The Bloody Meadow (18 page)

‘I didn’t kill her. And I wasn’t threatening her, I was warning her.’

‘Warning her, you say? Warning her of what? That you were going to kill her? That sounds like a threat to me.’ The old man flinched at that and Korolev felt a momentary guilt which
he immediately put aside. If the caretaker had been involved in killing the girl, then the questioning was justified. And if not, well, then he had to understand the situation he was in and that
his only hope was to be completely honest.

Andreychuk was shaking his head now, and his eyes were wet with tears. Korolev had to admit he didn’t look much like a killer.

‘You say you liked her?’

‘Nothing wrong with liking her, was there?’

‘Were you jealous of her admirers?’ Korolev asked, keeping his voice dispassionate.

‘Jealous? I’m fifty-eight, I won’t last many more winters.’

‘Why not? You’re still a vigorous man – there’s still powder in your keg, as the saying goes.’

Andreychuk’s mouth dropped open, an expression of horror on his face.

‘You can’t believe that. Surely not?’ he said.

‘Why were you warning her, Citizen? And who were you warning her about? If you didn’t kill her, why are you protecting her murderer? Tell me the truth, Citizen. If you’ve done
wrong the punishment will be fair, and if you’ve done nothing you’ll walk free.’

‘I doubt that,’ Andreychuk said. ‘I’ve seen what you people do. That’s what I warned her about.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I know what you’re like, Comrade Captain – how you oppress the ordinary people. How you trap them and how you deal with them when you have them in your grasp. I knew if she
stayed here it would go badly for her, as it’s gone badly for me. She was my daughter. There, now you know. I buried her mother not four years past and I didn’t want to bury my only
daughter as well. But she wouldn’t be warned. And now it’s come to this.’

‘HER
FATHER
?’ Slivka asked, her voice rising in disbelief.

Larisa, who was still typing like the Stakhanovite worker that she was, paused and the carefully neutral expression she’d maintained up until that moment slipped. But after she’d
taken a deep breath the pretty blonde typist restarted the clatter that had provided the background music to their conversation.

‘More than that,’ Korolev said, considering young Larisa and wondering whether they should be talking this way in front of her. ‘He was a father who’d fought with
Petlyura’s mob during the Civil War and hadn’t had the sense to leave the country with the rest of them – an officer, no less.’

‘A Petlyurist?’ Slivka asked. ‘He doesn’t look the type. And he certainly doesn’t look like an officer.’

Korolev shrugged, wondering what the young woman thought the officer type was. As far as he remembered, many soldiers back then had been conscripted one way or another – a lot of the Red
Army had, certainly. And in a place like the Ukraine, where fortunes had ebbed and flowed, it hadn’t been unusual for soldiers to have fought for the Red Army, the Whites, Petlyura’s
nationalists and maybe even Makhno’s anarchist bandits as well. And as for being an officer, if you could read and write and had a talent for avoiding bullets, well, the odds were in your
favour. He himself had ended up commanding a company of infantry at one stage and, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember how.

‘Well, he’s admitted to it, anyway,’ Korolev said. ‘After the war he tried to keep his head down, live a normal life. He was happy to support the Revolution, he says. But
someone denounced him in ’twenty-four and they made a run for it. Sent the girl to her aunt in Moscow, while he and his wife spent six years working in a factory in Kiev using false papers.
Then they came back down this way. In the meantime the aunt died and the girl went to the orphanage and knew enough to keep her mouth shut. They thought they’d lost her – and she
thought they were dead. And then she shows up with the film crew.’

‘But even if her parents were Enemies of the People, that wouldn’t apply to the child. Comrade Stalin has said as much.’

Korolev looked at her to see if she was joking. Slivka was under a considerable misapprehension if she thought having a Petlyurist officer as a father wouldn’t have been a disaster for the
girl if it had become known. She wouldn’t have been going to America with any delegation, that was for sure. The Gulag more likely.

‘Whatever she did or didn’t do,’ Korolev said, deciding to change the subject, ‘it’s Andreychuk who’s been concealing himself using false papers for the last
twelve years.’

‘Do you think he killed her?’

He considered the question for a moment or two, organizing his thoughts.

