by William Ryan
‘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: Dear Korolev, Lomatkin is visiting Krasnogorka and I’ve decided to go along with him. I hope we’ll be able to meet tomorrow instead. Babel
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.’
‘We heard nothing of it,’ Ivanov said, looking concerned. ‘They came through about fifteen minutes ago – heading for Krasnogorka. Not every day we get famous people travelling on these roads.’
‘I see,’ Korolev said, disappointed but not surprised that the alert hadn’t reached him. ‘Do you have a radio?’
‘We do.’
‘Can you call ahead and request that the next checkpoint hold them?’
‘The next checkpoint is in Krasnogorka.’
‘That’ll do. There should be an alert out for them already – but just in case.’
‘You’re looking for this fellow Andreychuk, you said? Are you going to look over his truck?’
‘His truck?’ Korolev asked, confused as to what Ivanov was talking about. His face must have given him away because the boy pointed over his shoulder.
‘You don’t know? We found the truck – in Angelinivka. About an hour ago.’
Korolev turned to Slivka, who was waiting for his decision. Follow the truck or Lomatkin and Babel?
‘How do we get there from here?’ Korolev asked, making his decision. The border guards would hold Babel and Lomatkin for them.
‘Go straight ahead, you’ll see a signpost in a few kilometres.’
‘Thank you. One last thing?’ Korolev asked, extracting one of the photographs of Lenskaya he’d brought with him from the dashboard. ‘Have you seen this woman recently?’
Ivanov looked at the photograph for a few moments, then shook his head.
‘No, and to be honest I’d remember a girl like that if she came through a checkp
oint round here.’
Korolev took the picture back from Ivanov. Was that the thing he’d missed? How different she was? Now that she’d been in Moscow for twelve years, and America as well – that here, in the land where she’d been born, she was as exotic as Barikada Sorokina?
‘Good to see you, Alexei Dmitriyevich,’ Ivanov said as Korolev pointed Slivka towards the road ahead.
‘I’ll remember you to your father.’
The signpost for Angelinivka seemed to have been used for target practice, on top of which what was left of the letters had been sanded by the wind to the point where they were barely legible. Slivka slowed down and then halted, looking to Korolev for a final decision. He looked around them. There wasn’t a clump of brush big enough to call a bush for two kilometres in any direction and the few winter-stripped trees that were visible looked like black skeletons praying to heaven for forgiveness. It was a grim enough place. The Lord knew he’d be glad to get away from here and back to Moscow. And the thought of Moscow, a thousand kilometres away, reminded him of Valentina Nikolaevna and the way she’d put her hand on his chest when the NKVD man had knocked on the door. He wondered what it had meant, that small moment of intimacy. It was something he’d avoided considering in the time since, but now, for some reason, the way she’d looked at him and the feel of her hand pressing against him seemed like something to hold on to. He nodded to Slivka, who turned left towards Angelinivka.
The village itself, when they got there, barely deserved the name – two dusty lines of dilapidated buildings that met at a rutted crossroads. There was no sign of the border guard or the truck Andreychuk had stolen. In fact there was no sign of anyone at all. Slivka drove slowly past the long low peasant houses, with wooden walls more grey than brown emerging from mud foundations and straining under snow-topped damp thatch. A dog with legs as thin as whips tottered to its feet in front of them, baring its teeth but unable or unwilling to muster the energy to bark. Korolev had seen more depressing places, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember when.
‘Where are the people?’ Slivka asked.
‘I don’t know, Slivka, but there’s the church – and that’s what Andreychuk and Lenskaya came to see.’
The church stood about a hundred metres past the last house in the village and around it stood the wooden crosses of a graveyard. As they drove towards it, Andreychuk’s truck came into view, along with two cold-looking sentries, who unslung their rifles when they saw them.
‘Militia,’ Korolev said, holding out his identity card for inspection. A tall youth with an acned face looked down at the card, his brows contracting as he read it. His comrade, another one barely out of his teens but half the other’s size, stood to the side, his rifle held at waist height aiming at a spot just behind Korolev’s ear.
‘Point that damned gun somewhere else,’ Korolev said, and the short boy’s eyes came to life. He turned to his comrade, who handed Korolev’s Militia card back to him as though it was red hot.
‘You’re happy with my identification, are you?’ Korolev growled.
‘Absolutely, Comrade Captain,’ he said.
‘Good,’ Korolev said, opening the door, pleased to see he had at least three inches on the two sentries, and a good deal of weight to boot.
‘When did you find it?’
‘An hour back, Comrade Captain.’
‘I thought your people searched the village last night,’ Korolev said to the taller guard.
‘Yes, Comrade Captain. At eight o’clock and at eleven, but it wasn’t here then.’
Korolev walked over to the truck, noticing the thin even layer of snow on top of the bonnet. It had been there for a while.
‘Are you searching the area?’
‘Two sweeps have gone north and south on a three-kilometre width, Comrade Captain. Men every twenty metres.’ The guard pointed across the fields to where some men with rifles could be seen walking in line some distance away. ‘And we’ve been through the village as well, and the church of course.’
Korolev looked up at the dome of the church. Close up it was clear the facade had suffered since the arrival of Soviet Power, and not just the paint either – bullet holes marked the stone walls in a steady line, on top of which the crucifix was gone from the dome and, to judge from the chipping around the stump, it too had been the target of the machine gunner’s attention.
