William Ryan: The Twelfth Department

“How do you want to handle it, Chief?”

Somehow Slivka managed to speak quietly yet still be heard over the rattling engine.

“We’d better take it easy until we know the lay of the land. I’ll do the talking, you take notes and keep your eyes and ears open. This is the kind of place where you have to have your wits about you. So I’ll be counting on you for that.”

Slivka nodded her agreement and then they were passing the hole in the skyline where the cathedral of Christ the Savior had stood until it had been blown to smithereens back in thirty-two—all to make way for a skyscraper that had yet to appear and, recent rumor had it, never would.

And here was another structure due for replacement—the Bolshoi Kamenny Most. The “Great Stone Bridge” had linked Balchug island to the Kremlin side of the Moskva river since long before Korolev’s time—but now a wider, higher replacement was under construction not fifty meters to the east. They said the new bridge would be finished in a couple of months and then—well, the old Bolshoi Kamenny Bridge would go the way of Christ the Savior, he supposed. Another piece of old Moscow disappearing in a cloud of dust.

“Here we are, Slivka.”

Korolev pointed to the massive construction ahead of them—eight stories of gray concrete that stretched from the end of the old Kamenny Bridge right along the embankment as far as the chocolate factory—and then back all the way to the Vodootvodny Canal. Of course, some might say it looked more like a prison than home to two or three thousand of the most important citizens in the Soviet Union—but no one could deny it was impressive.

“Leadership House, Slivka. I’ll bet you’ve nothing like it in Odessa.”

“No,” she said dryly. “Truly, a person hasn’t seen beauty till they’ve seen Moscow.”

Korolev laughed. Slivka liked her proverbs and that one hit the nail on the head. Within its forbidding exterior, Leadership House contained a theater, a cinema, a post office, shops and the Lord knew what else—the leaders who gained the right to live there were well looked after—but Slivka was right, it wasn’t beautiful. It was functional—a straightforward building for hard-working citizens. In due course everyone in the Soviet Union would live in constructions such as this, so they said—protected from the elements by thick concrete and warmed by electricity from the new power stations. It might be only intended for important personages at the moment, but a building like this told the people that things were getting better—just as Comrade Stalin had promised. And it told the State’s enemies that the Soviet Union was becoming a force to be reckoned with.

Slivka pulled in behind a row of black motorcars, their drivers gathered together at one end of the rank. How many vehicles were there? Fifteen? Each of them belonged to someone senior enough to have a car and driver at his constant disposal—and this was in the middle of the day.

“That must be it.”

Slivka pointed to a cluster of people being kept waiting outside one of the entrances by two solid-looking uniforms in their summer whites. Behind them stood an older sergeant, who looked as if he might be waiting for someone, his blue peaked cap held in his hand.

“Comrade Captain Korolev,” the sergeant said when Korolev showed him his identity card. The fellow had to shout to be heard above a sudden hammering from the bridge works. “I’m Belinsky.”

“Good to meet you. This is Sergeant Slivka, she works with me. Well?”

The sergeant pulled out his notebook, leafing through its pages.

“We received a call at 11:05 from the apartment of Boris Vadimovich Azarov, forty-nine years of age, medical professor. The call was from his maid, informing us Professor Azarov had been shot. I immediately called the nearest post, just down by the bridge, and ordered Militiaman Startsev to hotfoot it up here, which he did. I didn’t like the sound of it, so I came directly with Militiaman Kruger—we arrived at 11:12. Startsev was waiting for us in the apartment and confirmed the professor was dead. I looked in—it was clearly a violent death, so I called for more men from the station and told my boss what was up. He said call Moscow CID.”

“We must thank him for that,” Slivka said, but the irony seemed to go over Belinsky’s head. “What then?”

“The chief said to ensure the crime scene was preserved and wait for your instructions—so we’ve prevented entry to the apartment. We’ve also ascertained from the doorman that access to this part of Leadership House is only possible via the front door or a door to the courtyard—which is fully enclosed. He signs guests in and out—but not residents. My men have just finished checking floor to floor in case the murderer was still on the premises but we found no one who shouldn’t be here. Everyone we’ve identified is a resident or a guest of a resident. I’ve one of my men compiling a list for you.”

“Good work, Belinsky.” Korolev was beginning to cheer up—if all uniforms were as organized as this fellow they wouldn’t need a Criminal Investigation Division. “How about a murder weapon? He was shot, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, Comrade Captain.” Belinsky struggled for a moment to hide a proud smile at Korolev’s compliment, before continuing, solemn once again. “We didn’t find anything, but we didn’t search thoroughly either—I wanted to make sure we didn’t mess it up for forensics.”

“Good work again, Belinsky—let them poke around first. A murder investigation is like a good meal, it shouldn’t be rushed. Are they here?”

“They arrived about ten minutes ago.”

“Good,” Korolev said, “very good. What do you know about the body?”

Belinsky appeared confused, looking between Slivka and Korolev for an explanation.

“The dead man,” Slivka said patiently. “What do we know about him as a person?”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” Belinsky flicked forward a couple of pages in his notebook. “Professor Azarov lived in the apartment with his wife, Irina Ivanovna Azarova, forty-seven—no children. And their maid, Galina Matkina—I don’t know her age, sorry, but she’s young enough—anyway, she was the one who discovered the corpse. She told me the professor got up early this morning and he left the house at about 7:30. She made him coffee before he left so she’s pretty sure of the timing.”

“Go on.”

Belinsky turned another page of his notebook.

“He asked her for coffee when he came back at about nine—she doesn’t know where he went in the meantime but he seemed distracted. She last saw him alive at approximately 9:30 when she brought him more coffee at his request. Then she went out to shop, visiting the store on the building premises, entry to which is restricted to residents, and a nearby bakery. She returned just before eleven. She didn’t notice anything unusual on her return, but that might be because she went straight to the kitchen. It was only when she went to the deceased’s study to offer him another cup of coffee that she discovered the condition he unfortunately found himself in.”

“Dead, you mean?”

The sergeant nodded. “Definitely dead. Bullet-in-the-head dead.”

“He really liked coffee,” Slivka said.

Belinsky turned to look at her—his expression was difficult to read.

“It would seem so.”

“And the wife?” Korolev asked, giving Slivka a warning glance. She shrugged.

“According to Matkina she was at an orphanage on Vitsin Street. She works there in the mornings. She returned at 11:48. I took note of the time, of course.”

“Slivka—you’ll call this orphanage?”

“Yes, Chief.”

“Belinsky, you’ve met the wife and the maid—your impression?” Korolev asked, looking up at the gray building, wondering if it might be possible to tell, just from looking at it, behind which window a murder had been committed.