William Ryan: The Holy Thief

Korolev shrugged and approached Gueginov. “I hope young Semionov wasn’t any trouble, Gueginov? He’s harmless, more or less.”

“Nuh-no trouble at all, Cuh-Comrade. He rolled muh-me a ci-cigarette, so he was ee-even quite useful.” Gueginov smirked and shook Korolev’s hand. “Sh-shall we get to wuh-work then?”

“Yes, please go ahead-I’ll come through in a few minutes. I need to see someone first.”

He entered the church and looked around. White light from the sacristy cut through the dark like a searchlight, but there was a softer, yellow light coming from a side chapel on the left. He walked toward it and found a girl with a pretty oval face sitting at one end of a table, an abacus and an open ledger in front of her. At the other end were two hungry-looking youngsters-one of them cutting up small slips of paper and the other then writing on them.

Korolev looked at the girl’s serious face and found himself strangely cheered by her rosy cheeks and down-turned mouth. She looked up, brushing a lock of black hair from her cheek, and he tried not to show the sudden warmth he felt toward her, this pretty little representation of Soviet youth.

“Good afternoon, Comrade. Captain Korolev, Moscow CID-investigating the murder.”

She was small when she rose, at least a head shorter than him, and he found himself leaning down toward her.

“You found the body, I believe?” he asked when she didn’t respond.

“Yes, it was a terrible thing. She was on the altar in the sacristy. Excuse me, on the former altar in the social room.”

“The social room?”

“It’s where we set up the buffet when we have a dance. We were meant to have one last night, but it was canceled. We have a political meeting before the dance, of course, but the Party believes in providing healthy opportunities for enjoyment to its socialist youth, as well as political education. That’s why we’re here. You’ll be out by Saturday, won’t you? We’re trying to make sure we don’t lose momentum. This kind of thing could set us back if we allowed it to.”

Her voice was faint and her eyes didn’t seem able to meet his. He saw the way her fingers pressed into the table, the tips white, and wondered if she was in shock. She lifted a hand and pointed at the slips of paper, the gesture seeming to cost her a lot of effort; the extended finger was visibly trembling.

“Tickets,” she said. “For the dance. In three days’ time.” One of the young men looked up at him without any interest.

“Can you tell me exactly what time you found her, Comrade?”

“Nine o’clock. I open the building every morning. I’m on the organizing committee. Lydia Kovalevskaya. Anything I can do to assist you-of course. Lieutenant Semionov said you’d have some questions. The door was open when I arrived-it had been forced-and then I found her. The blood was everywhere. Does it stain marble, blood? Will we be able to clean away the marks?” Kovalevskaya rubbed at the table with the palm of her hand. The two young men exchanged a smile.

“Are you all right, Comrade?” Korolev asked, wondering should he take her somewhere quieter. She thought about the question for a moment and then nodded.

“Yes, I think so. I’m sorry; I know I shouldn’t be upset-that I should be stronger. But what was done to her-it was horrible.”

“Your reaction is quite normal, Comrade.”

“Thank you, but your questions. Please ask me your questions.” She managed a tight smile as Korolev caught one of the young men raising an eyebrow to the other. Young scamps-hard as only the young could be.

“There was meant to be a dance that evening. It was canceled. Why was that?”

“An electricity problem, Comrade. Our connection to the grid was damaged. It was a temporary problem. They fixed it in time for the dance, but we’d already canceled.”

“Damaged? How?”

“Nothing suspicious. A workman cut through a cable on the construction site next door.”

Korolev considered her response and decided to have Semionov look into it.

“The thing is,” he said, “I’m wondering how the killer picked this place. He may just have been lucky, walked past, saw the dance was canceled from the posters and taken the opportunity that this provided. But even that would have had an element of uncertainty to it, do you see? Unless he knew something about the place, yes? The question is: how did he know he would be undisturbed? We think he came in about midnight. Is the church always shut then?”

“We prefer not to use the word church. It is a Komsomol recreational and political agitation center. We have concluded that former church is acceptable, however.”

Korolev felt his hand clenching in his pocket. He knew she was correct in strictly political terms, but still. Sometimes you couldn’t help but feel angry at the way some people spoke.

“Answer my question, please. The lectures can wait for a Party meeting.” She looked at him in shock. He realized he’d allowed some of his anger to show and then thought it wouldn’t do any harm. She needed strong direction, otherwise he wouldn’t get a damned thing out of her. He tapped the table to get her attention.

“I’m investigating a murder, Comrade. I don’t care how you refer to this building, it’s just a crime scene to me-understand?”

“There is no need for uncultured aggressiveness, Captain. The dance was in support of the Comrades in Spain. When there isn’t a dance or a special event, the club shuts at eight.” She spoke as if speaking to a child, and any warm feelings he had for her disappeared. The two young men had stopped working. He turned his head toward them and one didn’t even bother to hide his smirk.

“You. Name, patronymic, surname,” Korolev barked.

“Grichkin. Alexei Vladimirovich.”

“And you?”

“Nikolai Alexandrovich Zoshchenko.”

“Well, Grichkin, and you, Zoshchenko-I want a list of every member of this cell, and everyone who has attended a meeting or event in this former church, for the last six months.”

“But-” Zoshchenko began, his eyes looking at the other two in panic.

“But what? I don’t want to hear how difficult it will be, I want the damned list. And there will be no more public use of this church until I get it, and it’s been checked, and I’m happy that it’s accurate. And if it’s incorrect in any way, I’ll find a nice spot in the Butyrka prison for you two to spend a little time together. Six hours. That’s what you have. Work on it together. And you can forget those blasted tickets until it’s done.”

“I must protest,” the girl looked like she was about to begin a long-winded analysis of the murder’s insignificance against the global scale of the Revolution when his hand slammed onto the table, causing the ledger to lift up into the air.

“Let me remind you, Comrade Kovalevskaya, that the Militia is part of State Security and that this crime was against a Soviet citizen in a Komsomol building. A crime against Soviet law takes priority here. And I’d be thinking very carefully about not cooperating fully, given the fact you and your Comrades here can’t even secure a damned social club at a time when the entire Revolution is under threat.”

After which things went a little more briskly. When he’d finished, he left three pale-faced Komsomols no doubt wondering which of the others to denounce first to save their hides. Not that he would be following it up-it was clear they knew nothing. About anything, probably.

Inside the sacristy Gueginov was unpacking camera equipment from the two cases he’d brought with him. Looking at him, Korolev had to accept that Semionov had a point. The man didn’t look well suited to his job. Aside from the stutter, which worsened in the presence of strangers, there was also the spasm that juddered through his whole body every minute or so-more often when he was nervous. It was strange then that he seemed relatively relaxed as he prepared to photograph the butchered woman, timing his movements to avoid the involuntary twitching.