The Holy Thief

CHAPTER NINE

Semionov was silent on the way out to Tomsky stadium and his driving seemed to have lost some of its natural enthusiasm. Korolev hardly noticed, as he tried to work out what on earth connected the murders of a Thief and a foreign nun. Were the Thieves involved in the export of the stolen valuables? What was the murderer’s motive? Or were the killings a psychopath’s handiwork after all, and his victims random? Well, he must be truly insane if he’d murdered a Thief-that was like putting your head into a lion’s mouth while kicking him in the balls. No. No one was that crazed.

If only he could put everything down on paper, perhaps he could begin to make some sense of the jumble of information that was making his head ache, but Gregorin would have him shot for that kind of breach of secrecy. What a complete mess this case was turning out to be. He groaned.

“Are you all right, Alexei Dmitriyevich?”

“I’m fine, just a little headache,” Korolev replied, wondering whether a bullet in the nape of his neck would actually hurt. Perhaps it would all be over before you realized what was happening. He swallowed.

“And a stomach ache,” he said.

“I don’t feel so well myself. That poor fellow with his you know what. Normally I’d say good riddance to a Thief like him, but you wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

“No,” Korolev said, adding another worry to his list. What if he fell into the hands of the murderer? Given his victims to date and what he’d done to them it was unlikely that he’d go easy on some middle-aged, past-it gumshoe. A bullet in the head was beginning to seem almost attractive.

“Also…” Semionov said no more but gave a loud and deliberate sigh. So heartfelt was the sound that Korolev turned to look at him.

“What’s up with you?” he said.

“Nothing. Really. It’s just-do we really have to work this case with Larinin? I know he’s well respected within the Party, but I’m not sure I like him very much. And what’s all this about General Popov being investigated? He’s been awarded the Order of the Red Flag and the Order of Lenin! He’s as true to the Party as Comrade Stalin himself!”

There was a moment of silence in the car as both men thought about what Semionov had said. Korolev broke it.

“Perhaps…”

“Yes, I see your point. Comparing the General to Comrade Stalin…”

“While he’s under investigation…”

“No,” agreed Semionov, his face flushed.

It wasn’t easy for the young lad, thought Korolev. Being a good Communist these days was like following an arbitrary God who required you to believe that white was white one day and black the next. It only made sense if you remembered that the country was surrounded by enemies who were terrified by its very existence. Faced with such implacable foes, sometimes the Party took steps which seemed at odds with its long-term historical destiny. That could be confusing for ordinary workers like Korolev and Semionov, but everyone knew the Party had to keep going forward, no matter what the cost. Korolev believed in the Party line absolutely, even if it required a leap of faith to do so from time to time. After all, unity was as important as truth sometimes-you learned that in the trenches, if nothing else.

Looking ahead, he spotted a small crowd in front of a familiar snow-topped kiosk whose sole advertisement was the word “Snacks,” spelled incorrectly. Still, even “Snaks” would cheer up a growing lad like Semionov and, as it happened, the stallholder was known to Korolev of old. Each time he passed he felt relief that the stall had not succumbed to the reconstruction of the city or the continuing efforts to minimize private enterprise-the blinchiki, sometimes even containing meat, were among the best in Moscow.

“I’m starving, Vanya. Let’s pull over and get some lunch. I haven’t eaten all day.”

They came to a halt and Korolev stepped from the car and nodded to the stall owner. “How are things, Boris Nikolayevich? Two, please.”

Several of the waiting men gave him angry looks, but seeing the car and the waiting Semionov drew the obvious conclusion, a couple even raising their collars and moving off. Korolev pretended not to notice-it wasn’t his job to check people’s papers-and as he prepared the blinchiki, Boris Nikolayevich told Korolev his news. He was now part of a nearby state canteen so his problems with bureaucracy had decreased. Unfortunately so had his flexibility in acquiring ingredients.

“They keep the best stuff for themselves, but I make do,” the stallholder announced, wrapping the blinchiki and handing them over to Korolev in exchange for ninety kopeks. “I’m blessed to be the son of a street sweeper. See poor Denisov across the street. The son of a factory owner. The troubles he has, you wouldn’t believe, and we were both born in ninety seven. Who would have guessed then how things would turn out for us?”

