The Bloody Meadow (36 page)

It wasn’t so much the silence that disturbed him or the absence of the Militiamen who should have been challenging them. It was something else again, something much more intangible. And he
was grateful for the snug feel of the Walther in his hand when the light spilling from the windows and open front door of Mushkina’s cottage showed a crumpled body lying on the cobblestones
in front of it.

With Slivka covering him, Korolev carefully approached, recognizing the young uniform from the village, Sharapov. Wet blood oozed down the boy’s pale face. Korolev leant down to feel for a
pulse and was surprised by the wave of relief when he felt it. But the relief was tempered with caution – Korolev looked around the courtyard, concerned that the boy’s attacker might
still be close by. The lights flickered, then went out once again and they were left in darkness. Slivka had already positioned herself beside Mushkina’s open doorway and he made his way to
her, crouching as he did so.

‘Who’s that?’ she whispered.

‘Sharapov – someone’s knocked him out cold.’

In the dark, he couldn’t see Slivka’s reaction.

‘What do we do about this someone, Chief?’ she asked, her voice calm.

‘We see if we can find him and we deal with him.’ Korolev took a deep breath and stepped inside Mushkina’s cottage.

§

Inside it was as dark as the bottom of a coal mine and Korolev pushed himself against the wall, lifted his Walther and turned on his torch, running it quickly round the room. It
looked just as he might have expected except for the slumped figure lying across Mushkina’s writing desk.

‘It’s clear, but we’ve another body,’ he whispered to Slivka, who entered behind him and covered him as he approached the desk.

‘The Frenchman,’ he muttered as he turned Jean Les Pins’ head, the dead man’s hair surprisingly soft and his skin, even more surprisingly, with a trace of the heat of a
living person. But a thin strip of rope was still dug deep into his neck. And then the smell struck him. The perfume of hot wax. He put a finger to the wick of the candle beside Les Pins’
head – still warm and the wax underneath still liquid. The killer must have left only moments before they arrived.

‘Who is it?’ Slivka asked, moving slowly across the room, gun held out in front of her with her left hand supporting her right.

‘Les Pins. Strangled. Whoever did it is still close, Slivka. Be careful.’

There was no sign of a struggle, and yet here Les Pins was, garrotted, and Sharapov lying unconscious outside with a lump on his head the size of a lemon. There was a door leading further into
the house and Korolev, followed closely by Slivka, crept towards it and, gun first, made his way into the kitchen. A quick scan of the room with his torch showed the back door was ajar.

‘Do you think we disturbed them?’

‘I don’t know, but I’m going to check upstairs.’

Leaving Slivka to cover his back, Korolev climbed the stairs to the upper storey, his feet seeming to find every possible creak in the steps as he went. A shirt lay discarded on the small
landing and it was clear that someone had ransacked the two bedrooms – Mushkina’s clothes were strewn everywhere, a mattress had been thrown from the bed and cut open with a knife and
books littered the floor, their spines and boards filleted. A very thorough job, but hastily done, Korolev decided, wondering what the ransacker had been looking for, and why similar havoc
hadn’t been visited on the rooms downstairs. Perhaps they
had
disturbed the intruder. Or perhaps Les Pins had.

‘Well, Chief?’ Slivka called up to him in a loud whisper.

‘That someone’s been up here, Slivka – and searching for something by the looks of it. No sign of Comrade Mushkina.’

He turned off his torch and went back downstairs – whatever they’d been looking for must be worth having.

‘Where’s Mushkina’s telephone?’

‘I’ll find it.’

‘Get it winding, Slivka, and get people out here, soon as you can. I’ll bring Sharapov into the kitchen before he freezes.’

By the time Korolev had dragged the young Militiaman inside the front door, fat snowflakes were beginning to fall in earnest and already a thin coating of white covered the cobblestones. He
could hear Slivka frantically turning the handle on the telephone she’d found on the kitchen wall.

‘No line, not even a crackle. It must be the electricity.’

‘Or perhaps that “someone” fellow cut it, just to make things easy for us. Come on, help me get Sharapov into the kitchen.’

‘Chief,’ Slivka said a few moments later, speaking quietly as she placed a cushion under the unconscious Militiaman’s head, ‘do you hear something?’

