The Bloody Meadow

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 into 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.’

‘It’s up to Major Mushkin.’

‘Good. Andreychuk is a fine fellow and Major Mushkin will see that. He’s a famous Chekist himself.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ Korolev said. He remembered who the boy was now from Rodinov’s file. He was playing the lead role in the film, the young Pioneer who betrays his family to the Militia for withholding grain. The boy seemed to be able to read his mind, a proud smile forming.

‘How come you aren’t filming today?’ Korolev asked.

‘I am, but I’m not wanted for an hour. Is that where you’re going? To the filming? Are you going to make another arrest?’ His voice rose in excitement and his wide eyes shone.

‘No,’ Korolev said, shaking his head. ‘I’m just going over there to talk to a few people.’

‘I’ll show you where they are, and you should question me on the way. I knew Masha as well as anyone.’

The boy pointed him back towards the path and Korolev fell into step beside him.

‘All right, then. How about you tell me when you first met Citizen Lenskaya?’

‘That’s easy. Three months back, when I was selected. She was assisting the maestro.’

‘Comrade Savchenko?’

‘Who else? They must have called in every kid in Moscow, but I was the one chosen.’ The boy paused for a moment, his face becoming solemn again. ‘A great honour. She was nice to everybody, you know. All the kids liked her; she was a real world-class comrade.’

‘And how about here? How was she here?’

‘She was sad – she said that was just because she was busy. But she wasn’t sad in a way that made me think she might have killed herself. She was tough, a real commander. Why do you think she was killed?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. Any ideas?’

‘Counter-revolutionaries is my guess.’ The youngster offered his professional opinion. ‘We have to remain ever vigilant for those rats.’

Korolev laughed, but without much humour. ‘I don’t think so. Why would they murder her and not, say, Comrade Savchenko?’

The boy lowered his voice. ‘Perhaps she was working on a secret mission.’

Korolev looked at him, wondering whether it was just childish enthusiasm for all things heroic and dangerous, or whether the youngster knew something after all.

‘Why do you think that, young Pavel?’

‘Because she went to somewhere near Krasnogorka with Comrade Andreychuk – and that’s near the border with Romania. And she knew Comrade Ezhov as well, you know. Personally. Perhaps he asked her to help him out?’

Korolev allowed himself a bitter smirk – the boy did know about Ezhov. But leaving that aside, what the hell had the girl been doing in Krasnogorka?

‘When was this?’ he asked, keeping his voice even.

‘A week ago, I heard them talking about it.’

‘Where?’

‘On this very path, Comrade Captain. I was stalking them and I was just about to jump out at them when I heard what they were talking about, and I thought I’d better leave them to it. They sounded very serious.’

‘And you heard them say that they’d been to Krasnogorka? Together?’ And wasn’t it a coincidence that Lomatkin had not more than an hour ago been telling him how he wanted to make a visit to Krasnogorka to write some article about the Stalin Line? He’d be having another word with that journalist before the evening was out.

‘No, they were planning the trip – Andreychuk was going to drive the College’s truck and Masha was telling him they had to be very, very careful that no one found out. That it must be absolutely secret. And Andreychuk said he knew how to get there so that no one would see them. And even if they were seen, he had a pass.’

‘I see – anything else make you think they were on a secret mission?’

‘Well, another time I heard Comrade Babel ask her how Commissar Ezhov was and she said that the commissar was overworked but that she did her best to help him. So you see? She was helping him in his work in Krasnogorka. I’ve told no one except for you about this, of course. But they say Ezhov sent you down to look into the matter, so I’m guessing you know all this already.’

‘See that you carry on keeping it to yourself all the same,’ Korolev said, wincing at the thought that everyone suspected, rightly, that Ezhov was ultimately responsible for his arrival on the filmset.

‘There they are,’ the boy said, pointing at a blur of yellow light that illuminated a scattering of motor vehicles, equipment and people gathered around a group of white-bloused peasants brandishing scythes and forks. One of the men who was standing near a camera mounted on the back of a truck beckoned to the boy.

‘I’m sorry, Comrade Captain. I think they want me.’

He held up his hand in farewell, but the boy was already five metres away. Korolev followed at a slower pace, spying Babel sitting on a box, his hands hanging loose over his knees and his bald patch reflecting the camera lights’ glare. He was listening to a man whom Korolev recognized from the papers as Savchenko, a soft peaked cap worn backwards over his unruly hair.

‘Here he is, fresh from detection no doubt,’ Babel said, raising a hand in greeting.

Savchenko got to his feet, brushing his trousers and looking accusingly at the drum he’d been sitting on before turning to Korolev with an appraising glance.

‘Greetings Comrade Korolev. Babel and I have just been discussing your investigation. Give me two minutes so I can wrap up this scene and I’ll be with you.’

