by William Ryan
Korolev thought about arguing but he knew it would be pointless.
“Of course, Comrade Colonel. But, in the circumstances, if I could keep the lecture to an hour, I’d be grateful. Would that be acceptable?”
There was a pause and Korolev found himself drumming a pencil on the table. Yasimov, the only other person in the room with him, looked up and shook his head. Korolev smiled in apology and the pencil was still. Gregorin’s tinny voice broke the resulting silence.
“An hour should be enough if you’re concise, Comrade. After all, it’s a useful insight from a Militia colleague, not part of their course work. Yes, an hour will do. Tomorrow morning at nine, then. I’ll attend myself.”
“Thank you, Comrade Colonel,” Korolev said and then found his pencil was tapping the table once again. “Actually there is something more practical that State Security could assist me with. Did your colleague mention that the victim had been tortured?”
Yasimov’s head jerked up as if he’d been stuck with a pin. Korolev turned away, so as to avoid his colleague’s shocked stare and waited for the colonel to answer.
Gregorin’s voice sounded guarded. “He mentioned she was mutilated. Tortured you say? The poor woman, I only hope you catch the killer quickly. A madman by the sound of it.”
“Well, Comrade Colonel, it wasn’t pretty. Not pretty at all. He used electricity to burn her—I’ve never come across that before. I wondered whether it was a method State Security had ever encountered.”
Korolev’s question hung in the air like an artillery shell at the top of its flight and Korolev didn’t have to look at Yasimov to know he’d now gone deathly pale.
Gregorin, however, after a long pause merely sighed. “Comrade Korolev, you’ll be well aware that torture is prohibited by the Soviet Criminal Code as a means of interrogation. You aren’t suggesting that the NKVD would ever flout that prohibition, are you?”
“Of course not, Comrade Colonel,” Korolev felt sweat dampen the underarms of his shirt, “I only wondered whether your colleagues might have come across something similar. In their investigations of terrorist organizations? Or foreign spies, perhaps? At least, if they haven’t, it might allow me to rule out that line of inquiry. I hope you understand no other suggestion was intended.”
Korolev waited for an answer, the line crackling in his ear. He glanced over his shoulder at Yasimov, whose face was indeed as white as the murdered girl’s.
“Comrade Colonel?” Korolev said, wondering whether he’d been cut off. Perhaps a van was already on its way to arrest him.
“Yes, Captain, I’m still here. I’m considering whether any of the questions you’ve asked or, should I say, suggestions you’ve made, can be responded to. I don’t think they can. State Security takes precedence in all situations, you understand that, don’t you, Captain?”
The colonel placed a slight emphasis on Korolev’s rank, just enough to remind Korolev of the thinness of the ice under his feet. Korolev didn’t need the reminder—he was a lowly Militiaman, a flatfoot, whereas Gregorin was a staff colonel of the heroic NKVD, the defenders of the Revolution—the armed wing of the Party no less. The colonel’s driver probably outranked him in real terms.
“Of course, Comrade Colonel. I withdraw the questions. I tend to focus on the case in front of me and not take account of the wider social and political implications. It’s a criticism my colleagues have made to me before.”
“I believe your intentions were proper, Captain. If, as the situation develops, the NKVD consider they have relevant information which can be released to you, taking into account our primary responsibility to protect the State and the Party, then I’m sure we will assist you accordingly. In the meantime, however, please keep me informed on a daily basis. What you’ve told me suggests a State Security element may reveal itself in due course and it would be as well to be kept informed of the situation in case we have to intervene at a later stage. You may give me your first report after the lecture tomorrow morning.”
“Of course, Colonel. Thank you.”
The colonel hung up without saying goodbye and Korolev turned back to face Yasimov once again. Some color had returned to his friend’s cheeks, but beads of sweat still twinkled on his forehead.
“Damn you, Alexei,” Yasimov said, rubbing his brow, the anger going out of him with the gesture. “What the hell are you smiling about? If you’re going to have a conversation like that with a Chekist colonel, can’t you make sure I’m not in the room at the same time? In fact, if you don’t mind, make sure I’m not even in the city.”