He heard it all right – the sound of an approaching motor, its engine barely turning over, but audible enough despite the snow. They crossed the room to the small window that overlooked
the courtyard and saw a small truck coming up the lane where they’d left the car at a pace that a man on crutches could have kept up with, its lights off.

‘There’s a phone in the investigation room and one up at the house,’ Slivka whispered. ‘Shall we try for them?’

‘You go, Slivka. I’ll stay here. We can’t leave Sharapov on his own.’

Korolev sensed that she was about to disagree, but he took hold of her shoulder and pushed her firmly towards the back entrance.

Slivka turned as if she might resist, but then she kept on moving and closed the door behind her. Good girl, he thought, then retrieved Sharapov’s Nagant from its side holster. He cracked
it open and ran a thumb round the chambers before snapping it shut. Good, it was fully loaded – he’d keep the Walther for later. He slipped off the safety catch and returned to the
window just as the truck disgorged three people at the very spot where Sharapov’s body had lain just minutes before.

THE FIRST MAN into Mushkina’s sitting room looked around nervously, apparently not knowing what to expect, before retreating. When the tall man returned, he was
accompanied by another shadowy figure who aimed what looked like a revolver into the darkness. Korolev wasn’t sure where the third member of the crew was, but he hoped he’d stayed in
the truck. He waited until the two men reached the middle of the room before aiming the torch at their eyes to dazzle them.

‘Militia. I’ve a gun pointed right at you so put your hands up and drop your weapons to the floor. One wrong move and I shoot.’

Korolev flicked the beam back and forwards between the two men – he didn’t recognize the taller man, but the second man was familiar, even if it weren’t for the Militia
overcoat. Blumkin from the village station. There was a clatter as Blumkin’s pistol hit the floor.

‘Who are you?’ Korolev asked the stranger, his voice sounding far more measured and calm than he felt.

The man opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it. Blumkin seemed to be trying to slowly back away towards the door until Korolev fixed him to the spot with a warning flash of the
torch.

‘Blumkin, try anything and you’ll be breathing through a hole in your chest. Kick your gun over here.’

The Militiaman moved back towards his gun in order to comply, while Korolev, his eyes never leaving Blumkin, addressed the tall man.

‘You. Surname, name, patronymic.’

But the stranger was looking at a point behind Korolev’s shoulder and even Blumkin had stopped moving, waiting for something. It wasn’t much of a surprise when a voice came from the
kitchen doorway.

‘Don’t move, Korolev. It would be a mistake if you did.’

It was the voice of a person who had a gun pointed at a fellow’s back and a bullet ready to plant a hole the size of a baby’s fist between his shoulder blades if he should so much as
shiver. But Korolev started to turn anyway. After all, he recognized the voice well enough.

‘That’s enough, Korolev. Put your gun and the torch on the table beside you.’

‘As you wish,’ Korolev said, placing Sharapov’s Nagant down as instructed and noting without surprise that Blumkin had recovered his pistol and was pointing it straight at his
throat.

‘Damienko, pick up that gun and take the torch.’

‘What’s going on, Comrade Mushkina?’ the tall man asked.

‘Trouble is what’s going on, Damienko. And your only way out of it is to do as I say.’

Mushkina’s voice had enough iron in it to armour a tank and the stranger did as he was told, checking the magazine of Sharapov’s Nagant and making sure there was a bullet in the
firing chamber. Whoever he was, he’d handled a gun before. Korolev was conscious of the weight of the Walther in his pocket, but with three guns now trained on him it seemed to him the best
place for his hands was pointing upwards, which was where he put them.

‘What happened to Les Pins?’

‘We found him searching for certain information. A guest who overstayed his welcome – in more ways than one – and a loose end that needed tying up.’

Korolev sighed: it didn’t take much detective work to realize he was another loose end that needed tying up – permanently. Still, he had a gun in his pocket and Slivka was out there
somewhere. The game wasn’t over yet – not for as long as he was allowed to keep playing it, anyway.

‘So it was you, all along, Comrade Mushkina. Pulling the strings, finding enemies and counter-revolutionaries and bringing them together. Killing anyone who stood in your way.’

