William Ryan - The Bloody Meadow

And Babel, of course. How could he have forgotten Babel? How the hell had he managed to wangle his way in here anyway?

‘Seeing as we have a comrade from the famous Petrovka Street with us so fortuitously,’ Mushkin said, pronouncing the last word ironically, ‘perhaps he might look over the body? I’m sure Dr Peskov won’t mind. Dr Peskov, you don’t mind, do you?’

The bald pathologist shook his head so hard that his round spectacles nearly fell off.

‘I’m no pathologist, Major,’ Korolev began and wasn’t surprised to see a muscle in the major’s jaw clench with irritation, ‘although it’s true I’ve seen a few dead bodies. Maybe the Comrade Doctor should carry on with his preliminary examination as he would normally and I can observe over his shoulder. I’m sure his experience in this area is far greater than mine, but an extra pair of eyes is always useful.’

Peskov glanced at the colonel, who, in turn, looked towards Mushkin just as a nervous gundog might to his master. Eventually Mushkin nodded his agreement, but not before giving Korolev a long, thoughtful look which the detective was unsure how to interpret. The doctor stepped forward and stood at the end of the table, picking up the dead girl’s head in both his hands, leaning forward. His fingers felt underneath her neck as though searching for something. Korolev also approached the body and bent forward to look more closely.

‘No saliva,’ Korolev said quietly, for the doctor’s ears as opposed to anyone else’s.

‘No, but someone may have cleaned her up.’

‘What was that?’ Major Mushkin was interested despite himself.

‘Saliva, Major,’ Peskov said. ‘With self-asphyxiation, there is invariably a flow of saliva from the mouth, down the chin and straight onto the chest. If the body is hung after death, this doesn’t happen, the production of saliva being a living act.’

‘But it could have been cleaned away, you say?’

‘Possibly. There would usually remain some signs on the clothing, however.’

‘Shymko?’ Mushkin turned to the production coordinator.

‘She wasn’t cleaned up,’ Shymko answered, his voice hushed at the realization of what this implied.

‘What happened to the rope she was found hanging from?’ Korolev asked.

‘There.’ Shymko pointed to a coil that sat on the ground beneath the table, about three-quarters of an inch thick. Korolev nodded and leant down to examine it.

‘Doctor?’ Korolev said, and the pathologist squatted beside him, feeling the rope’s texture.

‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ he said.

‘What do you see? What does he mean?’ Marchuk asked, glancing at Mushkin for some direction. The Militia colonel sounded panicked – as well he might, thought Korolev.

The doctor pointed to the marks on the girl’s neck. ‘With a suicidal hanging the marks of the rope or ligature are generally above or on the thyroid cartilage, and carried obliquely upwards. Do you see?’ He mimed a rope holding his own neck up, and ran his finger at an angle from underneath his jaw to the back of his head. ‘We have such a mark here.’ He pointed to the girl’s neck. ‘And you see this rope? It’s thick enough, yes?’

‘Peskov, pull yourself together.’ Colonel Marchuk’s cheeks were reddening as he inclined his head towards Mushkin. ‘This is no time for blathering.’

‘My apologies, Comrade Colonel.’ The doctor’s face seemed to become even paler in the solitary light bulb’s glow. ‘But this is an important point. It implies that the rope she was found hanging from was not the cause of death. Do you see here, the long thin bruising, below these other marks? See how it is horizontal rather than oblique? This was caused by something much finer – a cord of some sort, I should think. In short, it seems likely that the girl was dead before she was hung from this rope. In fact it seems most probable she was strangled – from behind if you want an instant view – and that the thicker rope was applied after death. To an extent this is conjecture. I’ll have to examine her thoroughly in the proper conditions. There is generally internal damage to the laryngeal cartilage and other bones in the neck. I’ll know for certain…’ He looked at his watch. ‘.. . Later tonight.’

There was silence after the doctor finished speaking. Shymko looked dour, the colonel as though he might be ill and Mushkin grim as a tombstone.

‘You’re saying she was murdered.’ The major paused. ‘You’re saying it wasn’t suicide but murder.’

‘I’d like to undertake a full autopsy, if that’s possible, back at the hospital. I’ll call for an ambulance immediately.’ The doctor looked up at Mushkin. ‘I understand this is a priority and you’ll have my findings as soon as humanly possible – but I will have to examine her properly.’

‘But that’s your initial view?’ The major looked at the doctor and then at Korolev. Peskov shrugged, deferring to Korolev.

‘I think we should treat her death as suspicious, Comrade Major,’ Korolev said, feeling about as unhappy at the prospect as Mushkin looked, thinking that the odds on a quick return to Moscow and the chance to visit his son in Zagorsk had just lengthened considerably. ‘That would seem to be the most sensible approach. And we should not discount murder.’

Korolev’s last word seemed to echo as first Babel, somewhat enthusiastically, then Peskov, in quiet agreement, and finally Marchuk, in horror, all repeated it. Korolev saw the colonel begin a movement with his right hand that looked suspiciously like the sign of the cross, but he’d remembered where he was by the time his hand touched his forehead, and instead began to rub his eyebrows with his fingers, looking furtively at Major Mushkin out of the corner of his eye.

‘Murder?’ Shymko said, long after everyone else. ‘But Citizen Lenskaya was a model worker, an activist of the highest standing.’

‘Maybe that’s why they killed her,’ Mushkin replied, and for a moment Korolev thought he’d made a very dark joke. ‘Well, it will be for Colonel Marchuk to find out.’

Marchuk’s drooping head started up as though he’d been half-asleep and someone had kicked his chair.

‘Perhaps Captain Korolev…?’ the colonel began, his voice dropping to a whisper in the face of Mushkin’s impassive stare. ‘We’re short of good men. It’s the drive on hooligans and bandits. It’s time-consuming.’

‘And you’d like Korolev to break his holiday to investigate one of your cases because you have too many hooligans and bandits in Odessa.’ Mushkin folded his arms and gave the colonel a parody of a stern look. ‘An amazing suggestion.’

‘My men are stretched thinly,’ Marchuk said, even more unsure of himself now. ‘And maybe it would be best for a senior detective to handle a crime like this.’

The colonel opened his hands in a gesture of supplication and Korolev allowed himself the luxury of pretending to consider the request. One sharp glance from Mushkin was enough to speed up his decision-making, however, and he nodded his assent.

‘If you think I can be of assistance, Comrade Colonel, then I’m at your service. General Secretary Stalin tells us we should always be ready to sacrifice personal happiness for the greater good. I’m not some petty individualist.’ Which he managed to say with a straight face, even if a large part of him was wishing he could indeed be a petty individualist – a thousand kilometres away from this cursed corpse and in the company of his only son.

‘You’re on holiday and yet you offer it up for the greater good.’ Mushkin’s approval seemed almost genuine. ‘Your loyalty to the State is an example to us all.’

‘I’m sure we’d all do the same in a similar situation. Of course I’ll need to check with my chief, and I’ll need help – as many uniforms as you can spare, a competent junior detective who knows the lie of the land, a forensics team.’