‘Still, we might have had a bit of luck in the dining room,’ Firtov said, holding up a photograph. ‘Seeing as it’s a public area we weren’t too hopeful – but still, the Greek found a half-print on the bracket. Just enough to be sure that it isn’t Andreychuk’s or Shymko’s – we took their prints last night, seeing as they were the ones that cut her down. Nor does the print match the girl’s. So whoever it does belong to should be worth having a conversation with at least.’
Korolev leant in closer. There wasn’t much of it – maybe the top third of a digit, but more than that it was difficult to say.
‘Anything you can tell from it at the moment?’ he asked, squinting at the image once again.
‘Not really – my educated guess would be it’s a male finger. From its position on the bracket, it might be from a left hand. We’re going back out today to fingerprint all the potential owners. I can’t guarantee we’ll definitely be able to match it, but we should be able to narrow things down for you.’
‘Excellent – anything else?’
‘Perhaps if we’d got to the scene while the body was still in place…’
Korolev nodded his understanding.
‘Did you look in her bedroom?’
‘Yes, and we found quite a few prints there, but seeing as there were three other girls sharing it, I don’t think they’ll be much use.’
‘Did Slivka tell you about the stomach contents? How she was drugged?’
‘Yes, we had a think about that, didn’t we, Greek?’
Papadopoulos looked over and nodded.
‘There was no sign that she was an addict, was there? So Nadezhda Andreyevna said.’ Firtov looked towards Slivka. ‘Maybe whoever gave it to her might be, though – we’ll keep an eye out when we’re taking the prints.’
Korolev thanked the two forensics men and then followed Slivka from the room.
‘Papadopoulos,’ Korolev said, as they walked out through the arch that led to the street. ‘A Greek name, I believe.’
‘Plenty of Greeks here in Odessa,’ Slivka replied. ‘Turks and Armenians, Arabs, Kurds, Poles. Even a few French and Italians from the old days. But the Greek is famous.’
Korolev opened the car door and looked over at her. ‘Why?’
‘The Greek can’t speak. He can understand you, he can read and write, but he’s never spoken a word.’
The drive back to the Orlov House passed quickly, and they didn’t talk much. Korolev suspected that Slivka, like himself, was going over the little they knew and trying to make sense of it. As they turned off to enter the Agricultural College’s grounds, Korolev found himself asking one of the questions that had been nagging at him.
‘Count Kolya? How does he know you?’
‘Kolya,’ she repeated, smiling wryly as she brought the car to a halt at the side of the driveway. ‘We’re related, that’s all.’
‘Related? You’re related to Kolya the Thief?’ He’d guessed their paths had crossed professionally at some stage, but to be blood relatives?
‘No family is without an ugly member, as the saying goes. Although as far as my people are concerned, I’m the wallflower. That’s the way things go sometimes.’
‘So that’s why your mother doesn’t approve of the Militia?’
‘Not exactly – things aren’t always straightforward in a place like Odessa. One hand often washes the other. We share a set of grandparents, but my father was a Party member from before the Revolution, and my mother as well. In the Civil War, and before it, they and my mother’s family were often on the same side. My father died in ’twenty-one and since then things are different, as you know. But I know my duty, you don’t need to worry about that.’
‘I’m not worried.’
He considered her – young, intelligent and brave as well, he was sure. On top of which, Kolya had as good as told him she was to be trusted, which he was surprised to discover meant something to him.
‘I saw Mishka outside the university,’ Slivka said after a pause.
Korolev nodded.
‘Well, I’ve asked the question before, Chief, and I don’t think you gave me a straight answer.’
‘Stop beating about the bush, Slivka. Let’s get to the nut of the matter.’
‘Well, what’s a Moscow detective doing out here in the middle of the steppe? A detective who happens to know Kolya the Thief, so an unusual detective, I’d say – but good at his job, I’ve observed. Colonel Marchuk warned me to be careful – that the case smelt and that having Mushkin involved made it smell even worse. He told me to keep an eye on you as well, but it seems to me we’ll be better off if we’re open with each other.’
Korolev put his hand in his pocket, found his packet of cigarettes and handed one to Slivka.
‘I can’t tell you everything, Slivka, but I’ll tell you what Kolya told me. And why I don’t think we can do anything about it, except keep the information at the back of our minds.’
And so Korolev told her what Kolya had told him. He even went so far as to tell her who had sent him.
‘Spit on it,’ she said eventually. ‘My mother was right all along. Who’d have thought it?’
‘Between the hammer and the anvil, that’s where we are, Sergeant Slivka.’
‘Well, I chose to join the Militia and if you’re afraid of bears, you shouldn’t go picking berries, now should you?’
He gave her a long look. Eventually he nodded his agreement.
‘Well, Slivka, we can only do our duty. Come on, let’s see how the uniforms got on this morning.’ And Slivka put the car into gear and drove the last hundred or so metres to the stable block beside the Orlov House, that remnant of a bygone age with its view over a frozen lake and its ghosts – old and more recent.
There was the promising clatter of a typewriter being put through its paces as they entered the investigation room. Larisa, Shymko’s young typist who’d been so upset the day before, was typing up a storm. Seeing them, she stopped, rose from her chair and gave them a nervous nod.
‘I’ve been typing, Comrades,’ she said. ‘And I haven’t told anyone anything. Even if some of them have asked.’
‘Good work. Speech is silver, silence is golden. How are things progressing?’
‘Well, I think. Your men bring me their notes and I type them up. Here you are.’ She handed him an impressively thick wedge of paper.
‘You’ve been busy,’ Korolev said.
‘Since first thing this morning. But if it helps you with the.. .’ She paused, probably not wanting to describe Lenskaya’s death too specifically, before continuing ‘… with Citizen Lenskaya, then I’m happy. Comrade Shymko left this for you.’
It was a list of key-holders to the Orlov House. Seven of them. Major Mushkin’s mother, Shymko, Andreychuk, the dead girl and three names he didn’t recognize.
‘Slivka? I want one of us to have spoken to all of these people by this evening. Meanwhile I’m going to have a chat with our caretaker friend at the station. Have a look through the notes and see if anything comes up. Work out who we still have to talk to and let’s discuss it. Call me down in the village.’
He held out his hand and Slivka handed him the car keys.
The Militia station was a two-storeyed brick building of relatively recent construction, although it looked the worse for the hard winter. He knew the style of place. Upstairs there’d be accommodation for the Militiamen who manned it and downstairs desks and a holding cell for prisoners.
Gradov, the surly sergeant from the night before, nodded to him when he entered. ‘He’s in the cell. Been praying half the night. That girl from Odessa told us we weren’t to touch him until you’d spoken to him, but I’ll tell you the damned cultist needs a lesson taught, and I’m the man to teach it.’
Korolev looked at Gradov coldly, and after a moment the sergeant looked away.
‘When you’ve finished, obviously,’ Gradov said, ‘unless you want us to give him a going over before you start.’
