‘Or perhaps that “someone” fellow cut it, just to make things easy for us. Come on, help me get Sharapov into the kitchen.’
‘Chief,’ Slivka said a few moments later, speaking quietly as she placed a cushion under the unconscious Militiaman’s head, ‘do you hear something?’
He heard it all right – the sound of an approaching motor, its engine barely turning over, but audible enough despite the snow. They crossed the room to the small window that overlooked the courtyard and saw a small truck coming up the lane where they’d left the car at a pace that a man on crutches could have kept up with, its lights off.
‘There’s a phone in the investigation room and one up at the house,’ Slivka whispered. ‘Shall we try for them?’
‘You go, Slivka. I’ll stay here. We can’t leave Sharapov on his own.’
Korolev sensed that she was about to disagree, but he took hold of her shoulder and pushed her firmly towards the back entrance.
Slivka turned as if she might resist, but then she kept on moving and closed the door behind her. Good girl, he thought, then retrieved Sharapov’s Nagant from its side holster. He cracked it open and ran a thumb round the chambers before snapping it shut. Good, it was fully loaded – he’d keep the Walther for later. He slipped off the safety catch and returned to the window just as the truck disgorged three people at the very spot where Sharapov’s body had lain just minutes before.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The first man into Mushkina’s sitting room looked around nervously, apparently not knowing what to expect, before retreating. When the tall man returned, he was accompanied by another shadowy figure who aimed what looked like a revolver into the darkness. Korolev wasn’t sure where the third member of the crew was, but he hoped he’d stayed in the truck. He waited until the two men reached the middle of the room before aiming the torch at their eyes to dazzle them.
‘Militia. I’ve a gun pointed right at you so put your hands up and drop your weapons to the floor. One wrong move and I shoot.’
Korolev flicked the beam back and forwards between the two men – he didn’t recognize the taller man, but the second man was familiar, even if it weren’t for the Militia overcoat. Blumkin from the village station. There was a clatter as Blumkin’s pistol hit the floor.
‘Who are you?’ Korolev asked the stranger, his voice sounding far more measured and calm than he felt.
The man opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it. Blumkin seemed to be trying to slowly back away towards the door until Korolev fixed him to the spot with a warning flash of the torch.
‘Blumkin, try anything and you’ll be breathing through a hole in your chest. Kick your gun over here.’
The Militiaman moved back towards his gun in order to comply, while Korolev, his eyes never leaving Blumkin, addressed the tall man.
‘You. Surname, name, patronymic.’
But the stranger was looking at a point behind Korolev’s shoulder and even Blumkin had stopped moving, waiting for something. It wasn’t much of a surprise when a voice came from the kitchen doorway.
‘Don’t move, Korolev. It would be a mistake if you did.’
It was the voice of a person who had a gun pointed at a fellow’s back and a bullet ready to plant a hole the size of a baby’s fist between his shoulder blades if he should so much as shiver. But Korolev started to turn anyway. After all, he recognized the voice well enough.
‘That’s enough, Korolev. Put your gun and the torch on the table beside you.’
‘As you wish,’ Korolev said, placing Sharapov’s Nagant down as instructed and noting without surprise that Blumkin had recovered his pistol and was pointing it straight at his throat.
‘Damienko, pick up that gun and take the torch.’
‘What’s going on, Comrade Mushkina?’ the tall man asked.
‘Trouble is what’s going on, Damienko. And your only way out of it is to do as I say.’
Mushkina’s voice had enough iron in it to armour a tank and the stranger did as he was told, checking the magazine of Sharapov’s Nagant and making sure there was a bullet in the firing chamber. Whoever he was, he’d handled a gun before. Korolev was conscious of the weight of the Walther in his pocket, but with three guns now trained on him it seemed to him the best place for his hands was pointing upwards, which was where he put them.
‘What happened to Les Pins?’
‘We found him searching for certain information. A guest who overstayed his welcome – in more ways than one – and a loose end that needed tying up.’
Korolev sighed: it didn’t take much detective work to realize he was another loose end that needed tying up – permanently. Still, he had a gun in his pocket and Slivka was out there somewhere. The game wasn’t over yet – not for as long as he was allowed to keep playing it, anyway.
‘So it was you, all along, Comrade Mushkina. Pulling the strings, finding enemies and counter-revolutionaries and bringing them together. Killing anyone who stood in your way.’
‘Finding them, Korolev?’ she repeated bitterly. ‘That wasn’t hard – there isn’t a man, woman or child in this part of the world doesn’t know that the Revolution has failed them. I don’t have to search for people who are against the Revolution – around here everyone is against the Revolution. Ask people in the village about hunger and they’ll tell you stories that will turn your blood to ice. They were left with nothing for a long winter – but I know where it all went. Do you know where, Korolev? Abroad. To the Capitalist countries. To the imperialists and bankers. To prop up fascists and oppressors while our own people starved. And there’s nothing that wasn’t eaten here at that time. Leather, grass, the bark of trees and worse, much worse than that. This is what the Revolution gave these people – the same people it was meant to be freeing from tyranny and want. Let me tell you, Korolev, the tsars were better to the people round here than Stalin, and that’s the truth of it.’
Korolev turned to look at the elderly woman. The light from the torch held on him by Damienko showed the silver in her hair, the dark hollows of her eyes and cheeks. There was no doubting her sincerity.
‘I don’t involve myself in political matters, I’m a detective.’
‘You were sent by the Lubianka, Korolev. You’re no ordinary detective.’
‘I was sent here, as you say, by the Lubianka – but I’m no Chekist. And, believe me, if I had my way I’d be in my bed in Moscow right now rather than having guns pointed at me. But you know who the murdered girl was connected to, and it was my misfortune to come to his attention on another case. Political matters aren’t for the likes of me, Comrade, but I go where I’m sent. That’s what an ordinary detective has to do – his duty.’
‘Ordinary, you say? Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused us?’
‘My job is to investigate crimes, Comrade. I don’t apologize if I make it inconvenient for the criminals.’
As soon as he’d said it, Korolev regretted the comment. It wasn’t the time to be pointing a finger at people who were pointing guns at him.
‘We’re no criminals, Korolev,’ Mushkina eventually said, her voice seeming a little quieter than before. ‘The criminals are Stalin and the Party, who’ve murdered the People. I know the truth.’
Korolev wanted a cigarette and he wanted to see his son Yuri one more time. To ruffle his fingers through the boy’s soft hair and hear him laugh. It looked as if the odds on seeing Yuri were long, but he might have a chance with a cigarette.
‘Mind if I smoke? I’ve some in my pocket. I even have a few spare.’ Well, why not offer them round? The likelihood was he wouldn’t be finishing them himself.
‘I have some questions that need answering,’ Mushkina said by way of agreement.
‘I’ve a few of my own,’ Korolev responded, his fingers reaching slowly for the breast pocket of his overcoat. ‘But I’ll answer yours better if I have some smoke in my lungs.’
‘Slowly, then.’
When he struck the match, the spark’s light briefly showed the faces of his captors: Blumkin looked determined, Damienko as if he wanted very much to be somewhere else and Mushkina could just as easily have