Korolev shrugged his shoulders and opened a new file on the Razin Street murder.
“I’ve three children,” Yasimov muttered, as he returned to his own work. “And I look forward to them caring for me in my old age.”
Korolev was back in Razin Street an hour later and found Semionov waiting for him outside the church, along with the police photographer, Timofei Afanasovich Gueginov. The young Militiaman smiled when he saw Korolev.
“Alexei Dmitriyevich,” he said taking his arm, “the general has assigned me to assist with your investigation. He told me, ‘Young Semionov, Comrade Korolev will need help on this Razin Street affair and you’ll give it to him, or wind up directing traffic on Tverskaya with that idiot Larinin.’ Well, I’m against directing traffic and I’m against Comrade Larinin, so here I am, and at your command.”
Semionov took a step backward in order to give a half-salute, which seemed intended to be half-mocking. Korolev frowned and was pleased to see the salute stiffen into something approaching regulation standard.
“Good, I’m sure I’ll find plenty for you to do. I see you’ve met Comrade Gueginov. Has he set up yet?”
“Not yet, Alexei Dmitriyevich, but is that fellow really a police photographer? Don’t you need a steady hand for a job like that? With all the blood and everything? He’s got something quite badly wrong with him, I think.” He looked over at Gueginov, whose head was twisting in spasm. “See what I mean? Poor old fellow. Anyway, I had a look inside. Some mess, eh? I’ve never seen anything like it. Want me to handle anything in particular?”
Korolev suppressed a smile. Semionov’s mixture of self-confidence, naivety and amiability was almost irresistible. If Semionov was the future, things wouldn’t be too bad after all.
“Don’t you worry about Gueginov, he’s a first-rate man and experienced as well, which is more than I can say for some.”
Semionov looked abashed for a moment, but then grinned. “That was the other thing the general said—that I needed experience and you’d give it to me. Or a kick up the arse. He said I needed both.”
“The general is a wise man,” Korolev said and tried to keep his face stern. Semionov looked perturbed for a moment before Korolev relented.
“Have the forensics team been?”
“Yes, they finished up about half an hour ago. A lack of cleanliness among my Komsomol Comrades, I’m afraid—they think they could have up to two hundred different people’s fingerprints in the sacristy. It could take weeks to check them all out. The forensics boys think the killer might have been wearing gloves in any event, but they’ll call you this afternoon to confirm. And they say there are no useful markings in the footprints, although they suggest you have them photographed anyway. They didn’t look too happy when they left.”
“I see,” Korolev said, unsurprised. “Well, the next thing I need you to do is go to the local station and see how the door-to-door questioning is coming along. Captain Brusilov is the man in charge and he knows his stuff, so don’t presume otherwise just because he’s in uniform. Be polite, listen, assist if you feel you can. But don’t get on his nerves, because he’s the type of fellow who really will kick your arse. My guess is that the murder happened early this morning, so ask them to focus in particular on the period from ten o’clock last night until when the body was found—at least until the pathologist tells us differently.”
“No problem, Alexei Dmitriyevic
h. I’ll help the flatfoots out. Show them how it’s done.”
Korolev inhaled deeply, ready to lambast the youngster, but Semionov held up his hands and smiled. “A joke. I’ll be a real world-class diplomat, don’t worry.”
Korolev allowed his breath out slowly. “Be sure you are.”
“I will, I will. Komsomol’s honor.”
“Good and, speaking of your Komsomol’s honor, get hold of the Komsomol committee that looks after this place. We’ll need lists of anyone who had access to the sacristy. They’ll need to be fingerprinted as well, but forensics are probably organizing that already. Still, check that they are.”
Semionov produced a notebook and opened it, pointing over his shoulder into the church.
“There’s a Comrade from the Komsomol committee in there now with a couple of young lads. They’re in a side chapel. Demanded to be let in, crime scene or not: ‘The Komsomol movement must always move forward.’ I told them to keep out of the way, but I thought you’d want to talk to her anyway, as she’s the one who found the body. What was the rest—lists of people, fingerprints?”