‘Willingly, Comrade Savchenko.’

The film director squeezed Korolev’s hand, patted his shoulder and then walked towards the camera and a waiting Shymko. The production coordinator offered him a board with a page clipped to it which the director took absent-mindedly, his attention focused on the huddle of peasants.

‘So Andreychuk’s in the slammer?’ Babel said, pointing Korolev to the vacated drum.

‘Not for the killing. It’s Mushkin’s affair now, what to do with the fellow. My responsibility doesn’t extend that far.’

‘You’ve ruled him out?’

‘Not exactly,’ Korolev began, quickly filling Babel in on the developments, but leaving out the conversation he’d had with Kolya. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his friend, but information like that could be a death sentence.

‘Krasnogorka?’ Babel asked when he’d finished.

‘Yes, I don’t know the place. It’s on the Romanian border, I believe.’

‘I know it. A border town, as you say. It had a reputation for smuggling a few years back – I don’t know if it’s still the case.’

‘The Stalin Line’s there now. Not much smuggling where there are machine guns and artillery.’

‘Don’t be so sure; even Red Army men have eyes that can turn the other way.’

‘Perhaps. I’d like to know what the two of them were up to there, certainly. What do you think about the morphine?’

‘I don’t think you need to worry too much about the way it was done – everybody knows it will knock you out if you take enough of it. It could have been put in her food, she might have drunk it or she might have taken it thinking it was something else. The question is how it was got hold of. It doesn’t seem like something you would just come across, not out here. And the other question is who’d have had access to it. An addict perhaps?’

‘We’re looking into it. And you – any luck with the filming from that night?’

‘I don’t think it’s going to help you much, brother. There isn’t a familiar face there, apart from Andreychuk’s. The crew were all behind the camera, and only one or two of the cast are in the shots we’ve looked at so far. I’ve left one of Shymko’s girls going through it. Don’t worry,’ he said, anticipating Korolev’s objection, ‘I’ll check through it myself as well, but it’s the note-taking slows you down. And I asked her to find someone from the village who might know the extras – I don’t know many of them myself.’

Korolev shrugged; perhaps it had been too much to hope for that the film would show up anything useful.

‘Attention, everyone,’ Shymko’s voice boomed loudly. The production coordinator was holding a megaphone in his hand and standing on top of a stepladder. Korolev stood to watch.

‘Crowd to your places. Everyone ready?’

Savchenko was helped onto the back of the truck, where he fixed an eye to a small silver box on a tripod that Korolev presumed was a camera. After a long pause, he stood up and looked to the crowd, raising his arms. The crowd responded by shaking scythes, pitchforks and axes in a warlike manner. Then Savchenko, while still gesticulating, made an angry face, all the while not uttering a sound, and the crowd obliged him again. Satisfied, Savchenko turned to the camera operator and the rest of the crew.

‘Motor,’ Savchenko called out and Shymko repeated the word into his megaphone.

‘Start,’ Savchenko said and as Shymko’s megaphone echoed the instruction, a young lad snapped a clapperboard shut in front of the camera and the crowd began to advance, indignant and hostile. Then from the side young Pavel appeared, and began to dance, lifting his knees, waving his elbows and prodding at the path in front of the advancing peasants with outstretched toes. The crowd, apparently as bewildered as Korolev, came to a halt. One began to point at the boy and laugh, and suddenly the whole crowd had to lean against each other to avoid collapsing into a helpless heap. And still Pavel danced. Even Korolev couldn’t help but smile.

‘And stop,’ Savchenko said.

‘That’s it,’ announced Shymko and the crowd’s laughter died instantly, and Pavel went from a high kick to a slouching walk that took him back towards the camera. Savchenko pointed out Korolev to the production coordinator and raised the thumb and fingers of his left hand.

‘A short break now, don’t go far,’ Shymko announced, and the extras began rolling cigarettes and bending their heads in conversation.

‘And they pay you for writing this?’ Korolev said.

‘Not enough,’ said Babel, putting his hands in his pockets.

‘Korolev, thank you for your patience. Babel here has been telling me all about you and, given you probably know all about me as well, I take it there’s no need for cumbersome introductions. Let’s take a walk over this way, where we can talk properly.’ The director led him away from the film crew, and for a moment Korolev thought Babel was going to try and join them, but the writer caught his warning glance and stayed where he was.

‘So, let’s get straight to the point, Comrade Korolev. I knew Maria Lenskaya well. I’m sure you know that by now. She was my lover, or I was hers – I can’t remember which way round it was. Anyway, I’m sure someone amongst that crowd of gossips has told you by now.’ The director pointed a thumb back towards the cast and crew.

‘Yes, I’ve been informed, but I’m also aware that you were filming throughout the crucial period, and every one of them is a witness to that as well.’

