Chapter Four
Korolev managed something approximating sleep for a good part of the journey, although he joined the other passengers to stretch their legs at Kursk, and by the time they landed in Odessa he was almost used to the strange experience that was flying.
He took his bag from the youth who was emptying the cargo hold and made his way over to the small wooden airport building, the word ODESSA attached to its roof in-between two obligatory red stars. Several small trucks and a couple of black cars were parked haphazardly in its vicinity and a small crowd of people stood around it, waiting for the passengers, he presumed. It wasn’t difficult to spot Major Mushkin.
He was a tall man, just over six feet, and if he wasn’t wearing a uniform as such, there wasn’t much doubt that he was a Chekist. Certainly every citizen within viewing distance had Mushkin marked, even though no one seemed to be looking in his direction. In fact, that was just it. Everyone was ignoring the burly man from State Security so pointedly that he stood out like a palm tree on an iceberg.
And of course it didn’t help that the major’s gaze was like a searchlight sweeping the crowd as he flicked the worker’s flat cap he carried against his thigh like a whip to the rhythm of a tune only he could hear. Korolev watched him reach for a cigarette case from the pocket of his double-breasted leather trench coat, then bring one the contents to his mouth. He was about to light it when he became aware of Korolev and, as their eyes met, Korolev felt a shiver run down his spine as every instinct told him that the fellow was bad news. Very bad news.
The strangest thing, he thought as he approached, was that the major was almost good looking. The nicotine-stained blond hair that he’d pushed back from his pale forehead was beginning to whiten around the ears, but was still thick, if a little tangled. His features were regular enough – a broad jaw, high cheekbones and a straight nose – and would have been pleasing on another man. But the major’s face had a weary, cynical cast to it that Korolev suspected must be permanent, and it robbed him of any attractiveness or warmth.
‘Major Mushkin?’ Korolev asked, holding out a hand in greeting.
‘Korolev,’ Mushkin said, ignoring the hand. ‘My car’s over here. We’ll talk on the way.’
‘Comrade Mushkin?’ It was Belakovsky’s voice. ‘Are you here to meet us?’
The major turned and looked at Belakovsky for a long moment. ‘No,’ he said eventually.
Belakovsky’s eyes swivelled towards Korolev, remembering him, before turning back to Mushkin with an apologetic smile.
‘Of course, I’m sorry – when I saw you standing here…’
‘Yes, you jumped to a conclusion.’ Mushkin spoke the words like a threat.
‘Excuse me, Comrade, my mistake. Please forgive me.’ Belakovsky turned away and, nodding to Lomatkin, walked quickly round the corner of the building in the journalist’s company. Mushkin looked at Korolev for a reaction, which Korolev was careful not to provide.
‘Well, now you’ve met Belakovsky. You’ll see more of him. Lomatkin his sidekick as well, no doubt.’
The car rattled along a road so straight it could have been laid out with a ruler, although after months of freezing temperatures the surface had nothing of the same regularity. Not that Mushkin allowed that to affect his speed, manoeuvring round only the bigger pot-holes and leaving the car’s suspension to deal with the rest – a task that Korolev’s bruised body told him was beyond it. It was a good fifteen years since he’d travelled through the Ukraine, but he remembered the steppe all too well and the flat landscape extended unremittingly to the horizon. Rodinov had told him it would be warmer than Moscow, which it was, but only by a couple of degrees and ice still clogged the streams and lakes and scatterings of snow marked each variation in the relentless flatness.
‘We found her hanging from a wall bracket in the dining room,’ Mushkin said, his voice rising to compete with the car’s engine.
‘So I understand. Anything suspicious?’
‘No,’ Mushkin replied flatly.
Korolev looked out of the window at the passing landscape but after a while of staring at the endless road ahead, the temptation to ask another question got the better of him.
‘Where is this dining room?’
Mushkin sighed and, for a moment, Korolev thought his question wouldn’t be answered.
‘The dining room is in an old manor house where the cast and crew are staying – it was a nobleman’s country residence before the Revolution, now it’s part of an agricultural college. They call it the Orlov House locally. The College has plenty of room, is secure and it’s near the village where they’re filming. The students and teachers who would be there otherwise have been sent to nearby kolkhoz s to help them prepare for the new season’s planting, so it’s convenient for everyone.’
Korolev was surprised at such a thorough answer, so surprised that he decided to push his luck.
‘What time did she die?’
Mushkin’s lips tightened into a scowl, and when he answered his voice had acquired an undercurrent of irritation.
‘She was found at just past ten last night. The last time she was seen alive was after the evening meal at around seven-thirty. The caretaker passed through the room where the body was found at eight o’clock and saw nothing. So between eight and ten is what I would deduce.’
‘What about the other people staying in the house?’
‘A night shoot down at the village. It was a crowd scene, so everyone was involved except for the girl. It seems she was alone in the house after the caretaker left.’
‘Who found the body?’
‘The caretaker – at least he was the one who opened the door when they found her. But he was with Shymko, the chief production coordinator. They’d been down at the shoot – the caretaker was in the crowd for the scene they were filming.’
‘What’s a production coordinator?’
‘A fixer. He makes sure everything runs smoothly. He’s the adjutant to Savchenko’s colonel.’
‘And this caretaker?’
‘He’s nearly sixty – he’s taken it badly. To me it looks open and shut, no one else involved except for her, but I understand you have orders as to how to proceed.’ Again that note of irritability.
‘I’d like to see the body first.’
‘As you wish.’
‘Did you know the girl?’ Korolev ventured.
Mushkin nodded, and for the first time Korolev thought he detected a glimmer of sympathy.
‘Yes, I knew her – it was a surprise to me.’ He sighed, and his face took on a gentler, more thoughtful expression. ‘She didn’t strike me as the suicidal type. On the contrary – an able worker, a committed Party activist, well respected by her comrades. Popular. And I’m not aware of any reason why she’d have wanted to kill herself. As I said, I was surprised – but then these things happen.’
Mushkin shrugged his shoulders; death obviously didn’t impress him any more. And when it came to suicide he had a point. They didn’t publish figures, but everyone knew someone who’d ended their own life. It was the nature of the transition they were going through, Korolev supposed: the march from a feudal society to modern socialism exerted pressures on the individual – and not all individuals were made of steel. Sometimes he wished the Party would just give them a few months off. A holiday from change.
‘How about personal relationships? A lover perhaps? There’s nothing in the file, but young women…’ Korolev left the sentence hanging.
Mushkin shook his head.
‘I’m not in the locality in a professional capacity, Captain, as you’ve probably been informed. I’m here for a period of rest.’ The major glanced at him and Korolev felt his reaction to the statement was being assessed. It made him wonder whether the period of rest was voluntary.
‘I haven’t been monitoring things closely,’ Mushkin continued, ‘at least not up until now. It’s possible, however. Very possible. She was a popular girl.’
By now they’d left Odessa far behind. The villages they were passing through were further and further apart,