The food paid for, Korolev got back into the car, handing Semionov one of the wrappings as he did so. It was only when he went to open his own that he saw that it had been wrapped in a vellum page and that ancient ink had impregnated his blinchiki with mirrored Slavonic writing. A holy book had been torn to pieces to wrap food in. He looked around at Semionov, whose cheeks were bulging as his jaw worked away at a huge mouthful. He hesitated and then took a bite himself, hoping he wasn’t doing anything sinful. He chewed for a moment. If it was sinful, it was also delicious, and so he took a second mouthful, asking the Lord for forgiveness as he did so.

The red and white flag of Spartak hung loosely outside Tomsky stadium. It was dwarfed by the Dinamo stands on the other side of the road, but size wasn’t everything. Spartak was the spirit of Moscow, as far as Korolev was concerned, whereas Dinamo represented the force that controlled that spirit. He might work for the Ministry, but Korolev was a Presnaya boy through and through, even if he now lived in Kitaj-Gorod. You didn’t betray your birthplace, not in his book anyway. Semionov pulled the car to a halt outside the administrative building and Korolev saw a group of players approaching, their bodies showing every sign of tiredness and their breath trailing them like the smoke from a train. Beside them walked a familiar figure, dressed in a pair of old gray flannel trousers, a green hunting jacket and a red and white scarf. Thick brown hair tumbled back from the sharply cut face, and a pair of eyes the color of old silver were already regarding him with amusement. Nikolai Starostin’s face broke into a grin as Korolev raised a hand in greeting.

“Nikolai,” Korolev said, “I see you’re pushing the team hard as ever.”

There was a rumble of good-humored agreement from the players, not least of which came from two more of the Starostin brothers, Aleksandr and Andrei.

“Go on into the baths, boys,” said Starostin. “I must talk to this old player, even if he’s long past it.”

Andrei Starostin waved a cheerful greeting but moved along with the others, several of whom also nodded to Korolev, being known to him as he was to them.

“We haven’t seen you at many games recently. Worried the supporters will give you a hard time?”

“I’ve been busy. Anyway I can look after myself, I’m not ashamed of my job.”

“Yes, I know that much. It’s bad, though. When we play Dinamo it’s ‘Kill the terriers,’ ‘Kill the filth,’ and when we play Red Army, it’s ‘Kill the squaddies’ or ‘Kill the horse washers.’ It worries people in authority, which isn’t good these days, and when we’re beating their pet teams it adds insult to the injury. Still, what can we do? They’re a law unto themselves. They’ll shout whatever they damned well please and the Devil take the consequences.”

Korolev smiled, knowing all about the rough bonhomie of the stands when Spartak were winning, and the rage when things were going badly.

“So who’ll line up for you against the Army? They’ve a strong side: want me to dust off my boots?”

Starostin smiled and touched his finger to the side of his nose.

“All will be revealed, Lyoshka, in due course. But if you’re coming to the game, let me get you a ticket-in the stand with the civilized people, not down on the terraces. You’ll be able to see the game properly and, anyway, I need someone to keep an eye on my sisters. They can become a little obstreperous if things begin to go against us. Presnaya girls through and through. Feel free to arrest them. It’s better than them going up to Marshal Tukachevsky and telling him his boys are dirty cheats.”

“I’d be grateful,” Korolev said. He caught sight of Semionov staring at them from the car and was reminded of the purpose of his visit. “Listen, Nikolai, there was a body dropped here last night and I need someone to show us exactly where.”

Starostin frowned. “Ah, yes. The groundskeeper found him-I can show you myself. He dragged me out to have a look. Not pretty. Come on.”

Korolev signaled to his colleague and a grinning Semionov extracted himself from the car, stood to attention and saluted.

“Comrade Starostin!” he said, almost shouting, before reddening when the footballer laughed in response. However, Starostin stopped immediately when he saw the younger man’s discomfort, stepping forward to put an arm around Semionov’s shoulders then led him toward the stadium.

“No, Comrade, don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “You were a little formal in front of my old friend, Alexei Dmitriyevich, that’s all. So you’re here to investigate our murder?”

“It’s not as if he ever salutes me and I’m two ranks higher than him,” Korolev said to no one in particular. But he smiled at Semionov’s delight in having the famous Starostin walk with him, arm in arm.

“Are you a football fan, Comrade? Spartak also?”