‘Not at the moment. First, there’s the morphine and then the fact that whoever murdered her cleaned the place thoroughly of any evidence. Where would Andreychuk have got morphine? I
don’t think it would be easy to obtain around here. And he may have been an officer fifteen years ago, but I’d be surprised if he’s familiar with the way an investigation works
– and whoever did it probably knows their way around. On top of which I don’t see a motive for him to kill his own daughter, and the warning that Sorokina overheard is explained by him
thinking Mushkin was on to him, and believing that his arrest might endanger her. If we had a shred of evidence I’d be happy enough to try and fit his face into the frame, but for the moment
I don’t see it.’

‘Perhaps he was worried that she might unmask him? If she was a loyal Party member.’

‘Except that she didn’t. And she had several months to do it if she’d wanted.’

‘We’ll have to charge him,’ Slivka said, and Korolev sensed that she wasn’t entirely happy with the idea.

‘Yes, false papers if nothing else. I’d better tell Mushkin.’

‘Still, it tells us something about her – now we know she kept secrets. The question is, was this the only one?’

Larisa’s rattling fingers came to another halt.

‘Larisa,’ Korolev said, ‘you’re listening to this because we trust you not to repeat what you hear and don’t forget you’re temporarily working for an Organ of
State Security.’

Larisa turned to him, her expression as indignant as a child’s.

‘Comrade Captain,’ she said, ‘my ears might as well be cut off.’

Slivka snorted with amusement before tapping her notebook with her pencil, a more serious expression on her face.

‘We also now know that she came from this area. Let’s think about it, she comes from here, she comes back for the first time and she dies here. There might be a link, don’t you
think?’

‘He says it was just a coincidence, her showing up,’ Korolev replied, seeing where Slivka’s line of thought was pulling her, like a fish to a barbed hook. Yes, the link could
well be the band of terrorists, but he wasn’t going to allow the thought to run away with them. It was with some relief he spotted the thin figure of Lomatkin walking towards the house, the
journalist’s shoulders stooped against the cold. The very man.

‘Slivka, I’ve spotted our journalist friend from Moscow. I think a quick comradely chat would be useful, don’t you? In the meantime, arrange interviews for us with Savchenko
and Belakovsky.’ Korolev’s hand was already on the door handle, and he didn’t wait around for Slivka’s acknowledgement of his instructions.

‘Comrade Lomatkin, I need to talk to you,’ Korolev called across the courtyard and Lomatkin stopped, looking gratifyingly anxious.

‘Of course, Comrade. May I ask about what?’ he said, as Korolev approached.

‘What do you think? I’ll give you a clue – it’s not about the weather.’

Lomatkin’s eyes opened in surprise and Korolev put his hand on the journalist’s arm and steered him back the way he’d come. ‘Come with me, Comrade Lomatkin, and
we’ll have ourselves a conversation.’

§

Shymko had come up with the key to one of the Agricultural College’s empty classrooms and so Korolev positioned Lomatkin in front of the lecturer’s desk, like an
errant schoolboy, and himself behind it.

The fellow appeared uncomfortable on the hard wooden seat, but it wasn’t just the discomfort of the chair that seemed to be bothering Lomatkin. He looked nervous, like a bird trapped in a
cage. Or perhaps a rat. Korolev would find out which soon enough because there was no doubt in his mind that the fellow had something to tell him – the question was whether he’d spill
the information voluntarily, or if he’d have to lean on him a bit.

‘Well,’ Lomatkin said, after still more time had passed, and sitting up a little straighter as if gathering his strength. ‘This seems a strange way to interview someone. I mean
to sit there and watch them, and not say anything.’

‘Citizen Lomatkin,’ Korolev said, opening his notebook and observing Lomatkin’s twitch when he addressed him as Citizen and not Comrade. ‘I will ask you questions in due
course. At the moment, however, I’m waiting for you to tell me about Citizen Lenskaya and the events that led to her death.’

Lomatkin’s face seemed to lose some colour, and his eyes to grow a little larger – a startled bird now. A trapped startled bird. Possibly in a cage.

‘What do you want me to tell you, Comrade Captain? I don’t know what you mean.’

And panicked as well, thought Korolev. Excellent.

‘I think you must know it’s your obligation to tell me everything. A young comrade is dead, murdered we now know, and I’ve been assigned to investigate her murder. My duty is
to get to the bottom of the matter – yours is to stop wasting my time.’

