The Bloody Meadow

Chapter Seventeen

It had been a long day and Korolev went in search of nourishment, but as he passed the dead girl’s office he found himself opening the door. His stomach could hold out for another five minutes.

The desk, the shelves bent under ranks of books, the papers and typewriters, the panoramic view over the lake and the snow-decked woodland – all were unchanged since the last time he’d stood there. He thought of the girl and wondered if the last thing she’d seen had been that same moon, now a luminous orb hanging low over the lake, and he hoped the morphine had done its work and that her end had been quick.

He started on the top bookshelf – Lenin, Marx, Stalin, Engels. He opened each book and flicked through the pages, just in case something might have been left there. Savchenko’s Theory of Film, a well-thumbed volume, seemed to have been more diligently read than those of Lenin, Marx and the others; then a slew of books in English – beyond his powers of translation except for the words Cinema and Film , which reassured him he was looking at technical manuals. One of the thicker volumes, filled with diagrams and pictures of cameras and other equipment, also contained a brightly coloured postcard with the word ‘Hollywood’ in inch-high red letters on top of which was draped a reclining blonde beauty wearing not very much at all.

‘A crucial piece of evidence?’

The suggestion came from behind him and for a moment he felt the urge to put the postcard back in the book as though he’d never seen it, but he recognized the voice, and the amusement in it, and so he held it up for Les Pins to see better.

‘They have a different climate there,’ the Frenchman said.

‘It gets hot here in the summer,’ Korolev replied, which it did. In three months’ time the sun would be a constant pressure on the landscape, the windows here would be wide open and the room full of the scent of flowers and the buzz of insects. He turned the card over, but there was no message.

‘I take it you’re not searching Lenskaya’s room for souvenirs of Los Angeles, Korolev?’

Korolev put the postcard back where he’d found it and replaced the book on the shelf.

‘Can I help you?’ he said, making an attempt at politeness.

‘I was thinking I might help you. I heard you trying to pronounce the titles of those English books.’

‘Trying to pronounce?’ He thought he’d been doing a pretty good job himself.

‘Anyway,’ Les Pins continued, ‘if I can be of any assistance, it would be my pleasure.’

Korolev considered the man: an irritating smile on his face that the fellow must think made him irresistible, grey eyes that appeared benevolent but were more likely to be concealing some self-serving motivation. Unless he was wrong, he’d a good idea what the fellow was after. Information, damn him. This fellow would publish his own living mother’s obituary while she was still walking around if he thought it would earn him a few more roubles or whatever it was that they paid the Frenchman in.

‘It’s all right, Comrade Les Pins,’ Korolev said. ‘I’m sure you have other things to keep you occupied.’

‘Not really. I’m here to recuperate as much as anything, you see. A fascist put a small hole in my shoulder in Spain, and the comrades there thought I needed a break. Now that I’m here, I’m bored. I’d be happy to help. I’ll put it more strongly,’ he said, smiling that priest’s smile of his again, ‘I’d be grateful.’

Korolev had picked a collection of Stalin’s speeches from the bookshelves and had opened it idly while they were engaged in conversation. Inside it was a piece of paper, folded in four and typed with Latin lettering.

‘What’s that you have there?’ Les Pins asked.

Korolev’s English wasn’t up to an instantaneous translation, but it seemed to be some sort of poem.

‘The twenty-third psalm,’ Les Pins said quietly, reading it over his shoulder, ‘from the King James Bible. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil. For thou art with me.”’

A smart girl – she knew her geography if nothing else. She’d been in that valley all right, even if everywhere nearby was flat. The paper felt crisp enough to have been newly folded – was this what she’d been typing when Mushkina had passed by, before the typewriters had been switched? Was it a message and, if so, who for?

‘Curious,’ the Frenchman said. ‘It’s as though she had a presentiment of death.’

‘You’ll excuse me, Comrade. I thank you for the translation, but I must ask you to leave.’

‘Yes, yes. I’m sorry, Captain. I was only trying to offer my assistance.’

‘It isn’t required, but thank you.’

‘A shame,’ Les Pins said, not moving away, instead gracing him with a look of sympathetic concern. ‘But it must be difficult for you. I can understand why you don’t want a foreign journalist involved in a murder like this.’

