The Bloody Meadow (26 page)

‘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?

THE BEDROOM window squeaked as Korolev rubbed at it, clearing the mist. The sky outside was a dark, dark blue. Dawn was imminent and it looked promising – it wasn’t
raining, and it wasn’t snowing, even if at some stage during the night a thin carpet of white had been spread across the landscape. To his surprise, he found himself optimistic about the day
ahead – it was a day that promised to be one of revelations and developments, and in his experience that was the sort of day you wanted to get a head start on. He turned to look at Les Pins,
snuggled under what appeared to be an unfair allocation of blankets, and then made his way to the bathroom.

§

Ten minutes later he was making his way across the courtyard when he saw a familiar figure come out of the corner cottage.

‘Comrade Mushkina,’ Korolev called out. She turned towards him, her eyes squinting as if struggling to identify him.

‘Korolev?’

‘Yes, Korolev. I was wondering if I could have a few moments of your time.’

‘I’m just going for a walk,’ Mushkina replied, indicating the path that led around the side of the house with a flick of her stick.

‘I’m sure it won’t take more than a moment. We could go back inside if you’d like.’

Although, now that he thought of it, her cottage contained the angry Chekist major who was also her son. Why hadn’t he offered to talk to her in the investigation room? It was almost as
close.

‘Come in and welcome,’ she said, opening the door to a small hallway and leading the way. Korolev took off his hat and dipped underneath the lintel even though it wasn’t that
close to his head. He followed Mushkina through to a large sitting room.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he said.

‘That’s quite all right, Korolev.’

A copy of Furmanov’s
Chapayev
lay on the table, the faded lettering of the title barely legible on its upturned spine. It looked as though it had been read more than a few times.
She’d been a political commissar herself, hadn’t she? Perhaps the book had some resonance for her.

‘What can I do for you?’ she asked, following his eyeline to the book, then examining him in turn as though searching for the answers to some questions of her own. Korolev had to
remind himself that he was the one meant to be interrogating her, not the other way round.

‘I’ve heard about the events down at the Militia station, if that’s what you’ve come to tell me about,’ she said, before he had a chance to ask her anything.
‘A great surprise. Andreychuk always gave the impression of being a good worker but it seems we must be careful of even those we feel we know quite well these days.’

Korolev took his notebook from his overcoat pocket, opening it at the first clean page.

‘It’s about Citizen Andreychuk I’ve come.’

‘I guessed as much.’

‘It’s possible he took a journey over towards Krasnogorka last week. With Citizen Lenskaya. Do you know anything about that?’

‘I think he said something about having been asked to drive one of the film people somewhere, but he didn’t mention where to, or who had asked him.’

‘Do you remember the day?’

‘Thursday, perhaps. I’m not sure. He said it wouldn’t affect his other duties, so I agreed and gave it no more thought.’

‘He went to a village called Angelinivka; it’s on the border.’

‘Yes, the Dnester runs past it. Although it’s wide at that point.’

‘Did he have a pass to visit the area?’

‘He would have had, yes. We have connections with
kolkhoz
s in the border areas, and have students over there at this very moment.’

‘So he could have been over that way quite often recently?’

‘Several times since the new year.’

It occurred to Korolev that if Andreychuk
was
involved in some kind of terrorist conspiracy, this would be a perfect cover. He considered the point for a moment before changing tack.

‘Did you see anything unusual yesterday – at the time of Andreychuk’s escape? I believe you were walking near the village at around six o’clock.’

‘Yes, with Comrade Les Pins. We didn’t go into the village itself, but we were close enough. If I’d seen anything suspicious you can be assured I would have informed you
directly.’

‘I’m sure you would,’ Korolev replied, flicking back through the pages of his notebook to check his memory of his conversation with Les Pins the night before. ‘Did you
say you were with Comrade Les Pins?’

‘Yes. He speaks a Russian you don’t hear much these days. I like to listen to him.’

‘I was curious about that,’ Korolev said. ‘Where he acquired such Russian, I mean.’

‘His father was a diplomat in Petersburg for a few years at the end of the last century; he went home with a Russian wife,’ Mushkina said, before correcting herself. ‘In
Leningrad, I meant. But Les Pins is still a good comrade, despite his class background. He has some interesting insights into the situation in Spain.’

‘And where did your walk take you?’

‘Around the house and the College mainly.’

‘I wonder if I could have your exact route, Comrade Mushkina. At what time you started walking, at what time you finished, and who you met. If anyone.’

Mushkina looked at him sharply, but her voice, when she responded, was calm.

‘Timing is difficult, Comrade Captain. I don’t wear a watch. But if you say it was at six o’clock then I won’t disagree with you. It could well have been, it was
certainly getting dark. I would think we left not long before five-thirty, we took a walk around the lake, and then he accompanied me around the College. We saw a few of the film people and Gradov,
the sergeant from the village. But we didn’t speak to anyone. I would imagine we finished here no later than six-thirty.’

‘And you went nowhere near the village?’

‘No.’

‘And you didn’t see Lomatkin, the journalist?’

‘Should we have seen him?’

‘Not necessarily. And if you didn’t see him, you didn’t see him. Now, if you don’t mind, let’s go over it once again – and if you can give me the descriptions
of the film people you saw, I’d be grateful. It may be they saw something that you didn’t.’

