The Twelfth Department (17 page)

Korolev reluctantly started climbing again, reconsidering his views on lifts as he went.

“It’s just here, will I knock for you?”

“It’s all right,” Korolev managed to say, deciding to take a minute to recover before he did anything else. “If I need anything I’ll call for you.”

“Don’t you hesitate, Comrade Captain. Not for an instant. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know—you can count on it. I pay my debts.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Even though Menchikova’s room was on the highest floor, the view wasn’t of the Kremlin, or the Moskva River, the Southern districts or even over the rooftops to Gorky Park. No, it was of the dusty courtyard, and the sky. But even that view provided relief from the small low-ceilinged room, not much more than half the size of Korolev’s. It certainly wasn’t big enough for three small children, Citizen Menchikova, and her mother. One of the children wasn’t much more than a baby. No wonder when she opened the door she looked exhausted, but the sight of him woke her up all right. He should be used to it by now, but he didn’t like to see people step back in fear when they set eyes on him.

“Citizen Menchikova?”

“Yes?” She made an effort and drew herself up straight as she spoke. Behind her, two young boys stopped wrestling on the bed while the wary eyes of Menchikova’s mother, sitting at a small table, took in the identification card Korolev produced. It seemed to him her mother held the infant she was cradling in her arms just a little closer as she did so.

“I’m Korolev, a detective from Petrovka. Would you have a few minutes? I want to talk to you about Professor Azarov.”

She looked at the bloodstains on his shirt and the bruises and scrapes.

“I’m sorry about my face—I had an accident. I haven’t had time to clean up.”

Menchikova nodded and reluctantly opened the door wider—but there really wasn’t room for anyone else in the room and certainly not someone his size.

“Is there somewhere we could talk more privately?”

Menchikova looked around at the box in which she lived. She looked toward her mother who nodded her agreement.

“We can go up on the roof if you’d like,” Menchikova said. “It should be open—it normally is when the weather is like this.”

He followed her out and along the corridor, through an unmarked wooden door that looked like any other and then up some steps that led to another door, this time constructed from metal and looking as though it had been welded shut; yet when Menchikova pushed, it swung open soundlessly and there they were, high above the Moskva, looking down on a slow-moving riverboat far below. The city sprawled away from them in all directions until it vanished into the smoky haze of the horizon.

It should have been a view to savor, but instead Korolev, to his surprise, found that the building seemed to be moving beneath his feet—and he had to lean back against the door for a moment until the sensation passed. Fortunately Menchikova’s attention had been elsewhere and he was able to quickly wipe the cold sweat from his forehead before she turned to face him once again.

They weren’t the only persons up here—the flat roof ran around three sides of the building’s internal courtyard and here and there other inhabitants of the building sat or lay, enjoying the morning sun. Some had brought deckchairs up, some cushions. None were within hearing distance however.

“So the door is always open?” Korolev asked. Menchikova’s brown arms and freckled face made it seem likely she came up here from time to time—either that or she worked outdoors. But despite her tan, she looked frail in the sunlight.

“The doorman said there were only two ways into this part of the building—through the front door and the courtyard,” Korolev continued.

“It’s meant to be kept locked,” Menchikova said, glancing away as if hoping to avoid his examination. “But the doormen don’t want to be running up and down however many flights of stairs every time someone important wants to sunbathe—there are plenty of people they can’t say no to in this place, you see. So in the summer they keep the doors open. I only came up here because you asked for a place to talk, of course. I wouldn’t otherwise. I know we’re not meant to.”

Korolev sighed and made a note—the fact that the roof was accessible multiplied the number of potential suspects for Azarov’s murderer, as well as increasing the number of entry points.

“I’m not here to check whether you use the roof or not, Citizen, believe me.”

Menchikova’s frown intensified and, although she said nothing, he realized his words might have sounded ominous. He decided to try a different approach.

“I understand your husband was arrested because of Professor Azarov’s denunciation,” he began, but got no further—Menchikova put a hand to her chest and glanced quickly round her, as if looking for a means of escape. Korolev reached out to reassure her, but even this gesture was misinterpreted. She took a step back and he found himself having to leave the safety of the door, immediately feeling the roof sway nauseatingly once again.

