‘Marchuk has done well,’ he said when Korolev telephoned to inform him of the latest developments.
‘I agree, Comrade Colonel.’
‘And you’ve done well also, Korolev.’
As for Mushkin, Rodinov had seemed strangely unconcerned when told that he’d disappeared and that Slivka had been unable to track him. Almost as if he’d expected just such an outcome.
‘Don’t worry about Mushkin, Korolev. He doesn’t like you and you don’t like him, but that doesn’t mean he’s a traitor. No, we must look elsewhere for the source of this conspiracy. Tell Marchuk I approve his every action, but that from now on the Odessa NKVD will be taking over this affair directly. Petrenko is in charge now, tell Marchuk that – they’ll know each other, I’m sure of it – and all prisoners are to be transferred to his custody. As for you, Korolev, you keep on as you’ve been doing.’
‘Shall I ask this Comrade Petrenko for instructions?’
‘You report only to me, Korolev. No, you started off looking for the girl’s killer and you should carry on doing so. Petrenko will handle the rest. I suggest you go out to the Orlov House immediately. If Les Pins is there, take him into custody. If not, I want you to search his belongings and seize any potential evidence. And remember this. Discretion is required. Absolutely required. That’s why I’m sending you and not Chekists. And why you’re not to talk to anyone else about this case, except me.’
There was nothing friendly about the instruction and Korolev took the point. He might well have uncovered this conspiracy, but he wasn’t to be allowed to give either Marchuk or this new fellow Petrenko any information that might link the matter back to the People’s Commissar’s mistress or to the People’s Commissar himself. And now it was his job to secure any incriminating evidence.
Korolev’s grimace drew Slivka’s attention away from the road ahead and he shook his head to tell her it was nothing. In accordance with the colonel’s instructions they were driving towards the Agricultural College, the car splashing the uneven road ahead with the only light in a world as dark as the inside of a grave.
‘The uniforms should have secured the place by now,’ Slivka said, glancing at her watch. The Militiamen from the village station had been told to prevent anyone from leaving until they arrived, and also to hold anyone who attempted to enter the premises in the meantime.
Two minutes later the car’s headlights illuminated the Odessa Regional Agricultural College’s name, the foot-high concrete letters golden in their beam as they turned into the entrance, but there was something oppressive about the way the night closed in behind them as they drove along the tree-lined avenue. The faint outline of the Orlov House showed ahead, ghostly pale against the black sky with not a glimmer of welcoming light to be seen. There was no sign of the Militiamen.
‘Let’s leave the car here, Slivka,’ Korolev said. ‘I have a feeling about this.’
Slivka killed the engine and the headlights, and the car coasted to a halt. They sat there for a moment, listening to the silence of past midnight on the steppe. Not even a mouse was turning in its sleep. The only sound was their own shallow breathing and the creak of the car’s warm bonnet as it adjusted to the sub-zero temperature.
They stepped out of the car, closing the doors very quietly, and waited for their eyes to become adjusted to the darkness. The air had the moist, frigid density that preceded snow, and Korolev felt a speculative flake land on his cheek. They began to walk slowly towards the Orlov House, moving into the darker shadows on either side of the avenue, where the trees overhung it, and were grateful they had when lights suddenly glowed up ahead – the long windows on the ground floor of the Orlov House and the white outside lamps of the college buildings dusting their immediate surroundings with a silvery sheen. Korolev looked away from them to preserve his night vision, thinking there must have been a power cut that had just been repaired.
It wasn’t so much the silence that disturbed him or the absence of the Militiamen who should have been challenging them. It was something else again, something much more intangible. And he was grateful for the snug feel of the Walther in his hand when the light spilling from the windows and open front door of Mushkina’s cottage showed a crumpled body lying on the cobblestones in front of it.
With Slivka covering him, Korolev carefully approached, recognizing the young uniform from the village, Sharapov. Wet blood oozed down the boy’s pale face. Korolev leant down to feel for a pulse and was surprised by the wave of relief when he felt it. But the relief was tempered with caution – Korolev looked around the courtyard, concerned that the boy’s attacker might still be close by. The lights flickered, then went out once again and they were left in darkness. Slivka had already positioned herself beside Mushkina’s open doorway and he made his way to her, crouching as he did so.
‘Who’s that?’ she whispered.
‘Sharapov – someone’s knocked him out cold.’
In the dark, he couldn’t see Slivka’s reaction.
‘What do we do about this someone, Chief?’ she asked, her voice calm.
‘We see if we can find him and we deal with him.’ Korolev took a deep breath and stepped inside Mushkina’s cottage.
§
Inside it was as dark as the bottom of a coal mine and Korolev pushed himself against the wall, lifted his Walther and turned on his torch, running it quickly round the room. It looked just as he might have expected except for the slumped figure lying across Mushkina’s writing desk.
‘It’s clear, but we’ve another body,’ he whispered to Slivka, who entered behind him and covered him as he approached the desk.
‘The Frenchman,’ he muttered as he turned Jean Les Pins’ head, the dead man’s hair surprisingly soft and his skin, even more surprisingly, with a trace of the heat of a living person. But a thin strip of rope was still dug deep into his neck. And then the smell struck him. The perfume of hot wax. He put a finger to the wick of the candle beside Les Pins’ head – still warm and the wax underneath still liquid. The killer must have left only moments before they arrived.
‘Who is it?’ Slivka asked, moving slowly across the room, gun held out in front of her with her left hand supporting her right.
‘Les Pins. Strangled. Whoever did it is still close, Slivka. Be careful.’
There was no sign of a struggle, and yet here Les Pins was, garrotted, and Sharapov lying unconscious outside with a lump on his head the size of a lemon. There was a door leading further into the house and Korolev, followed closely by Slivka, crept towards it and, gun first, made his way into the kitchen. A quick scan of the room with his torch showed the back door was ajar.
‘Do you think we disturbed them?’
‘I don’t know, but I’m going to check upstairs.’
Leaving Slivka to cover his back, Korolev climbed the stairs to the upper storey, his feet seeming to find every possible creak in the steps as he went. A shirt lay discarded on the small landing and it was clear that someone had ransacked the two bedrooms – Mushkina’s clothes were strewn everywhere, a mattress had been thrown from the bed and cut open with a knife and books littered the floor, their spines and boards filleted. A very thorough job, but hastily done, Korolev decided, wondering what the ransacker had been looking for, and why similar havoc hadn’t been visited on the rooms downstairs. Perhaps they had disturbed the intruder. Or perhaps Les Pins had.
‘Well, Chief?’ Slivka called up to him in a loud whisper.
‘That someone’s been up here, Slivka – and searching for something by the looks of it. No sign of Comrade Mushkina.’
He turned off his torch and went back downstairs – whatever they’d been looking for must be worth having.
‘Where’s Mushkina’s telephone?’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘Get it winding, Slivka, and get people out here, soon as you can. I’ll bring Sharapov into the kitchen before he freezes.’
By the time Korolev had dragged the young Militiaman inside the front door, fat snowflakes were beginning to fall in earnest and already a thin coating of white covered the cobblestones. He could hear Slivka frantically turning the handle on the telephone she’d found on the kitchen wall.
‘No line, not even a crackle. It must be the electricity.’