There was something loaded in his tone. Enough to make Korolev give the Frenchman his full attention.

‘What do you mean, Comrade? Are you suggesting something?’

‘Suggesting something? Me? Not at all. I hear the caretaker has run away. Did you arrest him for the murder?’

‘No. For something else,’ Korolev replied.

The Frenchman smiled – a confident smile, the smile of a gambler with a card up his sleeve.

‘Just as well, I should think,’ he said, mischief in his eyes, ‘what with her being such a good friend of Comrade Ezhov’s.’

Korolev felt a chill at the back of his neck. ‘The Militia investigates every crime with the same diligence,’ he said eventually, as carefully as a man walking through a minefield, and holding Les Pins’ gaze.

Now the Frenchman laughed before looking away.

‘But seeing as you’re here, Comrade,’ Korolev said, trying to steer the conversation onto a different track, ‘perhaps you could tell me where you were on the night of the murder. And whether you saw anything suspicious.’

‘Suspicious?’ The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. ‘No. I went down to watch the night shoot. Everyone was there, I think.’

‘Would you be prepared to give us a list of who you saw, and when? What you remember of the evening – even the most trivial details – might provide invaluable assistance.’ Korolev kept his gaze steady on Les Pins, and his voice quiet, but he spoke as forcefully as he dared. And the Frenchman seemed no longer to find the situation quite so amusing.

‘With pleasure, Comrade Captain. I’ll let you have it tonight.’

‘And were you outside this afternoon? At around six o’clock perhaps?’

‘Me? No, I was in my room reading – was that when Andreychuk bolted?’

Korolev said nothing, just looked at the Frenchman unblinkingly until Les Pins glanced away once again, and Korolev saw the fellow’s throat move as he swallowed.

‘Your recollections from the evening in question would be most useful, Comrade Les Pins,’ Korolev said and turned back to the books, waiting until Les Pins left the room before he allowed himself to breathe deeply.

Korolev thought about the significance of the typed psalm as he walked back towards the stable block carrying a small enamel pot by its handle. He’d liked to have eaten his dinner in the dining room, but the reaction when he’d walked in – twenty-five pairs of gawking eyes, several pairs belonging to actors familiar throughout the Soviet Union, and complete silence – well, it had been enough to persuade him to ask the girl serving the food if he could take it back to the investigation room, and the enamel pot, lid and handle included, had been quickly forthcoming.

At least the case was making some progress – they now had an ever-lengthening list of people who were accounted for during the crucial time period. And their questioning was revealing more and more about the dead girl, some of which was perhaps a little worrying, but definitely progress. Of course, this Andreychuk business was a disaster and he prayed the border guards or one of the Militia roadblocks would pick him up, and alive, as it seemed likely that the caretaker would have something to tell him about the murder, and maybe about this conspiracy Kolya had told him of as well – and he was desperate to talk to him. It was frustrating, but he felt the investigation was now in the hands of others. He was waiting for a phone call, either to hear from Kolya where this ‘delivery’ was taking place, or to be told someone had picked up Andreychuk. He saw Slivka coming out of the investigation room and raised a hand in greeting.

‘Any news on our runaway?’ he asked her.

‘Shymko dug out the name of the church they were supposed to have been visiting – you were right. It’s in Angelinivka. Right on the border, quite close to Krasnogorka. The border guards are searching the area as we speak.’

‘Any sign of the truck?’

‘Not yet, although it’s possible Andreychuk could have abandoned it somewhere and be making his way on foot. But the steppe will be no place to hide come the morning.’

‘No,’ Korolev agreed. Apart from the lines of trees that split up the fields there wasn’t much vegetation in this part of the world, and even the trees wouldn’t provide much in the way of cover at this time of year. ‘If we could find out who helped him out of his cell, they might tell us which way he was headed.’

‘Firtov and the Greek think they have some good fingerprints. Whether they can match them to anyone is the question. Anyone other than the uniforms from the station, that is.’

‘We’ll see what comes of it,’ Korolev muttered, conscious that his stew was getting cold. ‘And we’ll take a drive out to this place Angelinivka in the morning and see what we see.’

Korolev remembered he hadn’t told Slivka about his conversation with Kolya, and wondered how to approach it.

