Korolev smiled – he liked this Slivka.
‘Well, I’m no typist either, but I’ll pull my weight. Still, it’s a good point. I want the interview notes to be typed and clear – if we’re to crack this case, it’s because we organize the information well. Let’s see if any of these uniforms from the village can drive a typewriter. If not, we’ll have to see if we can persuade Comrade Shymko to lend us someone. And the uniforms won’t have done too much work like this before – let’s make sure they know exactly what questions to ask.’
‘As per your instructions, Chief. Where were they? When did they last see the girl? Who did they see at the film shoot? What did they know about her? Did anyone dislike her? Who was she most friendly with? I’ll have it all set out and typed up for them.’
Korolev found Andreychuk outside in the cold and told him to wait in the investigation room until he came back, then he started to walk towards the house, allowing himself a little smile as he did so. All right, it was true this case was likely to turn out to be a terrible mess – but at least Slivka seemed as though she’d be useful to have around. Nadezhda. Hope. And not just for the investigation: youngsters like Slivka were the future and, maybe, with citizens like her, a country would emerge from all this turmoil and fear that would shine as an example to the world of how humans could live together, working as one, striving for a common goal. Maybe.
By the time he arrived at Lenskaya’s office, the forensics men were packing their equipment while the youngster Sharapov watched them with keen interest.
‘Sharapov. Out to the stable block. Sergeant Slivka has plenty of work that needs doing.’
The young Militiaman gave a cheerful salute and followed his instructions.
‘You were quick. Any luck?’ Korolev said to the forensics men.
The older of the two, whom Colonel Marchuk had introduced as Firtov, looked up, a grey-haired man with solid shoulders, silver-grey eyes and a cavalryman’s moustache. When he stood, he had the bow-legged stance of a man more comfortable on a horse than on his feet.
‘We haven’t found much, to be straight, and if you ask me, someone cleaned the place,’ Firtov said. ‘There’s not a fingerprint in there, and that’s not natural. Not even on the keys of the typewriter. A few human hairs and that’s it, and no telling when they were left here. Papadopoulos found those.’
The other forensics man looked up – he was smaller, rounder, with black hair that swirled in tight curls on his close-cut scalp. When he smiled his teeth were bright in his dark face.
‘Papadopoulos? That’s not a Ukrainian name, is it?’ Korolev asked, thinking he’d end up surrounded by foreigners in this case if he wasn’t careful.
‘The Greek is as good a citizen as you or I.’ Firtov’s voice had dropped to a growl. ‘Born and raised in Odessa. As his father was before him. Isn’t that right, Greek?’
The Greek nodded, his smile flashing like a lighthouse once again.
‘No offence meant,’ Korolev said, offering his much-depleted packet of cigarettes as a peace offering.
‘None taken,’ Firtov said, helping himself. The Greek didn’t seem to smoke. Just as well, thought Korolev, looking at his few remaining cigarettes. Two, after he took one for himself.
‘We’ll look at the dining room, and wherever else you want, but it’s as though a human never stepped into this room.’
‘What about the books?’ Korolev asked, looking up at the shelves.
‘Well, we haven’t gone through them page by page,’ Firtov said. ‘But the covers are clean. It’s unusual, as I said.’
The forensics men finished packing their equipment and made their way to the dining room, but Korolev remained, examining the office carefully.
The room wasn’t that big and books loomed in from the walls to make it that little bit smaller. Savchenko’s Theory of Film was there, with Lenin and Stalin; Marx – as you might expect – and other writers of the Revolution. But there was something about the way the paper was stacked, and the books lined up spine against spine in a perfect row – it was just a little too tidy. Someone hadn’t just cleaned up fingerprints if his hunch was right – they’d carefully rearranged the entire room. And why would they have done that?
Of course, the most likely reason was that it had been the scene of the crime. After all, this was where she’d last been seen by Andreychuk and the dining room was only a few steps away. He looked at the desk once again, imagining Lenskaya sitting in front of the typewriter, her assailant behind her. Perhaps he’d spoken to her – she might even have answered, not turning round from her typing, recognizing the voice, and then had come the flash of the cord as it passed before her eyes and the bite as it cut into her neck. Korolev had once throttled a German back in the war, not a memory he liked bringing to mind – the fellow had managed to get his hand under the thin rope and had hung on to life with a fervour that had been extraordinary. But the fact was Korolev had been unlucky about the hand. Usually, once a rope was tight round the victim’s neck, resistance ceased almost immediately. That was something he’d learnt early on as a detective.
‘What are you thinking? Your jaw has that hard look to it. And there’s a vein pumping in your forehead. You’ve gone pale and I can hear your teeth grinding.’
Babel had appeared, wearing a pair of carpet slippers and a surprisingly vibrant silk dressing gown. Korolev looked at the writer, then turned his attention back to the dead girl’s workplace. The killer had to have made a mistake. Babel’s appearance had distracted him, but, still, there had to be a mistake.
‘This is where she died,’ he said at last, the words coming out as though he’d been holding his breath, and perhaps he had. ‘That’s what I’m thinking. That this is where he killed her.’
Chapter Eight
When Korolev returned to the investigation room, he found Andreychuk sitting in front of the desk Korolev had appropriated for himself. He nodded to the caretaker, sat down and opened up his notebook.
His first impression was that the fellow didn’t look strong enough to have lifted the girl up to the bracket, or even to have strangled her if she’d resisted. But he quickly corrected himself – the old were often stronger than they looked, and Andreychuk clearly led an active life. Indeed, on closer examination the man’s shoulders were broad, as was his chest, despite the fact he was no longer young. And, of course, there was always the possibility he’d had assistance, that there had been two involved in the attempted deception, and perhaps the murder itself. Andreychuk seemed to have had the opportunity to commit the crime, but what motive could he have had? None that Korolev could immediately think of, and then there was his very obvious grief. Not that that could be trusted. And if the office had been cleaned of any forensic evidence, did that point to the perpetrator of the crime having been a simple caretaker? It seemed much more likely that it pointed to someone with connections to the Security Organs.
He thought back to the Shishkin case – the file would probably already be shut and that wasn’t unusual. Murder was usually a simple matter, with the victim and the perpetrator well known to each other, and each step of their dance towards death well observed by others. But every now and then a complete mystery came along and then it required patience and time to sift through the facts and decide what was relevant and what could be discarded. Unfortunately for him, the Chekists weren’t renowned for their patience.
Andreychuk, his flat cap on his knees, his eyes downcast and his shoulders bent, coughed into his hand. It was a question – when are you going to stop looking at me and when are you going to start questioning me?
‘You’re the caretaker here, correct?’ Korolev said, after a further pause.
‘Yes, Comrade Korolev. We met earlier.’