William Ryan - The Bloody Meadow

He wrote ‘keys’ and ‘end of day’ in his notebook, so that Shymko would know he was not to be trifled with.

The dead woman’s office was located in the main house, in one of the round turrets. Its three windows gave a panoramic view over the lake and woods, or at least they would have if it hadn’t been dark outside. The room was furnished with a table, a stiff-backed wooden chair and a scarred filing cabinet that looked as though it might miss its previous life in the office of some tsarist functionary or other. A pre-revolution Underwood typewriter sat on the table, nearly as scratched and dented as the cabinet, but with a new ribbon. A second typewriter with the Latin alphabet sat on the higher of two planks fixed to the wall, which served as shelves and were sagging under the weight of books and paperwork. Korolev didn’t want to enter until forensics had done their job, but he ran an eye along Lenskaya’s small library from the doorway. Books in English, French, German, Italian. He was impressed – not many girls from an orphanage could speak Russian that well, let alone foreign languages. He turned to Babel.

‘We’ll need to have translations of these titles. Isaac Emmanuilovich – do you speak any of these languages?’

‘My French is good, my German passable, but for the rest…’ Babel shrugged and Korolev turned to look at him with what he hoped was a Mushkin-like stare.

‘I thought you wanted to assist us.’

‘All right, all right, I’ll get you the list,’ Babel said.

‘I speak a little English,’ Slivka said. ‘And Italian, if that helps.’

‘Italian?’ Korolev couldn’t help but be surprised.

‘Well enough, an Italian comrade gave lessons to our Komsomol cell. Nice fellow.’ Slivka’s smile hinted at just how nice she’d found him.

‘Good.’ Korolev spoke a little more brusquely than he’d intended. The idea of the Italian offering her private tuition had distracted him. ‘If necessary I speak a little English as well. And some German.’

Everyone looked at him in surprise. Well, it was a very little English and it had been some time ago, and the German was mainly of the ‘ Hande hoch, Kamerad ’ variety that he’d picked up when a soldier. But if everyone else was bragging about their linguistic talent, he wasn’t going to be left behind. Babel raised a sceptical eyebrow.

‘Zhenia, my ex-wife, made me go to classes. I can read their script and even understand some of it. Look – English-Russian Dictionary. ’

‘It’s written in Russian as well.’

‘Well, it’s not the Russian I’m reading, Comrade Babel,’ he said, giving the writer another of his best glares. ‘And we’ll need to look through the paperwork too.’

Korolev could feel Belakovsky pressing against his shoulder – the Film Board boss, having been excluded from the ice house, seemed determined to be excluded no longer. Korolev ignored him, turning to one of the uniforms who’d come up from the village. With his rosy cheeks and straw-coloured hair, Sharapov looked as though he should be in school rather than wearing a peaked Militia cap one size to big for him. An older, more battered-looking version stood beside him; his superior, Sergeant Gradov. The two other village uniforms, a thin wiry tough from Odessa by the name of Blumkin and a lump of a lad called Olejnik, were already guarding the dining room and the room where the girl had slept.

‘So, young Sharapov,’ Korolev said, and the boy’s crystal blue eyes looked up at him eagerly. ‘No one goes in until the fingerprint team have been over the place. This is where she was last seen alive, so that makes it likely this is where she died.’

‘Understood, Comrade Captain.’

‘Sergeant Slivka?’

‘Yes?’

‘We need to set up an investigation room, then prepare questions for the initial interviews. Where people were last night, who they saw, what they saw, what they know about the deceased, that sort of thing. Gradov?’

The older uniform stood a little straighter.

‘You and your boys will be working under our direction for the next few days, asking those questions.’

‘Of course, Comrade Captain,’ the sergeant said. Korolev didn’t much like the look of him – unless he was wrong, Gradov liked to throw his weight about with ordinary citizens. He just had that look about hin – a brute, and not a bright one either.

‘Comrade Shymko,’ Korolev said, ‘it will be less disruptive if you can find us an office nearby, seeing as this is where the cast and crew are based and we’d like to minimize disruption. We understand the importance of this film politically and bringing the cast and crew backwards and forwards to the village station isn’t going to make your life any easier.’

‘We’re pretty tight for space,’ Shymko said, looking to Belakovsky for support. The film supremo considered the problem.

‘All right,’ he said after a few moments. ‘Give Captain Korolev the big room beside the production office. Is there anything else we can do to assist you?’

‘But Comrade Belakovsky-’ Shymko began.

‘Captain Korolev needs to start immediately, Shymko. And he’s right – we have to keep disruption to a minimum. This film is far enough behind as it is.’ Belakovsky turned to Korolev. ‘If we can work together to reduce disruption to the filming schedule, we’d be grateful, but we understand your investigation takes priority.’

‘Thank you, Igor Zakharovich,’ Korolev said. ‘I’ll certainly do my best to keep the disturbance to a minimum. We’ll need a telephone line, some desks. A typewriter, probably.’

‘Shymko will see to it. This has come as a shock to us all, but now we must come to terms with the news and do everything in our power to assist you. There’s one thing I’d like to ask, however. Comrade Lenskaya was working on a special project for me. There’ll be some papers in her office which I’ll need to recover as soon as possible.’

‘Sergeant Slivka?’ Korolev said. ‘As soon as the forensics men have been in, allow Comrade Belakovsky to look through the papers.’

‘Willingly.’

‘And we’ll need to interview both of you.’ Korolev nodded towards Belakovsky and Shymko. ‘Sergeant Slivka?’

‘I’ll arrange a time.’

‘And Sergeant, find the caretaker, Andreychuk. I want to talk to him first. We need to have some lines of investigation to work on by tomorrow morning – all we have at the moment is a dead girl and a lot of questions.’

As Slivka set to work, Korolev took Babel’s arm and they walked away from Lenskaya’s doorway towards the back of the house. Korolev opened the nearer of the French doors and led Babel out onto the terrace.

‘What do you make of her?’ Korolev asked, walking down the steps that led towards the garden. ‘Not many female detectives – but she seems bright.’

‘I wouldn’t play cards with her, put it that way. A good Odessa girl, bright as a button and pretty as a picture, but tough as a miner’s boot for all that.’

It was true – she was pretty, despite the serious mouth and the shapeless leather jacket. Like so many of the young women whom the Revolution had allowed to pursue traditionally male professions, she’d adopted a mannish mode of dress, but even her leather jacket and her trousers couldn’t hide the shape of her body, and it was a pleasant shape. And while at first her mouth had seemed to have a permanent downturn, when she’d smiled he’d seen high cheekbones, the flash of white teeth and a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. All in all, a much better-looking colleague than his old friend Yasimov.

‘Well,’ he said, as they took a path towards the lake, ‘as long as she gets the job done.’