‘Your uncle called,’ he said, after a moment or two, having decided there was no way to broach the issue other than directly – particularly not with a hot dinner in his hand that was making his stomach hollow with hunger. Slivka’s eyes seemed to widen slightly, but it was difficult to tell in the darkness. He took a look around, just in case they could be overheard.

‘That thing we spoke of? With the guns?’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘He thinks it will happen tomorrow.’

Slivka spat on the ground. It was difficult to tell what the action signified. He wished he could see her face more clearly. He wasn’t much used to women spitting, if the truth were told, and it left him feeling nonplussed, but he supposed that these days it was her right to behave in just as uncultured a way as her male comrades, just as it was to do the same job.

‘What do we do about it, Chief?’ she said after a long pause.

‘That’s the question, Slivka. We don’t know where or when it will happen yet, or even if it will happen. But you’re to call your mother.’

‘Call my mother?’

‘I don’t think it’s to enquire about her health. I think Kolya will let us know what’s happening through her. Anyway, get yourself some food, let’s send Larisa off to bed and we’ll have a think about it. A collective decision is always better.’

Larisa looked up as he entered the investigation room. The girl’s fingers must be worn to nothing from rattling that machine for most of the day and a lot of the evening. She looked exhausted. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder towards the Orlov House.

‘Larisa, there comes a time when even you must rest. Now’s the time. We’ll see you tomorrow morning. Thank you for all your efforts.’

The girl didn’t argue, just nodded, quickly put the papers she’d been working on in order, and then left, her arms crossed and her head hanging forward.

‘Thank you again, Comrade,’ Korolev said as she passed, touching her shoulder with his hand. Then he shut the door behind her, made his way to the desk, opened the enamel pot and inhaled – it was good, very good. These film people lived well. He picked up the fork they’d given him with one hand and the receiver with the other, and, his mouth already half-occupied with a succulent piece of meat, asked the operator to put him through to Yasimov’s communal apartment in Moscow.

Unsurprisingly it took a while for the operator to call him back. Moscow was a thousand kilometres away and, as a man who’d walked a few kilometres in his time, he knew that was some distance. But eventually he was connected. A child’s voice answered. Korolev checked his watch – it was late for a youngster to be up and about.

‘Dmitry Alexandrovich, please.’

‘Captain Yasimov?’

‘The very same.’

‘I’ll get him.’

There was the sound of revelry in the background and then a glass breaking to the sound of a cheer. Someone picked up the receiver in the kommunalka.

‘Yasimov,’ a voice said, Mitya’s voice.

‘A party going on there, I can hear.’

‘Lyoshka,’ Yasimov said. ‘Khabarov’s son got married. I’m turning a blind eye to the samogon.’

If Korolev could judge from Yasimov’s voice, he wasn’t just turning a blind eye to the moonshine, he was testing it to make sure it was what it purported to be. He’d be lucky if he didn’t end up turning two blind eyes to it, given the quality of some of the stuff that was going around these days.

‘My congratulations to the groom.’

‘I’ll pass them on. Listen, Lyoshka, I was going to call you first thing. I asked around about your girl.’

‘Any luck?’

‘Let me step into my office.’

Korolev had visited Yasimov’s kommunalka – a former merchant’s residence that had been divided, sub-divided, and then divided once again so that there were now seventeen rooms in which bakers, factory workers, teachers, accountants and one Militia detective and his family sweated and froze hip to hip. For privacy Yasimov would take the receiver into the toilet beside the phone, if by some miracle the convenience was free.

‘There we go,’ Yasimov said as the background noise diminished considerably. ‘In here I’m a king as well, you know. Sitting on my throne.’

Korolev laughed at the wordplay on his name, as much for the pleasure of hearing a joke he’d heard a hundred times before as anything else.

‘What have you got for me?’ he asked.

‘You sound dreadful – got a cold or something?’

Korolev felt his shoulders relax and a smile tug at the straight line of his mouth. ‘Mitya, it’s good to hear your voice, I can tell you.’

‘Now, don’t get all emotional on me. Everything all right down there?’

‘Could be better – the local uniforms have just managed to let our main suspect escape. And the likelihood is he’s doing his best to slip across the border as we speak.’

