The Beast in the Red Forest (14 page)

Yakushkin didn’t mind Molodin coming into the house without permission, but he felt a twinge of embarrassment that his bodyguard would now be able to overhear the silly things he was forced to say to Antonina. ‘Don’t worry, Molodin!’ he called out. ‘I promise to save you some food.’

 ‘Here it is!’ said Antonina, as she came around the corner with the glazed earthenware pot containing the stew.

Yakushkin clapped his hands together. ‘At last!’ Just then, he heard the stairs creak as Molodin began making his way up to the apartment. ‘Not yet, Molodin!’ he called out. ‘I have not even begun the meal!’

Antonina placed the pot before Yakushkin, handed him a serving ladle, then took her seat at the opposite side of the table.

Yakushkin rose to his feet, like a man about to give a speech. ‘Beautiful,’ he said, as he gazed into the stew, breathing the fragrant steam which dampened his red face. ‘Truly a wonder of the world!’ In that moment, Yakushkin’s heart softened and he felt ashamed. What a fool I’d be, he thought, if I let this woman go. Of course I will take her to Moscow and we will be that happy family she spoke about.

Lifting his eyes, Yakushkin cast an adoring glance at Antonina, but was surprised to see she wasn’t looking back at him. Instead, she was staring at the doorway with a startled expression on her face.

He turned to follow her gaze.

In the doorway stood a captain of the Red Army, his tunic darkened by the freezing rain which had soaked him to the bone. His hands were tucked behind his back, as if standing at ease on a parade ground. Water dripped from his elbows on to the scuffed floorboards.

‘Who are you?’ Yakushkin demanded angrily. ‘Has something happened at the garrison? Speak up, Captain! State your business and be gone.’

But the man said nothing, and he made no move to leave. Instead, he turned and stared at Antonina.

They know each other, thought Yakushkin. And suddenly he felt the burn of jealousy for a woman he had never wanted until now. He rounded upon Antonina. ‘Who is this man to you?’ he asked.

‘I’ve never seen him before!’ replied Antonina, her voice quavering as she spoke. ‘I swear.’

Yakushkin didn’t believe her. ‘I trusted you,’ he snapped, ‘but I promise that is over now!’

‘Yes,’ said the officer. ‘It’s over now.’ From behind his back he drew a gun.

A wave of helpless dread passed through Yakushkin’s mind. He glanced down at his Tokarev, which lay beside the empty dinner plate. The captain had already drawn his gun. Yakushkin knew it was too late to save himself. He looked across at Antonina. ‘I could have loved you,’ he said, and then he snatched up the pistol and shot her in the chest.

At that same instant, a bullet crashed through the back of Yakushkin’s skull. He fell forward on to the table, which collapsed beneath his weight. The contents of the earthenware pot spilled across the floor and cutlery crashed to the ground.

Antonina was still alive, but barely. The force of the bullet had knocked her out of her chair. Now she lay on her back, her legs askew like those of a dropped marionette. She tried to speak, but her words were lost in the blood which spilled from the corners of her mouth.

The man stepped carefully across the room, avoiding the steaming pieces of sliced apple, boiled sausage and shattered crockery. Curiously, he looked at the woman. From the look on his face, it would have been clear to Yakushkin that these two had never met before. He bent down and gently put his hand upon her forehead. ‘Where is the major you treated at the hospital?’ he asked quietly. ‘The one named Kirov. Where is he now?’

‘Still there,’ she whispered.

‘No,’ the man told her. ‘He’s gone. Where did he go?’

She stared at him blankly.

‘You don’t know, do you?’ asked the man.

Her lips moved feebly, but she made no sound.

Slowly he moved his hand down from her forehead, until he was covering her eyes. Then he set the pistol against her left temple and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked and, in the flash of burning powder, some of her hair caught fire. He brushed it away from her face. Reeking metallically, the burned strands crumbled into ash.

The man stood and made his way back down the stairs. Before he vanished out into the storm, he paused to glance at Molodin, who lay in the hallway, tongue protruding from between his purple lips, and eyes bulging grotesquely from the garrotting wire sunk into his neck.