Semionov couldn’t lie, but he had the good grace to look uncomfortable about his preference. “I’m sorry, Comrade Starostin-Dinamo.”

“No reason not to support them, they’re a good team. I toured with some of them a few months back and a nicer bunch of lads you couldn’t meet.”

Semionov nodded in agreement, they were a fine bunch of lads. Not that he’d ever actually met them. But he had just met Nikolai Starostin. He rubbed his chin as he considered his dilemma.

“Perhaps now, having met you, Comrade,” he said, thinking aloud, “I might support Dinamo and Spartak.”

Starostin laughed. “We always welcome new supporters. Alexei, I’ll have to give you another ticket for our new enthusiast. The Red and Whites are always glad to have fine fellows cheering them on.”

“Well, Comrade, when you’re playing those dirty Army bastards you can trust me to be behind you one hundred and ten percent! Komsomol’s honor-believe it!”

And there was something about the vehemence of Semionov’s statement that made the two older men laugh for a little longer than was polite.

During the conversation, Starostin had led them through the open gates and now he pointed toward the Tribune area at the east end of the stadium, where the terraces were open to the elements.

“The groundskeeper found him just there, a few rows back. I waited with him until the Militia arrived so that nothing would be disturbed. He was very badly cut up, you know; the dead man. Some bastard had-”

“Yes, we know. We saw the body in the morgue,” Korolev cut in quickly, not wanting to be reminded. He looked at the spot to which Starostin was pointing. There was nothing much to indicate a body had been there, except the large number of footprints trailing toward it from several directions before meeting in a rutted, overlapping tangle where the snow was tinged pink.

“It’s badly trampled, but do you remember whether there were any tracks when you got here? Any drag marks, for example?”

“Not really, but we can ask Sergei Timofeevich. I’ll go and fetch him; he’s down at the other end of the ground-wait here for a minute.”

Starostin walked toward the far goal post, where men were clearing snow from the pitch. Korolev looked at the muddle of footprints in disgust.

“God knows what happened here. At least Larinin had the sense to have some photographs taken, although I wish we’d seen it ourselves.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s blood in the snow-not that much, but it might mean the man was dropped here quite soon after he died, or even that he was still alive when they put him here. If he was dropped after the snow stopped, the body wouldn’t have had any snow on top of it and if it was dropped while it was snowing, we might have been able to work out what time it was left here by the thickness covering it. Still, the photographs might help. What time did the snow start last night?”

Semionov looked at him with wide eyes. “Deduction! I see, like Sherlock Holmes. Excellent, Alexei Dmitriyevich-really excellent.”

Korolev lifted his hand to cuff the youngster.

“No, I’m being serious.” Semionov, half-offended, took his notebook out. “Anyway, the snow. After midnight, I’m sure. I was out with some friends and didn’t get home until then. It was very cold, but the snow still hadn’t fallen. But I’ll check with the meteorological office when we get back to the office. And what time it finished, yes?”

Korolev nodded agreement and turned to greet the groundskeeper as he approached them, his felt boots moving quickly over the snow and his cap twisted in his gloved hands. Starostin followed behind him, smiling.

“I told them, I told the first lot, the footsteps, look at the footsteps, but they paid no attention. I made them keep away from them all the same, and my boys as well. Look over there.” He pointed to a set of blurred tracks that led toward them from the corner entrance to the northeast of the ground, the furthest away from the main road.

“A terrible thing, a terrible thing. I came in early to get the pitch ready for the reserve match tomorrow, but I always have a good look around in the morning to see if anyone’s been in overnight. Local kids get up to the Lord knows what here in the summer, which is bad enough. I mean they’re young and I was young myself once, but can’t they find somewhere else? No, they can’t, and I’m the one has to chase the little hooligans out all summer long. And only last March we found two drunks frozen under the away team posts. Like this.” He stopped and contorted his face and body into an approximation of rigor mortis. “Very upsetting. Their eyes were wide open, like fish in a tank. So I thought it was a drunk when I saw someone lying in the snow and, I’m thinking, here we go again, but no. It was worse.”

Only the recollection of the dead man stopped Sergei Timofeevich’s monologue. His eyes glistened with tears, which he rubbed at with a threadbare glove.

“Oh it was a horrible sight, brothers. It shouldn’t happen to anyone-a thing like that.”