There was a pause, and he could almost hear Yasimov doing the computations. Korolev knew what conclusion his fellow detective would come to – a mishap like this wasn’t good news for Korolev, of course, but it probably wouldn’t be much better for people he knew and worked with. In other words, Yasimov.

‘But you’re on it, right? You’ll catch up with him.’ Yasimov’s voice had an edge to it now.

‘I hope so. I don’t think the fugitive killed the girl, which is something at least, and we’ve a good chance of picking him up before he gets too far. We’ll see. Anyway, what did you find out about her?’

‘Some things, I’m not sure how useful, though. The orphanage people spoke highly of her – proud, they were. I didn’t find out much about her background for you, except for the name of her mother. Elizaveta Andreyevna Lenskaya. From down that way.’

‘Her mother?’

‘Yes, when she died the girl was sent to the orphanage.’

‘I think that’s her aunt – one moment.’ Korolev flicked back through his notebook. Andreychuk’s wife was dead all right, she’d died back in ’thirty-three. What had her name been? Here it was. Anna. Anna Andreyevna Andreychuk. The patronymic was the same – Elizaveta must have been the sister who’d lived in Moscow. The one whose death had resulted in Lenskaya ending up in the orphanage.

‘Yes – her aunt, most probably – but I thought they didn’t have any information on her family.’

‘I’m guessing someone tidied the official file up a bit – it had that feel to it. But when we looked back at the admissions book the details were all there. The older Lenskaya was from some place called Angelinivka down near you – age at at time of death thirty-three, occupation wages clerk. They lived in a communal apartment in Presnaya, but no one remembered them there. I dropped in and had a look around all the same. According to the housing office records, they shared a room with a family of five, so the orphanage was probably a change for the better.’

‘Angelinivka, you say?’

‘That’s what it says in the register.’

‘A place I’m visiting tomorrow, as it happens. Anything else?’

‘Well, I asked around about her out at Mosfilm – a nice enough girl, I was told. Ambitious. By that they meant-’

‘That she was friendly with Belakovsky?’

‘That’s the fellow. No one could think of a reason why she’d be murdered, though. I have the names of some other men she’d been friendly with. One will be familiar to you.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Babel the writer.’

‘Babel?’

‘A surprise?’

‘Anything firm?’ Korolev asked, ignoring Yasimov’s question for the moment as his mind scrambled to fit the new piece of information together with what he knew already. Why had the writer not told him he was romantically connected with the victim? Unless, of course, he’d a damned good reason not to.

‘Rumours. Want me to see if I can flesh it out a bit?’

‘If you can find out anything useful to do with this damned case I’ll be forever grateful, Mitya – it’s turning out to be a pig. And the more about the girl’s personal life the better.’

‘I’ll see what I can do. One more thing, before you hang up.’

‘Go on.’

‘You asked about Lomatkin.’

‘Yes?’

‘I had a sniff around. Interesting fellow – a man about town, although not so much in recent months. He used to have a bit of a reputation – a few people have mentioned him spending time with undesirable elements and gambling at billiards. By undesirable elements, I mean elements with blue fingers.’ Thieves. In Moscow. Kolya’s people, then. So there might be something in what the Thief had said about Lomatkin. ‘And there’s some suggestion he might have dabbled in cocaine,’ Yasimov continued. ‘Although apparently he’s a reformed character since he began seeing the dead girl. Make of that what you will.’

Cocaine. Was that what Kolya had been getting at in his phone call?

‘Anyone mention morphine?’

‘No. Want me to go back and ask again?’

‘It might be worth it. And see if you can find out more about these undesirable elements, will you, Mitya? And whether any of his acquaintances might be down here on the shoot. I’m interested in the cocaine – the autopsy shows the dead girl was drugged with morphine, that’s why I’m asking.’

‘Got you,’ Yasimov said.

‘Did you visit where she lived?’

‘Yes – a small room in a kommunalka near the Mosfilm studios. Plain, simple, clean. A couple of shelves of books, quite a few of them foreign. A gramophone. Three records. Nothing much else. I sealed it in case you wanted a forensics team to look over it.’

‘Any letters, diaries, that sort of thing?’

‘Nothing, but one of her neighbours told me she did keep a diary.’

‘I haven’t found it if she did, but you can be sure I’ll be searching hard for it now.’

