“Hello,” Korolev called as he carefully stepped over the outline, looking around as he did so at the splattered walls. To judge from one long arc of blood in particular, it seemed whoever had killed the doctor had managed to sever one of his arteries.
“Come in,” called a voice Korolev didn’t recognize, and he followed it to its source-a large sitting room painted wheat-field yellow. Most of one wall was taken up by a fitted sideboard with shelves that climbed to the ceiling-shelves that were empty except for a solitary vase of wilting flowers. There was a large circular table with four wooden chairs around it, a daybed upholstered in deep-red velvet and scattered with silk cushions of various sizes and colors, and a pair of leather armchairs that had seen better days-none of them recent. But despite the furniture the place felt empty. Hollow, even. As if no one lived here. Which, he supposed, was now the case.
The two forensics men, Levschinsky and Ushakov, were standing in the center of the room with their arms folded, bags and equipment at their feet, looking gray against the bright walls. Around them the carpet was marked with brown streaks and what looked like footprints-blood brought into the apartment by the killer? Or by Militiamen and Chekists who hadn’t been conscious of the need to protect a crime scene? Korolev nodded to his two colleagues and turned his attention to the man in the NKVD uniform standing beside the window. Dubinkin, he presumed.
“It’s Korolev, isn’t it?” The Chekist broke the paper tube off a papirosa and put the short tobacco-filled end into a silver holder. “And this must be Sergeant Slivka. You’ll both know these comrades, I presume.”
He waved a hand in the direction of the others and Korolev nodded. A good-looking fellow, he supposed-a narrow face, despite the extra weight he was carrying around his midriff, and clean-shaven, with smoothed-back dark-brown hair that made him look like some jazz musician from the Empire Restaurant. Dubinkin beckoned him toward the window and gestured down at the bustling traffic of a busy Moscow morning.
“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”
It was said in a friendly way, but Korolev couldn’t help but wonder what the hell the question meant. But what was a man supposed to do? Disagree with a Chekist?
“A very fine day, Comrade Lieutenant,” he said, looking down at a column of white-shirted children marching behind a female teacher, their red Pioneer scarves bunched round their throats-a reminder that Yuri was still missing. He felt his hands clenching into fists, thinking he’d better things to be doing than looking out of damned windows to amuse Chekists.
“But what about your son, Korolev?” Dubinkin asked, and Korolev wondered, not for the first time in recent days, whether his thoughts were written on his forehead. “Any news of him?”
“He’s still missing.”
Korolev sensed the other Militiamen’s eyes on his and he avoided them. Instead he looked down at the children as they were packed onto a tram; thinking how hot it would be for them in there on a day like this. Yuri’s age, too. He stopped himself. There was no point in worrying about Yuri-Yasimov would find him-he was sure of it. He caught Slivka’s concerned look and took a deep breath, then let it out, feeling some of his anger go with it.
“It seems to be a good-sized apartment,” Korolev said, deciding that moving the conversation away from his missing son would be wise.
“The State looks after such valued contributors to the cause of Soviet science. There are two other rooms and a small kitchen. One of the rooms is used as a study and the other as a bedroom.”
Korolev turned to the forensics men. “Have you had a look around?”
“A quick look,” Ushakov said. “I might be able to do something with the blood in the hallway-we’ve taken samples. We might even be able to give you a rough time of death based on how long it took the blood to go through to the ceiling below.”
Ushakov nodded down at the carpet.
“As you can see, there are footprints all over the place and just by looking at them I can tell you they belong to at least three or four different people, one of them possibly female. But as we can’t compare them to footwear worn by the previous investigators”-Ushakov looked at Dubinkin-“it probably makes trying to track them down and match them up a wild-goose chase. One thing though-there’s a lot of dried blood in and around the kitchen sink, so it’s possible the killer tried to clean themselves there. To judge from all the blood on the walls in the hallway, I’d say the likelihood is they were covered in the stuff. Anyway, we’ll do our best to make something of it.”
Korolev nodded. “Do what you can; you can’t do more than that. What about the Azarov investigation?”
“We still have everything. No one came to pick it up in the end. We’ll get back to work on it.”
That was pretty much all that needed to be said-so the forensics men were left to go about their business.
“I have some background files.” The Chekist pointed to a stack of files that sat on the round table beside the window, along with a cardboard box. “But before you look at them, I’d like to show you something.”
He led them back to the hallway, and into what appeared to have been the dead man’s study. A large desk stood in the center of the room, its surface bare except for a telephone and a pencil that had been snapped in half. On the walls around it, the fitted bookshelves were also bare and, when Dubinkin opened the drawers of the large filing cabinet, one after another, they were empty as well.
“You won’t find one scrap of paper in the entire place. Everything’s been removed.”
Korolev took a deep breath and looked back into the corridor at the outline of the dead man.
“What about the body?”
“Your Dr. Chestnova took him away, but we’ve photographs of the scene as it was found. She insisted.”
“Insisted?” Korolev’s respect for the doctor increased. If he’d been wearing a hat, he’d have taken it off to her.
“And the murder weapon?”
“A knife, presumably.”
“Yes,” Korolev said patiently. “I guessed that. I meant have we found it.”
Before the comment was out of his mouth Korolev regretted it, but Dubinkin only laughed.
“I see. No, not that I’m aware of.”
“Has anyone spoken to the neighbors?” Korolev asked. “And what about the doorman downstairs?”
“I don’t think so. At least, not that they let us know about.”
“Do you mind me asking a question?” Slivka said, her hands buried in the pockets of the thin leather jacket she was wearing.
“Not at all, Comrade.”
“Who are ‘they?’”
“‘They’ are the Twelfth Department. They were handling the case until yesterday.”
“And you, which department are you?”
“I’m with the Fifth Department. I work for Colonel Rodinov.”
Slivka nodded. She’d come across Rodinov before, when they’d handled that business down in Odessa.
“And may I ask another question?”
“Will anything I say stop you?”
That got a smile from Slivka.
“What’s the difference between the two departments? Just so we know where we stand.”
“The Twelfth Department looks after special projects. The Fifth Department looks after counter-intelligence and internal security.”
Slivka frowned. “So does that mean there are foreign spies involved in this?”
Korolev wondered if it was being women that allowed Slivka and Chestnova to venture where he, for one, wouldn’t dare to tread.
“You understand these matters are confidential, Comrade Slivka.”
“I understand we’re being asked to investigate two murders and it’ll be more difficult if we don’t know what is what, and what might be what. That’s what I’m thinking.”
Dubinkin looked pointedly at Korolev as though it would be better if he answered her questions, and so Korolev repeated exactly what Rodinov had told him about what the institute might or might not have been researching and what he knew about the killings. After all, if Rodinov had told him, he surely must be allowed to tell Slivka. When he finished, there was a lengthy pause as Slivka thought through the ramifications. Eventually she shrugged, as if deciding that, having considered them, they were better forgotten about.