‘Citizen Lenskaya?’ Korolev asked, putting an intonation into the question that was intended to remind the journalist that he’d effectively been engaged to the dead girl.
‘Masha,’ Lomatkin said, as though feeling his way round the name.
‘Masha?’ Korolev repeated and Lomatkin had the good grace to look embarrassed. ‘Poor dead Masha. And just a coincidence, you say. Do you know I’m all worn out with the number of coincidences that are coming to light today. An astrologer wouldn’t believe half of what I’ve heard.’
‘I know nothing about that.’
‘We’ll see. You said there were complications with Masha that restricted your relationship. What complications were these?’
‘Comrade Korolev, you ask me about complications and you talk to me about coincidences.’ Lomatkin appeared annoyed for a moment before the annoyance was replaced with a hint of a bitter smile – the kind of smile that would disappear like smoke if you tried to get a hold of it. ‘Why, if you don’t mind me asking for a change, are you here, Comrade Captain? Is it just a coincidence that you arrived the day after her death? A coincidence that Major Mushkin was at the airport to pick you up? I think you might know about the complications we faced. It doesn’t mean we can discuss them freely.’
So the fellow did know about Ezhov. Well, if the cat was out of the bag then it could be chased.
‘We’ll come to those complications in a moment, Citizen Lomatkin,’ Korolev said. ‘But speaking of coincidences, were you aware that the caretaker of this establishment was your lover’s father? I think you know him – Andreychuk. Although that’s not his original name – being an Enemy of the People, he decided to change it.’
Now the fellow’s cage was really rattled, thought Korolev. It was one thing having a lover murdered, it was natural that he’d be interviewed, but he had an alibi that was almost indestructible – he’d been a thousand kilometres away in Moscow, after all. But his lover being the daughter of an Enemy of the People. There was no alibi for that.
‘Andreychuk? Masha’s father?’
‘Yes. He fought with Petlyura, and when those rats were rounded up he changed his name and moved to Kiev and your Masha was sent to live with her aunt in Moscow.’
‘I knew nothing of this. Masha was a loyal Party member, she’d have given her life for the Party.’
‘Perhaps she did.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ Lomatkin whispered.
‘Perhaps you had her killed to prevent the story coming out.’
‘This is ridiculous, there were much more important men than me who knew nothing of this, as you well know.’
‘What do you know about morphine, Citizen?’
‘Morphine? It’s an anaesthetic,’ Lomatkin said, a little too quickly perhaps.
‘And, of course, a poison if taken in sufficient quantity.’
‘So?’
‘So your lover consumed a large quantity prior to being strangled. Would you like to explain that to me?’
‘Explain what to you? I was in Moscow. How would I know how she ended up taking morphine?’
‘It’s also a narcotic – perhaps it was self-administered. Perhaps you supplied it to her.’
‘I was in Moscow, Captain, as I keep telling you. That’s all there is to it. You saw me get on the damned plane there, didn’t you?’
‘Have you ever taken morphine?’
‘No. I’ve never taken morphine. And please stop these questions. Andreychuk is the one with the motive here. I had none. I was devoted to Masha.’
‘Were you jealous of the relationship Comrade Lenskaya had with the People’s Commissar?’
Lomatkin seemed surprised that Ezhov had been mentioned, but he recovered quickly. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Comrade Ezhov treated her well, assisted her in her career. If you want the truth, she considered it her duty to the Party to comfort the People’s Commissar in any way she could. Believe me, that’s the truth. The plain truth.’
Korolev raised an eyebrow. There wasn’t much about a girl’s duty to comfort older Party members in Lenin or Marx. But what did he know? ‘Were others aware of her relationship with Comrade Ezhov?’
‘Of course. I’d say half Moscow knew of it. By that I mean within senior Party circles, obviously, and the circles in which she moved. Actors, artists, writers, those kind of people. And she wasn’t the only one.’
‘Who were the others?’
‘A ballerina, a couple of actresses you might have heard of – Sorokina for a start. Although that ended a while back.’
‘Comrade Sorokina was Ezhov’s – ’ he paused, wondering how to put it – ‘friend?’
Korolev sighed and made a note to himself to haul the beautiful Barikada back in for another grilling, although this time, he thought to himself wryly, it might be better done by Slivka.
‘For a year or so, I think. Before he – ’ now Lomatkin hesitated – ‘achieved his current position.’
It occurred to Korolev that much of a Soviet citizen’s conversation these days involved the unsaid, the oblique and euphemistic. Some intellectual would no doubt make a study, in due course, of the ability of Soviet citizens to communicate without saying quite what they meant. And probably what they whispered to each other under the covers late at night as well.
‘What I’m looking for here is a motive,’ Korolev said, returning his attention to the matter in hand. ‘And one motive might be your jealousy.’
Lomatkin opened his mouth to protest, but Korolev held up his hand.
‘Don’t bother. You’re a clever man, a journalist. You know that, despite all you say about free love and respecting Lenskaya’s rights as a woman, jealousy is still a good motive. I can tell you we’d have a lot less killings in Moscow if jealousy was eradicated in the next Five Year Plan.’
Lomatkin looked glum.
‘And all this was general knowledge?’ Korolev continued. ‘I mean, who knew these things about Citizen Lenskaya, and Sorokina for that matter?’
‘It was well known.’
‘What did she tell you about her relationship with the People’s Commissar? Did she mention any problems? Not with the Commissar himself, of course, but perhaps other men, other women?’
Lomatkin laughed, a laugh as dry as desert sand.
‘There were no problems. The people who knew about the relationship knew other things as well, such as the regard Comrade Stalin has for Ezhov, and the faith he places in his abilities. It changed people’s attitudes to her, of course. But it didn’t cause her any problems. To the contrary.’
It was strange, the man had indeed seemed to relax in the course of the interview.
‘When are you visiting these western defences?’ he asked, and saw Lomatkin shift his weight in his chair.
‘The day after tomorrow? Tomorrow afternoon I’m meeting a photographer in Odessa. He’s arriving by train.’
‘How far from here?’ Korolev asked, wondering what it was that was making him suspicious of the journalist. It was nothing he could put his finger on. And yet…
‘Odessa?’ Lomatkin said.
‘Not Odessa,’ Korolev said, wondering whether the journalist had relaxed so far as to be making fun of him now. ‘The defences.’
‘We’re visiting Krasnogorka. The defences extend all along the Dnester – but Krasnogorka is where we’re visiting. Forty kilometres from here, as the crow flies.’
The River Dnester marked the division between the Soviet Union and Romania. Korolev hadn’t known they were so close, but he’d heard of the Stalin Line that defended the south-western border and seen photographs of sunburnt men, their eyes squinting over the sights of heavy machine guns in concrete pillboxes, and been reminded of the German fortifications they’d stormed back in ’sixteen, and the thousands of Russian bodies lying unclaimed on the barbed wire for weeks afterwards. The Germans had known a thing or two about building defences. He hoped Marshal Tukachevsky’s military engineers knew as much.