“The children. Who will look after them? I knew I’d be blamed, I knew it. As soon as I heard he’d been killed, I knew it.”

“Please, Citizen—I’ve some questions is all. I’m an ordinary detective. Please just stay where you are.”

She didn’t seem to have heard him at first, but she did stop moving, which was something. Korolev reached behind him and took a discreet hold of the door handle. He allowed himself to exhale.

“Look,” Korolev said. “It seems there wasn’t always justification for the way the professor approached such matters. I’m considering making a recommendation that any case the professor was involved in should be looked at again.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either. He didn’t feel any better about it when she stared up at him, her eyes bright with hope.

“Sasha was loyal to the Party, to the State, Comrade,” she said. “He sweated blood to make sure the factory met its targets. Azarov accused Sasha of questioning the Party line and undermining confidence in the State, which was nonsense. What evidence did he have to tell the Chekists my husband was a Trotskyist saboteur? I’ll tell you. Sasha mentioned to him that the factory would struggle to meet its obligations if supply issues weren’t resolved soon. That the supply situation was bad. That was all he said. There’s nothing disloyal in it—it was a fact. It was a fact he was straining every muscle to make not a fact, but there it was—still a fact.”

Korolev nodded unhappily, thinking that now he’d have to ask Dubinkin to look into it—otherwise he wouldn’t be able to live with himself.

“I don’t know what he said or otherwise, Comrade, but I’ll do what I can.”

Menchikova nodded, reaching forward with her hands to take his.

“And I know why he did it. I know why Azarov lied. I know why he told the Chekists my husband was a saboteur.”

“Why?”

“He wanted our apartment—his application was with the Building Manager before the Chekists even put my husband in the back of their car. In the end they gave it to the Weisses, but that’s what he was after. It’s how he came by the apartment he’s in now.”

“When you say the Weisses—you mean Dr. Weiss?” Korolev asked.

“A good man—one of the few who still acknowledges me. If it had to go to anyone, I’m glad it went to him.”

“And how did he get a hold of it?”

“I don’t know—someone must have helped him—someone with more influence than whoever helps Azarov. Isn’t that how these things work?”

There was no bitterness in her voice, it was just a statement of fact. It contained no expectation that Korolev might want to comment on her description of how these things were arranged, so he didn’t. After all, wasn’t that how he’d got his own room? He’d still be sleeping on his cousin’s floor if Popov hadn’t intervened on his behalf with the Housing Committee. Korolev cleared his throat.

“Is there something you’d like to tell me? About his death?”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“That’s as may be, but I’ll need to know where you were on the morning of the professor’s murder.”

“I have a job at the Burevestnik shoe factory over in Sokolniki—as a bookkeeper. I work the late shifts, or across shifts. I’m lucky to have the job—I know it. On Tuesday I was working until noon. I’d started at midnight. When I came back there were policemen already outside, blocking the entrance. The factory can tell you—I didn’t leave once during the night. We clock in and out—and there’s a timekeeper to ensure we do.”

“That sounds like a good alibi, Citizen. If it stands up, you’ve nothing to worry about.”

He did his best to detach his hand but she wouldn’t let go of it. He was stretched now between the door handle and her grip and beginning to feel awkward.

“Everything will be fine, don’t worry,” he said.

“I am worried.”

“Don’t be. Worry never made things better—things are what they are.” He listened to that again and shook his head. “I meant, things aren’t bad for you, Citizen Menchikova. You couldn’t have killed the professor and that’s that.”

“Thank you, Comrade Captain. Thank you.”

She let his hand go. She’d been gripping it so hard, he could feel where her nails had dug into his flesh.

“You say he did the same thing with the apartment he’s in now?” he asked.

“Yes—Bramson. That was his name anyway. The wife—well—they weren’t married. She kept her given name but I don’t remember it. They’d a son but I don’t know what happened to him either, except that he disappeared, the same as them. Azarov said they were spies. That’s all I know. You can never ask, you see, when something like that happens. You’re just told and that’s it. You never speak of them again.”