‘Finding them, Korolev?’ she repeated bitterly. ‘That wasn’t hard – there isn’t a man, woman or child in this part of the world doesn’t know that the
Revolution has failed them. I don’t have to search for people who are against the Revolution – around here
everyone
is against the Revolution. Ask people in the village about
hunger and they’ll tell you stories that will turn your blood to ice. They were left with nothing for a long winter – but I know where it all went. Do you know where, Korolev? Abroad.
To the Capitalist countries. To the imperialists and bankers. To prop up fascists and oppressors while our own people starved. And there’s nothing that wasn’t eaten here at that time.
Leather, grass, the bark of trees and worse, much worse than that. This is what the Revolution gave these people – the same people it was meant to be freeing from tyranny and want. Let me
tell you, Korolev, the tsars were better to the people round here than Stalin, and that’s the truth of it.’

Korolev turned to look at the elderly woman. The light from the torch held on him by Damienko showed the silver in her hair, the dark hollows of her eyes and cheeks. There was no doubting her
sincerity.

‘I don’t involve myself in political matters, I’m a detective.’

‘You were sent by the Lubianka, Korolev. You’re no ordinary detective.’

‘I was sent here, as you say, by the Lubianka – but I’m no Chekist. And, believe me, if I had my way I’d be in my bed in Moscow right now rather than having guns pointed
at me. But you know who the murdered girl was connected to, and it was my misfortune to come to his attention on another case. Political matters aren’t for the likes of me, Comrade, but I go
where I’m sent. That’s what an ordinary detective has to do – his duty.’

‘Ordinary, you say? Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused us?’

‘My job is to investigate crimes, Comrade. I don’t apologize if I make it inconvenient for the criminals.’

As soon as he’d said it, Korolev regretted the comment. It wasn’t the time to be pointing a finger at people who were pointing guns at him.

‘We’re no criminals, Korolev,’ Mushkina eventually said, her voice seeming a little quieter than before. ‘The criminals are Stalin and the Party, who’ve murdered
the People. I know the truth.’

Korolev wanted a cigarette and he wanted to see his son Yuri one more time. To ruffle his fingers through the boy’s soft hair and hear him laugh. It looked as if the odds on seeing Yuri
were long, but he might have a chance with a cigarette.

‘Mind if I smoke? I’ve some in my pocket. I even have a few spare.’ Well, why not offer them round? The likelihood was he wouldn’t be finishing them himself.

‘I have some questions that need answering,’ Mushkina said by way of agreement.

‘I’ve a few of my own,’ Korolev responded, his fingers reaching slowly for the breast pocket of his overcoat. ‘But I’ll answer yours better if I have some smoke in
my lungs.’

‘Slowly, then.’

When he struck the match, the spark’s light briefly showed the faces of his captors: Blumkin looked determined, Damienko as if he wanted very much to be somewhere else and Mushkina could
just as easily have been discussing the weather as aiming a loaded gun at a Militiaman’s head. The Frenchman, on the other hand, looked as dead as ever.

Korolev’s cigarette tip glowed orange as he blew out the match.

‘How did you find out about the guns?’ Mushkina asked, her voice gentle.

‘A fellow I know told me about them. It seems you tried to force the wrong people to shift them for you.’

‘Not my work. Some men must always take the hardest way. I choose the way that gets me to the destination safely. I knew it was an error to cross the Odessa Thieves.’

‘You know what happened, then?’

‘In the catacombs? Yes. Some of our people escaped.’

‘Not for long. When I left Odessa the place was crawling with Militia and Chekists. A mouse in a bread-bin had better have his papers in order tonight.’

‘Not so many that I couldn’t make my way out, Korolev – age and standing in the Party count for something, even these days. Tell me, how did you find out about Les Pins and
Gradov? We know you were looking for them. Blumkin here was ordered to hold them on sight.’

‘Gradov? Well, it was his habit of losing guns that turn up in dead men’s hands, and given Andreychuk had escaped on his watch – well, even I began to wonder whether he might
be worth talking to. As for Les Pins, we found his fingerprint on the bracket the girl was hung from. And Sharapov spotted the morphine tablets he used to drug her in his bedroom.’

‘The girl was another mistake. She could have been dealt with a different way.’

‘I wanted to ask you why she was killed. You must have known she was Ezhov’s lover – everyone else did. Surely killing her could only cause you trouble.’