we can discuss them freely.’

So the fellow did know about Ezhov. Well, if the cat was out of the bag then it could be chased.

‘We’ll come to those complications in a moment, Citizen Lomatkin,’ Korolev said. ‘But speaking of coincidences, were you aware that the caretaker of this establishment was your lover’s father? I think you know him – Andreychuk. Although that’s not his original name – being an Enemy of the People, he decided to change it.’

Now the fellow’s cage was really rattled, thought Korolev. It was one thing having a lover murdered, it was natural that he’d be interviewed, but he had an alibi that was almost indestructible – he’d been a thousand kilometres away in Moscow, after all. But his lover being the daughter of an Enemy of the People. There was no alibi for that.

‘Andreychuk? Masha’s father?’

‘Yes. He fought with Petlyura, and when those rats were rounded up he changed his name and moved to Kiev and your Masha was sent to live with her aunt in Moscow.’

‘I knew nothing of this. Masha was a loyal Party member, she’d have given her life for the Party.’

‘Perhaps she did.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ Lomatkin whispered.

‘Perhaps you had her killed to prevent the story coming out.’

‘This is ridiculous, there were much more important men than me who knew nothing of this, as you well know.’

‘What do you know about morphine, Citizen?’

‘Morphine? It’s an anaesthetic,’ Lomatkin said, a little too quickly perhaps.

‘And, of course, a poison if taken in sufficient quantity.’

‘So?’

‘So your lover consumed a large quantity prior to being strangled. Would you like to explain that to me?’

‘Explain what to you? I was in Moscow. How would I know how she ended up taking morphine?’

‘It’s also a narcotic – perhaps it was self-administered. Perhaps you supplied it to her.’

‘I was in Moscow, Captain, as I keep telling you. That’s all there is to it. You saw me get on the damned plane there, didn’t you?’

‘Have you ever taken morphine?’

‘No. I’ve never taken morphine. And please stop these questions. Andreychuk is the one with the motive here. I had none. I was devoted to Masha.’

‘Were you jealous of the relationship Comrade Lenskaya had with the People’s Commissar?’

Lomatkin seemed surprised that Ezhov had been mentioned, but he recovered quickly. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Comrade Ezhov treated her well, assisted her in her career. If you want the truth, she considered it her duty to the Party to comfort the People’s Commissar in any way she could. Believe me, that’s the truth. The plain truth.’

Korolev raised an eyebrow. There wasn’t much about a girl’s duty to comfort older Party members in Lenin or Marx. But what did he know? ‘Were others aware of her relationship with Comrade Ezhov?’

‘Of course. I’d say half Moscow knew of it. By that I mean within senior Party circles, obviously, and the circles in which she moved. Actors, artists, writers, those kind of people. And she wasn’t the only one.’

‘Who were the others?’

‘A ballerina, a couple of actresses you might have heard of – Sorokina for a start. Although that ended a while back.’

‘Comrade Sorokina was Ezhov’s – ’ he paused, wondering how to put it – ‘friend?’

Korolev sighed and made a note to himself to haul the beautiful Barikada back in for another grilling, although this time, he thought to himself wryly, it might be better done by Slivka.

‘For a year or so, I think. Before he – ’ now Lomatkin hesitated – ‘achieved his current position.’

It occurred to Korolev that much of a Soviet citizen’s conversation these days involved the unsaid, the oblique and euphemistic. Some intellectual would no doubt make a study, in due course, of the ability of Soviet citizens to communicate without saying quite what they meant. And probably what they whispered to each other under the covers late at night as well.

‘What I’m looking for here is a motive,’ Korolev said, returning his attention to the matter in hand. ‘And one motive might be your jealousy.’

Lomatkin opened his mouth to protest, but Korolev held up his hand.

‘Don’t bother. You’re a clever man, a journalist. You know that, despite all you say about free love and respecting Lenskaya’s rights as a woman, jealousy is still a good motive. I can tell you we’d have a lot less killings in Moscow if jealousy was eradicated in the next Five Year Plan.’

Lomatkin looked glum.

‘And all this was general knowledge?’ Korolev continued. ‘I mean, who knew these things about Citizen Lenskaya, and Sorokina for that matter?’

‘It was well known.’

‘What did she tell you about her relationship with the People’s Commissar? Did she mention any problems? Not with the Commissar himself, of course, but perhaps other men, other women?’

Lomatkin laughed, a laugh as dry as desert sand.

‘There were no problems. The people who knew about the relationship knew other things as well, such as the regard Comrade Stalin has for Ezhov, and the faith he places in his abilities. It changed people’s attitudes to her, of course. But it didn’t cause her any problems. To the contrary.’

It was strange, the man had indeed seemed to relax in the course of the interview.

‘When are you visiting these western defences?’ he asked, and saw Lomatkin shift his weight in his chair.

‘The day after tomorrow? Tomorrow afternoon I’m meeting a photographer in Odessa. He’s arriving by train.’

‘How far from here?’ Korolev asked, wondering what it was that was making him suspicious of the journalist. It was nothing he could put his finger on. And yet…

‘Odessa?’ Lomatkin said.

‘Not Odessa,’ Korolev said, wondering whether the journalist had relaxed so far as to be making fun of him now. ‘The defences.’

‘We’re visiting Krasnogorka. The defences extend all along the Dnester – but Krasnogorka is where we’re visiting. Forty kilometres from here, as the crow flies.’

The River Dnester marked the division between the Soviet Union and Romania. Korolev hadn’t known they were so close, but he’d heard of the Stalin Line that defended the south-western border and seen photographs of sunburnt men, their eyes squinting over the sights of heavy machine guns in concrete pillboxes, and been reminded of the German fortifications they’d stormed back in ’sixteen, and the thousands of Russian bodies lying unclaimed on the barbed wire for weeks afterwards. The Germans had known a thing or two about building defences. He hoped Marshal Tukachevsky’s military engineers knew as much.

‘Can I go now?’ Lomatkin said. ‘I have to call Moscow.’

‘Yes, but I’ll want to talk to you again. When do you plan to leave?’

Again, that slight shift – was it a sign of nervousness, or something else? Once again, Korolev had a feeling he’d missed something.

‘As soon as we’re finished with the defences.’

Korolev shook his head. There was more to be discovered from the man, and he’d find out what it was. ‘I’m sorry, Citizen Lomatkin, that won’t be possible. I require you to remain here until I’m sure you have assisted us as much as possible with the enquiry. You can’t leave here until then.’

Lomatkin opened his mouth to protest.

‘My authority is absolute in this matter,’ Korolev continued. ‘Don’t doubt me on this.’

Lomatkin considered the statement for a moment, then got to his feet.

‘I want to assist you in any way I can, Captain. Masha didn’t deserve to die this way, and you have to believe me – I’d never have wanted such a thing to happen to her.’

Which was odd, Korolev thought to himself, as that wasn’t the same as saying he’d nothing to do with her death.