The Twelfth Department (7 page)

“You’ve moved in quickly.”

The deputy director laughed, a genuine laugh—rich and good-humored. It was unusual to come across such a laugh during a murder investigation.

“Look, Korolev—I’d nothing to do with Professor Azarov’s death, nothing whatsoever. I’ve been asked to take over in the short-term, at least until a decision is made as to the institute’s future—so here I sit. There are aspects of the institute’s work I simply don’t know about and this is the place to find out about them.”

“Of course, you serve Socialism in whichever capacity you’re asked to.”

Shtange raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn’t react.

Korolev, disappointed, let the conversation go silent. But it soon became clear that the silence didn’t bother Shtange at all. In fact the deputy director sat back in his chair and began to give every appearance of enjoying it.

“I’d like to look through this paperwork of his,” Korolev said, feeling a little irritated at the fellow’s calm reaction. “If that’s all right, of course?”

“I’m afraid you can’t,” Shtange said, leaning forward to stub out his cigarette.

“I can’t?”

“I’m afraid not. The professor’s work was, and remains, strictly confidential. If you’d like to get access to his correspondence or anything similar, you’ll have to ask permission from the organization that the Azarov Institute forms part of. And thirty minutes ago the responsible person at that organization informed me that such permission will be refused.”

Korolev had a fair idea what organization that might be—his encounter with the guards at the front gate should have made it clear to him that this visit was a waste of time. But he dutifully scratched his head and pretended to look puzzled.

“I’m sorry, Comrade Shtange, I don’t understand. You said you would be cooperating with the investigation.”

“Only as far as is possible. I think I was clear about that.”

“I see,” Korolev said, understanding all too well. “So you’ll be helpful to the extent you’re able to—which is not at all.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way—I can’t discuss the work carried out by the institute. Or the identities of any of my colleagues working here. Or any information of any sort concerning the institute. That’s all true.”

Shtange smiled.

“But then, even I don’t know everything that goes on here—it’s nothing to do with wanting to obstruct your investigation. Our research would lose its value if we went around telling everyone about it.”

Korolev found himself scratching his head again.

“So what
can
you tell me?” he asked.

“I can tell you that I met with the professor this morning—he came into the institute first thing. I wrote a report which he…” Shtange paused, seeming to consider his words carefully, “which he wanted to discuss.”

“He seemed normal, to you?”

“His normal self,” Shtange said, and Korolev wondered whether the careful way the answer was phrased was deliberate. Shtange smiled, as if acknowledging Korolev’s observation.

“How shall I put it, Comrade Korolev?” he continued. “The professor could be forceful and direct. We didn’t always see eye to eye—and certainly not on this matter.”

“I see—an argument?”

“You could call it that.”

“About your report?”

“Yes.”

“But you can’t tell me what was in the report.”

The deputy director gave him a wry smile.

“No. But I
can
tell you that the guards at the gate keep a record of everyone who enters and leaves and they can confirm I’ve been here since seven. I’m sure, if you ask them, they can also tell you precisely when the professor arrived and left this morning.”

“Will they be allowed to tell me though?”

“They will be. I requested it. I don’t want my time taken up by your investigation any more than it has to be. I thought you’d inevitably want to—how shall I put it?—ensure yourself of my innocence. I anticipated your frustration, Captain Korolev, and so, at my further request, I’m allowed to give you some assurances.”

“Assurances?”

“Yes, and impressions.”

“Impressions? Well, I’d be grateful.”

Korolev decided to light the cigarette that had been hanging forgotten from his mouth since he’d put it there. Shtange took a sheet of paper from a drawer.

“Firstly,” he said, looking to the page for guidance, it seemed, “I’m instructed to assure you that Director Azarov’s death did not arise from any connection he might have had to this institute, to any of its staff, or to the work he performed here.”

“I see,” Korolev said. “That’s reassuring.”

Shtange smiled once again.

