William Ryan: The Holy Thief

Korolev waited for an answer, the line crackling in his ear. He glanced over his shoulder at Yasimov, whose face was indeed as white as the murdered girl’s.

“Comrade Colonel?” Korolev said, wondering whether he’d been cut off. Perhaps a van was already on its way to arrest him.

“Yes, Captain, I’m still here. I’m considering whether any of the questions you’ve asked or, should I say, suggestions you’ve made, can be responded to. I don’t think they can. State Security takes precedence in all situations, you understand that, don’t you, Captain?”

The colonel placed a slight emphasis on Korolev’s rank, just enough to remind Korolev of the thinness of the ice under his feet. Korolev didn’t need the reminder-he was a lowly Militiaman, a flatfoot, whereas Gregorin was a staff colonel of the heroic NKVD, the defenders of the Revolution-the armed wing of the Party no less. The colonel’s driver probably outranked him in real terms.

“Of course, Comrade Colonel. I withdraw the questions. I tend to focus on the case in front of me and not take account of the wider social and political implications. It’s a criticism my colleagues have made to me before.”

“I believe your intentions were proper, Captain. If, as the situation develops, the NKVD consider they have relevant information which can be released to you, taking into account our primary responsibility to protect the State and the Party, then I’m sure we will assist you accordingly. In the meantime, however, please keep me informed on a daily basis. What you’ve told me suggests a State Security element may reveal itself in due course and it would be as well to be kept informed of the situation in case we have to intervene at a later stage. You may give me your first report after the lecture tomorrow morning.”

“Of course, Colonel. Thank you.”

The colonel hung up without saying goodbye and Korolev turned back to face Yasimov once again. Some color had returned to his friend’s cheeks, but beads of sweat still twinkled on his forehead.

“Damn you, Alexei,” Yasimov said, rubbing his brow, the anger going out of him with the gesture. “What the hell are you smiling about? If you’re going to have a conversation like that with a Chekist colonel, can’t you make sure I’m not in the room at the same time? In fact, if you don’t mind, make sure I’m not even in the city.”

Korolev shrugged his shoulders and opened a new file on the Razin Street murder.

“I’ve three children,” Yasimov muttered, as he returned to his own work. “And I look forward to them caring for me in my old age.”

Korolev was back in Razin Street an hour later and found Semionov waiting for him outside the church, along with the police photographer, Timofei Afanasovich Gueginov. The young Militiaman smiled when he saw Korolev.

“Alexei Dmitriyevich,” he said taking his arm, “the general has assigned me to assist with your investigation. He told me, ‘Young Semionov, Comrade Korolev will need help on this Razin Street affair and you’ll give it to him, or wind up directing traffic on Tverskaya with that idiot Larinin.’ Well, I’m against directing traffic and I’m against Comrade Larinin, so here I am, and at your command.”

Semionov took a step backward in order to give a half-salute, which seemed intended to be half-mocking. Korolev frowned and was pleased to see the salute stiffen into something approaching regulation standard.

“Good, I’m sure I’ll find plenty for you to do. I see you’ve met Comrade Gueginov. Has he set up yet?”

“Not yet, Alexei Dmitriyevich, but is that fellow really a police photographer? Don’t you need a steady hand for a job like that? With all the blood and everything? He’s got something quite badly wrong with him, I think.” He looked over at Gueginov, whose head was twisting in spasm. “See what I mean? Poor old fellow. Anyway, I had a look inside. Some mess, eh? I’ve never seen anything like it. Want me to handle anything in particular?”

Korolev suppressed a smile. Semionov’s mixture of self-confidence, naivety and amiability was almost irresistible. If Semionov was the future, things wouldn’t be too bad after all.

“Don’t you worry about Gueginov, he’s a first-rate man and experienced as well, which is more than I can say for some.”

Semionov looked abashed for a moment, but then grinned. “That was the other thing the general said-that I needed experience and you’d give it to me. Or a kick up the arse. He said I needed both.”

“The general is a wise man,” Korolev said and tried to keep his face stern. Semionov looked perturbed for a moment before Korolev relented.

“Have the forensics team been?”

“Yes, they finished up about half an hour ago. A lack of cleanliness among my Komsomol Comrades, I’m afraid-they think they could have up to two hundred different people’s fingerprints in the sacristy. It could take weeks to check them all out. The forensics boys think the killer might have been wearing gloves in any event, but they’ll call you this afternoon to confirm. And they say there are no useful markings in the footprints, although they suggest you have them photographed anyway. They didn’t look too happy when they left.”

“I see,” Korolev said, unsurprised. “Well, the next thing I need you to do is go to the local station and see how the door-to-door questioning is coming along. Captain Brusilov is the man in charge and he knows his stuff, so don’t presume otherwise just because he’s in uniform. Be polite, listen, assist if you feel you can. But don’t get on his nerves, because he’s the type of fellow who really will kick your arse. My guess is that the murder happened early this morning, so ask them to focus in particular on the period from ten o’clock last night until when the body was found-at least until the pathologist tells us differently.”

“No problem, Alexei Dmitriyevich. I’ll help the flatfoots out. Show them how it’s done.”

Korolev inhaled deeply, ready to lambast the youngster, but Semionov held up his hands and smiled. “A joke. I’ll be a real world-class diplomat, don’t worry.”

Korolev allowed his breath out slowly. “Be sure you are.”

“I will, I will. Komsomol’s honor.”

“Good and, speaking of your Komsomol’s honor, get hold of the Komsomol committee that looks after this place. We’ll need lists of anyone who had access to the sacristy. They’ll need to be fingerprinted as well, but forensics are probably organizing that already. Still, check that they are.”

Semionov produced a notebook and opened it, pointing over his shoulder into the church.

“There’s a Comrade from the Komsomol committee in there now with a couple of young lads. They’re in a side chapel. Demanded to be let in, crime scene or not: ‘The Komsomol movement must always move forward.’ I told them to keep out of the way, but I thought you’d want to talk to her anyway, as she’s the one who found the body. What was the rest-lists of people, fingerprints?”

He started to write notes. Korolev was mildly surprised, but pleased.

“That’ll do. Make notes of anything you come across on your travels, that’s the idea. A note doesn’t get forgotten. And when you’ve finished with Brusilov make sure you go and see the forensics team on your way back. Have a chat with them, keep them sweet. They’ll work that bit harder on the case if they think the detectives are keen. Go on, hurry. Call me at the Institute if you need me.”

Semionov clicked his heels like a Prussian and gave another cheeky salute. Korolev made as if to kick him, but Semionov was already five steps away.

“At your command, Comrade Captain,” he laughed over his shoulder and then he was gone.