The Bloody Meadow (11 page)

‘We haven’t found much, to be straight, and if you ask me, someone cleaned the place,’ Firtov said. ‘There’s not a fingerprint in there, and that’s not
natural. Not even on the keys of the typewriter. A few human hairs and that’s it, and no telling when they were left here. Papadopoulos found those.’

The other forensics man looked up – he was smaller, rounder, with black hair that swirled in tight curls on his close-cut scalp. When he smiled his teeth were bright in his dark face.

‘Papadopoulos? That’s not a Ukrainian name, is it?’ Korolev asked, thinking he’d end up surrounded by foreigners in this case if he wasn’t careful.

‘The Greek is as good a citizen as you or I.’ Firtov’s voice had dropped to a growl. ‘Born and raised in Odessa. As his father was before him. Isn’t that right,
Greek?’

The Greek nodded, his smile flashing like a lighthouse once again.

‘No offence meant,’ Korolev said, offering his much-depleted packet of cigarettes as a peace offering.

‘None taken,’ Firtov said, helping himself. The Greek didn’t seem to smoke. Just as well, thought Korolev, looking at his few remaining cigarettes. Two, after he took one for
himself.

‘We’ll look at the dining room, and wherever else you want, but it’s as though a human never stepped into this room.’

‘What about the books?’ Korolev asked, looking up at the shelves.

‘Well, we haven’t gone through them page by page,’ Firtov said. ‘But the covers are clean. It’s unusual, as I said.’

The forensics men finished packing their equipment and made their way to the dining room, but Korolev remained, examining the office carefully.

The room wasn’t that big and books loomed in from the walls to make it that little bit smaller. Savchenko’s
Theory of Film
was there, with Lenin and Stalin; Marx – as
you might expect – and other writers of the Revolution. But there was something about the way the paper was stacked, and the books lined up spine against spine in a perfect row – it was
just a little too tidy. Someone hadn’t just cleaned up fingerprints if his hunch was right – they’d carefully rearranged the entire room. And why would they have done that?

Of course, the most likely reason was that it had been the scene of the crime. After all, this was where she’d last been seen by Andreychuk and the dining room was only a few steps away.
He looked at the desk once again, imagining Lenskaya sitting in front of the typewriter, her assailant behind her. Perhaps he’d spoken to her – she might even have answered, not turning
round from her typing, recognizing the voice, and then had come the flash of the cord as it passed before her eyes and the bite as it cut into her neck. Korolev had once throttled a German back in
the war, not a memory he liked bringing to mind – the fellow had managed to get his hand under the thin rope and had hung on to life with a fervour that had been extraordinary. But the fact
was Korolev had been unlucky about the hand. Usually, once a rope was tight round the victim’s neck, resistance ceased almost immediately. That was something he’d learnt early on as a
detective.

‘What are you thinking? Your jaw has that hard look to it. And there’s a vein pumping in your forehead. You’ve gone pale and I can hear your teeth grinding.’

Babel had appeared, wearing a pair of carpet slippers and a surprisingly vibrant silk dressing gown. Korolev looked at the writer, then turned his attention back to the dead girl’s
workplace. The killer had to have made a mistake. Babel’s appearance had distracted him, but, still, there had to be a mistake.

‘This is where she died,’ he said at last, the words coming out as though he’d been holding his breath, and perhaps he had. ‘That’s what I’m thinking. That
this is where he killed her.’

WHEN KOROLEV returned to the investigation room, he found Andreychuk sitting in front of the desk Korolev had appropriated for himself. He nodded to the caretaker, sat down and
opened up his notebook.

His first impression was that the fellow didn’t look strong enough to have lifted the girl up to the bracket, or even to have strangled her if she’d resisted. But he quickly
corrected himself – the old were often stronger than they looked, and Andreychuk clearly led an active life. Indeed, on closer examination the man’s shoulders were broad, as was his
chest, despite the fact he was no longer young. And, of course, there was always the possibility he’d had assistance, that there had been two involved in the attempted deception, and perhaps
the murder itself. Andreychuk seemed to have had the opportunity to commit the crime, but what motive could he have had? None that Korolev could immediately think of, and then there was his very
obvious grief. Not that that could be trusted. And if the office had been cleaned of any forensic evidence, did that point to the perpetrator of the crime having been a simple caretaker? It seemed
much more likely that it pointed to someone with connections to the Security Organs.