“I’m also instructed to assure you that, notwithstanding the previous assurance, a separate investigation will be undertaken as a matter of course into Comrade Azarov’s death—in so far as it might possibly relate to his connection with this institute, its staff, and the work he carried out here. In fact it’s already begun. I’m further permitted to tell you that if any such connection emerges and such connection indicates any culpability in relation to his death—then it will be dealt with as part of that investigation.”

Korolev frowned. Here he was, being assured Azarov’s death had nothing to do with the institute, but at the same time that someone would be investigating whether there was in fact a connection between the murder and the institute. And, if by any chance there was, then that would be dealt with separately, thank you very much for your interest. It was confusing.

“Who?”

“I beg your pardon,” Shtange said.

“Who’ll be investigating it?”

“I’m afraid that information is classified.”

“You surprise me.”

“It couldn’t possibly be in safer hands, however.”

If Shtange wasn’t talking about Korolev’s old friends in State Security then he’d be even more surprised.

“Could you pass me the ashtray?” Korolev asked, and Shtange gave it a quick push so that it slid across the desk’s polished surface toward him. Korolev stopped it just before it reached the edge and tapped his papirosa into it twice. Then he took one more drag from it and stubbed it out altogether.

“Thanks for your time, Comrade Shtange,” he said and stood. This was, after all, a conversation that had probably gone on for far too long already.

“Wait one moment, Comrade Captain. I mentioned I was also authorized to give you my impressions.”

Korolev pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and waited.

“While Comrade Azarov was all the things I’ve mentioned, in terms of his qualities as a worker, he was not someone who dealt with those around him in an amicable way. I doubt he was any different in his personal life—in fact, I know he wasn’t. I thought you’d like to know that. My impression of his character, that is. You’ll find plenty of people inside and outside this institute that share my opinion, I’m sure of it. And as for his contributions to science? Well, perhaps they didn’t reflect the amount of work he put into achieving them.”

“And you’ve been authorized to tell me that?” Korolev asked, in complete disbelief.

“I’ve been instructed to tell you that,” Shtange said and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say the reasons were beyond him as well. Shtange seemed to consider something for a moment, then put his fingers together to make a small pyramid with his hands. There was something mischievous in his expression.

“Although perhaps with my comment about his contributions to science I went a little further than I should have.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

By the time Korolev reached the car his clothes were soaked through and still the rain kept coming down, rattling on the roof like a battalion of military drummers. He sat there on the bench seat, rainwater pooling around him, wondering what the hell he’d got himself into. Thankfully someone had left a box of matches on the dashboard and Korolev used them to light a damp cigarette, the smoke scraping his throat as he inhaled. He thought about leaving the matches for the next detective but then decided to hold on to them—they weren’t always easy to find these days.

A truck drove past, its engine like a rolling explosion, and flung a great wave of water up onto the car, rocking it. Korolev rubbed at the fogged glass. Even though it wasn’t much past three o’clock, it was black as night—and the few dark figures making their way along the street looked like refugees from a war.

He glanced up at the institute and swore under his breath. Whatever they were up to in there was no business of his—that was for certain. There might be cleverer men than him around—plenty of them—but he was no fool. He smoked the last of the cigarette, stubbed it out on the floor, and started the car—just as the first patch of blue sky appeared to the west and the rain, without warning, stopped.

*   *   *

“Well?” Korolev said when he found Slivka sitting in the dead man’s study, her notebook open and a pencil in her hand. The forensics men had gone and all that was left of the professor was a damp patch on the desk where his blood had been washed away.

“Forensics are finished. Ushakov says they’ve found a number of possible fingerprints—but it will take them awhile to go through them.”

“I’ll call him. We can’t wait around on this, believe me.”

Korolev found that he was looking at the gouged-out hole in Azarov’s desk and, not for the first time, wondering how one of the bullets could have missed at such close range.

“Did you speak to Comrade Madame Azarova?” he asked.

“No, but I’ve confirmed her alibi. She was at the orphanage all right. And the maid’s story stacks up as well. There was a queue at the bakery and she was standing in it for at least an hour. Two of the other maids confirmed it. Everyone has a maid in this place, did you know that?”