‘Why is the village empty?’
‘They were moved to the kolkhoz farm up the road last week, Comrade Captain. Soviet Success. It’s about four kilometres away.’ Again he pointed, this time along the road that led away from the village and to a new future. ‘They’re knocking this place down. It will be fields by the summer.’
Clearly no one had told the emaciated dog about the move.
‘We should look inside,’ Korolev said.
The church’s interior was even colder than outdoors – the solid, still cold of a meat locker. Predictably it had been desecrated. Who knew who’d done it? Party activists who’d come from the cities to lead the peasants to collectivization by example, and had ended up forcing them to it at gunpoint? Soldiers? Border guards? It didn’t matter now – the damage had been done. They picked their way through the debris gingerly – to judge from the stench the place had been used as a latrine – but there was nothing to indicate the caretaker had been there, or his daughter.
Stepping outside again, Korolev looked at the two sentries, huddled in the lee of the truck, inhaling warmth from cigarettes they protected with both hands. Korolev nodded towards the worn-looking wooden Orthodox crosses in the cemetery – crosses that were from a different time when such a symbol wasn’t considered to be a political statement. After not more than a minute’s searching, they came across the recently tended grave of Anna Andreychuk.
‘His wife?’ Slivka asked.
‘Possibly,’ Korolev said, running a finger along the wooden plank that spelt out her demise. No cross for Andreychuk’s wife under Soviet Power. So was this the reason for the visit Andreychuk had made with his daughter to this place? A final act of remembrance before the village was bulldozed and forgotten? At least Andreychuk’s wife would still be here when the Lord came looking for her on the day of judgement. Nothing else would. Not the house she’d been born in, nor the church where she’d worshipped. Even the marker on her grave would be removed when they turned the cemetery into tillage.
They were just getting back into the car when a soldier came running from the fields.
‘We’ve found him,’ he shouted breathlessly to the sentries, ‘down by the river. Dead.’
Chapter Nineteen
From a distance the body looked like nothing more than a pile of crumpled clothing, the worn boots only a foot away from the wide river’s bank. The only thing that marked Andreychuk out as anything other than rags was the puddle of frozen blood that surrounded him.
‘Has anyone touched the body?’ Korolev asked the captain commanding the detachment.
‘If anyone has, it was before I got here,’ he replied. ‘I was a Militiaman myself for two years, in Omsk.’
Korolev watched the wind turn the white hair on the dead man’s head. Then he looked across the river.
‘You did well,’ he said after a long pause. ‘Can you get a message to Dr Peskov at the School of Anatomy in Odessa? I’d like him to see the body as it was found.’ He studied the sky – it was clear for the moment. Hopefully they wouldn’t have to cover the corpse. ‘We’ll need a forensics team to come out as well; Peskov can pass the message on.’
As the captain left, Korolev turned his attention back to the river bank, approaching a little closer to examine the dead man. Andreychuk’s face – robbed of life – seemed thinner, the beard more dishevelled. His eyes were open and Korolev resisted the temptation to lean down and close them.
‘Only the crayfish becomes more beautiful with death,’ he muttered to himself.
‘What was that?’ Slivka asked.
‘Nothing. Just
a stupid saying.’ He didn’t feel comfortable repeating it and fortunately she didn’t press him. The entry wound was in the nape of the neck, and while there was a revolver in Andreychuk’s hand, it seemed unlikely that he would have shot himself in such a way. This looked like murder to Korolev. He leant forward to look more closely at the gun. A Nagant. Could it be a souvenir of Andreychuk’s fighting days? Korolev had carried a Nagant himself when he’d fought for the tsar, and another when he’d fought for the Red Army in the Civil War. They were still standard issue for the Militia and the army, and Korolev was an exception in that he carried a smaller Walther he’d acquired from a Polish officer back in ’twenty-two – but then there were different rules for detectives. Andreychuk’s weapon looked as though it wasn’t long from the factory, but he didn’t like the barrel one bit. It looked shorter than the army version and, as far as he knew, these short-barreled Nagants were only issued to the Militia or State Security. He pointed it out to Slivka.
‘It looks like it could be one of ours,’ she said, peering down at it. ‘Easily checked, though. It will have a serial number and there’ll be a record.’
‘Well, let’s see what we can find out about it.’
It looked as if the dead man had been kneeling when he’d died, and the body had fallen forwards and onto its side. Korolev mimicked holding a pistol behind his head to see if suicide was even remotely possible.
‘Don’t do it, Alexei Dmitriyevich. The case isn’t over yet,’ Slivka said in a dry tone. He almost smiled, putting his hands back in his pockets and looking again at the corpse. Snow covered parts of the body, and more had gathered along the dead man’s side where the wind had pushed it.
‘Time of death, Slivka, that’s what we’re looking for,’ Korolev said as the border guard captain returned. ‘Comrade Captain, when did it stop snowing? He obviously died before then. And there’s snow on the truck as well.’
‘I’m not sure. Before six anyway, it hasn’t snowed since I started on duty. I’ll check with the sentries at the nearest control point.’
‘I’d be grateful.’ Korolev glanced across the field towards the church. There were tracks in the snow here and there.
