“I understand,” Dubinkin said. “Leave it to me.”
* * *
Korolev followed Timinov up the stairs-there was something familiar about the fellow’s face.
“So Timinov, have you worked here long?” Korolev said, and the doorman turned to look at Korolev, his eyes unreadable in the half-light of the stairwell.
“It’s Captain Korolev-isn’t it?”
“So it says on my identification. From Petrovka.”
“I didn’t read it-that Chekist had my attention. And then I didn’t recognize you, because of your face.”
Korolev nodded, resisting the temptation to invent yet another improbable excuse for his bruises.
“But we’ve met before-back in twenty-nine. I was working at the Red Flag Tractor factory then.”
Korolev looked at him more closely, subtracting eight years.
“I remember you. The local uniforms had you fixed for that foreman-the one who woke up with his head cracked open.”
“I owe you for that, Comrade Captain.”
Korolev shrugged. “You didn’t kill him-it’s not my job to put innocent people against crimes they’d nothing to do with.”
“All the same, I’m in your debt-there’s many would have left things as they were.” Timinov extended his hand and Korolev took it. “So now you’re looking into the professor’s death?”
“That’s right.”
The doorman nodded, as if that made sense to him.
“I’ve worked here three years, Comrade. A bit of this and a bit of that-whatever needs doing around the place-and I help out at the theater and the cinema when I’m needed, or I used to anyway. I’m a doorman now. Well, for the moment at least.”
“And you knew the professor?”
“Oh, I knew him-he tried to have me fired once. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead but he was a hard man to like.”
“And Priudski?”
“I don’t know much about him, Comrade Captain. I stayed well clear.”
“How come?”
“All I can say is he hung himself on his own rope, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Korolev nodded-it seemed he wasn’t the only one who’d thought that Priudski’s ears were working for State Security. He stopped to recover his breath, looking out one of the dusty windows at the street far below.
“How many damned floors are there in this place?”
“Ten altogether.”
“And which of them is this woman Menchikova on?”
“The tenth. It’s not what she’s used to, I can tell you. You think Professor Azarov’s apartment is big? Well, you should have seen theirs. But a cat couldn’t swing a mouse in the room they have now. One more flight of stairs is all.”
Korolev reluctantly started climbing again, reconsidering his views on lifts as he went.
“It’s just here, will I knock for you?”
“It’s all right,” Korolev managed to say, deciding to take a minute to recover before he did anything else. “If I need anything I’ll call for you.”
“Don’t you hesitate, Comrade Captain. Not for an instant. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know-you can count on it. I pay my debts.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Even though Menchikova’s room was on the highest floor, the view wasn’t of the Kremlin, or the Moskva River, the Southern districts or even over the rooftops to Gorky Park. No, it was of the dusty courtyard, and the sky. But even that view provided relief from the small low-ceilinged room, not much more than half the size of Korolev’s. It certainly wasn’t big enough for three small children, Citizen Menchikova, and her mother. One of the children wasn’t much more than a baby. No wonder when she opened the door she looked exhausted, but the sight of him woke her up all right. He should be used to it by now, but he didn’t like to see people step back in fear when they set eyes on him.
“Citizen Menchikova?”
“Yes?” She made an effort and drew herself up straight as she spoke. Behind her, two young boys stopped wrestling on the bed while the wary eyes of Menchikova’s mother, sitting at a small table, took in the identification card Korolev produced. It seemed to him her mother held the infant she was cradling in her arms just a little closer as she did so.
“I’m Korolev, a detective from Petrovka. Would you have a few minutes? I want to talk to you about Professor Azarov.”
She looked at the bloodstains on his shirt and the bruises and scrapes.
“I’m sorry about my face-I had an accident. I haven’t had time to clean up.”
Menchikova nodded and reluctantly opened the door wider-but there really wasn’t room for anyone else in the room and certainly not someone his size.
“Is there somewhere we could talk more privately?”
Menchikova looked around at the box in which she lived. She looked toward her mother who nodded her agreement.
“We can go up on the roof if you’d like,” Menchikova said. “It should be open-it normally is when the weather is like this.”
He followed her out and along the corridor, through an unmarked wooden door that looked like any other and then up some steps that led to another door, this time constructed from metal and looking as though it had been welded shut; yet when Menchikova pushed, it swung open soundlessly and there they were, high above the Moskva, looking down on a slow-moving riverboat far below. The city sprawled away from them in all directions until it vanished into the smoky haze of the horizon.
It should have been a view to savor, but instead Korolev, to his surprise, found that the building seemed to be moving beneath his feet-and he had to lean back against the door for a moment until the sensation passed. Fortunately Menchikova’s attention had been elsewhere and he was able to quickly wipe the cold sweat from his forehead before she turned to face him once again.
They weren’t the only persons up here-the flat roof ran around three sides of the building’s internal courtyard and here and there other inhabitants of the building sat or lay, enjoying the morning sun. Some had brought deckchairs up, some cushions. None were within hearing distance however.
“So the door is always open?” Korolev asked. Menchikova’s brown arms and freckled face made it seem likely she came up here from time to time-either that or she worked outdoors. But despite her tan, she looked frail in the sunlight.
“The doorman said there were only two ways into this part of the building-through the front door and the courtyard,” Korolev continued.
“It’s meant to be kept locked,” Menchikova said, glancing away as if hoping to avoid his examination. “But the doormen don’t want to be running up and down however many flights of stairs every time someone important wants to sunbathe-there are plenty of people they can’t say no to in this place, you see. So in the summer they keep the doors open. I only came up here because you asked for a place to talk, of course. I wouldn’t otherwise. I know we’re not meant to.”
Korolev sighed and made a note-the fact that the roof was accessible multiplied the number of potential suspects for Azarov’s murderer, as well as increasing the number of entry points.
“I’m not here to check whether you use the roof or not, Citizen, believe me.”
Menchikova’s frown intensified and, although she said nothing, he realized his words might have sounded ominous. He decided to try a different approach.
“I understand your husband was arrested because of Professor Azarov’s denunciation,” he began, but got no further-Menchikova put a hand to her chest and glanced quickly round her, as if looking for a means of escape. Korolev reached out to reassure her, but even this gesture was misinterpreted. She took a step back and he found himself having to leave the safety of the door, immediately feeling the roof sway nauseatingly once again.
“The children. Who will look after them? I knew I’d be blamed, I knew it. As soon as I heard he’d been killed, I knew it.”
“Please, Citizen-I’ve some questions is all. I’m an ordinary detective. Please just stay where you are.”
She didn’t seem to have heard him at first, but she did stop moving, which was something. Korolev reached behind him and took a discreet hold of the door handle. He allowed himself to exhale.