The Bloody Meadow (21 page)

‘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.