give his last dollar for.’
‘I’m pleased for you.’
‘We’ve had a bit of luck,’ Slivka said, smiling. ‘Lomatkin’s print showed up in the station. Firtov just called to tell me.’
‘Lomatkin’s?’ Korolev said, thinking hard. ‘Where in the station?’
‘On the bars to the cell.’
‘Interesting. Anywhere else?’
‘Not so far.’
‘Any other unidentified prints?’
‘They’re still going through them. But don’t you see? This means he was there.’
‘You’re right, it’s good news. Did you call your mother, by the way?’
‘I did, she was pleased to hear from me. She thinks it will snow again later on.’
So no word from Kolya yet, then.
‘Well, let’s have a word with the famous journalist, shall we?’
They fell into step and walked towards the house as he told her Mushkina’s news.
‘What do you think?’ he asked as they climbed the stairs to the veranda, in front of the windows Lenskaya had sat behind the night she’d died.
‘Did we ever fingerprint Les Pins, Chief?’
‘I believe so, but check with Firtov,’ Korolev said as they entered the dining room. There was laughter at the far end, but it fizzled out as Korolev’s cold gaze searched for Lomatkin amongst the faces that turned towards the door in curiosity. Shymko was sitting with Belakovsky at the nearest table and Korolev approached them, leaning down to ask quietly for the whereabouts of the journalist.
‘He left about ten minutes ago,’ Shymko said.
‘For the western defences.’ Belakovsky confirmed. ‘Comrade Babel went with him. But he left you a note, didn’t he?’
‘Lomatkin?’
‘No, Babel.’
‘Babel left me a note?’ Korolev said, wondering what the writer was up to. ‘Where is this note?’
It turned out the note was with Larisa in the investigation room and it was short and to the point: Dear Korolev, Lomatkin is visiting Krasnogorka and I’ve decided to go along with him. I hope we’ll be able to meet tomorrow instead. Babel
Korolev was confused. He wasn’t supposed to be meeting Babel. He turned to Slivka, showing her the piece of paper.
‘I think we need to call your friends in the border guards again.’
Slivka drove, her peaked cap turned backwards on her head as if this would in some way improve the car’s aerodynamics, and her shoulders hunched over the wheel as if her pushing it forward would propel the vehicle faster. After yet another two-wheeled corner Korolev decided it was time to rein her in.
‘Listen, Slivka, it won’t do much good if we arrive in a pair of coffins.’
Slivka looked at him in frustration.
‘But what if he escapes?’
‘Lomatkin? We’ve alerted the whole countryside – if the border guards haven’t set up roadblocks on every cart track from here to Kiev I’d be surprised. Don’t worry, we’ll catch up with them soon enough.’
Indeed, they were approaching a checkpoint even as he spoke – a khaki-coloured car was pulled into the side of the road and a truck with brown canvas sides was barring the way ahead. The spot had been chosen well; on both sides of the road there were deep drainage ditches that would soon put a stop to anyone who tried to break through, but the heavy machine gun aiming at them would probably halt most vehicles short of a tank long before that.
Slivka stopped the car and Korolev showed his identification to the officer who approached them, hand on the butt of his holstered revolver.
‘What’s a Moscow detective doing in this part of the world?’ the border guard asked, having examined the Militia card for long enough to have spelt it out letter by letter.
‘I’m assisting Odessa CID with a murder enquiry. I take it you fellows are looking for someone called Andreychuk. Well, so are we. You’re doing it at our request.’
The fellow looked down at the Militia card once again, and then back at Korolev, his face relaxing from warily vigilant to something more quizzical, possibly even amused. He pointed to the identification photograph.
‘Korolev. Alexei Dmitriyevich? Didn’t you used to play football for Presnaya? A few years back – central defender?’
Korolev examined the border guard afresh – he didn’t look that old. Twenty-five maybe? It was strange to have your past brought up in the middle of the steppe by a fresh-faced youngster.
‘A long time ago, perhaps. But even I’ve half-forgotten that.’
‘My father played goalkeeper. Ivanov?’
‘Ivanov?’ Korolev looked at the boy’s face and caught the echo of another one. Nikolai Ivanov. ‘I remember him. Spared our blushes many’s the time. You must be young Alexander. Sandro, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s me.’ The boy’s face creased into a pleased smile.
‘How did you end up here?’
‘I was posted,’ Ivanov replied, looking round at the boundless horizon, flat in every direction except for the occasional line of trees marking the edges of the fields and calming the wind that whistled across them. The proud lift of the chin didn’t quite convince Korolev that Sandro wouldn’t rather be serving somewhere else.
‘If you see my father, tell him I’m well,’ the boy said, handing him back his Militia card.
‘I will. But, tell me, we’re also looking for two men who might have come this way not so long ago – Lomatkin and Babel. We asked that they be detained.’
‘We heard nothing of it,’ Ivanov said, looking concerned. ‘They came through about fifteen minutes ago – heading for Krasnogorka. Not every day we get famous people travelling on these roads.’
‘I see,’ Korolev said, disappointed but not surprised that the alert hadn’t reached him. ‘Do you have a radio?’
‘We do.’
‘Can you call ahead and request that the next checkpoint hold them?’
‘The next checkpoint is in Krasnogorka.’
‘That’ll do. There should be an alert out for them already – but just in case.’
‘You’re looking for this fellow Andreychuk, you said? Are you going to look over his truck?’
‘His truck?’ Korolev asked, confused as to what Ivanov was talking about. His face must have given him away because the boy pointed over his shoulder.
‘You don’t know? We found the truck – in Angelinivka. About an hour ago.’
Korolev turned to Slivka, who was waiting for his decision. Follow the truck or Lomatkin and Babel?
‘How do we get there from here?’ Korolev asked, making his decision. The border guards would hold Babel and Lomatkin for them.
‘Go straight ahead, you’ll see a signpost in a few kilometres.’
‘Thank you. One last thing?’ Korolev asked, extracting one of the photographs of Lenskaya he’d brought with him from the dashboard. ‘Have you seen this woman recently?’
Ivanov looked at the photograph for a few moments, then shook his head.
‘No, and to be honest I’d remember a girl like that if she came through a checkpoint round here.’
Korolev took the picture back from Ivanov. Was that the thing he’d missed? How different she was? Now that she’d been in Moscow for twelve years, and America as well – that here, in the land where she’d been born, she was as exotic as Barikada Sorokina?
‘Good to see you, Alexei Dmitriyevich,’ Ivanov said as Korolev pointed Slivka towards the road ahead.
‘I’ll remember you to your father.’
The signpost for Angelinivka seemed to have been used for target practice, on top of which what was left of