Korolev tapped the wooden surface of the desk with an index finger.

‘And. So. I’m. Waiting.’

Korolev understood the journalist’s dilemma – after all, if Korolev knew things about Lomatkin’s relationship with the dead girl that the journalist didn’t reveal, then
he’d place himself in a difficult situation. On the other hand, what if he revealed information that Korolev didn’t know, which might put him in an even more difficult situation? It
must be unpleasant, sitting in that chair, knowing that whatever you said might land you in hot water.

Lomatkin exhaled, a barely heard whistle of breath, then looked up at Korolev, his eyes seeming to see the detective for the first time. Korolev nodded encouragingly and Lomatkin half-smiled, as
if at the ridiculousness of fate, or perhaps in a plea for sympathy. Korolev remained impassive and the journalist shrugged, then began to speak quietly.

‘Well, you must know, I suppose,’ he said. ‘About me and her, that is?’

Lomatkin glanced up at Korolev, as if to seek confirmation, and Korolev did his best to keep his face neutral, to give nothing away. The journalist swallowed and looked down at his shoes.

‘We were lovers,’ Lomatkin said, risking another glance up at Korolev. ‘For a year now – until this, of course.’

Korolev nodded and made a quick note, his pencil’s scratch loud in the silence of the empty classroom. He looked up at the journalist and noticed a small bead of sweat roll along
Lomatkin’s jawline despite the chill.

‘Go on,’ Korolev said.

Lomatkin nervously pushed back a string of hair that had fallen over his forehead.

‘I met her through Belakovsky – she’d been seeing him at one stage. I knew about that, in case you’re wondering. And I knew she had other lovers as well. I didn’t
mind, she was her own woman.’

Korolev looked up from his notebook, wondering had there been a slight emphasis on the word ‘other’? Was there no one who didn’t know about Ezhov and the girl? But
Lomatkin’s eyes seemed glazed, as though he were looking at the dead girl, only at some time in the past when she’d still been alive. Perhaps he’d imagined the inference about
Ezhov, Korolev reassured himself.

‘We had a relationship based on respect, you understand. She didn’t have much truck with bourgeois concepts like love. We understood there were complications that made our
relationship difficult, but we hoped to overcome them. We felt we were a good match and that we would serve the Revolution better together rather than as individuals. We would form our own
collective, she used to say, within the wider collective.’

Lomatkin seemed calmer now – he’d tilted his chin upwards and some iron revealed itself in his gaze. Korolev thought that the relationship sounded very business-like – not at
all like the relationship Barikada Sorokina had described. But if Korolev knew anything, it was that he didn’t know much about love.

‘I had nothing to do with her death, and if I knew anything about it I would tell you.’

Korolev considered the man, conscious that at the same time the journalist was considering him in return. He wasn’t bad-looking, this Lomatkin; his clothes were of a good standard and his
hair well cut. He looked like what he was, someone who’d been successful under Stalin and whose loyalty had been rewarded. But there’d be people who wanted his position no doubt, or
envied his success, and where there was envy, these days, there were denunciations. Yes, to be in the public eye in 1937 was not something for the faint-hearted – and now poor Lomatkin had
arrived in the Ukraine to find his lover dead and a Militia detective poking around in his private life. Yet the man seemed to be regaining his confidence. Had Korolev missed something?

‘Why are you here, Citizen Lomatkin? Was it to visit Citizen Lenskaya? Or is it just a coincidence?’ Korolev gave him his hardest, most quizzical stare.

‘I had some business down here. I’ve been sent to interview the Frenchman, Les Pins, for
Izvestia.
Then I’ve some pieces to write about our western defences, and after
that I’m off to Sebastopol. A busy week.’ He hesitated, a thought seeming to occur to him. ‘I’ll admit it was my suggestion that I interview Les Pins, but not from an
individualist perspective – he’s a renowned fighter for Socialism. I’d never put my personal interest before the Party. Once I discovered he was here with Savchenko, it seemed a
good opportunity to come and see him. It was a coincidence that Citizen Lenskaya was here as well.’

‘Citizen Lenskaya?’ Korolev asked, putting an intonation into the question that was intended to remind the journalist that he’d effectively been engaged to the dead girl.