The Twelfth Department (4 page)

“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.

“I don’t think the maid had anything to do with it. She’s a simple country girl, very young. Also she dropped a pot of coffee on the study floor when she found him. I don’t think she’s bright enough to have done it to cover something up.”

“We’ll see. Have someone bring her up to the apartment—we’ll talk to her there. And the wife?”

“We had to restrain her from entering the apartment and viewing the body—I felt it necessary in case she contaminated the crime scene. She’s with a neighbor at present, a doctor. He had to sedate her.”

“Can she be questioned?”

“You’d have to ask the doctor.”

“Any corroboration of their movements?”

“The doorkeeper’s name is Priudski—he’s verified that Madame Azarova left the building at 7:50 this morning. I was here when she came back, so we know when she returned for certain. Where she was in the meantime, we haven’t established as yet. Priudski confirms the maid left the building at around 9:30 and returned about fifteen minutes before the body was discovered. He’s over there if you’d like to speak to him.”

The sergeant pointed to a gray-skinned man in his early fifties, wearing a brown suit and an off-white shirt buttoned to the neck. He looked more like an office clerk than a doorman.

“Comrade Priudski?” Korolev said, approaching him.

“That’s me,” the doorkeeper said, extending his hand. Priudski’s teeth were yellow and uneven but he smiled with them anyway, a smile that seemed to come too easily to be genuine.

“You’re the detective, are you? Captain Korolev?”

“Yes.” Korolev shook the man’s hand—it felt like taking hold of a two-day-old fish. “And this is Sergeant Slivka. You were listening then?”

Priudski looked momentarily uncomfortable.

“Only in order to assist in any way I can, of course.”

“That’s kind of you,” Korolev replied, allowing a little menace to slip into his tone. “Everyone visiting the apartments this entrance serves has to pass by you, is that right?”

“Yes, each entrance serves a separate part of the building so we know our tenants well. They pass freely but if there are guests or deliveries we call up to the apartments. I keep a record of the comings and goings.”

“And today?”

“No deliveries or guests for the Azarovs.”

“We’ll need that record—and a list of all the residents in the building. I’ll want you to go through it with Sergeant Slivka here and tell me if and when you saw each one of the residents today.”

“I’d be happy to, Comrade Captain.”

“Well, what do you think about this killing? Any suspicions?”

“The professor works at the Azarov Institute on Yakimanka—it’s named for him. All I’ve ever heard is he was a good Party man—and a respected scientist. My guess is it was counterrevolutionary terrorists.”

“Counterrevolutionary terrorists?”

“Seeing as he was an important scientist.”

“Did you see anyone resembling a counterrevolutionary terrorist pass by your office today?”

Korolev was careful to ask the question completely straight. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could joke about, no matter how ridiculous it might seem.

“They’re sly dogs. They probably slipped in some other way.” Priudski’s gaze moved away from his as he spoke. A shifty character, it seemed to Korolev.

“Thank you, Comrade, we’ll consider all possibilities, of course. And if you can think which ‘other way’ they could have slipped in, let us know. What did the professor do at this institute of his that might have attracted such people?”

“Brains.”

“Brains?”

“Research into brains. Secret research, I believe.”

“Secret research?” Korolev wondered if this case could get any worse. “I see. Did you hear anything unusual today? It’s likely there was a gunshot.”

“If there was, like as not I wouldn’t have heard it, Comrade Captain. The work on the bridge starts first thing and continues till dark.”

Priudski indicated the new bridge being built farther along the embankment. And as he did so a pile-driver began to hammer once again. Bang, bang, bang. A gunshot would have as much chance of being heard as a whisper in a gale. All the same.

“Sergeant Slivka will take your statement—I want you to try and recall every single thing about this morning for her, no matter how insignificant. And every person you saw.” Korolev paused and looked up at the darkening sky.

“Belinsky, let the residents back in—there’s no point in them getting soaked. Which floor is Professor Azarov’s apartment on?”

“The fifth,” Priudski said.

Korolev nodded and turned back to the sergeant.

“Just ask them to stay away from the fifth floor, Belinsky. And get your men to take their names and ask what they saw, on the way in.”

The sergeant nodded.

“Comrade Priudski, can you take me to the professor’s apartment?”

The doorkeeper opened the door that led into the small entrance hall.

“We’ve a lift,” he said.

“I’ll take the stairs, thanks.” Korolev didn’t trust lifts—he didn’t like the idea of plummeting ten floors in a tin box without anything to grab hold of. Not at all. Priudski could keep his lift.

“It’s a long way up,” the doorman said, “it would be quicker.”

“I want to see the layout of the building before I see the apartment—you can’t see anything in a lift.” Korolev knew damned well it was a long way up—just as he knew it was a long way back down when some rusty cable went snap.

While they climbed the stairs, Korolev considered Priudski. If Korolev knew one thing about Moscow doormen, it was that they were acquisitive when it came to information. Most of them shared that information with anyone they thought might provide them with more of the same—nobody liked to gossip more than doormen. But it was also widely suspected that a smaller, but not insignificant, number shared their information with State Security—on an exclusive basis. In an apartment complex like this, full of bigwigs, and with the way this fellow was dressed and his whole demeanor—well, Korolev had little doubt he was one of that kind.

They’d reached the third landing now, two floors below the Azarovs’ apartment, and, as if to confirm Korolev’s suspicions about Priudski, one of the doors was sealed with string and red wax. Korolev walked over to it, peering closer to read the stamp that had been applied to the seal. “By Order of the Ministry of State Security.”

He sighed. Another arrest—the inhabitants carted away in a black van, no doubt, and the apartment closed up until the Chekists had finished searching it for evidence.