He started to write notes. Korolev was mildly surprised, but pleased.
“That’ll do. Make notes of anything you come across on your travels, that’s the idea. A note doesn’t get forgotten. And when you’ve finished with Brusilov make sure you go and see the forensics team on your way back. Have a chat with them, keep them sweet. They’ll work that bit harder on the case if they think the detectives are keen. Go on, hurry. Call me at the Institute if you need me.”
Semionov clicked his heels like a Prussian and gave another cheeky salute. Korolev made as if to kick him, but Semionov was already five steps away.
“At your command, Comrade Captain,” he laughed over his shoulder and then he was gone.
Korolev shrugged and approached Gueginov. “I hope young Semionov wasn’t any trouble, Gueginov? He’s harmless, more or less.”
“Nuh-no trouble at all, Cuh-Comrade. He rolled muh-me a ci-cigarette, so he was ee-even quite useful.” Gueginov smirked and shook Korolev’s hand. “Sh-shall we get to wuh-work then?”
“Yes, please go ahead—I’ll come through in a few minutes. I need to see someone first.”
He entered the church and looked around. White light from the sacristy cut through the dark like a searchlight, but there was a softer, yellow light coming from a side chapel on the left. He walked toward it and found a girl with a pretty oval face sitting at one end of a table, an abacus and an open ledger in front of her. At the other end were two hungry-looking youngsters—one of them cutting up small slips of paper and the other then writing on them.
Korolev looked at the girl’s serious face and found himself strangely cheered by her rosy cheeks and down-turned mouth. She looked up, brushing a lock of black hair from her cheek, and he tried not to show the sudden warmth he felt toward her, this pretty little representation of Soviet youth.
“Good afternoon, Comrade. Captain Korolev, Moscow CID—investigating the murder.”
She was small when she rose, at least a head shorter than him, and he found himself leaning down toward her.
“You found the body, I believe?” he asked when she didn’t respond.
“Yes, it was a terrible thing. She was on the altar in the sacristy. Excuse me, on the former altar in the social room.”
“The social room?”
“It’s where we set up the buffet when we have a dance. We were meant to have one last night, but it was canceled. We have a political meeting before the dance, of course, but the Party believes in providing healthy opportunities for enjoyment to its socialist youth, as well as political education. That’s why we’re here. You’ll be out by Saturday, won’t you? We’re trying to make sure we don’t lose momentum. This kind of thing could set us back if we allowed it to.”
Her voice was faint and her eyes didn’t seem able to meet his. He saw the way her fingers pressed into the table, the tips white, and wondered if she was in shock. She lifted a hand and pointed at the slips of paper, the gesture seeming to cost her a lot of effort; the extended finger was visibly trembling.
“Tickets,” she said. “For the dance. In three days’ time.” One of the young men looked up at him without any interest.
“Can you tell me exactly what time you found her, Comrade?”
“Nine o’clock. I open the building every morning. I’m on the organizing committee. Lydia Kovalevskaya. Anything I can do to assist you—of course. Lieutenant Semionov said you’d have some questions. The door was open when I arrived—it had been forced—and then I found her. The blood was everywhere. Does it stain marble, blood? Will we be able to clean away the marks?” Kovalevskaya rubbed at the table with the palm of her hand. The two young men exchanged a smile.
“Are you all right, Comrade?” Korolev asked, wondering should he take her somewhere quieter. She thought about the question for a moment and then nodded.
“Yes, I think so. I’m sorry; I know I shouldn’t be upset—that I should be stronger. But what was done to her—it was horrible.”
“Your reaction is quite normal, Comrade.”
“Thank you, but your questions. Please ask me your questions.” She managed a tight smile as Korolev caught one of the young men raising an eyebrow to the other. Young scamps—hard as only the young could be.
“There was meant to be a dance that evening. It was canceled. Why was that?”
