William Ryan - The Bloody Meadow

‘Indeed.’ Babel looked over his shoulder to see if they could be overheard. ‘And do you mind me asking what that job is?’

‘I’d have thought that was clear. We find the fellow who killed Citizen Lenskaya and put him where he belongs.’

Babel unstrapped his wrist watch and looked at it absently, his demeanour pensive. ‘Yes, but why did they send a Moscow detective all the way down here to investigate? And who sent you, if you don’t mind me asking?’

Korolev considered how to respond for a moment, before deciding to start with a question.

‘What did they say when they involved you?’

‘The message came from Major Mushkin, who doesn’t give explanations.’

‘I see. Well, I can’t tell you much more. The first I knew about it was at two o’clock this morning and since then I’ve been running to catch up. They wanted me to have a look at the girl – if it was suicide, I was to have a holiday. If not, lead the investigation – under their direction.’

‘Their?’

‘The Chekists.’ Korolev spoke with a certain amount of reluctance, not least because the conversation was underlining a problem for his upcoming enquiries. If the murder really was to do with the dead girl’s relationship with Ezhov, and Ezhov’s name couldn’t be mentioned, it was going to be difficult.

‘Why wouldn’t they use their own people?’ Babel asked, interrupting his train of thought. ‘Or leave it to the local Militia?’

‘The NKVD is not specialist in criminal investigations, I suppose,’ Korolev said. ‘And they remembered me from the icon business.’

‘It’s just that I’ve heard a rumour that Lenskaya was friendly with a certain Commissar of State Security,’ Babel continued, ‘that’s all. And if that’s really the case – well, I’m wondering if that’s why you’re here. If it’s something to do with him.’

‘Friendly with Ezhov?’ Korolev said with what he hoped sounded like genuine surprise. ‘I know nothing about that, but even if it were true, what could her death have to do with Ezhov?’

Babel shrugged. ‘Ezhov is well protected, physically at least. But politically he’s as vulnerable as everyone else. More so. Stalin doesn’t mind what Ezhov gets up to, so long as his dalliances don’t affect his usefulness to the Party. But if this death turned out to be compromising to him, it wouldn’t be too difficult to think of people who would benefit from it. Both within the State and outside it.’

‘Compromising?’ Korolev said, not liking the suggestion. ‘In what way, compromising?’

‘I don’t know, but why were you sent down here? Ezhov has enemies within the NKVD, you know. Perhaps that’s why you were picked – because he doesn’t trust his own people. Be careful, Alexei – this could turn out to be a nasty business.’

‘It’s already that.’

‘Yes,’ Babel said with a sigh. ‘You’ll have to be careful how you proceed. So – what do you know about Lenskaya? Perhaps I can add something.’

Korolev told him what he knew and Babel nodded when he’d finished.

‘Well, she was intelligent and lucky with it, that much is certain. And she was ambitious – that much is also true, and flexible in the means she used to get ahead. Ezhov wasn’t the only one she was friendly with, if I can put it that way. It wasn’t luck and intelligence alone that took her from the orphanage and got her chosen for delegations to Hollywood.’

‘When you say “friendly”…?’

‘She was a good-looking girl and she didn’t want to spend her life queuing for bread. I know she was with Belakovsky. Savchenko as well. As for Ezhov – well, the rumours are they weren’t strangers.’

‘I see,’ Korolev said. ‘Others?’

‘Probably. They send orphanage children where the labour demand is greatest,’ Babel continued. ‘She could have ended up in a factory the other side of the Urals, or at a kolkhoz farm by the Sea of Azov. Who knows who her parents were? Most probably peasants with a couple of cows who woke up one morning and discovered they’d been classified as kulaks and therefore class enemies. What happened to them we may never know, but that she took control of her fate is certain and who can blame her?’

‘Are you saying she was the child of a class enemy?’ Korolev asked, before cursing himself. Of course that’s what Babel was saying. And what’s more he was likely right. It made sense.

‘All I know is that she had a past before the orphanage, and she kept quiet about it. But if it were the case, it would reflect badly on the People’s Commissar of State Security if it came out.’

‘Not that we know anything for certain,’ Korolev said.

‘Of course not,’ Babel said, sighing. ‘By the way, watch out for Mushkin.’

‘Mushkin?’

‘Mushkin. When Soviet Power reached Odessa in ’nineteen, he drove round the city with the corpses of executed enemies dragging behind his car. Just to show everyone who was boss – and he hasn’t turned into a priest since then, believe me. You know what happened in these parts a few years back. It wasn’t pleasant, and Mushkin has a reputation from then that would scare the Devil. He’s here now because even the NKVD thought he’d gone too far and needed a rest.’

Korolev remembered the stories that he’d been told about the winter of ’thirty-two. How frozen bodies, skin and bone, had emerged from the snow when the spring came. How the people had boiled any leather they’d had for soup. If the stories he’d heard were true, people had eaten grass until the snow covered it, tree bark, the recently dead, their own children, anything. And still the authorities had come searching for grain, and had found none. And Mushkin had been a part of that.

‘Still,’ Babel said, the smile not quite reaching his eyes, ‘remember the saying – if you’re destined to die at sea, you won’t be hanged.’

Korolev found Shymko standing in front of the newly designated investigation room, his face yellow in the light that spilt out of it. He raised a hand in greeting.

‘I’ve got you a typewriter, paper and ribbon, and there’s a phone line. If you need anything else, let me know.’

‘Thank you, Comrade.’

‘And Larisa is typing up those lists you wanted.’

Korolev saw that once the man had a job to do, he did it well and efficiently. There weren’t so many of his kind around that Korolev didn’t appreciate his abilities.

‘Excellent,’ Korolev said, meaning it, and was about to continue when the arrival of Marchuk and Mushkin, along with two forensics men, distracted him. After brief introductions, he sent the forensics men to the dead girl’s office, saying he’d catch up with them in a few minutes.

‘I see you’re settling in, Korolev,’ Mushkin said, looking round the investigation room.

‘I thought it best to take a few practical steps; they’ll assist another detective if I’m not released by my chief.’

‘Or if it turns out to be suicide,’ Mushkin said in a flat tone. ‘Anyway, your chief was only too pleased that Moscow CID should be in a position to assist their Odessa colleagues. Isn’t that right, Marchuk?’

That same snide undercurrent again, Korolev thought. He found himself hoping that a day would come when the leadership would point out to these arrogant protectors of the State that the People they were meant to be protecting were the same people they spent their time harassing and intimidating.

‘Yes,’ Marchuk agreed, his eyes slipping away from Korolev’s with something approaching shame. ‘Comrade Popov was most impressed that you put the State’s needs before your own. We’ll do everything we can to assist, of course. Peskov will have a full autopsy report ready by the morning and I’ll have the forensics men work through the night if need be.’