by William Ryan
‘These doctors are worse than wolves, Slivka, I swear it to you.’
Slivka said nothing, just shook her head sadly. There was one thing that interested Korolev about the body parts, though – a large number of them had the tattoos that marked them out as belonging to the tribe of Thieves. He pointed to a blue-inked monastery that graced a deformed knuckle.
‘A few blue fingers, I see.’
Slivka shrugged. ‘They have a habit of dying unexpectedly and unclaimed.’
‘True,’ Korolev said, looking at the floating head again and wondering who had decided this fellow’s life had gone on long enough. He turned back to the room. Eight stainless-steel dissecting tables, in two rows of four, were visible and on one of them a sheet covered most of a human body, except for the blanched feet pointing up at the ceiling.
Despite the weak light, he could see Slivka’s cheeks rounding in amusement, and was that a flash of teeth? Was she laughing at him, the scamp? It was all well and good for the likes of her – she probably ticked off the days till the next autopsy she could attend, ghoul that she was. He, on the other hand, hated every aspect of the clinical process that the examination of the dead called for. And he could smell the dead girl, that unforgettable undercurrent of decay in the still air of the room. A place like this was too close to the next world for Korolev. He knew that if he listened hard enough he’d hear voices from the cabinet, begging him to rescue the poor unfortunates imprisoned there and bury them, deep beneath the ground, the way a human being should be buried, in the shadow of an Orthodox cross to mark their passing.
‘You may laugh, Sergeant Slivka,’ he said, ‘but by the time you get to my age you’ll have seen enough death to know it should be treated with respect. It’s a precious thing, a life.’
If the truth were told half the reason he’d become a homicide detective, and a good one, was to try to make some sense of death.
The door swung open, and Peskov came in, his midriff swathed in a leather apron and his bald head invisible under a surgical cap. He flicked a switch and the room was flooded with a burst of electric light. Korolev turned, his eyes squinting against the glare, and saw that the doctor had been followed into the room by a younger female assistant carrying an enamelled tray, on which a number of glass jars were arranged.
‘Waiting in the dark? Did no one turn on the lights for you?’ Peskov seemed determinedly cheerful, even though his face looked hollow with fatigue.
‘No,’ Korolev snapped, feeling an irrational anger towards the pathologist and his dismembering ways.
‘I see,’ Peskov said quietly, his eyes dropping to the sheeted body of the girl. ‘Well, we were right. She didn’t die from hanging. Strangled first, hung afterwards. That’s it in a nutshell. From behind. No signs of a struggle, but that’s not that unusual as you know.’
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Korolev said and, remembering they were on the same side, nodded his thanks. ‘No surprise, but good to have it confirmed.’
‘We did make one new discovery for you, Comrade Captain, that I think will be of interest. Anna?’
The young assistant, at Peskov’s nod, stepped forward and placed the tray on the stainless-steel table beside the girl’s body.
She seemed to be shy of speaking at first, but when Peskov nodded once again, she began to describe in a low voice the processes that had been undertaken to analyse the girl’s blood, the contents of her stomach, her skin, her hair and God alone knew what else.
‘While most of the tests were inconclusive or negative – at least so far – it’s clear from the analysis of the citizen’s blood and her stomach contents that she ingested morphine shortly before her death. The percentage present in her blood could conceivably have been fatal, if another cause had not apparently intervened.’
‘There,’ Peskov said, turning unnaturally bright eyes towards them. ‘What do you make of that?’
Chapter Eleven
GREY CLOUDS were beginning to roll in from the sea by the time they emerged from the School of Anatomy, in Korolev’s case with a feeling of enormous relief.
‘Well,’ he said.
Slivka put her hands in her pockets. ‘No more beating about the bush, anyway.’
‘No.’
‘Who on the filmset would have access to morphine, do you think?’
‘That I don’t know, Slivka. Now, first things first,’ he said as they began to climb the steps to where the car was parked. ‘Let’s get hold of her medical records. Maybe she’d a good reason for taking it.’