Korolev seized the opportunity to interrupt. “Sergei Timofeevich? I’m Captain Korolev and this is Junior Lieutenant Semionov. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Ask. I know you anyway, Alexei Dmitriyevich, even if you don’t remember me. A fine central defender in his time, Lieutenant; we used to call Korolev the Steamroller. If Korolev tackled you, you stayed tackled. That I can confirm. But always fair, always fair.”

Korolev looked carefully at the groundskeeper and detected a familiar face changed by drink and age. The eyes were the same though.

“Akunin? The referee?”

“Yes, yes, that’s me.” The groundskeeper was delighted. “Was me, I suppose. Akunin the referee. But then-ah well, now Comrade Starostin allows me to be Sergei Timofeevich the groundskeeper. It keeps me involved in the game and I enjoy the work. But enough-what are these questions you have for me?”

Korolev caught Semionov’s smile from the corner of his eye and deduced that it wouldn’t be long before his old nickname was doing the rounds in Petrovka Street. He turned his attention back to Akunin.

“It’s good to see you, Sergei Timofeevich. We players always thought you were a fine referee.”

“I wasn’t bad, it’s true.” Akunin beamed with pleasure. “So, how can I help you?”

“Well, for a start, could you show us how the body was laid out?”

“Of course, Captain. He was flat on his back, with his hands by his side, like this. The face, the poor face though. He looked terrified. His eyes were like this. I couldn’t turn my head away for a full minute when I saw them.”

The groundskeeper did an imitation of the corpse lying in the snow, with crazed eyes and a wide open mouth. It wasn’t dissimilar to his imitation of the dead drunks.

“And on his chest,” he continued, “God forgive him his sins, were-”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Korolev said, cutting him off. “We know all about that, thank you. But tell me now, was there snow on top of the body, Sergei Timofeevich?”

“A bit. We had about four inches last night, as you can see, but I’d say he only had a dusting. Did I mention how his clothes were hanging off him? It looked like they’d been hacked and cut nearly as bad as him.”

“Thank you, that’s useful. Was there anything else you noticed? Anything at all?”

“Only the footsteps-they’re blurred by the snow, but there were two of them, I’d say. Do you see? One behind the other?”

Korolev crouched down beside the trail Akunin indicated.

“But on the way out they walked alongside each other.”

“Look, Vanya,” Korolev said, pointing down, ‘this fellow’s steps are wider apart. So he was probably taller; quite a bit taller, by the look of it.” Starostin was looking at his watch and Korolev took the hint. “Thanks for your time, Nikolai. We’ll just follow the tracks out. There’s no need for you to wait around-but if you could join us, Sergei Timofeevich, it might be useful.”

Starostin made his farewells and left the investigators to their work, along with their willing assistant, the former referee. Korolev looked with regret at where the body had lain.

“I wish I’d seen it myself. There might have been something, you never know.” He turned to the others. “Come on; let’s see if there’s anything else.” They walked alongside the two sets of footprints, following them to the northeastern entrance. Someone had taken a crowbar to the gate and it hung open, the lock disembowelled.

“Another job to be done,” the groundskeeper muttered.

“Wait a second,” Semionov said and pointed to the snow in front of them. “No one else has been over here. Right, Sergei Timofeevich?”

“No, your colleague, the short fat one, said it was too cold to be running around in the snow on a wild-goose chase for a dead Thief.”

“Look, Alexei Dmitriyevich.” Semionov pointed to a half-covered empty packet of cigarettes. “Doesn’t that mean this would have had to have been left by the killers? Seeing as there’s snow underneath it.”

“Good lad, let’s get it out and have a look.”

Semionov stooped down and carefully picked the packet out, a small damp patch forming around it on the palm of his leather glove.

“Hercegovina Flor. Expensive. Restricted stores and restaurants. A friend of mine smokes them.” Semionov imparted the last piece of information with a certain reluctance.

“A woman friend?”

“Men smoke them too,” Semionov said defensively.

“I see. Got something to put the packet in?”

Semionov rooted in his pockets without finding anything suitable so he tore a page out of his notebook and wrapped it round the damp packet before following the older man through the gate. There were indeed tire tracks, but the snow covered an asphalted area so no distinguishable markings could be made out, just tracks coming in and then going out, and a circle where the car had turned. They followed them to the main road anyway, just in case.

