Slivka put her hands in her pockets. ‘No more beating about the bush, anyway.’
‘No.’
‘Who on the filmset would have access to morphine, do you think?’
‘That I don’t know, Slivka. Now, first things first,’ he said as they began to climb the steps to where the car was parked. ‘Let’s get hold of her medical records. Maybe she’d a good reason for taking it.’
‘It’s possible.’ Slivka’s cigarette tip flared orange. ‘But if not, well then – our killer gives the girl a possibly fatal dose of morphine, then strangles her and then hangs her. He’s nothing if not thorough.’
‘Or she could have been an addict,’ Korolev said, following his own train of thought.
‘Peskov didn’t find any signs of intravenous morphine addiction. No needle marks. Pills perhaps?’
‘Maybe. Of course, if it wasn’t taken voluntarily by her, then someone could have slipped the drug into her food or drink. We should find out what she ate and drank, if we can. Let’s keep an open mind although, if you think about it, it seems likely that two such unusual events are connected.’
‘You mean the strangulation and the morphine?’
‘Yes,’ Korolev said, catching sight of a wholly unexpected face on the other side of the street. ‘The likelihood that there’s a connection must be higher than that there isn’t.’
Which was exactly what he was thinking about the appearance of a Moscow Thief on the other side of street, particularly such a nasty specimen of the breed as little Mishka, Count Kolya’s sidekick.
‘Militia headquarters,’ Korolev said, his mind made up, ‘where is it again?’
‘Bebel Street. Why?’
‘I think I’ll take a walk – to clear my head – I can find my own way there. You probably need to fill your boss in on what’s been happening anyway. Say I see you in an hour or so?’
‘As you wish,’ Slivka said, her face showing no reaction to his odd behaviour, which itself was odd. Well, he’d explain it to her later on. In the meantime, Mishka had given him a come-hither look, rolled the toothpick he was chewing to the other side of his mouth, and sauntered off along the street, the points of his patent leather shoes angling inwards as he walked – in a way that marked him out as clearly as if he’d had the word ‘gangster’ tattooed on his forehead.
Korolev crossed the street to follow him, giving his Walther a discreet pat in its shoulder holster as he did so. He’d only met the vermin he was following twice, but one of the encounters had resulted in Korolev waking up in a Lubianka prison cell with a lump on his head the size of an orange, and this time he was taking no chances.
It was a strange performance, Korolev thought, as he shadowed Mishka at a distance of about twenty metres. The Thief clearly wanted to be followed, but he also seemed to want to irritate Korolev as much as possible at the same time. Every now and then he’d stop to tie his shoelace, give Korolev an appraising glance that bordered on the insolent, then turn to admire some pleasing female citizen and let loose a wolf whistle. He wore an immaculate white shirt, open at his neck, the collar spread out on top of a sports jacket, while everyone else was still bundled up in their winter coats. Korolev wasn’t close enough to hear what he was saying to the women who were passing, but to judge from the looks he received in return he wasn’t making polite conversation. The only thing that stopped Korolev from taking a few quick steps forward, grabbing the Thief by the collar of that crisp cotton shirt of his and throwing him into the gutter was the growing certainty he felt that Mishka’s strange performance meant that Kolya was in town. And Korolev was very curious to know why the king of the Moscow Thieves was this far south.
Although Korolev didn’t know Odessa that well, he’d the sense that the dance Mishka was leading him in was taking them towards the sea. He kept track of street names as they walked, Red Guard Street, Peter the Great Street, Red Army Street, and when they approached the small square at the end of Karl Marx Street, Mishka turned and there it was – the sea – a rolling grey that extended into the distance.
Mishka looked back at him and winked, and led Korolev to a wide, tree-lined promenade that overlooked the harbour. He stopped in the shadow of a toga-clad statue, in front of which familiar steps marched down to the docks. Korolev had seen the famous film about the Potemkin mutiny, and had flinched back into his seat as the merciless white-jacketed guardsmen had slaughtered the innocent people step by bloody step till they reached the bottom. He knew where he was now, right enough.
