The Bloody Meadow (22 page)

‘Motor,’ Savchenko called out and Shymko repeated the word into his megaphone.

‘Start,’ Savchenko said and as Shymko’s megaphone echoed the instruction, a young lad snapped a clapperboard shut in front of the camera and the crowd began to advance,
indignant and hostile. Then from the side young Pavel appeared, and began to dance, lifting his knees, waving his elbows and prodding at the path in front of the advancing peasants with
outstretched toes. The crowd, apparently as bewildered as Korolev, came to a halt. One began to point at the boy and laugh, and suddenly the whole crowd had to lean against each other to avoid
collapsing into a helpless heap. And still Pavel danced. Even Korolev couldn’t help but smile.

‘And stop,’ Savchenko said.

‘That’s it,’ announced Shymko and the crowd’s laughter died instantly, and Pavel went from a high kick to a slouching walk that took him back towards the camera.
Savchenko pointed out Korolev to the production coordinator and raised the thumb and fingers of his left hand.

‘A short break now, don’t go far,’ Shymko announced, and the extras began rolling cigarettes and bending their heads in conversation.

‘And they pay you for writing this?’ Korolev said.

‘Not enough,’ said Babel, putting his hands in his pockets.

‘Korolev, thank you for your patience. Babel here has been telling me all about you and, given you probably know all about me as well, I take it there’s no need for cumbersome
introductions. Let’s take a walk over this way, where we can talk properly.’ The director led him away from the film crew, and for a moment Korolev thought Babel was going to try and
join them, but the writer caught his warning glance and stayed where he was.

‘So, let’s get straight to the point, Comrade Korolev. I knew Maria Lenskaya well. I’m sure you know that by now. She was my lover, or I was hers – I can’t remember
which way round it was. Anyway, I’m sure someone amongst that crowd of gossips has told you by now.’ The director pointed a thumb back towards the cast and crew.

‘Yes, I’ve been informed, but I’m also aware that you were filming throughout the crucial period, and every one of them is a witness to that as well.’

‘They have their uses, I suppose.’

‘So do you have any idea who could have killed her?’

‘I don’t. And that concerns me because the likelihood is that it was one of us.’ Although the director didn’t seem so much concerned by the thought as intrigued.

‘I have to ask about your relationship with her, of course.’

‘Certainly. It ended some time ago, although when she came to America with Belakovsky I’ll admit there was a little flirtation. Nothing serious, but it was so nice to hear beautiful
Russian spoken by a beautiful woman. I couldn’t resist her.’

‘Did you meet a man called Danyluk at that time?’

‘The defector? Yes, I met him once or twice. He was in the technological group, not the creative part of the delegation.’

‘Did Lenskaya have much to do with him?’

‘Nothing, as far as I’m aware. He was an insignificant man. I suspect his defection was opportunistic. But I only met him a couple of times, as I said.’

‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Comrade Savchenko, but you don’t seem overly saddened by her death.’

Savchenko, rather than being offended, as Korolev had half expected, considered the suggestion seriously for a moment.

‘Don’t be misled, Captain, I’m deeply upset,’ he said. ‘I valued Masha highly, as a worker and colleague, and as a person. It’s the way my mind works, though,
to look at such a sadness and speculate around it. A story like this is fascinating for me. I look at it from every angle, consider it, remember it. This is work for me, just as much as if I were
digging a ditch. But more importantly, this film has to be finished – why do you think Belakovsky is down from Moscow? To apply pressure, that’s why. I have a responsibility to the
people who are working with me on this project not to be distracted. We all do. I’ll grieve for poor Masha later.’

Korolev understood the point. Work that was behind schedule on a construction project or in a factory could lead to arrests for sabotage and wrecking – so why not a film? Film-makers had
quotas to achieve, same as everyone else, and if they didn’t achieve them fingers started pointing and cell doors started opening, and worse. It was the way things were.

‘I apologize, Comrade. I have to ask these things.’

‘I understand.’

And so Korolev asked the questions he had to ask – who had liked her and who had disliked her? Who had been her close associates in Moscow? Who else had she had romantic entanglements
with? He asked about Andreychuk, and morphine and her background and every other question he could think of. Savchenko was as helpful as he could be, but he didn’t provide any new
information. He was, however, intrigued by the idea that she had been drugged before being strangled.