‘It’s possible.’ Slivka’s cigarette tip flared orange. ‘But if not, well then – our killer gives the girl a possibly fatal dose of morphine, then strangles her and then hangs her. He’s nothing if not thorough.’
‘Or she could have been an addict,’ Korolev said, following his own train of thought.
‘Peskov didn’t find any signs of intravenous morphine addiction. No needle marks. Pills perhaps?’
‘Maybe. Of course, if it wasn’t taken voluntarily by her, then someone could have slipped the drug into her food or drink. We should find out what she ate and drank, if we can. Let’s keep an open mind although, if you think about it, it seems likely that two such unusual events are connected.’
‘You mean the strangulation and the morphine?’
‘Yes,’ Korolev said, catching sight of a wholly unexpected face on the other side of the street. ‘The likelihood that there’s a connection must be higher than that there isn’t.’
Which was exactly what he was thinking about the appearance of a Moscow Thief on the other side of street, particularly such a nasty specimen of the breed as little Mishka, Count Kolya’s sidekick.
‘Militia headquarters,’ Korolev said, his mind made up, ‘where is it again?’
‘Bebel Street. Why?’
‘I think I’ll take a walk – to clear my head – I can find my own way there. You probably need to fill your boss in on what’s been happening anyway. Say I see you in an hour or so?’
‘As you wish,’ Slivka said, her face showing no reaction to his odd behaviour, which itself was odd. Well, he’d explain it to her later on. In the meantime, Mishka had given him a come-hither look, rolled the toothpick he was chewing to the other side of his mouth, and sauntered off along the street, the points of his patent leather shoes angling inwards as he walked – in a way that marked him out as clearly as if he’d had the word ‘gangster’ tattooed on his forehead.
Korolev crossed the street to follow him, giving his Walther a discreet pat in its shoulder holster as he did so. He’d only met the vermin he was following twice, but one of the encounters had resulted in Korolev waking up in a Lubianka prison cell with a lump on his head the size of an orange, and this time he was taking no chances.
§
It was a strange performance, Korolev thought, as he shadowed Mishka at a distance of about twenty metres. The Thief clearly wanted to be followed, but he also seemed to want to irritate Korolev as much as possible at the same time. Every now and then he’d stop to tie his shoelace, give Korolev an appraising glance that bordered on the insolent, then turn to admire some pleasing female citizen and let loose a wolf whistle. He wore an immaculate white shirt, open at his neck, the collar spread out on top of a sports jacket, while everyone else was still bundled up in their winter coats. Korolev wasn’t close enough to hear what he was saying to the women who were passing, but to judge from the looks he received in return he wasn’t making polite conversation. The only thing that stopped Korolev from taking a few quick steps forward, grabbing the Thief by the collar of that crisp cotton shirt of his and throwing him into the gutter was the growing certainty he felt that Mishka’s strange performance meant that Kolya was in town. And Korolev was very curious to know why the king of the Moscow Thieves was this far south.
Although Korolev didn’t know Odessa that well, he’d the sense that the dance Mishka was leading him in was taking them towards the sea. He kept track of street names as they
walked, Red Guard Street, Peter the Great Street, Red Army Street, and when they approached the small square at the end of Karl Marx Street, Mishka turned and there it was – the sea – a rolling grey that extended into the distance.
Mishka looked back at him and winked, and led Korolev to a wide, tree-lined promenade that overlooked the harbour. He stopped in the shadow of a toga-clad statue, in front of which familiar steps marched down to the docks. Korolev had seen the famous film about the Potemkin mutiny, and had flinched back into his seat as the merciless white-jacketed guardsmen had slaughtered the innocent people step by bloody step till they reached the bottom. He knew where he was now, right enough.
‘He’s waiting for you over there, Comrade Captain.’ Mishka had turned back to join him, interrupting Korolev’s thoughts. ‘Some view, eh? I’ll bet you’d like to get your shorts on and go for a paddle, wouldn’t you?’
Mishka’s face was smiling, but his eyes glinted like two knives ready to be jammed into your guts if you gave him half a chance.