The door opened and Slivka looked in at him enquiringly, a pot of her own held in her hand. He waved her towards the chair in front of him.

‘Mitya, brother, I owe you a favour.’

‘Lyoshka, you owe me a number of favours, and I owe you as many in return. Be careful there and come back to Moscow soon – the Thieves miss you.’

Korolev hung up and filled his mouth with the last of the now cold stew.

‘An interesting conversation, that,’ he said, still chewing, and relayed Yasimov’s information about the dead girl, her possible relationship with Babel and about Lomatkin’s blue-fingered friends.

‘Angelinivka?’ she said. ‘There’s a coincidence.’

‘Yes – another coincidence, and I don’t believe in coincidences. Not much, anyway.’

‘What are you thinking, Chief?’

‘Thinking?’ Korolev said, thinking, and therefore a little distracted. ‘Nothing much. But if Lenskaya’s family are from this place, Angelinivka, then maybe that’s why Andreychuk took her there. A family reason. His wife died in ’thirty-three. A tough year, but why wouldn’t he bury her there if he could? It’s not that far away. And when their daughter shows up out of the blue, what would she want to see? Her mother’s grave, perhaps? It’s a guess, but I’ve a feeling about it. She’d have been twelve when they parted ways, old enough to remember her mother well.’

‘So you still don’t see him in the picture for the murderer?’

‘When we catch him we’ll see what we can get out of him – I’ve a feeling he’ll have a story or two to tell us. But for now I want to find out about this trip they took. Seeing as it’s so close to the border, it could fit Kolya’s information as well.’

‘We’ll see what tomorrow brings,’ Slivka said, taking a mouthful of food and Korolev had to wait while she ate. ‘As for this Babel rumour, I’ve been going through the interviews earlier, the ones that the uniforms did. Babel is one of the people we haven’t been able to confirm as being at the night shoot.’

Korolev thought he knew the writer well enough to be pretty certain his friend was no killer. That was inconceivable. He’d a suspicion Babel would happily sit down with a murderer in a bar and drink with him while listening to his story, but that was another thing – a different thing. His curiosity was undeniable, but that didn’t mean he’d ever actually pull the trigger on someone, or garrotte them for that matter.

‘Anyone else we’re missing?’ he asked.

‘All the crew are accounted for, although one or two of the actors aren’t. At least so far – the actress Sorokina, for example.’

Which reminded Korolev about what Babel had said to Sorokina about not giving away all her secrets. Perhaps it had been a warning.

‘What are you thinking, Alexei Dmitriyevich?’

‘I’m thinking you need to talk to Sorokina and I need to talk to Babel.’

The writer looked disgruntled in the candlelight – the electricity was off for some reason, a power cut or some pressing industrial need, perhaps. On top of which the empty classroom was as cold as a prison cell. Korolev had bundled him out of bed and marched him across to the stable block, but Babel at least had had the good sense to put on his trousers, his boots and a heavy overcoat.

‘I think now is as good a time as any to tell me about your relationship with Masha Lenskaya. Don’t you?’

‘What relationship?’ Babel’s irritation at his treatment was clear. There would be none of his usual jocularity this evening.

‘That’s what I want you to tell me. I’ve been informed, by a reliable source, that you were more than a friend to her. More like a lover – or so they’re saying.’

‘That’s ridiculous, who could think such a thing? Me, a middle-aged man, seducing a girl half my age? Do they really think such a thing is possible?’ But the idea that he was still thought capable of seducing young women had apparently improved his mood.

‘How old are you?’ Korolev asked.

‘How old do you think I am?’ Babel lifted his head, interested.

‘Isaac, tell me about the girl,’ Korolev asked with a patience he didn’t feel.

‘Forty-two, as it happens.’

‘So not twice her age, then. She was twenty-six. I don’t know why you think it’s strange – I don’t think Tonya is much older.’

Babel raised an eyebrow at the mention of his wife.

‘I wasn’t sleeping with Masha Lenskaya, Alexei. Yes, I knew her, that’s true – a lot of people knew her, after all. I may have provided fatherly advice from time to time but no more than that.’

‘Fatherly?’

‘Yes. Fatherly. Or perhaps more like the advice an uncle might give. Or possibly an aunt familiar with the world.’

‘Aunt-like?’

