William Ryan - The Twelfth Department

“Assurances?”

“Yes, and impressions.”

“Impressions? Well, I’d be grateful.”

Korolev decided to light the cigarette that had been hanging forgotten from his mouth since he’d put it there. Shtange took a sheet of paper from a drawer.

“Firstly,” he said, looking to the page for guidance, it seemed, “I’m instructed to assure you that Director Azarov’s death did not arise from any connection he might have had to this institute, to any of its staff, or to the work he performed here.”

“I see,” Korolev said. “That’s reassuring.”

Shtange smiled once again.

“I’m also instructed to assure you that, notwithstanding the previous assurance, a separate investigation will be undertaken as a matter of course into Comrade Azarov’s death—in so far as it might possibly relate to his connection with this institute, its staff, and the work he carried out here. In fact it’s already begun. I’m further permitted to tell you that if any such connection emerges and such connection indicates any culpability in relation to his death—then it will be dealt with as part of that investigation.”

Korolev frowned. Here he was, being assured Azarov’s death had nothing to do with the institute, but at the same time that someone would be investigating whether there was in fact a connection between the murder and the institute. And, if by any chance there was, then that would be dealt with separately, thank you very much for your interest. It was confusing.

“Who?”

“I beg your pardon,” Shtange said.

“Who’ll be investigating it?”

“I’m afraid that information is classified.”

“You surprise me.”

“It couldn’t possibly be in safer hands, however.”

If Shtange wasn’t talking about Korolev’s old friends in State Security then he’d be even more surprised.

“Could you pass me the ashtray?” Korolev asked, and Shtange gave it a quick push so that it slid across the desk’s polished surface toward him. Korolev stopped it just before it reached the edge and tapped his papirosa into it twice. Then he took one more drag from it and stubbed it out altogether.

“Thanks for your time, Comrade Shtange,” he said and stood. This was, after all, a conversation that had probably gone on for far too long already.

“Wait one moment, Comrade Captain. I mentioned I was also authorized to give you my impressions.”

Korolev pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and waited.

“While Comrade Azarov was all the things I’ve mentioned, in terms of his qualities as a worker, he was not someone who dealt with those around him in an amicable way. I doubt he was any different in his personal life—in fact, I know he wasn’t. I thought you’d like to know that. My impression of his character, that is. You’ll find plenty of people inside and outside this institute that share my opinion, I’m sure of it. And as for his contributions to science? Well, perhaps they didn’t reflect the amount of work he put into achieving them.”

“And you’ve been authorized to tell me that?” Korolev asked, in complete disbelief.

“I’ve been instructed to tell you that,” Shtange said and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say the reasons were beyond him as well. Shtange seemed to consider something for a moment, then put his fingers together to make a small pyramid with his hands. There was something mischievous in his expression.

“Although perhaps with my comment about his contributions to science I went a little further than I should have.”

By the time Korolev reached the car his clothes were soaked through and still the rain kept coming down, rattling on the roof like a battalion of military drummers. He sat there on the bench seat, rainwater pooling around him, wondering what the hell he’d got himself into. Thankfully someone had left a box of matches on the dashboard and Korolev used them to light a damp cigarette, the smoke scraping his throat as he inhaled. He thought about leaving the matches for the next detective but then decided to hold on to them—they weren’t always easy to find these days.

A truck drove past, its engine like a rolling explosion, and flung a great wave of water up onto the car, rocking it. Korolev rubbed at the fogged glass. Even though it wasn’t much past three o’clock, it was black as night—and the few dark figures making their way along the street looked like refugees from a war.

He glanced up at the institute and swore under his breath. Whatever they were up to in there was no business of his—that was for certain. There might be cleverer men than him around—plenty of them—but he was no fool. He smoked the last of the cigarette, stubbed it out on the floor, and started the car—just as the first patch of blue sky appeared to the west and the rain, without warning, stopped.

“Well?” Korolev said when he found Slivka sitting in the dead man’s study, her notebook open and a pencil in her hand. The forensics men had gone and all that was left of the professor was a damp patch on the desk where his blood had been washed away.

“Forensics are finished. Ushakov says they’ve found a number of possible fingerprints—but it will take them awhile to go through them.”

“I’ll call him. We can’t wait around on this, believe me.”

Korolev found that he was looking at the gouged-out hole in Azarov’s desk and, not for the first time, wondering how one of the bullets could have missed at such close range.

“Did you speak to Comrade Madame Azarova?” he asked.

“No, but I’ve confirmed her alibi. She was at the orphanage all right. And the maid’s story stacks up as well. There was a queue at the bakery and she was standing in it for at least an hour. Two of the other maids confirmed it. Everyone has a maid in this place, did you know that?”

“It’s a place for important people. Important people have maids.”

“That must be it. Anyway, that doorman fellow remembers her leaving at nine-thirty and coming back not long before eleven. So that’s still more confirmation of her story.”

“He’d remember, right enough.”

There was something about Priudski that suggested to Korolev that he’d be the type who’d keep a particular eye out for pretty young things like Matkina.

“Still, she could have killed him when she came back,” Korolev said, not convincing himself or, it seemed, Slivka.

“Assuredly. But you’ve met her, and now so have I. I don’t see it.”

“Stranger people have committed murder.”

“True.”

“She’s the obvious suspect and she had the opportunity.”

Slivka said nothing and Korolev found himself nodding in agreement.

“All right, I agree. She doesn’t strike me as a killer either, on top of which she doesn’t seem to have a motive—on the contrary, in fact. What else did you find out? Anything from the other residents?”

Slivka looked through her notebook.

“The upstairs neighbor thought she heard something not long before eleven o’clock. At the time she thought it was noise from the bridge-building but, whatever she heard, she heard it twice. And no one told her there were two bullets. And, yes, thinking back, she agreed the noises could have been gunshots.”

“Before eleven would rule out Matkina,” Korolev said.

“If what the neighbor heard was a gun.”

“Matkina said she could smell gunpowder when she entered the room. That would tie in with the neighbor’s story nicely. Of course, if Matkina did it the gun should still be here. If it was one of those little pocket pistols, you could almost fit it inside a packet of cigarettes. Have we been through the place thoroughly?”