‘They have their uses, I suppose.’

‘So do you have any idea who could have killed her?’

‘I don’t. And that concerns me because the likelihood is that it was one of us.’ Although the director didn’t seem so much concerned by the thought as intrigued.

‘I have to ask about your relationship with her, of course.’

‘Certainly. It ended some time ago, although when she came to America with Belakovsky I’ll admit there was a little flirtation. Nothing serious, but it was so nice to hear beautiful Russian spoken by a beautiful woman. I couldn’t resist her.’

‘Did you meet a man called Danyluk at that time?’

‘The defector? Yes, I met him once or twice. He was in the technological group, not the creative part of the delegation.’

‘Did Lenskaya have much to do with him?’

‘Nothing, as far as I’m aware. He was an insignificant man. I suspect his defection was opportunistic. But I only met him a couple of times, as I said.’

‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Comrade Savchenko, but you don’t seem overly saddened by her death.’

Savchenko, rather than being offended, as Korolev had half expected, considered the suggestion seriously for a moment.

‘Don’t be misled, Captain, I’m deeply upset,’ he said. ‘I valued Masha highly, as a worker and colleague, and as a person. It’s the way my mind works, though, to look at such a sadness and speculate around it. A story like this is fascinating for me. I look at it from every angle, consider it, remember it. This is work for me, just as much as if I were digging a ditch. But more importantly, this film has to be finished – why do you think Belakovsky is down from Moscow? To apply pressure, that’s why. I have a responsibility to the people who are working with me on this project not to be distracted. We all do. I’ll grieve for poor Masha later.’

Korolev understood the point. Work that was behind schedule on a construction project or in a factory could lead to arrests for sabotage and wrecking – so why not a film? Film-makers had quotas to achieve, same as everyone else, and if they didn’t achieve them fingers started pointing and cell doors started opening, and worse. It was the way things were.

‘I apologize, Comrade. I have to ask these things.’

‘I understand.’

And so Korolev asked the questions he had to ask – who had liked her and who had disliked her? Who had been her close associates in Moscow? Who else had she had romantic entanglements with? He asked about Andreychuk, and morphine and her background and every other question he could think of. Savchenko was as helpful as he could be, but he didn’t provide any new information. He was, however, intrigued by the idea that she had been drugged before being strangled.

‘Keep it to yourself please, Comrade Savchenko.’

‘Of course, of course, but it’s positively romantic, don’t you think? It’s almost as though she had to die and the killer decided to make it as painless as possible. Perhaps he loved her but she rejected him. Or loved someone else.’

Korolev looked at the director to see if he was joking, but he wasn’t. It was just as he’d said – he’d taken the bare facts and used them to build a story, but it was an interesting theory and one that Korolev thought might just have something to it. They heard a cough and saw that Shymko had approached, his clipboard at the ready. Savchenko shrugged his shoulders, as if he were being torn away from a fascinating conversation rather than a murder interrogation.

‘One final question before you go, Comrade. Do you have any idea why she would have visited Krasnogorka in the company of the caretaker Andreychuk last week?’

‘Krasnogorka? Shymko, she went to see a church last week – was it near Krasnogorka?’

‘Not far away,’ the production coordinator confirmed. ‘A few kilometres only, I think.’

‘What church was this?’ Korolev asked.

‘Some church she’d heard was to be destroyed, and we thought we could use it for the final scene in the film – when the church is burnt down by the peasants. I have the details in the office.’

‘It might be useful. And why did Andreychuk accompany her?’

‘She couldn’t drive. Nothing more complicated – Andreychuk was helping us out. Is it true you’ve arrested him?’

Korolev half-expected that if he looked behind him he’d see Indian smoke signals coming from the village, so widely had the information spread.

‘Ask Major Mushkin. Anyway, Comrade Savchenko, thank you for your assistance – if I have any further questions?’

‘You know where to find me.’

Korolev walked with them back towards the camera crew and saw that the peasants had re-formed in the same positions, but before he got any closer a car’s lights came bumping though the forest and from it stepped the young Militiaman from the village, Sharapov. He nodded to Savchenko and Shymko, and then indicated to Korolev with a small nod of his head that they needed to talk, and away from the others. Korolev felt his stomach sink – whatever the uniform had to tell him, it looked like it wasn’t going to be something he wanted to hear to judge from the youngster’s face.

‘Sergeant Slivka sent me to fetch you. It’s about Andreychuk, Comrade Captain. It’s not good news.’

For a moment, Korolev thought that Sergeant Gradov had beaten the caretaker to a pulp and that Sharapov had been sent to tell him that the old man wouldn’t be helping with the enquiry for the foreseeable future.

‘Is he all right?’

‘As far as I know Comrade, he’s fine. But the wretch has made a run for it.’