Korolev told him what he knew and Babel nodded when he’d finished.
‘Well, she was intelligent and lucky with it, that much is certain. And she was ambitious – that much is also true, and flexible in the means she used to get ahead. Ezhov wasn’t the only one she was friendly with, if I can put it that way. It wasn’t luck and intelligence alone that took her from the orphanage and got her chosen for delegations to Hollywood.’
‘When you say “friendly”…?’
‘She was a good-looking girl and she didn’t want to spend her life queuing for bread. I know she was with Belakovsky. Savchenko as well. As for Ezhov – well, the rumours are they weren’t strangers.’
‘I see,’ Korolev said. ‘Others?’
‘Probably. They send orphanage children where the labour demand is greatest,’ Babel continued. ‘She could have ended up in a factory the other side of the Urals, or at a kolkhoz farm by the Sea of Azov. Who knows who her parents were? Most probably peasants with a couple of cows who woke up one morning and discovered they’d been classified as kulaks and therefore class enemies. What happened to them we may never know, but that she took control of her fate is certain and who can blame her?’
‘Are you saying she was the child of a class enemy?’ Korolev asked, before cursing himself. Of course that’s what Babel was saying. And what’s more he was likely right. It made sense.
‘All I know is that she had a past before the orphanage, and she kept quiet about it. But if it were the case, it would reflect badly on the People’s Commissar of State Security if it came out.’
‘Not that we know anything for certain,’ Korolev said.
‘Of course not,’ Babel said, sighing. ‘By the way, watch out for Mushkin.’
‘Mushkin?’
‘Mushkin. When Soviet Power reached Odessa in ’nineteen, he drove round the city with the corpses of executed enemies dragging behind his car. Just to show everyone who was boss – and he hasn’t turned into a priest since then, believe me. You know what happened in these parts a few years back. It wasn’t pleasant, and Mushkin has a reputation from then that would scare the Devil. He’s here now because even the NKVD thought he’d gone too far and needed a rest.’
Korolev remembered the stories that he’d been told about the winter of ’thirty-two. How frozen bodies, skin and bone, had emerged from the snow when the spring came. How the people had boiled any leather they’d had for soup. If the stories he’d heard were true, people had eaten grass until the snow covered it, tree bark, the recently dead, their own children, anything. And still the authorities had come searching for grain, and had found none. And Mushkin had been a part of that.
‘Still,’ Babel said, the smile not quite reaching his eyes, ‘remember the saying – if you’re destined to die at sea, you won’t be hanged.’
Chapter Seven
Korolev found Shymko standing in front of the newly designated investigation room, his face yellow in the light that spilt out of it. He raised a hand in greeting.
‘I’ve got you a typewriter, paper and ribbon, and there’s a phone line. If you need anything else, let me know.’
‘Thank you, Comrade.’
‘And Larisa is typing up those lists you wanted.’
Korolev saw that once the man had a job to do, he did it well and efficiently. There weren’t so many of his kind around that Korolev didn’t appreciate his abilities.
‘Excellent,’ Korolev said, meaning it, and was about to continue when the arrival of Marchuk and Mushkin, along with two forensics men, distracted him. After brief introductions, he sent the forensics men to the dead girl’s office, saying he’d catch up with them in a few minutes.
‘I see you’re settling in, Korolev,’ Mushkin said, looking round the investigation room.
‘I thought it best to take a few practical steps; they’ll assist another detective if I’m not released by my chief.’
‘Or if it turns out to be suicide,’ Mushkin said in a flat tone. ‘Anyway, your chief was only too pleased that Moscow CID should be in a position to assist their Odessa colleagues. Isn’t that right, Marchuk?’
That same snide undercurrent again, Korolev thought. He found himself hoping that a day would come when the leadership would point out to these arrogant protectors of the State that the People they were meant to be protecting were the same people they spent their time harassing and intimidating.
‘Yes,’ Marchuk agreed, his eyes slipping away from Korolev’s with something approaching shame. ‘Comrade Popov was most impressed that you put the State’s needs before your own. We’ll do everything we can to assist, of course. Peskov will have a full autopsy report ready by the morning and I’ll have the forensics men work through the night if need be.’
‘Thank you, Comrade Colonel. I take it I’ll report to you, then.’
The abashed colonel turned to Mushkin, his mouth opening as though he felt he should say something but he wasn’t quite sure what.
‘No,’ Mushkin answered instead. ‘It’s been decided you’ll report to Moscow. The case has sufficient connections with the capital to justify it. Your investigation will be independent of Odessa CID at this stage, as well as the local procurator’s office.’
‘Unusual,’ Korolev replied, thinking he’d never heard of a case not involving the procurator’s office. After all, it was the procurators’ role to take the case to court, so they usually had some oversight of the investigation to ensure the evidence was properly gathered. In theory Militia detectives acted under their direction, although, of course, it didn’t always work out that way in practice. Still, it was the way things were done.
‘Why? We aren’t even certain it’s murder yet, are we? Officially you’re investigating a suicide: be sure to make that clear to anyone you speak to.’
‘Of course, Comrade Major.’
‘I’ll leave you and Marchuk to discuss the details. Be quick though, Korolev – you’ll be receiving a phone call in the next few minutes.’
Korolev looked at the back of Mushkin’s leather coat as he marched away, then at the colonel, whose pale face didn’t offer any reassurance.
‘Comrade Colonel, we may have hundreds of interviews to do so I’ll need all the help I can get. Sergeant Slivka? Is she to work with me?’
She was, it seemed, as well as Gradov and the other uniforms from the village. In fact, the colonel gave the impression that he’d have happily given the Moscow detective his first-born child if it would get him shot of his involvement in the investigation any faster, and as soon as the conversation had finished, the colonel’s car was rattling down the driveway.
Korolev sat behind the desk farthest from the door. The phone rang just as he felt his eyelids begin to close under their own weight and he picked up the receiver tentatively.
‘Korolev,’ he said, his voice sounding much more confident than he felt.
‘Well, Korolev, I hear you have a murder on your hands.’ It was Rodinov, and the colonel listened silently as Korolev brought him up to date on developments. When Korolev had finished he gave a series of instructions – Sergeant Slivka came in to hear Korolev repeat the word ‘Yes’ several times and then thank the Comrade Colonel for his time. She sat down in front of him and waited for him to finish.
Korolev put down the phone with the feeling that things could certainly be a lot worse. Yes, he was under strict instructions to see that Ezhov’s name didn’t feature in the case in any way, but that he had expected – particularly after his conversation with Babel. On the other hand, he had permission to proceed as he saw fit, except for the proviso that he should try to avoid disruption to the film – and that was something he’d already agreed with Belakovsky.
All well and good, until the colonel had mentioned the foreigner.
‘What foreigner?’ he’d asked, and so it had emerged that there was a French journalist, a guest of Savchenko. He was to be treated very carefully and if questioning was to be carried out, it was to be discussed with Rodinov first. He could do as he liked with the Soviet citizens, within reason, but this fellow Les Pins was a different story. He was an important supporter of the Soviet Union in the West, and Rodinov wanted it kept that way.