Authors: William Ryan
‘Dmitry Alexandrovich, please.’
‘Captain Yasimov?’
‘The very same.’
‘I’ll get him.’
There was the sound of revelry in the background and then a glass breaking to the sound of a cheer. Someone picked up the receiver in the
kommunalka
.
‘Yasimov,’ a voice said, Mitya’s voice.
‘A party going on there, I can hear.’
‘Lyoshka,’ Yasimov said. ‘Khabarov’s son got married. I’m turning a blind eye to the
samogon
.’
If Korolev could judge from Yasimov’s voice, he wasn’t just turning a blind eye to the moonshine, he was testing it to make sure it was what it purported to be. He’d be lucky
if he didn’t end up turning two blind eyes to it, given the quality of some of the stuff that was going around these days.
‘My congratulations to the groom.’
‘I’ll pass them on. Listen, Lyoshka, I was going to call you first thing. I asked around about your girl.’
‘Any luck?’
‘Let me step into my office.’
Korolev had visited Yasimov’s
kommunalka
– a former merchant’s residence that had been divided, sub-divided, and then divided once again so that there were now seventeen
rooms in which bakers, factory workers, teachers, accountants and one Militia detective and his family sweated and froze hip to hip. For privacy Yasimov would take the receiver into the toilet
beside the phone, if by some miracle the convenience was free.
‘There we go,’ Yasimov said as the background noise diminished considerably. ‘In here I’m a king as well, you know. Sitting on my throne.’
Korolev laughed at the wordplay on his name, as much for the pleasure of hearing a joke he’d heard a hundred times before as anything else.
‘What have you got for me?’ he asked.
‘You sound dreadful – got a cold or something?’
Korolev felt his shoulders relax and a smile tug at the straight line of his mouth. ‘Mitya, it’s good to hear your voice, I can tell you.’
‘Now, don’t get all emotional on me. Everything all right down there?’
‘Could be better – the local uniforms have just managed to let our main suspect escape. And the likelihood is he’s doing his best to slip across the border as we
speak.’
There was a pause, and he could almost hear Yasimov doing the computations. Korolev knew what conclusion his fellow detective would come to – a mishap like this wasn’t good news for
Korolev, of course, but it probably wouldn’t be much better for people he knew and worked with. In other words, Yasimov.
‘But you’re on it, right? You’ll catch up with him.’ Yasimov’s voice had an edge to it now.
‘I hope so. I don’t think the fugitive killed the girl, which is something at least, and we’ve a good chance of picking him up before he gets too far. We’ll see. Anyway,
what did you find out about her?’
‘Some things, I’m not sure how useful, though. The orphanage people spoke highly of her – proud, they were. I didn’t find out much about her background for you, except
for the name of her mother. Elizaveta Andreyevna Lenskaya. From down that way.’
‘Her mother?’
‘Yes, when she died the girl was sent to the orphanage.’
‘I think that’s her aunt – one moment.’ Korolev flicked back through his notebook. Andreychuk’s wife was dead all right, she’d died back in
’thirty-three. What had her name been? Here it was. Anna. Anna Andreyevna Andreychuk. The patronymic was the same – Elizaveta must have been the sister who’d lived in Moscow. The
one whose death had resulted in Lenskaya ending up in the orphanage.
‘Yes – her aunt, most probably – but I thought they didn’t have any information on her family.’
‘I’m guessing someone tidied the official file up a bit – it had that feel to it. But when we looked back at the admissions book the details were all there. The older Lenskaya
was from some place called Angelinivka down near you – age at at time of death thirty-three, occupation wages clerk. They lived in a communal apartment in Presnaya, but no one remembered them
there. I dropped in and had a look around all the same. According to the housing office records, they shared a room with a family of five, so the orphanage was probably a change for the
better.’
‘Angelinivka, you say?’
‘That’s what it says in the register.’
‘A place I’m visiting tomorrow, as it happens. Anything else?’
‘Well, I asked around about her out at Mosfilm – a nice enough girl, I was told. Ambitious. By that they meant—’
‘That she was friendly with Belakovsky?’
‘That’s the fellow. No one could think of a reason why she’d be murdered, though. I have the names of some other men she’d been friendly with. One will be familiar to
you.’
‘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.’