‘Keep it to yourself please, Comrade Savchenko.’

‘Of course, of course, but it’s positively romantic, don’t you think? It’s almost as though she had to die and the killer decided to make it as painless as possible.
Perhaps he loved her but she rejected him. Or loved someone else.’

Korolev looked at the director to see if he was joking, but he wasn’t. It was just as he’d said – he’d taken the bare facts and used them to build a story, but it was an
interesting theory and one that Korolev thought might just have something to it. They heard a cough and saw that Shymko had approached, his clipboard at the ready. Savchenko shrugged his shoulders,
as if he were being torn away from a fascinating conversation rather than a murder interrogation.

‘One final question before you go, Comrade. Do you have any idea why she would have visited Krasnogorka in the company of the caretaker Andreychuk last week?’

‘Krasnogorka? Shymko, she went to see a church last week – was it near Krasnogorka?’

‘Not far away,’ the production coordinator confirmed. ‘A few kilometres only, I think.’

‘What church was this?’ Korolev asked.

‘Some church she’d heard was to be destroyed, and we thought we could use it for the final scene in the film – when the church is burnt down by the peasants. I have the details
in the office.’

‘It might be useful. And why did Andreychuk accompany her?’

‘She couldn’t drive. Nothing more complicated – Andreychuk was helping us out. Is it true you’ve arrested him?’

Korolev half-expected that if he looked behind him he’d see Indian smoke signals coming from the village, so widely had the information spread.

‘Ask Major Mushkin. Anyway, Comrade Savchenko, thank you for your assistance – if I have any further questions?’

‘You know where to find me.’

Korolev walked with them back towards the camera crew and saw that the peasants had re-formed in the same positions, but before he got any closer a car’s lights came bumping though the
forest and from it stepped the young Militiaman from the village, Sharapov. He nodded to Savchenko and Shymko, and then indicated to Korolev with a small nod of his head that they needed to talk,
and away from the others. Korolev felt his stomach sink – whatever the uniform had to tell him, it looked like it wasn’t going to be something he wanted to hear to judge from the
youngster’s face.

‘Sergeant Slivka sent me to fetch you. It’s about Andreychuk, Comrade Captain. It’s not good news.’

For a moment, Korolev thought that Sergeant Gradov had beaten the caretaker to a pulp and that Sharapov had been sent to tell him that the old man wouldn’t be helping with the enquiry for
the foreseeable future.

‘Is he all right?’

‘As far as I know Comrade, he’s fine. But the wretch has made a run for it.’

BY THE TIME they arrived at the Militia station, Slivka had already established that the Agricultural College’s truck was missing and, efficient girl that she was,
she’d called Marchuk and been assured that roadblocks would be set up along likely escape routes and that all stations would be on the lookout for the fugitive. However, by now it was dark
and it had to be expected that Andreychuk, with his head start and the cover of night, had a reasonable chance of making good his escape. Korolev listened to her report and then stood for a moment
considering the problem that faced them. Sergeant Gradov stood in the corner, a sullen look on his face.

‘Well?’ Korolev said, turning towards him.

‘I went to the house to pick up Sharapov. I left the cell door locked and locked the door to the station as well. But when I came back the door was open and so was his cell and he’d
gone.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘About fifty minutes ago. I wasn’t gone for much more than a quarter of an hour. I called Sergeant Slivka up at the house immediately.’

‘Did anyone see him leave in the truck?’

‘I heard an engine starting at about six o’clock,’ Slivka said. ‘About forty minutes ago. The sergeant called me about ten minutes later. I remembered the noise of the
truck, verified it was unaccounted for and immediately called Odessa. The roadblocks should be in place by now.’

‘Forty minutes. Slivka, what does that mean?’

Slivka considered the question.

‘If he had to make his way to the truck, that would have taken about fifteen minutes from here if he was moving quickly. It’s difficult.’

‘Are you sure of your timings, Sergeant Gradov?’

‘It could have been an hour.’

‘It could have been an hour,’ Korolev said, not bothering to hide his disdain, before turning back to Slivka. ‘Let’s presume it was him and he’s driving hell for
leather. Ask Marchuk to act accordingly.’

