The Bloody Meadow cadk-2

by William Ryan

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Babel the writer.’

  ‘Babel?’

  ‘A surprise?’

  ‘Anything firm?’ Korolev asked, ignoring Yasimov’s question for the moment as his mind scrambled to fit the new piece of information together with what he knew already. Why had the writer not told him he was romantically connected with the victim? Unless, of course, he’d a damned good reason not to.

  ‘Rumours. Want me to see if I can flesh it out a bit?’

  ‘If you can find out anything useful to do with this damned case I’ll be forever grateful, Mitya – it’s turning out to be a pig. And the more about the girl’s personal life the better.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. One more thing, before you hang up.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You asked about Lomatkin.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I had a sniff around. Interesting fellow – a man about town, although not so much in recent months. He used to have a bit of a reputation – a few people have mentioned him spending time with undesirable elements and gambling at billiards. By undesirable elements, I mean elements with blue fingers.’ Thieves. In Moscow. Kolya’s people, then. So there might be something in what the Thief had said about Lomatkin. ‘And there’s some suggestion he might have dabbled in cocaine,’ Yasimov continued. ‘Although apparently he’s a reformed character since he began seeing the dead girl. Make of that what you will.’

  Cocaine. Was that what Kolya had been getting at in his phone call?

  ‘Anyone mention morphine?’

  ‘No. Want me to go back and ask again?’

  ‘It might be worth it. And see if you can find out more about these undesirable elements, will you, Mitya? And whether any of his acquaintances might be down here on the shoot. I’m interested in the cocaine – the autopsy shows the dead girl was drugged with morphine, that’s why I’m asking.’

  ‘Got you,’ Yasimov said.

  ‘Did you visit where she lived?’

  ‘Yes – a small room in a kommunalka near the Mosfilm studios. Plain, simple, clean. A couple of shelves of books, quite a few of them foreign. A gramophone. Three records. Nothing much else. I sealed it in case you wanted a forensics team to look over it.’

  ‘Any letters, diaries, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Nothing, but one of her neighbours told me she did keep a diary.’

  ‘I haven’t found it if she did, but you can be sure I’ll be searching hard for it now.’

  The door opened and Slivka looked in at him enquiringly, a pot of her own held in her hand. He waved her towards the chair in front of him.

  ‘Mitya, brother, I owe you a favour.’

  ‘Lyoshka, you owe me a number of favours, and I owe you as many in return. Be careful there and come back to Moscow soon – the Thieves miss you.’

  Korolev hung up and filled his mouth with the last of the now cold stew.

  ‘An interesting conversation, that,’ he said, still chewing, and relayed Yasimov’s information about the dead girl, her possible relationship with Babel and about Lomatkin’s blue-fingered friends.

  ‘Angelinivka?’ she said. ‘There’s a coincidence.’

  ‘Yes – another coincidence, and I don’t believe in coincidences. Not much, anyway.’

  ‘What are you thinking, Chief?’

  ‘Thinking?’ Korolev said, thinking, and therefore a little distracted. ‘Nothing much. But if Lenskaya’s family are from this place, Angelinivka, then maybe that’s why Andreychuk took her there. A family reason. His wife died in ’thirty-three. A tough year, but why wouldn’t he bury her there if he could? It’s not that far away. And when their daughter shows up out of the blue, what would she want to see? Her mother’s grave, perhaps? It’s a guess, but I’ve a feeling about it. She’d have been twelve when they parted ways, old enough to remember her mother well.’

  ‘So you still don’t see him in the picture for the murderer?’

  ‘When we catch him we’ll see what we can get out of him – I’ve a feeling he’ll have a story or two to tell us. But for now I want to find out about this trip they took. Seeing as it’s so close to the border, it could fit Kolya’s information as well.’

  ‘We’ll see what tomorrow brings,’ Slivka said, taking a mouthful of food and Korolev had to wait while she ate. ‘As for this Babel rumour, I’ve been going through the interviews earlier, the ones that the uniforms did. Babel is one of the people we haven’t been able to confirm as being at the night shoot.’

  Korolev thought he knew the writer well enough to be pretty certain his friend was no killer. That was inconceivable. He’d a suspicion Babel would happily sit down with a murderer in a bar and drink with him while listening to his story, but that was another thing – a different thing. His curiosity was undeniable, but that didn’t mean he’d ever actually pull the trigger on someone, or garrotte them for that matter.

  ‘Anyone else we’re missing?’ he asked.

  ‘All the crew are accounted for, although one or two of the actors aren’t. At least so far – the actress Sorokina, for example.’