‘A bit cold for me, Mishka, but you go ahead. Maybe take a bit of a swim while you’re at it. I’ve heard Turkey’s not far away – a fit lad like you, you never know, you might make it.’
Mishka’s smile stretched so that his sharp yellow teeth were bared like a fighting dog’s. The Party theorists might say Mishka was a victim of the feudal phase of history that the country was struggling to leave behind and therefore capable of reform, but Korolev disagreed. His cop’s instinct told him Mishka was only ever going to have ended up one way – as evil as a snake in a shoe. Nothing would reform a piece of work like Mishka short of a bullet, and whoever gave it to him had better give the rat an extra one just to make sure.
‘You’re a funny man for a Ment, did anyone ever tell you that?’ the Thief whispered, coming so close that his breath was warm against Korolev’s face. ‘I’d say you have them laughing all day long in Petrovka Street.’
‘Brush your teeth next time you come this close, Mishka, or I might just have to brush them for you.’ Korolev took Mishka’s elbow and let the rat feel a little of his strength. Mishka started, his free hand reaching for his pocket, but then he seemed to force himself to relax, and even managed a contemptuous smile. Of course, Korolev could have walked round the Thief, but he wanted the boy to know that wasn’t the way this Ment did things. He held Mishka’s arm for a moment, squeezing it hard and looking into those eyes, seeing nothing but evil, then moved him sideways, giving him a little pat as he let him go.
‘We’ll meet again, Mishka.’
‘I’m counting the seconds, Ment,’ Mishka spat, his expression slipping into a snarl, and Korolev felt a little surge of pleasure. He’d rattled him, he was sure of it, and that Mishka knew he knew it made it all the sweeter.
Count Kolya was standing to the side of the steps, watching the confrontation. The leader of the Moscow Thieves hadn’t changed much since the last time Korolev had seen him; his shoulders still stretched the overcoat he was wearing and his broad cheekbones still looked like ridges of solid muscle. His physical presence was one thing, but your attention was drawn to the dark eyes that seemed to weigh a man as surely as any scales.
‘Kolya,’ Korolev said by way of greeting and the Thief nodded in acknowledgement. They stood there, examining each other, like boxers squaring up in a ring. Then Kolya’s mouth twitched upwards in an unexpected smile.
‘Korolev. The steppe is wide, but the road is narrow. No?’
Korolev was struck, not for the first time, by Kolya’s cultured voice.
‘I suppose so,’ he said, ‘at least it is if you have one of your band drag me onto the road when you happen to be passing.’
‘Mishka being his usual friendly self?’
Korolev ignored the question, inclining his head towards the sea instead.
‘So you brought me here for the view, did you?’
‘I’ve a good reason, don’t worry.’
The Thief pointed a thick thumb, blue with prison ink, behind him. Korolev knew the tattoo – the many-domed monastery that signified an authority amongst the Thieves. But that only hinted at Kolya’s power: the only higher authority amongst Thieves in Moscow was God, or maybe Comrade Stalin. And even that wasn’t certain.
A funicular train made up of a single dark green carriage with the red star of Soviet Power emblazoned on its side stood empty at the top of rails that ran down alongside the steps to the harbour. A rope from which hung a cardboard sign that read ‘out of order’ blocked the approach.
‘Why don’t we take a little trip? I think the train is working now,’ Kolya said and then, seeing Korolev’s bemusement, ‘I don’t trust walls much these days – people like to put microphones in them and, next thing you know, you’re up to your neck in men in uniforms trying to feel the thickness of your collar. No offence, Korolev.’
‘What’s an honest criminal to do?’ Korolev said.
As they entered the carriage, they were greeted by the hum of machinery and a small jerk as the train began to move down towards the port at a pace so slow it would have shamed a snail.
‘You’re right, it’s a dilemma. Perhaps I should take a job in a factory, give up my evil ways. Join the Party and live like an honest Bolshevik.’ There was an emphasis on the word ‘honest’ that indicated all too clearly just how honest Kolya thought ‘honest’ Party members were.
‘At least then you’d be contributing something to the welfare of the People.’