Minutes after leaving the safe house, the Hanomag truck pulled up beside the building where Yakushkin and the nurse had been killed. Outside its front door, a partisan stood guard. He was tall and bony, with sunken cheeks, narrowed eyes almost hidden under a floppy, short-brimmed cap, and armed with a German MP40 sub-machine gun. He wore a mixture of military and civilian gear: grey wool riding breeches, worn through at both knees and with leather panels along the inside of each thigh, had been tucked into knee-length lace-up boots. His jacket was a lumpy woollen thing, oddly tight about the shoulders but with arms so long the man had been forced to roll them up, revealing the black and white striped lining. The garment had been cinched around his waist with a German leather belt. The aluminium buckle, once emblazoned with an eagle, a swastika and the words ‘Gott Mit Uns’, had been ground down and polished smooth, and the shape of a red star cut out of the centre, a common modification among the partisans.

‘Good morning, Malashenko.’ Pekkala nodded to the partisan as he and Barabanschikov climbed down from the truck.

‘Good morning, Inspector,’ replied the man. He stood aside to let Pekkala by, but when Kirov tried to pass, the partisan blocked his way. ‘Not you, Commissar.’

‘The commissar is helping us,’ said Barabanschikov.

Malashenko shot a questioning glance at his commander, and for a moment seemed ready to defy him. ‘First time for everything,’ he muttered, as he grudgingly moved out of the way.

Barabanschikov rested his hand upon Pekkala’s shoulder. ‘I must leave now, but Malashenko will remain with you for protection.’

‘I don’t need a bodyguard,’ said Pekkala.

‘Consider it as insurance against your ending up as the next man on this assassin’s list of victims. Use the safe house for as long as you need it. Our patrols will keep an eye on the place.’ With those words, Barabanschikov climbed into the truck and the Hanomag disappeared down the road in a blue cloud of diesel exhaust.

‘Why haven’t the police been informed about this?’ Kirov asked Malashenko.

‘There are no police,’ he answered. ‘Not any more.’

‘Then what about the Red Army? Why aren’t they guarding the crime scene?’

‘Because they haven’t found it yet.’

‘So who reported the incident?’

‘The locals did. To us. We are the only ones they trust, Commissar, and there is good reason for that.’

Now Pekkala turned to Malashenko. ‘Does anyone at the garrison know that Yakushkin is even missing?’

‘They knew he was gone from the barracks last night,’ replied the partisan, ‘but no one looked for him until this morning. They are aware that he had been spending time with Antonina Baranova, the woman who lived in this house. It won’t be long before they find out he was here.’

‘And where is this woman?’

‘Upstairs with a bullet in her brain,’ Malashenko told him, ‘the same as Commander Yakushkin.’

‘How long have we got to examine the crime scene?’ asked Pekkala.

‘Five minutes, maybe less. But we need to be gone before then. Once those soldiers realise their commander is dead, they’ll arrest every partisan they can lay their hands on.’

‘We’ll be as quick as we can,’ Pekkala assured him.

In the front hallway, Kirov almost tripped over the body of Yakushkin’s bodyguard, Molodin. No one had touched him. He straddled the narrow space of the hallway, neck bent against the lower part of the wall so that his head was upright. Molodin’s left arm had been dislocated in the struggle and now his hand hung poised above his face, fingers strangely clawed, as if to cast a spell upon himself. The dead man’s lips had turned a livid purple, as had the tips of his fingers and his skin was grey and patched with blooms of yellowish-blue.

At the top of the stairs, Kirov and Pekkala entered the little dining room where the two murders had taken place. The air smelled of the stew which Antonina had prepared. Congealed fat merged with the blood of the victims, staining the bare wooden floor. Lying in among the broken plates, the knives and forks and the remains of the uneaten dinner, lay the bodies of Yakushkin and the woman.

Kirov gasped as he realised she was the nurse who had treated him at the hospital.

Antonina lay on her back, eyes half open and the side of her skull shot away. Her teeth had been stained red with her own blood.

Pekkala crouched over Yakushkin’s body, which lay rigor-mortised like a statue tumbled from its pedestal. The commander lay on his right side, his right arm tucked under him and his left stretched out in front of him, as if reaching towards the gun he had been carrying. The point-blank shot which killed him had done so much damage that if it were not for the insignia on his uniform, he might have been unrecognisable.

‘That appears to be the general’s gun.’ Kirov pointed at the Tokarev lying on the floor. ‘He must have drawn his weapon, but by then it was too late to use it.’