§

The shadows cast by the courtyard buildings were long in the watery dawn sun when Korolev left Mushkina’s cottage. As he walked back towards the house he wondered why Les
Pins had said he was reading in his room at the time of the escape, when in fact he’d been with Mushkina. And then there was Andreychuk driving around the border area at will – what was
he to make of that?

He looked up to find himself face to face with Slivka. She looked surprisingly chirpy for first thing in the morning.

‘You look like you slept well,’ he said.

‘Spectacularly, Chief. Really – a world-class sleep. A sleep the like of which an American millionaire would give his last dollar for.’

‘I’m pleased for you.’

‘We’ve had a bit of luck,’ Slivka said, smiling. ‘Lomatkin’s print showed up in the station. Firtov just called to tell me.’

‘Lomatkin’s?’ Korolev said, thinking hard. ‘Where in the station?’

‘On the bars to the cell.’

‘Interesting. Anywhere else?’

‘Not so far.’

‘Any other unidentified prints?’

‘They’re still going through them. But don’t you see? This means he was there.’

‘You’re right, it’s good news. Did you call your mother, by the way?’

‘I did, she was pleased to hear from me. She thinks it will snow again later on.’

So no word from Kolya yet, then.

‘Well, let’s have a word with the famous journalist, shall we?’

They fell into step and walked towards the house as he told her Mushkina’s news.

‘What do you think?’ he asked as they climbed the stairs to the veranda, in front of the windows Lenskaya had sat behind the night she’d died.

‘Did we ever fingerprint Les Pins, Chief?’

‘I believe so, but check with Firtov,’ Korolev said as they entered the dining room. There was laughter at the far end, but it fizzled out as Korolev’s cold gaze searched for
Lomatkin amongst the faces that turned towards the door in curiosity. Shymko was sitting with Belakovsky at the nearest table and Korolev approached them, leaning down to ask quietly for the
whereabouts of the journalist.

‘He left about ten minutes ago,’ Shymko said.

‘For the western defences.’ Belakovsky confirmed. ‘Comrade Babel went with him. But he left you a note, didn’t he?’

‘Lomatkin?’

‘No, Babel.’

‘Babel left me a note?’ Korolev said, wondering what the writer was up to. ‘Where is this note?’

It turned out the note was with Larisa in the investigation room and it was short and to the point:

Korolev was confused. He wasn’t supposed to be meeting Babel. He turned to Slivka, showing her the piece of paper.

‘I think we need to call your friends in the border guards again.’

§

Slivka drove, her peaked cap turned backwards on her head as if this would in some way improve the car’s aerodynamics, and her shoulders hunched over the wheel as if her
pushing it forward would propel the vehicle faster. After yet another two-wheeled corner Korolev decided it was time to rein her in.

‘Listen, Slivka, it won’t do much good if we arrive in a pair of coffins.’

Slivka looked at him in frustration.

‘But what if he escapes?’

‘Lomatkin? We’ve alerted the whole countryside – if the border guards haven’t set up roadblocks on every cart track from here to Kiev I’d be surprised. Don’t
worry, we’ll catch up with them soon enough.’

Indeed, they were approaching a checkpoint even as he spoke – a khaki-coloured car was pulled into the side of the road and a truck with brown canvas sides was barring the way ahead. The
spot had been chosen well; on both sides of the road there were deep drainage ditches that would soon put a stop to anyone who tried to break through, but the heavy machine gun aiming at them would
probably halt most vehicles short of a tank long before that.

Slivka stopped the car and Korolev showed his identification to the officer who approached them, hand on the butt of his holstered revolver.

‘What’s a Moscow detective doing in this part of the world?’ the border guard asked, having examined the Militia card for long enough to have spelt it out letter by letter.

‘I’m assisting Odessa CID with a murder enquiry. I take it you fellows are looking for someone called Andreychuk. Well, so are we. You’re doing it at our request.’

The fellow looked down at the Militia card once again, and then back at Korolev, his face relaxing from warily vigilant to something more quizzical, possibly even amused. He pointed to the
identification photograph.

‘Korolev. Alexei Dmitriyevich? Didn’t you used to play football for Presnaya? A few years back – central defender?’

Korolev examined the border guard afresh – he didn’t look that old. Twenty-five maybe? It was strange to have your past brought up in the middle of the steppe by a fresh-faced
youngster.

‘A long time ago, perhaps. But even I’ve half-forgotten that.’

‘My father played goalkeeper. Ivanov?’

‘Ivanov?’ Korolev looked at the boy’s face and caught the echo of another one. Nikolai Ivanov. ‘I remember him. Spared our blushes many’s the time. You must be
young Alexander. Sandro, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, that’s me.’ The boy’s face creased into a pleased smile.

‘How did you end up here?’

‘I was posted,’ Ivanov replied, looking round at the boundless horizon, flat in every direction except for the occasional line of trees marking the edges of the fields and calming
the wind that whistled across them. The proud lift of the chin didn’t quite convince Korolev that Sandro wouldn’t rather be serving somewhere else.

‘If you see my father, tell him I’m well,’ the boy said, handing him back his Militia card.

‘I will. But, tell me, we’re also looking for two men who might have come this way not so long ago – Lomatkin and Babel. We asked that they be detained.’