“It’s a place for important people. Important people have maids.”

“That must be it. Anyway, that doorman fellow remembers her leaving at nine-thirty and coming back not long before eleven. So that’s still more confirmation of her story.”

“He’d remember, right enough.”

There was something about Priudski that suggested to Korolev that he’d be the type who’d keep a particular eye out for pretty young things like Matkina.

“Still, she could have killed him when she came back,” Korolev said, not convincing himself or, it seemed, Slivka.

“Assuredly. But you’ve met her, and now so have I. I don’t see it.”

“Stranger people have committed murder.”

“True.”

“She’s the obvious suspect and she had the opportunity.”

Slivka said nothing and Korolev found himself nodding in agreement.

“All right, I agree. She doesn’t strike me as a killer either, on top of which she doesn’t seem to have a motive—on the contrary, in fact. What else did you find out? Anything from the other residents?”

Slivka looked through her notebook.

“The upstairs neighbor thought she heard something not long before eleven o’clock. At the time she thought it was noise from the bridge-building but, whatever she heard, she heard it twice. And no one told her there were two bullets. And, yes, thinking back, she agreed the noises could have been gunshots.”

“Before eleven would rule out Matkina,” Korolev said.

“If what the neighbor heard
was
a gun.”

“Matkina said she could smell gunpowder when she entered the room. That would tie in with the neighbor’s story nicely. Of course, if Matkina did it the gun should still be here. If it was one of those little pocket pistols, you could almost fit it inside a packet of cigarettes. Have we been through the place thoroughly?”

“Not a speck of dust hasn’t been lifted and looked under. I’m sure as I can be that it’s not here. What’s more, Levschinsky checked the wife and the maid’s hands for gunpowder residue—nothing.”

There was a cough from behind Korolev, and Slivka, looking up to see who it was, stood so quickly that Korolev had to take a step back to avoid being knocked into.

Korolev turned to see who could have had such an effect on his normally unflappable sergeant—and found a full NKVD colonel standing in the doorway, dressed in his summer uniform, the golden sword and shield badge gleaming on his chest—alongside the Order of the Red Star, the Red Banner and several others. He was smiling at them benignly.

“Comrade Captain Korolev, isn’t it? My name’s Zaitsev.”

The colonel looked around the room and took his time doing it. He was a tall man, over six foot, and broad in a way that not many Muscovites could manage to be these days. Not exactly fat, was Korolev’s impression, more muscle gone soft. The Chekist’s round, pale face was decorated with a small triangular mustache that only covered the middle of his upper lip, and his scalp had been shaved down to a gray shadow that left his ears sticking out like jug handles and revealed an interesting collection of scars; as if someone had given the colonel a savage beating sometime in the past.

There was something almost dreamy about the colonel’s expression, but there was also an absolute authority. He turned his attention to Korolev, his thumbs hooked into the waist strap of his Sam Browne belt—the colonel’s forefingers beating time on its buckle to a tune only he could hear, as he examined him.

“What progress have you made, Korolev?” The colonel said eventually, and Korolev, as succinctly as possible, filled him in. Meanwhile it sounded as if other men were moving into the apartment, fanning out through the rooms, but it was difficult to see if this was indeed the case as it would involve breaking eye contact, which was something Korolev was loath to do.

“So, in summary,” Zaitsev said when he’d finished, “you’ve no idea who the killer is, except that he has escaped and may even now be planning his next crime.”

“We’ve only just begun the investigation,” Korolev began—but the colonel’s eyes narrowed with menace.

“I’m not interested in excuses, Korolev, and nor is the Party. We only care for results. Professor Azarov was engaged in work vital to the State and, through his death, a blow has been struck that may threaten the security of the Revolution itself. It seems to me we’ll have to take a different approach to catching this killer—a more direct one. You could be blundering around for weeks at this rate. I’m sure First Inspector Popov will assign you to something more worthy of your talents. You may go.”