He turned back to the sergeant while Slivka made a call.

‘So let me get this straight – you left a prisoner in the station without a guard, is that correct?’

The sergeant seemed to resent being asked such a question, and Korolev felt anger scour his stomach. It might well be the sergeant’s dereliction of duty had caused this mess, but he had a
sneaking suspicion that a certain NKVD major named Mushkin would be delivering the blame to Korolev’s doorstep. If time wasn’t of the essence he’d take some pleasure in telling
this idiot exactly what he thought of his negligence – the man had put not only Korolev at risk but all those whom Korolev held dear. He turned to Slivka, suddenly putting two and two
together.

‘He’s from a village near Krasnogorka called Angelinivka, isn’t he?’ Korolev said, thinking aloud. ‘What’s more he went on a trip with Lenskaya in that
direction last week, according to Shymko. The actor boy also overheard Andreychuk say he could get there without being detected. If it’s near Krasnogorka, it must be close to the border so my
guess is, if he’s running, he’s running for Romania.’

‘I’ll call the border guard.’

Slivka picked up the phone once again, tapping the cradle for the operator. Korolev turned back to Gradov, his words quick and urgent.

‘What have you got to say for yourself?’

‘I’m sorry, Comrade Captain, I don’t know how he got out.’

‘Perhaps he was let out. Did that ever occur to you?’ Korolev felt a cold anger possessing him that wanted to wrap itself round the neck of this incompetent and squeeze the life out
of him.

‘Tell me, who else has keys to the station?’

‘I do. No one else.’

‘You didn’t have the keys with you, did you?’ Korolev heard his voice rising in disbelief.

‘I leave them under a brick round the side when I’m out, in case one of the others comes back while I’m away.’

Korolev was struck dumb for a moment, turning to Slivka for confirmation that his ears hadn’t been deceiving him. Her grim look of contempt confirmed they hadn’t.

‘Show me this brick,’ Korolev said, his voice revealing some of his rage. ‘Slivka? If Firtov’s still up at the house taking people’s prints, get him to come down.
Make sure no one touches anything in the meantime.’

Slivka nodded and Korolev turned to see the sergeant reaching for the door handle.

‘What did I just say?’ he barked.

‘About the fingerprinting?’

‘And what the hell are you doing now? Understand this, Sergeant, you do not touch one damned thing in this station until Firtov has been through this place and given it the all-clear. And
even then you ask permission – do you hear me?’

The sergeant nodded, and Korolev pointed him back to the wall and picked up a cloth from the desk that looked relatively clean, relieved to hear that Slivka seemed to have got through to someone
in the border guards.

‘It’s near Krasnogorka, Comrade,’ she said, ‘but you’d better make it a general alert. Now here’s his description. Ready?’

Korolev carefully opened the door, touching only the thin sides of the handle that would yield no fingerprints. Then he picked up a rock and placed it against the door to wedge it open so that
no one else would contaminate the handle until Firtov and the Greek had done their work.

‘The brick?’ he said, looking around outside.

‘Here it is, Comrade Captain,’ the sergeant said, walking to the corner of the building and pointing down the narrow alley between it and the Party offices. A yellow clay brick lay
on its side, illuminated by the light from the Militia station window. Korolev looked from the brick back to the road – anyone passing could have seen the sergeant hide the keys, but not even
that would have been necessary, given it was his long-term habit to conceal them this way.

‘I doubt there’s a man, woman or child in this whole village doesn’t know you leave the keys there,’ he said. ‘Did you see anyone on your way up to the
house?’

‘No one, Comrade Captain. All the village is at a meeting in the tractor barn. Those that aren’t are over with the film people.’

‘On the way back?’

‘I saw Comrade Lomatkin near the house, and Comrade Mushkina was out for a walk. I saw no one else.’

‘I see. And this brick – you left it flat, correct? And it’s now on its side?’

‘Yes, Comrade Captain.’

‘Right, Sergeant. You stand here beside this damned brick and this damned door and you protect them with your worthless life until the forensics men get here. And I mean with your life. No
one is to touch anything except for Comrade Firtov. And if it rains you will cover the brick and the door handle with your body rather than let one drop of water fall on them.’