‘What are you doing?’
‘Taking notes.’
‘I can see that,’ he said. ‘Why are you taking notes?’
‘I always take notes. A note doesn’t get forgotten.’ She looked down at his hands as if to say he could do with taking a few more notes himself. The worst thing was she’d just quoted his own favourite mantra to junior detectives who didn’t yet realize that the brain was an erratic recorder of useful information.
‘So, Comrade?’ he said, trying to ignore the smirk on Babel’s face.
The girl smiled and extended her hand. ‘Slivka, Comrade. Nadezhda Andreyevna. Sergeant – Odessa CID. Unless the Comrade Colonel just wanted to take me for a drive in the country, my guess is I’m your junior detective. I’ll help you track down whoever did this – don’t you worry, Comrade Captain.’
Korolev shook the offered hand and allowed himself to return the smile. A bit of spirit wasn’t such a bad thing in a young detective.
‘Well then. Good,’ he said. ‘Anything you’d like to ask?’
‘Yes,’ the young female detective said, looking down at her notebook. ‘Comrade, is Andreychuk the only one with keys to the house? Apart from the deceased, that is.’
‘Lord no,’ Shymko began, before collecting himself when Babel tutted at his careless use of the Lord’s name – as close to blasphemy as it got these days.
‘No,’ he continued with more care, feeling his way into each word now – apparently having decided that in the kind of company that wrote down everything you said, words could run amok and bite a man where it hurt.
‘You’d have to ask Comrade Andreychuk,’ he continued, ‘but I have one, and I know the director of the kolkhoz keeps one in his office. Then there’s Elizaveta Petrovna, of course.’
‘Elizaveta Petrovna?’
‘Elizaveta Petrovna Mushkina,’ Shymko clarified, emphasizing the surname.
‘Major Mushkin’s mother,’ Babel said, his voice coming from behind Korolev. ‘She’s the director of the Agricultural College. But before that she was a Party boss in Odessa.’
‘I met her earlier,’ Korolev said, remembering the elderly lady with her walking stick.
‘A hero of the Revolution,’ Shymko added in a hushed tone.
‘And before that,’ Babel said. ‘She was in Siberia with Stalin. That’s how far she goes back.’
‘Stalin?’ Korolev repeated, not quite believing his ears. Could this get any worse? Now he had to deal with someone who was an old comrade of Stalin’s.
‘She calls him Koba,’ Babel said with a significant look.
Korolev swallowed, then decided it was best to get on with the job in hand.
‘We’ll need a list of who had access to keys and where all the keys were last night. Slivka?’
‘I’ll see to it.’
‘And a list of all the cast and crew. Anyone who had contact with Lenskaya. I saw a small Militia post in the village. Can you ask the colonel if the uniforms there can help? We’ll want to interview everyone as soon as possible.’
Slivka nodded. ‘They’ve already been instructed to assist you should you need them. Comrade Shymko, how many people are we talking about? For the cast and crew?’
Shymko ran a hand over his skull, a gesture that seemed to age him considerably.
‘Cast – speaking roles we have sixteen. Production and crew? About twenty – small, but Savchenko likes it that way. Extras? Every living soul for five versts. Then there are a few hangers on. I can get you a list of cast and crew. For the extras you might be better off talking to the kolkhoz people – they assist us with that side of things. I don’t even have a list, I just tell them how many we want and when.’
Korolev noted Slivka’s raised eyebrow. She was right – it could take days to interview that number of people. Perhaps weeks.
‘Well, we’ll start with the people who had most contact with her,’ Korolev said, ‘at least until we have a definite line of enquiry. So who would they be?’
Shymko looked trapped, as though he were considering that question from two different angles. The first being what useful assistance he could give in this regard, and the second being what his colleagues might think of him if he were to point them out to the Militia.
‘We’ll be interviewing everyone in due course,’ Korolev said after a few moments, tempted as he was to let the man sweat. ‘But let me take a guess that she would have had most contact with Comrade Savchenko, yourself and the more senior production members.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Shymko, drawing the word out in the face of Korolev’s implacable gaze. ‘But more than them – she was responsible for scheduling the shoot. That meant most people came in contact with her. She made sure the right actors were available for each scene we were shooting and in the right place. This work is normally done in advance, but with Savchenko there’s a more -’ he chose the next word carefully – ‘ spontaneous element. Sometimes we end up rousting actors out of bed when they thought they had a day off and telling make-up artists they have two hours to prepare a hundred extras. It’s not easy, I can tell you.’
Korolev nodded, but not in sympathy.
‘Let’s presume she wasn’t killed because she woke someone up too early, shall we? This is the Soviet Union, after all, and actors are cultured people not Chicago gangsters. How about we start with you, Comrade Shymko, as soon as you let us have your list? And let’s go through it one by one and see if we can’t divide it up a little. And, again, I want a list of key-holders and I want each key-holder, and the key, to present themselves to Sergeant Slivka, by the end of the day.’
He wrote ‘keys’ and ‘end of day’ in his notebook, so that Shymko would know he was not to be trifled with.
Chapter Six
The dead woman’s office was located in the main house, in one of the round turrets. Its three windows gave a panoramic view over the lake and woods, or at least they would have if it hadn’t been dark outside. The room was furnished with a table, a stiff-backed wooden chair and a scarred filing cabinet that looked as though it might miss its previous life in the office of some tsarist functionary or other. A pre-revolution Underwood typewriter sat on the table, nearly as scratched and dented as the cabinet, but with a new ribbon. A second typewriter with the Latin alphabet sat on the higher of two planks fixed to the wall, which served as shelves and were sagging under the weight of books and paperwork. Korolev didn’t want to enter until forensics had done their job, but he ran an eye along Lenskaya’s small library from the doorway. Books in English, French, German, Italian. He was impressed – not many girls from an orphanage could speak Russian that well, let alone foreign languages. He turned to Babel.
‘We’ll need to have translations of these titles. Isaac Emmanuilovich – do you speak any of these languages?’
‘My French is good, my German passable, but for the rest…’ Babel shrugged and Korolev turned to look at him with what he hoped was a Mushkin-like stare.
‘I thought you wanted to assist us.’
‘All right, all right, I’ll get you the list,’ Babel said.
‘I speak a little English,’ Slivka said. ‘And Italian, if that helps.’
‘Italian?’ Korolev couldn’t help but be surprised.
‘Well enough, an Italian comrade gave lessons to our Komsomol cell. Nice fellow.’ Slivka’s smile hinted at just how nice she’d found him.
‘Good.’ Korolev spoke a little more brusquely than he’d intended. The idea of the Italian offering her private tuition had distracted him. ‘If necessary I speak a little English as well. And some German.’
Everyone looked at him in surprise. Well, it was a very little English and it had been some time ago, and the German was mainly of the ‘ Hande hoch, Kamerad ’ variety that he’d picked up when a soldier. But if everyone else was bragging about their linguistic talent, he wasn’t going to be left behind. Babel raised a sceptical eyebrow.
‘Zhenia, my ex-wife, made me go to classes. I can read their script and even understand some of it. Look – English-Russian Dictionary. ’