  Which reminded Korolev about what Babel had said to Sorokina about not giving away all her secrets. Perhaps it had been a warning.

  ‘What are you thinking, Alexei Dmitriyevich?’

  ‘I’m thinking you need to talk to Sorokina and I need to talk to Babel.’

  The writer looked disgruntled in the candlelight – the electricity was off for some reason, a power cut or some pressing industrial need, perhaps. On top of which the empty classroom was as cold as a prison cell. Korolev had bundled him out of bed and marched him across to the stable block, but Babel at least had had the good sense to put on his trousers, his boots and a heavy overcoat.

  ‘I think now is as good a time as any to tell me about your relationship with Masha Lenskaya. Don’t you?’

  ‘What relationship?’ Babel’s irritation at his treatment was clear. There would be none of his usual jocularity this evening.

  ‘That’s what I want you to tell me. I’ve been informed, by a reliable source, that you were more than a friend to her. More like a lover – or so they’re saying.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous, who could think such a thing? Me, a middle-aged man, seducing a girl half my age? Do they really think such a thing is possible?’ But the idea that he was still thought capable of seducing young women had apparently improved his mood.

  ‘How old are you?’ Korolev asked.

  ‘How old do you think I am?’ Babel lifted his head, interested.

  ‘Isaac, tell me about the girl,’ Korolev asked with a patience he didn’t feel.

  ‘Forty-two, as it happens.’

  ‘So not twice her age, then. She was twenty-six. I don’t know why you think it’s strange – I don’t think Tonya is much older.’

  Babel raised an eyebrow at the mention of his wife.

  ‘I wasn’t sleeping with Masha Lenskaya, Alexei. Yes, I knew her, that’s true – a lot of people knew her, after all. I may have provided fatherly advice from time to time but no more than that.’

  ‘Fatherly?’

  ‘Yes. Fatherly. Or perhaps more like the advice an uncle might give. Or possibly an aunt familiar with the world.’

  ‘Aunt-like?’

  ‘Something approximating to aunt-like, yes. Really, Korolev, you’re a prude under that dynamite-proof cynicism of yours. We would speak from time to time, she and I. Not so strange. The girl had no living relatives, or so she thought, and she enjoyed having someone like me to talk to. Anyway, I’ve told you all this – that I knew her and what my assessment was of her character. I didn’t think I needed to spell out every single detail. If you don’t believe me, I’m beginning to think our friendship is built on sand.’

  Well, Yasimov had only said the girl was ‘friendly’ with Babel. Perhaps on this occasion the rumours had been incorrect. Korolev took out his cigarettes and offered one to Babel – a peace offering.

  ‘Isaac,
I warn you. Now’s the time to tell me the truth about Lenskaya. If there’s anything I should know – spit it out.’

  ‘When have I ever lied to you, Alexei? I had a relationship with her but it was a pure one.’

  ‘Aunt-like.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Korolev decided to give the writer the benefit of the doubt, but he wasn’t finished with him just yet.

  ‘Isaac. Last night, just before I was going to interview Sorokina, you told her not to go giving away her intimate secrets. What did you mean by that?’

  For the briefest of moments Babel looked like a small boy caught with his hand in a jar of sweets.

  ‘You see, we’ve been doing our best to account for everyone’s whereabouts at the time of the murder, Isaac,’ Korolev continued. ‘You seem to be missing. And so does Comrade Sorokina.’

  ‘All right, all right. I was with Barikada. An innocent walk in the moonlight, nothing to get het up about.’

  Korolev sighed. It was the sigh of a weary man being made even more weary by the antics of others.

  ‘You should have told us straight away – now it looks bad. Did you spend the entire time with Sorokina? And I mean every moment.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now tell me about this walk.’

  ‘It was a walk. I wasn’t needed on the set and neither was Sorokina. We slipped off. We’re old friends, you see. We left just after the filming started and were back for the last take – nine-thirty.’

  ‘I see, and you’re sure she didn’t leave your sight – while I can’t see any reason for you to kill the girl, she’s a different story.’

  ‘Barikada? A killer?’

  ‘She was Ezhov’s mistress.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ Babel said, stubbing out the cigarette on the sole of his boot, ‘but she had nothing to do with the girl’s death – I’ll swear to that. I didn’t lie to you, Alexei, I just didn’t tell you everything. I thought it was for the best. Not so much for my sake, as for hers. She’s with Savchenko now, you see, and if her walk with me had come to light it might have complicated matters. Not just for her, but for me as well.’

  ‘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?

  Chapter Eighteen

  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?’