He thought back to the Shishkin case – the file would probably already be shut and that wasn’t unusual. Murder was usually a simple matter, with the victim and the perpetrator well
known to each other, and each step of their dance towards death well observed by others. But every now and then a complete mystery came along and then it required patience and time to sift through
the facts and decide what was relevant and what could be discarded. Unfortunately for him, the Chekists weren’t renowned for their patience.

Andreychuk, his flat cap on his knees, his eyes downcast and his shoulders bent, coughed into his hand. It was a question – when are you going to stop looking at me and when are you going
to start questioning me?

‘You’re the caretaker here, correct?’ Korolev said, after a further pause.

‘Yes, Comrade Korolev. We met earlier.’

‘I remember. You were the last known person to see Comrade Lenskaya alive.’ Korolev gave the caretaker another long, hard look. ‘And the first known person to see her
dead.’

‘I was,’ Andreychuk said, not seeming to like the way those two little sentences sounded. Korolev didn’t blame him. There were detectives who’d have stopped the
investigation at this point, and procurators who’d have felt happy the case was resolved. Everyone had quotas to fill these days, now that administering justice was considered just as
quantifiable a task just as mining coal.

‘Well, Comrade?’ Korolev asked, and waited, aware of the value of the open-ended question. Andreychuk lifted his eyes, squinting slightly. He shook his head slowly from side to side.
It was true, Korolev thought, the caretaker was in a bad situation.

‘I was checking the house,’ Andreychuk began. ‘Everyone was down in the village so I was going to shut the place up. But I saw the light on in the young lady comrade’s
office and so I knocked.’

‘When was this?’

‘At about seven-thirty. I remember because I was due to be down in the village for the film people, but I know my duty, so when I saw the light on I went to find out.’

‘Find out what?’ Korolev said, keeping his voice neutral.

‘What she was up to, of course.’

‘And?’

‘She was typing – on a black typewriter.’ He paused, as if remembering the scene. ‘She said she wasn’t coming down to the village and I wasn’t to bother about
her. So I left her there, on her own.’

‘So she was the only person in the house when you left? There was no one else?’

Andreychuk looked at Korolev, and then at his feet. ‘I couldn’t swear to that, Comrade Captain. I didn’t check every last room, and I’m not asked to. I was in a rush as
well. There might have been someone in one of the upstairs rooms, for example, sleeping perhaps, but there were no other lights on. And if someone wanted to hide themselves – well, I
don’t check the place that way. It’s a big house, and I have to lock up the rest of the College buildings as well. I keep the place running – I’m not a watchman.’

‘But you saw no one – that’s useful. And you locked the house after you?’

‘I did.’ Andreychuk clearly felt more confident about this answer.

‘Why did you leave Lenskaya alone in the house?’

‘She was like that, Comrade. Always working. It wasn’t unusual for her to be working when the rest would be laughing around the place.’

‘I see, and when you returned later the house was completely secure, is that correct? And no signs of a break-in?’

‘Nothing.’

‘And you were the first person to return to the house?’

‘I opened the house for the film people when they’d finished.’

‘Tell me exactly what you saw when you found her.’

The caretaker spoke slowly – as though he were living through the moment of discovery once again so as to describe it the better.

‘She was hanging from the bracket in the dining hall, the one you saw. The rope had cut into her neck – it hadn’t cut her skin, but it had been pulled into her neck by her
weight as far as it could go, almost to her ears, and her head had fallen forward. There was a chair on the ground beside her – I thought she must have stood on it, and kicked it away before
– ’ his voice caught – ‘before she died. Her arms were hanging straight down. She was wearing the clothes you saw her in, and, well, she was dead all right.’

Korolev wrote down the caretaker’s words verbatim, then looked up at him. ‘How high from the ground was she, Citizen? When you found her?’

‘Her feet, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Only a few inches off the ground.’ The caretaker held his hands apart – four inches or so.

‘What you did you do?’

‘Well.’ Andreychuk’s eyes moved sideways as if wanting to avoid the mental image the question prompted. ‘I dropped to my knees, if the truth be told. I’d just
opened the door, the film comrades had finished in the village and everyone was coming back, and I saw her. Hanging there. And I could see she was dead straight off.’

‘And then? You cut her down?’