‘He’s waiting for you over there, Comrade Captain.’ Mishka had turned back to join him, interrupting Korolev’s thoughts. ‘Some view, eh? I’ll bet you’d like to get your shorts on and go for a paddle, wouldn’t you?’
Mishka’s face was smiling, but his eyes glinted like two knives ready to be jammed into your guts if you gave him half a chance.
‘A bit cold for me, Mishka, but you go ahead. Maybe take a bit of a swim while you’re at it. I’ve heard Turkey’s not far away – a fit lad like you, you never know, you might make it.’
Mishka’s smile stretched so that his sharp yellow teeth were bared like a fighting dog’s. The Party theorists might say Mishka was a victim of the feudal phase of history that the country was struggling to leave behind and therefore capable of reform, but Korolev disagreed. His cop’s instinct told him Mishka was only ever going to have ended up one way – as evil as a snake in a shoe. Nothing would reform a piece of work like Mishka short of a bullet, and whoever gave it to him had better give the rat an extra one just to make sure.
‘You’re a funny man for a Ment, did anyone ever tell you that?’ the Thief whispered, coming so close that his breath was warm against Korolev’s face. ‘I’d say you have them laughing all day long in Petrovka Street.’
‘Brush your teeth next time you come this close, Mishka, or I might just have to brush them for you.’ Korolev took Mishka’s elbow and let the rat feel a little of his strength. Mishka started, his free hand reaching for his pocket, but then he seemed to force himself to relax, and even managed a contemptuous smile. Of course, Korolev could have walked round the Thief, but he wanted the boy to know that wasn’t the way this Ment did things. He held Mishka’s arm for a moment, squeezing it hard and looking into those eyes, seeing nothing but evil, then moved him sideways, giving him a little pat as he let him go.
‘We’ll meet again, Mishka.’
‘I’m counting the seconds, Ment,’ Mishka spat, his expression slipping into a snarl, and Korolev felt a little surge of pleasure. He’d rattled him, he was sure of it, and that Mishka knew he knew it made it all the sweeter.
Count Kolya was standing to the side of the steps, watching the confrontation. The leader of the Moscow Thieves hadn’t changed much since the last time Korolev had seen him; his shoulders still stretched the overcoat he was wearing and his broad cheekbones still looked like ridges of solid muscle. His physical presence was one thing, but your attention was drawn to the dark eyes that seemed to weigh a man as surely as any scales.
‘Kolya,’ Korolev said by way of greeting and the Thief nodded in acknowledgement. They stood there, examining each other, like boxers squaring up in a ring. Then Kolya’s mouth twitched upwards in an unexpected smile.
‘Korolev. The steppe is wide, but the road is narrow. No?’
Korolev was struck, not for the first time, by Kolya’s cultured voice.
‘I suppose so,’ he said, ‘at least it is if you have one of your band drag me onto the road when you happen to be passing.’
‘Mishka being his usual friendly self?’
Korolev ignored the question, inclining his head towards the sea instead.
‘So you brought me here for the view, did you?’
‘I’ve a good reason, don’t worry.’
The Thief pointed a thick thumb, blue with prison ink, behind him. Korolev knew the tattoo – the many-domed monastery that signified an authority amongst the Thieves. But that only hinted at Kolya’s power: the only higher authority amongst Thieves in Moscow was God, or maybe Comrade Stalin. And even that wasn’t certain.
A funicular train made up of a single dark green carriage with the red star of Soviet Power emblazoned on its side stood empty at the top of rails that ran down alongside the steps to the harbour. A rope from which hung a cardboard sign that read ‘out of order’ blocked the approach.
‘Why don’t we take a little trip? I think the train is working now,’ Kolya said and then, seeing Korolev’s bemusement, ‘I don’t trust walls much these days – people like to put microphones in them and, next thing you know, you’re up to your neck in men in uniforms trying to feel the thickness of your collar. No offence, Korolev.’
‘What’s an honest criminal to do?’ Korolev said.
As they entered the carriage, they were greeted by the hum of machinery and a small jerk as the train began