‘Possibly.’ Pekkala lapsed into silence as he stared at the corpse of the woman.

‘Why “possibly”?’ asked Kirov. ‘You think he might have wounded the assassin?’

Pekkala nodded towards the dead woman. ‘Look at the placement of the shots.’

‘One to the head and one to the chest.’

‘Which tells you what, Kirov?’

‘That the woman wasn’t killed by the first bullet that struck her.’

‘Not killed, perhaps,’ agreed Pekkala, ‘but mortally wounded for certain.’

‘I don’t see what you’re getting at, Inspector.’

‘The first bullet struck her dead centre in the chest, as if she was a target at a shooting range. After sustaining that injury, she had, at best, a few minutes left to live. Nothing could have saved her. The assassin would have realised that.’

‘And you’re wondering why he bothered to administer a coup de grace when he knew she would be dead before he even reached the street?’

Just then, Pekkala spotted something. He bent down over the shellac of congealed blood which had seeped out around the corpses.

Kirov clenched his teeth as he watched Pekkala’s fingers reach into the gore.

When Pekkala straightened up, he held in his hand three empty pistol cartridges.

‘Are they the same kind we found in the bunker?’ asked Kirov.

Pekkala examined them closely. ‘Two of them show signs of having been reloaded,’ he replied, ‘but the third one does not.’

Kirov picked up the commander’s gun and removed the magazine. ‘There is one bullet missing from the magazine. The rest are standard ammunition.’

‘Which means that the assassin fired twice,’ Pekkala pointed at the two bodies, ‘and that Yakushkin’s final act was to murder the woman with whom he was just sitting down to dinner.’

‘Why would he fire at her and not at the man who was trying to kill him?’ Kirov wondered aloud. ‘Could she have been the murderer’s accomplice?’

‘The general must have thought so,’ said Pekkala, ‘but what I don’t understand is why the gunman would take the time to finish her off when every second spent at the crime scene increased his chances of being caught as he tried to escape?’

‘He must have chosen not to let her suffer any longer than was absolutely necessary.’

‘Because she was a woman?’ suggested Pekkala.

‘That can’t be it,’ replied Kirov. ‘He didn’t hesitate when he killed those two secretaries in the bunker.’

Pekkala waved his hand over the bodies. ‘Then something else happened here. Whatever the answer, it points towards a weakness in his character.’

‘If you call compassion a weakness.’

‘In his line of work,’ replied Pekkala, ‘that’s exactly what it is.’

Just then, they heard a sound, a scuffling which seemed to be coming from inside a chest of drawers set against the wall.

Both men lunged for their weapons. In an instant, Pekkala’s Webley and Kirov’s Tokarev were aimed at the bulky wooden structure.

Without a word, Kirov stepped over to the chest of drawers. He knelt down, knees cracking, and set his ear against the side panel. For a moment, he remained there, motionless and listening.

Then both men heard a strange and high-pitched sound, like that of a trapped bird, coming from the same location.

Caught off guard by the noise, Kirov tipped backwards, landing heavily upon the floor. He scrambled backwards, then jumped once again to his feet. ‘What was that?’ he whispered to Pekkala.

‘I think it was the sound of someone crying,’ replied Pekkala. Stepping over to the chest of drawers, he gently tapped the barrel of the Webley against the wood. ‘Come out,’ he said gently. ‘No one is here to hurt you.’

‘I can’t,’ replied a voice, so faint that they could barely make it out.

‘Why not?’ asked Pekkala.

‘You have to move the chest,’ replied the voice.

‘It’s a child!’ gasped Kirov. Setting his weight against the chest of drawers, he moved the structure aside, revealing a hole in the wall behind. It had been crudely excavated, the sides hacked from the plaster. The stumps of wooden laths protruded like the ends of broken ribs. The hole itself was narrow, far too small for anyone to stand inside and too short to lie down in. Curled in a foetal position, with her knees drawn up to her chin, was a young girl, no more than ten years old. She wore a tattered blue coat and worn-out shoes, fastened by a strap with flower-shaped buckles, which must once have been saved only for special occasions.

Immediately, Pekkala put away his gun and knelt down beside the hole. ‘What is your name?’ he asked gently.

‘Shura.’