“A shame,” Semionov said, kicking at the snow.

“Well, nothing to take a cast from, but it looks like it was a car, rather than a truck. And how many people have access to cars in Moscow? Not that many. We’ll ask at the local Militia station-see if one of their patrols saw any vehicles near here last night. Is there a nightwatchman, Sergei Timofeevich?”

“Of course, but he normally keeps to the office building if it’s snowing.”

“Thank you. Ask him to call the lieutenant when he comes in. Ivan Ivanovich will give you the telephone number.”

Korolev was quiet on the drive back to Petrovka Street as he tried to make something of the visit to the stadium. The expedition had been useful he supposed. Now they knew there were two men involved, that one was tall and the other shorter, that they’d access to a car and that one of them possibly smoked Hercegovina Flor. Progress, sure, but unless the killer struck again not much to go on. He growled once more with the frustration of it all.

Semionov looked over at him.

“It’s nothing. Keep your eyes on the road.”

The motive must be the key. Nine times out of ten with a murder, if you found the motive you found the killer attached to it. Gregorin had as good as confirmed that the murder was linked to someone in State Security flogging artworks on the side. So, if the dead girl was a nun, the logical deduction would be that she’d been after some item of religious significance or value. Gregorin had seemed to hint as much. A relic, perhaps. Or an icon? Many relics and icons had been destroyed since the Revolution, as had the churches they’d been displayed in. Still, it was worth following up. But what about the dead Thief? He didn’t look like someone who’d have anything to do with icons, unless they were drawn in blue ink. It was confusing, but it seemed to him that if the killer wasn’t a madman, or a pair of madmen now, then it was odd the bodies had been left in such public places. There weren’t so many murders in Moscow that two like this wouldn’t stand out. So, although the electricity burns and the signs of torture were the only definite links between the victims, he was pretty sure the killers were the same, but it was worth considering whether there might be different motives for the murders. He caught Semionov looking at him again, and pointed his assistant’s attention back to the road ahead.

Hopefully Larinin, who’d gone back to Petrovka to see if he could find the Thief’s file, would come up with something. There must be a file-he’d seen it on the fellow’s fingers. If they knew which gang he belonged to, they could round up a few of his pals and give them a grilling. Not that Thieves talked to policemen willingly, given that cooperation with the Soviet State in any form was forbidden by their code. Even having a paying job was frowned upon, unless it was a front for criminal activity. He scratched his head in frustration-he felt like a dog in a field of rabbits, chasing after ideas that seemed to breed in front of his very eyes. And what was it Gregorin had said about the nun? That she was one of two possible candidates. Did that mean there was another American wandering round Moscow? What on earth were they up to, these Americans?

“Alexei Dmitriyevich?” Semionov said.

“Yes?” Korolev barely succeeded in keeping the irritation out of his voice.

“He was a real gentleman, wasn’t he? Starostin? And giving us two tickets for the final against the squaddies. Will we go? It should be a great game.”

“I don’t see why not, I’ve a feeling this investigation is about to hit a brick wall.”

“Don’t say that, Alexei Dmitriyevich. You told me yourself, my first day on the job-when it looks like there’s nothing to be done, that’s the time you go back to the beginning and start all over. One berry at a time, and the basket will be full. We still have avenues to explore.”

“Yes, there are certainly things to be done and berries to be picked.” He tried to sound more positive than he felt. They were driving along Okhotny Row and about to turn into Teatralnaya Square, when the Metropol came into view. And it occurred to him-hadn’t Gregorin as good as told him to go and talk to this American, Schwartz?

“Pull over, will you, Vanya? I’ll walk the rest of the way. I need to go and see someone.”

Semionov brought the car to a halt and noted his superior’s changed demeanor. “A berry, Alexei Dmitriyevich?”

“Maybe-we’ll see. Start looking into the cars, Vanya. There are probably only twenty privately owned cars in the whole city, so you’ll have to go to the factories, the big concerns, the ministries. See if you can find out who had cars available to them last night. It’s a needle in a haystack job, but you never know. And take that cigarette packet over to forensics.”

It would keep him busy and away from the Metropol-full as it was of foreigners, bigwigs, speculators and the like-and, also, as a result, the NKVD.