The Bloody Meadow (13 page)

‘You have my word.’

‘Well, one thing led to another and she went with him on some delegation to America. He was smitten with her. She went as a translator and came back as one of his key assistants. She was
bright, better at her job than most others at the Film Board – but, well, conclusions were drawn.’

‘Is that where she met Savchenko? In America.’

‘Oh no, Savchenko was a much earlier conquest. She was Nikolai Sergeevich’s student at the State Film School. I told you, she was a clever girl. I don’t mind saying that I
sympathized.’

Korolev lifted his gaze to meet Sorokina’s and, for a moment he caught a glimpse of her own past in those green, green eyes of hers – the compromises, the practical decisions, the
unwelcome attentions that had had to be welcomed. There was a tilt to her chin that defied his judgement, not that he was making any. Sometimes you had to do things to survive and he’d done
worse things than she ever had, he was sure of it. You didn’t fight in wars like the ones he’d been through and come out whiter than white, or redder than red for that matter. He looked
at his watch – it was time to finish.

‘Thank you, Comrade. We may have some more questions in due course. But you’ve been very helpful.’

She nodded, looking for a moment almost as tired as he felt, and rose to her feet. He walked with her to the door, and wasn’t surprised to feel his body resisting each step he tried to
take forward. How long had he been without proper sleep? Too long – far too long.

As if on cue, Slivka appeared in the doorway as they approached and held it open for Sorokina with a respectful smile. The actress turned and gave Korolev a small wave, but didn’t say
farewell. He nodded in return. Slivka watched the actress go and then smiled at him, fondly – the sort of look that a girl her age might reserve for a grandfather.

‘You look exhausted, Chief.’

‘I don’t just look it. Listen, roust out Andreychuk, will you? Sorokina says he and Lenskaya argued a couple of days ago.’ He consulted his notebook. ‘Apparently he
warned her to go back to Moscow, that it would be dangerous for her if she stayed.’

‘I see.’

‘I’d like to know what he meant by it.’

‘Are you sure you’re happy for me to talk to him on my own?’

‘I’ve a feeling he’ll respond well to you.’ Korolev’s voice sounded slurred with tiredness even to him. He made one more effort. ‘Any news from the other
interviews? Or the forensics man? Firtov, is it?’

‘A few things to follow up – Firtov thinks he has a partial fingerprint in the dining room. And Peskov called, the doctor. He asked if we wanted to attend the autopsy. What do you
think? He’ll do it tonight, if you wanted to go in.’

‘I’ll be honest with you,’ Korolev said, thinking that his tiredness was making him more open than usual, and being too exhausted to care, ‘I don’t much like
watching people poke about inside other people.’ Which didn’t sound like the words of a man prepared to his duty – he sighed, a long sigh. Children had been born and wrapped in a
towel in less time than his sigh took. ‘How long would it take to drive there?’

She shrugged, ‘An hour, no more. If I’m driving that is.’

‘Look at me, Slivka, I can barely stand. Let’s tell him to go ahead – speed is important here – but we’ll visit him tomorrow morning for his conclusions. We can
discuss the case on the way, and the uniforms can carry on with the initial interviews in our absence. Tell him we’ll be there at eight o’clock. An early start. Afterwards we can go and
see Firtov, and find out if this fingerprint of his comes to anything.’

‘Perhaps I should stay here?’

‘No, if I’m assigned to another matter, you’ll still be involved in the case, so we should both go.’ He caught the beginning of a yawn and pushed a fist in front of his
open mouth. ‘Are any of the uniforms from the village able to use a typewriter?’

‘No, but Comrade Shymko offered us one of his girls in the end. Larisa.’

‘I met her. Put the fear of God into her – I don’t want her blabbing if she’s typing up the interviews of people she knows.’

Slivka smirked.

‘All right, all right. I know God doesn’t exist.’ Another lie to be forgiven by that non-existent Lord. ‘Put the fear of a prison cell into her, how about
that?’

‘With pleasure.’

‘Has anyone bothered to find us accommodation?’

‘They’ve found a bed for you in the house, but I’m not sure about me, at least so far. Still, if the worst comes to the worst, I’ll take the blanket from the car and
sleep in the armchair here. I’ve slept in worse places.’

