William Ryan - The Twelfth Department

Now all he needed to do was find out who.

Korolev looked into Timinov’s office on his way out—the doorman rising to his feet when he saw him.

“Listen, Timinov,” he said, waving him back down. “Are there really mice in a building like this? I’m surprised is all.”

“Mice?”

“Or rats—she said she wasn’t sure which.”

“Or rats?” Timinov looked appalled. “Who told you that? I tell you there’ll be hell to pay if there are.”

“Azarov’s maid told me on Monday. But it wasn’t her who heard them—the professor complained about them on the morning of the murder—said they were in the walls.”

“No one else has said anything.” The caretaker seemed to relax a little. “That was three days ago—if they were in the building, someone would have heard them since.”

“I’m only repeating what the maid, Galina, said.”

“Mice would be more likely—they’ll slip through the smallest crack.” The doorman scratched his head. “I’ll look into it though, you can be sure of that.”

Korolev shrugged. What with a missing son and two murders to solve, to the satisfaction of a certain Colonel Rodinov—he couldn’t care if the damned place had kangaroos. He said his farewells and left.

The car he’d asked Belinsky to arrange for him was parked outside and, to his surprise, Morozov himself, the head of the car pool, was leaning on its bonnet. The one-eyed Cossack glanced over at his approach, and his surprise at Korolev’s appearance was evident.

“I didn’t know you could drive,” Korolev said dryly, ignoring Morozov’s look, and getting into the car. “I thought you were above that sort of thing.”

“I can’t.” Morozov opened the door and sat into the driver’s seat. He took another good look at Korolev’s face and shook his head slowly. “Where to, then, Alexei Dmitriyevich?”

“Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky first—I need to clean up—then the Anatomical Institute.”

Morozov, who’d worn an eye patch ever since an encounter with a bullet during the German War, turned his head to nod his agreement then put the car smoothly into gear—pulling away from the curb without any obvious signs that he’d checked he was clear to do so.

They drove in silence for a while, which suited Korolev—he’d a few things he needed to think through, after all. He opened his notebook, flicking back through the pages.

“Tell me, Pavel Timofeevich,” he asked Morozov, “what do you know about the Vitsin Street orphanage? You live over that way, don’t you?”

Korolev winced as the car squeezed through a tiny gap between an oncoming bus and a construction truck that had pulled out unexpectedly. He shut one of his own eyes as an experiment—the range of vision was much reduced.

“Why should I know anything about an orphanage on Vitsin Street?”

“Come on, Pavel Timofeevich—it’s a stone’s throw from you. You must know the place.”

“Oh, I know it all right. It used to be the Monastery of the Annunciation—I pass it every day. As for what the place might be like? Well, I’m glad my children are grown and will never see the inside of it.”

“Not good?”

“It’s hard to say—I haven’t heard it’s bad as such. But people think there’s something not quite right about the place all the same.”

“I see.”

Korolev thought about Yuri ending up in such a place and found his jaw was clenched so hard it hurt. The boy would show up, he was sure of it. And he’d get himself out of this investigation in one piece as well. Everything would be all right—if only he could keep himself calm.

When Morozov stopped the car on Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky, Korolev took a quick look around the neighborhood, just in case the boy was somewhere nearby—wary of approaching the house itself in case State Security might still be on his tail. But there was no sign of him—no sign of anyone, as it happened. The laneway, and the courtyards off it, seemed unnaturally still. But perhaps that was just because of the way the bright noon sunshine seemed to press every corner and curve into straight lines, leaving only white surface and crisp shadows. He was relieved when he stepped into the cool shade of the hallway.

“Korolev, a word with you please.” Lobkovskaya, his elderly downstairs neighbor, stood in her half-open doorway, tapping her walking stick on the floor gently, perhaps to get his attention. Most uncharacteristically, she seemed to be trying to keep her voice to a level that could almost be described as a whisper. She gestured for him to come closer. For a moment, he wondered if she’d news of his son.

“Is it about Yuri?” Korolev said, keeping his own voice low.

The only light in the stairwell came from soot-stained windows on the upper landings and as he came close to her he could see that the imperturbable old lady appeared—well—perturbed.

“No. Something else. You had visitors, an hour ago.” She put a finger to her lips as if that might make her words quieter. “I heard them in your room, they moved every piece of furniture. Then I heard them move to the next room and the next. They searched the whole apartment. Careful, quiet men. Not the kind of visitors you’d want to have, I think”

“When did they leave?”

“Half an hour ago.”

Korolev knew Lobkovskaya well enough not to question her story. After all, she lived directly beneath him—and the old house’s walls and floors kept few secrets between neighbors. Nor was he surprised that she was telling him something most Muscovites wouldn’t admit was happening—even to themselves. Lobkovskaya was a tough old girl at the end of the day.

“Chekists?” he asked.

She shrugged, then nodded—indicating that his suggestion seemed the most likely possibility. She patted his elbow.

“Shura told me about your boy being missing—she had to go out but asked me to keep an eye out for him. If he comes, I’ll look after him—don’t worry.”

Korolev nodded his thanks and with a smile Lobkovskaya managed to close her door without making the slightest sound.

Korolev began to climb the stairs one slow step at a time, his eyes adjusting to the half-light as he did so. He listened hard to the sounds of the house, wondering if someone might be waiting for him up above, their intentions unfriendly and a weapon in their hand. He allowed his fingers to trail up the banister, aware of each nick and groove they touched. But when he found himself outside his door he wasn’t quite sure how he’d reached it or, indeed, how he’d managed to slip his key into its lock. He paused, took a long, deep breath, and reached for the Walther underneath his armpit. He touched the metal of the pistol’s handgrip and then stopped. What was he going to do? Shoot it out with State Security? And anyway, the apartment was empty—Lobkovskaya had said so. For all her age, the woman had ears like a bat. He turned the key.

At first glance everything was perfectly normal. Natasha’s exercise books were where they should be. The bags he’d left on the chesterfield during his whirlwind visit that morning were in the same position. The small vase of flowers he’d noticed then was in its same spot. Even the dust dancing in the sunlight that streamed through the half-closed curtains appeared to circle and twirl in the same way it always did. He stopped, stood still and looked again and, on closer examination, there were indeed small anomalies—the bags on the chesterfield had an unusual symmetry, not that he could put his finger on why; and, unless he was much mistaken, the exercise books had been piled by hands other than a ten-year-old girl’s—hands that liked to organize things, to tie up loose ends, to make sure a confession covered all possible crimes.