‘Yes, we did.’

‘We?’

‘I know Comrade Shymko was one of them. The others – well, I’ve been trying to remember myself, but the only face I can see now is hers. We stood on a table, and treated her as
gently as we could.’

‘You liked her?’

‘She was a good woman. A fine woman. I think everyone liked her.’

‘Any enemies you know of? Any arguments she might have had, anything at all?’

‘She was popular as far as I know. But I’m only the caretaker.’

Korolev felt a stab of frustration that clenched his knuckles white around the pen. Only a caretaker, was he? He didn’t have eyes in his head? He damned well did if his description of
finding her was anything to go by.

‘What about particular friends, or lovers?’ he said, keeping his voice calm.

‘I don’t get involved in other people’s business,’ Andreychuk answered, his eyes dropping to his feet once again. Korolev studied him, wondering what he was holding
back.

‘I’ll ask that question again, Citizen. Had she a lover, or a particular friend or friends?’

‘She was friendly with most people. I don’t know about her having a lover. I’d tell you if I knew something. I know my duty.’ The words were barely audible.

‘Can you write, Citizen?’ Korolev asked, allowing his voice to harden.

‘Yes, Comrade Captain. I can write all right.’

‘Well, I want you to write me a list of everyone you thought she was “friendly” with. When she saw them and so on. Bring it back to me in an hour.’

Andreychuk nodded, still not meeting his eyes.

‘And another question. The doors to the house – you’re certain all of them were locked when you left and when you returned?’

Andreychuk took a bunch of keys from his pocket, as though to remind himself, then nodded slowly.

‘I’m certain they were locked when I left, and I know the front door was locked when I returned because I was the one who opened it. As for the others, after we found her . .
.’ His voice tailed off.

‘Everything was in confusion, I’m sure. Do you remember unlocking them though? When things had calmed down.’

‘No, but others have keys to the house and some of the doors can be opened from the inside without a key. Do you think she might have let him in? The killer?’

Korolev looked up from his notebook.

‘I don’t think anything at the moment, Comrade,’ Korolev said. ‘My job is to establish possibilities and then prove them or disprove them.’

But at the moment it seemed there were a lot of possibilities and not much to disprove any of them.

‘Will there be anything else?’ Andreychuk asked.

‘For the moment that’s all,’ Korolev said and then, when the caretaker made to rise, he looked up at him. ‘One thing. You said earlier that Lenskaya told you she was from
these parts? When was that?’

‘I’m not sure I remember it. Perhaps I was mistaken.’

‘You seemed sure enough earlier. Did she say from where?’

The caretaker seemed to be considering the question. He didn’t look comfortable.

‘I don’t think so. I think I was mistaken.’

‘You’re sure she said nothing, then?’

Andreychuk shrugged.

Korolev didn’t say anything, but he was sure the fellow had more to tell them. He’d let Slivka have a go at him in the morning. And perhaps one of the other interviews would shed
some light on the matter in the meantime. He made a quick note to himself.

‘You can go, but we’ll want to talk to you again. And if I were you, Citizen Andreychuk, I’d work on that memory of yours.’

The caretaker nodded, bobbed his head in thanks, and quickly left the room. Korolev considered joining one of the Militiamen, already, he hoped, presenting the first interviewees with their menu
of questions, but decided against it. It would only confuse them if he deviated from the script. Instead he looked at his list for the next interviewee Slivka had lined up for him – Sorokina,
the actress. Well, if nothing else, this case had at least one compensation.

Anyone who’d been to the cinema in the last ten years had almost certainly seen Barikada Sorokina shining in the darkness. She’d grown up on the screen, at first a child and then a
young girl and now a beautiful woman. As might be expected, she was often either defending the barricades for which she was named, or storming them. Born to Party members in the tsar’s time,
her name spoke of the struggle that had preceded the Revolution, and now, twenty-five years later, she was the embodiment of the People’s hope for the future, and their determination to
defend all that had been achieved. Whenever Barikada stepped before the camera it was to lead them onwards, and whether it was to move impossible quantities of earth in order to complete a delayed
canal project or to attack a White fortress Barikada always led by example. Of course, it often resulted in her own tragic death, but Soviet citizens knew it was their duty to put the Party and the
State’s welfare before their own. And if they didn’t, Barikada’s selfless heroism reminded them.