The thought of a bed produced a feeling of intense longing but, on the other hand, he didn’t like the idea of his having a bed while his subordinate made do with an armchair.

‘We’ll toss for it,’ Korolev said, feeling around in his pocket and producing a ten-kopek coin.

‘We won’t,’ Slivka said. ‘Your bed comes with a good-looking Frenchman in the bed beside it. The girls in the production office think he’s safer with you than with
me. Or maybe they think you’re safer with him – who knows? He’s good-looking, that much is certainly true.’

‘You’ve met him? This Les Pins character.’

‘It has been a day of many meetings.’

‘What did you make of him?’

‘A handsome man. Missing part of his ear, though, a clean cut. A knife, I’d say. Or a bullet perhaps. A tough customer, gentle with it and speaks Russian like a grand prince. Anyway,
it’s been decided. The Frenchman will be “enchanted” to have your company.’

Korolev accepted defeat.

‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘And one last thing?’

‘Yes?’

‘See if you can get me some cigarettes?’

BEFORE HE called it a day, Korolev made one final effort and telephoned Yasimov in Moscow. Because of the late hour he called him at home, explaining the situation to him
briefly – Yasimov was smart enough not to ask any questions once he heard where Korolev was calling from. Instead he spoke only to agree to Korolev’s requests, which were simple enough.
Poke around at the orphanage and see what he could find out about the dead girl’s background, ask around at the Film Board and the State Film School about her and, finally, do a little bit of
digging into Comrades Lomatkin, Savchenko and Belakovsky and any other lovers who came to light. Korolev knew Yasimov well enough to presume that if Ezhov’s name came up in the process,
he’d forget he’d ever heard it, which was exactly what he wanted him to do. It was a weary Korolev who put down the telephone and made his way to the main house and the small room
he’d been allocated to share with Les Pins.

He was unsurprised to discover that Slivka had been right about the Frenchman – he did indeed speak beautiful Russian, and with a precise yet flowing elegance that for a native would lead
to a ten-year stretch in the gold mines of Kolyma, but for Les Pins resulted in a flock of adoring production girls. It was, Korolev thought, not for the first time that day, a very strange
world.

Les Pins welcomed him and pronounced himself, as Slivka had also predicted, ‘enchanted’ at the prospect. Korolev decided ‘enchanted’ was not intended to be taken
literally, but was just what French people felt obliged to say when they had foisted on them a large Muscovite policeman who looked as though he might snore like a hibernating bear. But then again,
with words like that in your repertoire, it must be difficult not to walk on the sunny side of the street, and Les Pins seemed to be a determinedly ebullient character, a firm smile permanently
fixed to his face, and a pleasant, melodious, laugh that hovered on a hair trigger, ready to tinkle out at the slightest excuse. It was only when Korolev shook hands with him that he felt the
missing fingers. Something must have shown in his face because Les Pins looked down with a smile.

‘A German bayonet. Verdun. And you?’ Les Pins nodded to the sabre scar that ran down the side of Korolev’s jaw to his chin, so old now that he hardly noticed it any more.

‘A sabre. A Russian one.’ Korolev shrugged, thinking back to the Cossack, his horse rearing, leaning down to slash at him for a second time. At such moments a man’s life ends
or continues. His had continued and the Cossack’s had ended. ‘But the Germans gave me a few scrapes too.’

Korolev couldn’t help but think of two old dogs meeting in the street, sniffing each other out. For all the Frenchman’s smiling suavity, those eyes had stared down the barrel of a
gun more than once, and from either end, if he wasn’t mistaken.

‘So I hear poor Masha was murdered?’ The Frenchman turned away and began to undress. His shoulder was bandaged, Korolev noticed, and he moved stiffly, but he was still a relatively
fit man. Korolev sat down on the spare bed and pulled off his boots, feeling the stretch in his back as he leant down and resisting the urge to topple forward and fall asleep right there on the
floor, and damn the Frenchman.

‘Who said that?’ Korolev asked, trying to keep his tone offhand.

‘Oh please, Captain Korolev, it really isn’t my business – but it’s your arrival that tells me it wasn’t suicide, not somebody’s tittle-tattle. I’m
curious, though – who do you think killed her?’

Korolev took his time before answering, constructing his response carefully. It was sensible to be careful with foreigners.