‘It’s safe to come out now, Shura.’ He beckoned to her with his blood-stained fingers.

The girl stared at him, her eyes reddened from hours of weeping.

‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘Why was there shooting? Why is the table tipped over? Who is that lying on the floor? Is that the general?’

‘We are trying to answer those questions,’ Pekkala shifted his stance to block the girl’s view of the carnage, while Kirov removed his tunic and laid it over the dead woman’s face. Then he gathered up the once-cheerful white and yellow table cloth and heaped it on the shattered ruination of the general’s skull. Pekkala kept talking to the girl. ‘And I think you might be able to help us, but first tell me, Shura, who put you in this place?’

‘My mother.’

‘And your mother’s name is Antonina?’

‘Yes,’ she told them. ‘When the general comes to visit, my mother takes me to my grandmother’s house. But if there isn’t time, she makes me hide in here.’

‘Why? Did she think that the general would hurt you?’

‘No, that’s not it,’ she replied. ‘She said that if the general knew about me, he might not come at all. She didn’t want him to know that she had a child. He brought food with him, you see. My mother always saved some for me. But then, last night, someone came up the stairs.’

‘How many of them were there?’

‘Only one.’

Pekkala narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you certain, Shura? Only one?’

‘I heard his footsteps. If there were more, I would have heard them, too. I thought it was the general’s helper, Molodin. He knows I live here, but he promised not to tell. Sometimes he would come by with gifts for me.’

‘How do you know it wasn’t him?’ said Pekkala.

‘I heard a voice and I knew it wasn’t Molodin. And I heard my mother’s voice, too. But softly. I couldn’t tell what they were saying. After that, the gun went off again.’

Pekkala nodded, trying to conceal his emotions. Just then, he noticed the blood on his fingers, tucked his hand behind him and wiped it on the back of his coat.

‘Are you hurt?’ asked the girl.

‘No,’ replied Pekkala. ‘I’m fine, Shura. Won’t you come out now? It’s safe. No one is going to hurt you.’

The girl crawled out of the space and Pekkala swept her up in his arms.

‘Is that my mother lying there?’ From the flat tone of her voice, it was clear that she already knew. In the hours she’d spent huddled in the blindness of that hiding place, the girl had pieced together images from what she’d only heard.

‘Look at me,’ said Pekkala.

As if lost in a trance, Shura continued to stare at the hulk of the dead general, his stiffened body like an island on the blood-daubed floor, and the granite pallor of her mother’s legs protruding from her skirt.

‘Look at me, Shura,’ he repeated.

This time, the girl obeyed.

‘I want you to do something for me,’ Pekkala told her. ‘I want you to close your eyes and let me carry you downstairs. It is better not to see what’s here. Do you understand?’

The girl’s eyes slid shut like those of a doll tilted on to its back.

Pekkala carried her down, stepping over the body of the guard, and out into the street.

‘My God,’ said Malashenko, his gaze fastening upon the little girl. ‘What is she doing here?’

Hearing a familiar voice, Shura opened her eyes and looked around, squinting in the harsh daylight.

‘You know this girl?’ Pekkala asked Malashenko.

‘I do,’ he replied.

Pekkala set her down and she walked over to Malashenko, who crouched down and placed her on his knee.

‘Shura,’ said the partisan, ‘do you recognise me? I was a friend of your mother’s.’

‘I know who you are,’ replied Shura.

‘Do you know where her grandmother lives?’ Pekkala asked Malashenko. ‘Can you take her there?’

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but I am supposed to be guarding you.’

‘Meet us at the safe house when you’re done. We’ll manage until you get back.’

‘Yes, Inspector. I promise to return right away.’

‘Move fast, Malashenko,’ said Kirov. ‘Here come Yakushkin’s men.’

They all heard it now, the sound of a vehicle fast approaching from the direction of the hospital.

‘You had better leave with me, Inspector,’ said Malashenko. He shifted the little girl off his knee and rose to his feet. ‘Your friend might be safe in that uniform of his, but you won’t be safe among the soldiers.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Kirov assured him. ‘I guarantee Pekkala’s safety.’

‘Your guarantee?’ asked Malashenko. ‘What use is that? The promise of a commissar is no better than the oath of a whore.’

The words were not even out of Malashenko’s mouth, before Kirov’s gun was levelled at his face.