‘Just as well, I should think,’ he said, mischief in his eyes, ‘what with her being such a good friend of Comrade Ezhov’s.’
Korolev felt a chill at the back of his neck. ‘The Militia investigates every crime with the same diligence,’ he said eventually, as carefully as a man walking through a minefield, and holding Les Pins’ gaze.
Now the Frenchman laughed before looking away.
‘But seeing as you’re here, Comrade,’ Korolev said, trying to steer the conversation onto a different track, ‘perhaps you could tell me where you were on the night of the murder. And whether you saw anything suspicious.’
‘Suspicious?’ The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. ‘No. I went down to watch the night shoot. Everyone was there, I think.’
‘Would you be prepared to give us a list of who you saw, and when? What you remember of the evening – even the most trivial details – might provide invaluable assistance.’ Korolev kept his gaze steady on Les Pins, and his voice quiet, but he spoke as forcefully as he dared. And the Frenchman seemed no longer to find the situation quite so amusing.
‘With pleasure, Comrade Captain. I’ll let you have it tonight.’
‘And were you outside this afternoon? At around six o’clock perhaps?’
‘Me? No, I was in my room reading – was that when Andreychuk bolted?’
Korolev said nothing, just looked at the Frenchman unblinkingly until Les Pins glanced away once again, and Korolev saw the fellow’s throat move as he swallowed.
‘Your recollections from the evening in question would be most useful, Comrade Les Pins,’ Korolev said and turned back to the books, waiting until Les Pins left the room before he allowed himself to breathe deeply.
Korolev thought about the significance of the typed psalm as he walked back towards the stable block carrying a small enamel pot by its handle. He’d liked to have eaten his dinner in the dining room, but the reaction when he’d walked in – twenty-five pairs of gawking eyes, several pairs belonging to actors familiar throughout the Soviet Union, and complete silence – well, it had been enough to persuade him to ask the girl serving the food if he could take it back to the investigation room, and the enamel pot, lid and handle included, had been quickly forthcoming.
At least the case was making some progress – they now had an ever-lengthening list of people who were accounted for during the crucial time period. And their questioning was revealing more and more about the dead girl, some of which was perhaps a little worrying, but definitely progress. Of course, this Andreychuk business was a disaster and he prayed the border guards or one of the Militia roadblocks would pick him up, and alive, as it seemed likely that the caretaker would have something to tell him about the murder, and maybe about this conspiracy Kolya had told him of as well – and he was desperate to talk to him. It was frustrating, but he felt the investigation was now in the hands of others. He was waiting for a phone call, either to hear from Kolya where this ‘delivery’ was taking place, or to be told someone had picked up Andreychuk. He saw Slivka coming out of the investigation room and raised a hand in greeting.
‘Any news on our runaway?’ he asked her.
‘Shymko dug out the name of the church they were supposed to have been visiting – you were right. It’s in Angelinivka. Right on the border, quite close to Krasnogorka. The border guards are searching the area as we speak.’
‘Any sign of the truck?’
‘Not yet, although it’s possible Andreychuk could have abandoned it somewhere and be making his way on foot. But the steppe will be no place to hide come the morning.’
‘No,’ Korolev agreed. Apart from the lines of trees that split up the fields there wasn’t much vegetation in this part of the world, and even the trees wouldn’t provide much in the way of cover at this time of year. ‘If we could find out who helped him out of his cell, they might tell us which way he was headed.’
‘Firtov and the Greek think they have some good fingerprints. Whether they can match them to anyone is the question. Anyone other than the uniforms from the station, that is.’
‘We’ll see what comes of it,’ Korolev muttered, conscious that his stew was getting cold. ‘And we’ll take a drive out to this place Angelinivka in the morning and see what we see.’
Korolev remembered he hadn’t told Slivka about his conversation with Kolya, and wondered how to approach it.
‘Your uncle called,’ he said, after a moment or two, having decided there was no way to broach the issue other than directly – particularly not with a hot dinner in his hand that was making his stomach hollow with hunger. Slivka’s eyes seemed to widen slightly, but it was difficult to tell in the darkness. He took a look around, just in case they could be overheard.
‘That thing we spoke of? With the guns?’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘He thinks it will happen tomorrow.’
Slivka spat on the ground. It was difficult to tell what the action signified. He wished he could see her face more clearly. He wasn’t much used to women spitting, if the truth were told, and it left him feeling nonplussed, but he supposed that these days it was her right to behave in just as uncultured a way as her male comrades, just as it was to do the same job.
‘What do we do about it, Chief?’ she said after a long pause.
‘That’s the question, Slivka. We don’t know where or when it will happen yet, or even if it will happen. But you’re to call your mother.’
‘Call my mother?’
‘I don’t think it’s to enquire about her health. I think Kolya will let us know what’s happening through her. Anyway, get yourself some food, let’s send Larisa off to bed and we’ll have a think about it. A collective decision is always better.’
Larisa looked up as he entered the investigation room. The girl’s fingers must be worn to nothing from rattling that machine for most of the day and a lot of the evening. She looked exhausted. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder towards the Orlov House.
‘Larisa, there comes a time when even you must rest. Now’s the time. We’ll see you tomorrow morning. Thank you for all your efforts.’
The girl didn’t argue, just nodded, quickly put the papers she’d been working on in order, and then left, her arms crossed and her head hanging forward.
‘Thank you again, Comrade,’ Korolev said as she passed, touching her shoulder with his hand. Then he shut the door behind her, made his way to the desk, opened the enamel pot and inhaled – it was good, very good. These film people lived well. He picked up the fork they’d given him with one hand and the receiver with the other, and, his mouth already half-occupied with a succulent piece of meat, asked the operator to put him through to Yasimov’s communal apartment in Moscow.
Unsurprisingly it took a while for the operator to call him back. Moscow was a thousand kilometres away and, as a man who’d walked a few kilometres in his time, he knew that was some distance. But eventually he was connected. A child’s voice answered. Korolev checked his watch – it was late for a youngster to be up and about.
‘Dmitry Alexandrovich, please.’
‘Captain Yasimov?’
‘The very same.’
‘I’ll get him.’
There was the sound of revelry in the background and then a glass breaking to the sound of a cheer. Someone picked up the receiver in the kommunalka.
‘Yasimov,’ a voice said, Mitya’s voice.
‘A party going on there, I can hear.’
‘Lyoshka,’ Yasimov said. ‘Khabarov’s son got married. I’m turning a blind eye to the samogon.’
If Korolev could judge from Yasimov’s voice, he wasn’t just turning a blind eye to the moonshine, he was testing it to make sure it was what it purported to be. He’d be lucky if he didn’t end up turning two blind eyes to it, given the quality of some of the stuff that was going around these days.