‘Something approximating to aunt-like, yes. Really, Korolev, you’re a prude under that dynamite-proof cynicism of yours. We would speak from time to time, she and I. Not so strange. The girl had no living relatives, or so she thought, and she enjoyed having someone like me to talk to. Anyway, I’ve told you all this – that I knew her and what my assessment was of her character. I didn’t think I needed to spell out every single detail. If you don’t believe me, I’m beginning to think our friendship is built on sand.’

Well, Yasimov had only said the girl was ‘friendly’ with Babel. Perhaps on this occasion the rumours had been incorrect. Korolev took out his cigarettes and offered one to Babel – a peace offering.

‘Isaac, I warn you. Now’s the time to tell me the truth about Lenskaya. If there’s anything I should know – spit it out.’

‘When have I ever lied to you, Alexei? I had a relationship with her but it was a pure one.’

‘Aunt-like.’

‘Exactly.’

Korolev decided to give the writer the benefit of the doubt, but he wasn’t finished with him just yet.

‘Isaac. Last night, just before I was going to interview Sorokina, you told her not to go giving away her intimate secrets. What did you mean by that?’

For the briefest of moments Babel looked like a small boy caught with his hand in a jar of sweets.

‘You see, we’ve been doing our best to account for everyone’s whereabouts at the time of the murder, Isaac,’ Korolev continued. ‘You seem to be missing. And so does Comrade Sorokina.’

‘All right, all right. I was with Barikada. An innocent walk in the moonlight, nothing to get het up about.’

Korolev sighed. It was the sigh of a weary man being made even more weary by the antics of others.

‘You should have told us straight away – now it looks bad. Did you spend the entire time with Sorokina? And I mean every moment.’

‘Yes.’

‘Now tell me about this walk.’

‘It was a walk. I wasn’t needed on the set and neither was Sorokina. We slipped off. We’re old friends, you see. We left just after the filming started and were back for the last take – nine-thirty.’

‘I see, and you’re sure she didn’t leave your sight – while I can’t see any reason for you to kill the girl, she’s a different story.’

‘Barikada? A killer?’

‘She was Ezhov’s mistress.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ Babel said, stubbing out the cigarette on the sole of his boot, ‘but she had nothing to do with the girl’s death – I’ll swear to that. I didn’t lie to you, Alexei, I just didn’t tell you everything. I thought it was for the best. Not so much for my sake, as for hers. She’s with Savchenko now, you see, and if her walk with me had come to light it might have complicated matters. Not just for her, but for me as well.’

‘This is a murder investigation, Isaac. It’s not up to you to decide what you should tell me.’

‘I understand that-’ Babel began.

Korolev held up a hand to stop him. ‘Don’t bother. Is there anything you need to tell me about this moonlight walk of yours?’

‘Only that I think you can rule out Andreychuk as the killer.’ Babel put a hand in his pocket and produced what seemed to be a list of names. ‘I looked for you earlier to give you this, but I couldn’t find you. These are the names of the people we have identified in each scene and the times of filming. Andreychuk first appears at eighteen minutes past eight and is in every scene until the end.’

Babel handed him the piece of paper.

‘I see,’ Korolev said, looking over it. ‘But there is still a small window of opportunity.’

‘No, there’s a scene that was filmed just before eight which he isn’t in. It had to be reshot because a soundman dropped his microphone boom in front of the camera. Barikada and I were there for that scene, whatever your witnesses may say.’

Korolev looked through the list of scenes, each with a precise time and a list of names. Andreychuk’s appeared in each one, sure enough.

‘Well?’ Korolev said, not sure why this was as significant as Babel seemed to think.

‘We saw Lenskaya after that. At about ten minutes past eight, I would say. She was sitting at her typewriter in her office and alive.’

‘But why didn’t you tell us this before?’ Korolev said, mystified.

‘It wasn’t until I started doing the timings that I realized. I thought we saw her before Andreychuk locked up the house, but that isn’t possible. The film shoot is a minimum ten minutes’ walk from the house. We must have passed Andreychuk on the way, although we didn’t see him. When we saw her, Andreychuk would have already been down in the village.’

Korolev looked at the timings once again. If the caretaker hadn’t committed the crime, who had? And who’d helped him escape, and why?