“I understand, Citizen. Believe me, I understand.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Korolev made his way back down the many flights of stairs, still a little shaken, but feeling better with each downward step he took. It occurred to him he’d never been on top of a building this high before and, if it were up to him, he never would be again.

“Comrade Captain.” Belinsky was climbing the stairs toward him, and seemed slightly out of breath. “Nothing much to report as yet, I’m afraid.”

“Keep at it,” Korolev said and then, as he was there, asked Belinsky to check up on Menchikova’s alibi.

“Of course, Comrade Captain. Consider it done. One other thing, Lieutenant Dubinkin had to leave. He said he’d see you at one o’clock.”

By which Dubinkin meant that they’d meet again at Dr. Chestnova’s place of business for the results of the autopsies. Unfortunately, it left him without a car. He looked at his watch—eleven-thirty.

“Could you do me a favor?”

“With pleasure.”

“I’m on my way down to see the professor’s widow and I need to get across town afterward. Can you call Petrovka and ask them to send a driver to pick me up in half an hour?”

Which would give him twenty minutes or so to stop off at his apartment and see if there was any sign of Yuri.

*   *   *

Korolev knocked twice on the Azarovs’ door and didn’t have long to wait till Galina Matkina peered out at him. He smiled but she took one look at his face and then concentrated instead on his shoes.

“An accident,” he said wearily. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Comrade Captain,” she said, or rather the top of her head did, but before she got round to saying anything else a voice came from the sitting room.

“Show the captain in, Galina.”

Galina stood back, making way for him, lifting her eyes now to gaze at him with an intensity that was almost disturbing, as if she could see something in him that was important. He shrugged his shoulders, wondering not for the first time about the strange behavior of young people.

“Comrade Azarova?” he asked when he found himself face to face with the voice’s owner. She was sitting on a soft chair, a book open on her lap, wearing a black blouse and skirt to match her black hair. She was even wearing black gloves. Was this some kind of mourning garb? Her skin, pale despite the season, seemed drawn tight by grief, and her gloved hands slowly twisted and gripped one to the other in a constant movement he doubted she was aware of. She looked brittle to him, as if barely maintaining even this show of calm.

“Before you ask,” he said, “I apologize for my appearance. An accident—nothing serious, I assure you.”

She looked at him blankly and it seemed here at least was one person who couldn’t care less if he’d been beaten half to death. It was a relief, if the truth were told. He took a seat across from her.

“Comrade Azarova?” he asked once again and there was a moment of silence, which he allowed to reach its natural conclusion, looking around the room as he waited. As in Shtange’s apartment, the bookshelves had been stripped of their contents.

“Yes,” she said, her eyes finally focusing on him. With difficulty it seemed.

“I’m sorry about your husband,” Korolev said, “but I have to ask some questions.”

At first he thought she hadn’t heard him but then she spoke in a low voice, barely more than a whisper.

“You’re the detective who was here the other day, aren’t you?”

“Korolev, Comrade Azarova. I’ve been reassigned to the matter—although now I’m reporting to State Security rather than Petrovka. Would you like to see my authorization?”

“The other ones took all our books.” Her mouth twisted, as if she were trying not to cry. “All of them.”

“When did this happen?”

“The day after—I was…” She paused, her brow furrowing as if the memory was somehow confusing. “I was indisposed on the day of his death. The Militia—you—wouldn’t allow me to see him, you see. I had to spend some time in the apartment of an acquaintance. I slept for a long time.”

“I remember—Dr Weiss, wasn’t it?”

She nodded.

“Do you mind me asking what time on Tuesday they came for the books?”

She looked puzzled, as if trying to work out why he might want that particular piece of information.

“I’m just curious,” he added. “No particular reason.”

“In the afternoon; they came at about four o’clock. It took them hours—they had to list each book for the receipt and some of the men could barely read and write. They took a book on birds. What could that have to do with his work? They took novels, dictionaries—even a book of recipes. Everything.”