“An electricity problem, Comrade. Our connection to the grid was damaged. It was a temporary problem. They fixed it in time for the dance, but we’d already canceled.”
“Damaged? How?”
“Nothing suspicious. A workman cut through a cable on the construction site next door.”
Korolev considered her response and decided to have Semionov look into it.
“The thing is,” he said, “I’m wondering how the killer picked this place. He may just have been lucky, walked past, saw the dance was canceled from the posters and taken the opportunity that this provided. But even that would have had an element of uncertainty to it, do you see? Unless he knew something about the place, yes? The question is: how did he know he would be undisturbed? We think he came in about midnight. Is the church always shut then?”
“We prefer not to use the word church. It is a Komsomol recreational and political agitation center. We have concluded that former church is acceptable, however.”
Korolev felt his hand clenching in his pocket. He knew she was correct in strictly political terms, but still. Sometimes you couldn’t help but feel angry at the way some people spoke.
“Answer my question, please. The lectures can wait for a Party meeting.” She looked at him in shock. He realized he’d allowed some of his anger to show and then thought it wouldn’t do any harm. She needed strong direction, otherwise he wouldn’t get a damned thing out of her. He tapped the table to get her attention.
“I’m investigating a murder, Comrade. I don’t care how you refer to this building, it’s just a crime scene to me—understand?”
“There is no need for uncultured aggressiveness, Captain. The dance was in support of the Comrades in Spain. When there isn’t a dance or a special event, the club shuts at eight.” She spoke as if speaking to a child, and any warm feelings he had for her disappeared. The two young men had stopped working. He turned his head toward them and one didn’t even bother to hide his smirk.
“You. Name, patronymic, surname,” Korolev barked.
“Grichkin. Alexei Vladimirovich.”
“And you?”
“Nikolai Alexandrovich Zoshchenko.”
“Well, Grichkin, and you, Zoshchenko—I want a list of every member of this cell, and everyone who has attended a meeting or event in this former church, for the last six months.”
“But—” Zoshchenko began, his eyes looking at the other two in panic.
“But what? I don’t want to hear how difficult it will be, I want the damned list. And there will be no more public use
of this church until I get it, and it’s been checked, and I’m happy that it’s accurate. And if it’s incorrect in any way, I’ll find a nice spot in the Butyrka prison for you two to spend a little time together. Six hours. That’s what you have. Work on it together. And you can forget those blasted tickets until it’s done.”
“I must protest,” the girl looked like she was about to begin a long-winded analysis of the murder’s insignificance against the global scale of the Revolution when his hand slammed onto the table, causing the ledger to lift up into the air.
“Let me remind you, Comrade Kovalevskaya, that the Militia is part of State Security and that this crime was against a Soviet citizen in a Komsomol building. A crime against Soviet law takes priority here. And I’d be thinking very carefully about not cooperating fully, given the fact you and your Comrades here can’t even secure a damned social club at a time when the entire Revolution is under threat.”
After which things went a little more briskly. When he’d finished, he left three pale-faced Komsomols no doubt wondering which of the others to denounce first to save their hides. Not that he would be following it up—it was clear they knew nothing. About anything, probably.
Inside the sacristy Gueginov was unpacking camera equipment from the two cases he’d brought with him. Looking at him, Korolev had to accept that Semionov had a point. The man didn’t look well suited to his job. Aside from the stutter, which worsened in the presence of strangers, there was also the spasm that juddered through his whole body every minute or so—more often when he was nervous. It was strange then that he seemed relatively relaxed as he prepared to photograph the butchered woman, timing his movements to avoid the involuntary twitching.
“Scuh-scaring the yuh-young fuh-folk were you?”
“You heard me? Well, sometimes you have to shout to be heard.”
“Tru-true. Vuh-very true. Suh-so, ha-have you any ideas who did this yet?” Gueginov asked as he lined up a picture.
“Not yet. And those youngsters weren’t much help. Perhaps the autopsy will tell us something. Can you take a picture of the clothes?”