‘I don’t know how it works in France, Comrade,’ he said eventually, ‘but here in the Soviet Union the Militia don’t discuss such things with citizens, even welcome
and honoured visitors like you.’ Korolev reached into a pocket of his coat for his last cigarette and then wondered whether it would offend the Frenchman’s sensibilities if he lit up in
the man’s bedroom.

‘Do you mind?’ he began and showed a corner of the packet of Belomorkanals.

‘Not at all, I’ll join you,’ Les Pins said, producing a blue packet. ‘So it wasn’t murder, then?’

Korolev raised an eyebrow.

‘Oh really,’ the Frenchman said, striking a match, ‘you’re impossible.’

Although strangely, the way the Frenchman said it, it sounded like a compliment.

They focused their attention on the cigarettes for a while, smoke shrouding them, stirred occasionally by an exhalation.

‘So you knew her a little bit,’ Korolev asked, having considered whether asking him the question was a good idea and then finding himself unable to resist. Well, it wasn’t
really questioning as such, was it? It was more of a conversation. Yes, that sounded about right. Rodinov would understand.

‘A little bit.’ The Frenchman put his finger and thumb about an inch apart. ‘You mustn’t misunderstand me, I’m sympathetic. You know how it is – death
isn’t unusual in my line of work. I can see you think I’m heartless, but it’s not that at all, believe me. My heart is full of tragedies. This is just one more. But I keep
smiling, what else is there to do? Tears don’t stop bullets – well, not that I’ve ever seen. Bullets stop bullets and sometimes words.’

Korolev remembered that the fellow was some sort of a journalist. A war reporter, Rodinov had said. The Frenchman flicked ash onto a plate that he’d placed beside the bed for the purpose
and for a moment looked almost embarrassed.

‘At least I hope my words help – help people to understand that we need to struggle for a new kind of world, a world where war is no longer necessary. You would think we’d have
learnt from the last one, but it seems we learnt nothing.’

Korolev nodded his agreement.

‘Was Comrade Lenskaya upset in recent days?’ he asked, after a decent interval. ‘Is there anything at all that you remember – anything that could be useful?’

Les Pins contemplated the tip of his cigarette, then shook his head.

‘I don’t think so. She was always in her office, typing away. Masha spoke good French, which was pleasant. But I don’t remember anything unusual – nothing at all. You
should ask her admirers, you know. Babel, Savchenko, that angry man who is around sometimes. In the leather jacket.’

‘Mushkin?’

‘Yes, he seemed very interested in her. But perhaps it was just professional, because of what he does.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘As well for you if you don’t, I’d imagine. He has the mark of a serious man. Although I don’t believe you for a moment,
mon Capitaine
.’ The journalist
stubbed out the last of his cigarette. ‘One of us needs our beauty sleep, and it’s probably you, Comrade Korolev. I hope you don’t snore.’

§

When Korolev awoke, however, just as the first suggestion of dawn was beginning to lighten the edge of the curtain, it was Les Pins who was snoring and Korolev who felt a
certain satisfaction as a result. It didn’t even matter so much that Les Pins’ snores were like the purring of a well-contented cat and, really, almost pleasant to listen to. It
didn’t matter at all. For a moment, Korolev felt he had the better of the foreigner and, if that wasn’t a reason to feel a modicum of pleasure, then he didn’t know what was.

After a moment savouring his small victory, Korolev rolled himself out of bed as quietly as he was able and stood up. He could probably have done with more sleep, but it was already six and he
was due to meet Slivka in half an hour; and before then he wanted to have a little time to tell himself how to handle the investigation before everyone else started telling him instead. It was, in
short, an opportunity to take a hold of the day ahead before it ran away with him.

At least some of the parameters were now a little clearer, he decided, making his way to a bathroom along the corridor. He had Colonel Rodinov’s authority to proceed as he saw fit, so a
little arm-twisting could be done if needed, provided he exercised the inevitable discretion. That at least gave him something to work with – if he had to walk round all these actors and
Party bigwigs on tiptoes he knew he’d get nowhere.

After a quick wash with his towel, he began to shave at a porcelain sink that looked big enough to be seaworthy. The water was freezing, so cold he could barely work up a lather, but Korolev had
shaved in freezing water before and didn’t mind too much. He just took it slowly.