‘The People’s welfare, Korolev? You think your precious Bolsheviks care about the People’s welfare? They don’t – they only care about surviving. And they’d stab their own mother if they thought it would help them survive a little longer. The Lord knows how many people died round these parts for a quota that could never be filled, and all because some fat Party bureaucrat living off canteen food knew he’d be the next one buried if it wasn’t.’
Kolya’s tone was more weary than angry and Korolev wasn’t sure how to respond to words that from anyone else would be considered suicidal. He looked out of the window at the port below and decided a change of subject would be best.
‘Isn’t this a little dramatic? You and me in a tourist train? Just so we can have a quiet chat.’
‘We’re players in a dangerous game, Korolev. It’s best to be careful.’
‘I’m only here on holiday.’
Kolya gave a brief bark of laughter and for a moment he seemed genuinely amused.
‘A holiday? That’s good. I’m here on holiday as well, of course. On the express instructions of the People’s Commissar of State Security. How about you?’
Korolev felt fresh air on his tongue as his mouth dropped open in amazement. Kolya waved the detective’s surprise away, like a lazy man swatting a fly.
‘A little joke – it’s just I have men who tell me things, same as you people.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Korolev said, wondering how the hell Kolya had sources that high in the NKVD.
‘Of course you don’t,’ Kolya said. ‘That woman – what was her name? Yes, Lenskaya – she committed suicide. Or maybe not? Come on, Korolev, it’s time for us to have a talk.’
‘The last time we talked, Kolya, you and that little fiend back there talked me right into a cell in the Lubianka.’
Kolya’s face hardened. ‘I’d no choice, Korolev – there was something important at stake and not much time for discussion. I was pleased it worked out all right for you, believe me.’
Korolev rubbed at the scar on his scalp that had been left by one of Kolya’s men when they’d knocked him cold. It was true, there had been something important at stake, and if Kolya hadn’t left him on the floor of the cultist’s kitchen for State Security to find, well, strange as it seemed in retrospect, things might well have ended up a lot worse.
‘I’m not looking for an apology, Kolya. Tell me what you have to tell me, and then we’ll see.’
Kolya nodded, then turned to face the sea and ges
tured down at the port buildings below and the harbour full of ships – everything from square-rigged three-masters to rusting oil tankers, from battleships to fishing boats.
‘My mother’s people are from this town, Korolev. They’re of the Jewish variety. Nothing wrong with that, in my opinion. The best Jews are straight talkers, good to do business with, handy to have around when things get rough and don’t squeal to the likes of you when things go wrong. And the worst are no worse than the worst of ours. They came here when the city was founded – they could work at what they wanted, do business as they would and they prospered. Do you know why Odessa is important?’
‘Fill me in.’
‘Look at the sea – no ice. Oh, it’s not warm, but this is a port that never freezes over and it’s open every day of the year that isn’t blowing a hurricane. Goods from all over the world come in, and where there’s business like that there’s business for a man like me.’
Korolev was surprised. He knew Kolya ruled Moscow, at least within the world of the Thieves, but not that his reach stretched as far as Odessa. Perhaps his surprise showed, because Kolya nodded in acknowledgement.
‘It’s business. Because of my mother’s people, I have connections here and responsibilities. The Party may not approve of speculation, but certain people in Moscow want certain products and someone has to supply them. And certain other people in Moscow also want to send certain things abroad, but you know all about that. These products travel through Odessa often as not – things are more flexible here than where we come from and it helps that there’s no winter interruption.’
Korolev could imagine what these products were – narcotics, foreign currency, valuables of one sort or another, in short, anything that turned a profit. A thought occurred to him.
‘Morphine?’
‘As you would expect,’ Kolya said, scanning Korolev’s face for a clue as to the significance of the quesion – a clue which Korolev did his best not to give. After a moment the Thief shrugged. ‘Listen, Korolev, I do business with people who bring things in from abroad. From Istanbul, Genoa, Marseilles, Alexandria. Even further away. If someone wanted an elephant and had a thick enough stack of roubles, I could probably get it for them. And if that someone wanted to send the elephant back when he was done with it, I could speed it on its way.’
