Anyone who’d been to the cinema in the last ten years had almost certainly seen Barikada Sorokina shining in the darkness. She’d grown up on the screen, at first a child and then a young girl and now a beautiful woman. As might be expected, she was often either defending the barricades for which she was named, or storming them. Born to Party members in the tsar’s time, her name spoke of the struggle that had preceded the Revolution, and now, twenty-five years later, she was the embodiment of the People’s hope for the future, and their determination to defend all that had been achieved. Whenever Barikada stepped before the camera it was to lead them onwards, and whether it was to move impossible quantities of earth in order to complete a delayed canal project or to attack a White fortress Barikada always led by example. Of course, it often resulted in her own tragic death, but Soviet citizens knew it was their duty to put the Party and the State’s welfare before their own. And if they didn’t, Barikada’s selfless heroism reminded them.
Korolev looked at his watch – he still had a few minutes before she arrived so he decided to go back over his notes of the Andreychuk interview in case there was something he’d missed. He’d barely started when there was a knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ he called, without looking up, still focused on Andreychuk’s notes. The door opened and he waved the person to the desk in front of him. There was no movement, however, and so he lifted his eyes to see who it was.
Barikada Sorokina stood in front of him like a fully limbed and clothed Venus de Milo, a brown fur coat hanging over her shoulders against which her blonde hair shone like gold. For a moment, Korolev was so surprised by the vision before him that it didn’t occur to him that she might be waiting for something. Then, to his surprise, he found his body had got to its feet, marched across the floor and given a suspiciously tsarist-like bow to the beautiful actress, who extended her hand, not to be shaken, but to be kissed. Korolev, cheeks burning, found himself complying with her wishes.
‘Comrade Captain,’ the actress breathed, ‘have we met before?’
Her eyes were a green that was close to emerald, and she seemed well aware of the effect they were having on a bumbling Militia captain. But where else to look? Her breasts stretched against a khaki shirt that seemed to have been tailored so as to make normal breathing difficult for her. He would have to convince his eyes they absolutely did not exist, and hope that she might cover her chest with the fur coat in due course. Her fine white teeth might have made an acceptable alternative except for the slight hint in her smile that her full red lips were his to do with as he wished, should he only ask. He settled at last on her forehead. It was a good forehead, sculpted, uncreased by worry, and it had the advantage that it didn’t make his throat constrict with inappropriate desire.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ he managed to say. ‘Although I was fortunate enough to see your last film. So in a way, I’ve met you, if not the other way around.’
‘ Appointment at Dawn?’
‘Yes – you were executed by counter-revolutionary brigands. At dawn. It was very moving.’ It was true, Korolev had found himself wiping his eyes on the back of his overcoat sleeve, grateful for the darkness in the cinema. ‘You were inspiring.’
‘Do you remember this?’ she asked and pulled her shoulders back and looked at him with utter disdain. ‘You may shoot me, but the Revolution will never be defeated!’
‘Bravo!’ Babel said, entering behind her. ‘I’m surprised the firing squad didn’t turn Red immediately.’
Which was strange, because Korolev could indeed feel a blush warming his cheeks.
‘You’ve met the beautiful Barikada, then.’
‘Yes,’ Korolev said, pleased that his voice seemed to sound relatively normal. ‘Isaac, we’ll need privacy for Comrade Sorokina’s interview.’
Babel looked a little nonplussed for a moment then nodded in agreement.
‘A shame. I should have liked to see how the best detective in Moscow sets about such an interview. Be careful now, Barikada, don’t go giving away your intimate secrets. He’s a terrier, this one.’ And Korolev found himself looking at Babel with a sudden professional curiosity – his words had sounded almost like a warning. But Babel had already turned to leave and Korolev caught only the briefest glimpse of his face in the light before it was gone. Not enough to come to a conclusion, but still – a strange thing to say.
‘Will you take a seat, Comrade? I just have a few questions.’
‘Anything I can do to assist you in your efforts, of course. Poor Masha, how thankful she would have been to know that a detective of your experience is searching for her killer.’
‘Killer? Who said anything about a killer?’
‘Everyone is saying it,’ Barikada replied, her eyes widening. ‘Although I must admit I’d my suspicions from the first.’
‘Well, we’ll come to that. But for the moment this is just a routine interview to gather all the facts about Citizen Lenskaya’s untimely death.’ Korolev sat down at the desk to face her, not knowing quite how he was going to go about things.
‘Let us begin at the beginning.’ It was the best place to start, after all. ‘How long had you known Citizen Lenskaya?’
‘Masha? Oh, quite some time. We used to see each other at parties and she was at the State Film School, of course. She was friendly with people I’m friendly with – you know how it is. Moscow is a small town, in many ways.’
Yes, Korolev imagined it was – if you were part of the elite. Artists like Sorokina and Babel, senior Party cadres, the technocrats and the Lenin Prize winners, they were no doubt all as thick as thieves.
‘Yes, I’ve heard it said Moscow is surprisingly small,’ he replied, thinking of the teeming millions of Muscovite workers who queued outside bakeries for bread that there was never enough of and that was often too expensive. ‘But more to the point, was there anything in Comrade Lenskaya’s private life you’re aware of that might have a bearing on this investigation?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m afraid I have to ask about lovers, associates. Whether she drank too much, had enemies – things like that. I’m sorry – it must seem disrespectful to her memory.’
‘Oh no – you must ask me anything you like. I consider it my duty as a loyal citizen to answer any question you may have for me.’ The actress seemed animated, and Korolev wondered whether she did indeed have something to hide, but then it occurred to him that, as an actress, this was a role she had played several times before.
‘Well, shall we consider first whether she had any enemies? Have you any thoughts as to who might have done this?’
‘Enemies? Masha? Well, a few of the girls might have been a little jealous of her, but the men all loved her. It was strange, really, because I always thought she was a little mousy. Not that she wasn’t pretty, you know – because she was, I don’t deny that – but she spent so much of her time reading books, and that makes you squint a little, and then, next thing you know, you begin to look like a mouse.’
‘A mouse?’
‘In my personal opinion, yes – sometimes you can go too far with education. But the men adored her. Perhaps because she was adventurous, if I could express it that way. And didn’t restrict herself to one person in particular. She behaved, in many ways, like a man – but still she retained her femininity and charm so that none of them blamed her for it. It was strange how she dealt with them. I admired her for it, I can tell you.’
‘Any men in particular?’
‘Oh. Well, you probably know about Savchenko, and Belakovsky, of course. Everyone knows about them.’
Korolev made quick notes. So everyone knew, did they?
‘And then that journalist Lomatkin,’ she continued.
‘Lomatkin?’ So the fellow from the plane had been her lover – no wonder he’d looked shaken earlier.