people on the film – not yet anyway – and neither would Slivka.
‘It’s a good suggestion – look into it. We’ll need help, though. I know the writer Babel from Moscow. He’s offered to assist – perhaps we should take him up
on it.’
‘Babel?’ Slivka said. ‘I get to work with the author of Odessa Tales ? My mother might even forgive me for joining the Militia. Tell me he can he type as well, and it
will be like New Year.’
‘I suppose he can. He’s a writer after all – in fact, I’ve seen a typewriter in his study.’
‘Good, because I’m a detective, Captain, not a typist. Just so we’re clear about that. It’s a point I sometimes have to make.’
Korolev smiled – he liked this Slivka.
‘Well, I’m no typist either, but I’ll pull my weight. Still, it’s a good point. I want the interview notes to be typed and clear – if we’re to crack this
case, it’s because we organize the information well. Let’s see if any of these uniforms from the village can drive a typewriter. If not, we’ll have to see if we can persuade
Comrade Shymko to lend us someone. And the uniforms won’t have done too much work like this before – let’s make sure they know exactly what questions to ask.’
‘As per your instructions, Chief. Where were they? When did they last see the girl? Who did they see at the film shoot? What did they know about her? Did anyone dislike her? Who was she
most friendly with? I’ll have it all set out and typed up for them.’
§
Korolev found Andreychuk outside in the cold and told him to wait in the investigation room until he came back, then he started to walk towards the house, allowing himself a
little smile as he did so. All right, it was true this case was likely to turn out to be a terrible mess – but at least Slivka seemed as though she’d be useful to have around. Nadezhda.
Hope. And not just for the investigation: youngsters like Slivka were the future and, maybe, with citizens like her, a country would emerge from all this turmoil and fear that would shine as an
example to the world of how humans could live together, working as one, striving for a common goal. Maybe.
By the time he arrived at Lenskaya’s office, the forensics men were packing their equipment while the youngster Sharapov watched them with keen interest.
‘Sharapov. Out to the stable block. Sergeant Slivka has plenty of work that needs doing.’
The young Militiaman gave a cheerful salute and followed his instructions.
‘You were quick. Any luck?’ Korolev said to the forensics men.
The older of the two, whom Colonel Marchuk had introduced as Firtov, looked up, a grey-haired man with solid shoulders, silver-grey eyes and a cavalryman’s moustache. When he stood, he had
the bow-legged stance of a man more comfortable on a horse than on his feet.
‘We haven’t found much, to be straight, and if you ask me, someone cleaned the place,’ Firtov said. ‘There’s not a fingerprint in there, and that’s not
natural. Not even on the keys of the typewriter. A few human hairs and that’s it, and no telling when they were left here. Papadopoulos found those.’
The other forensics man looked up – he was smaller, rounder, with black hair that swirled in tight curls on his close-cut scalp. When he smiled his teeth were bright in his dark face.
‘Papadopoulos? That’s not a Ukrainian name, is it?’ Korolev asked, thinking he’d end up surrounded by foreigners in this case if he wasn’t careful.
‘The Greek is as good a citizen as you or I.’ Firtov’s voice had dropped to a growl. ‘Born and raised in Odessa. As his father was before him. Isn’t that right,
Greek?’
The Greek nodded, his smile flashing like a lighthouse once again.
‘No offence meant,’ Korolev said, offering his much-depleted packet of cigarettes as a peace offering.
‘None taken,’ Firtov said, helping himself. The Greek didn’t seem to smoke. Just as well, thought Korolev, looking at
‘It’s a good suggestion – look into it. We’ll need help, though. I know the writer Babel from Moscow. He’s offered to assist – perhaps we should take him up
on it.’
‘Babel?’ Slivka said. ‘I get to work with the author of Odessa Tales ? My mother might even forgive me for joining the Militia. Tell me he can he type as well, and it
will be like New Year.’
‘I suppose he can. He’s a writer after all – in fact, I’ve seen a typewriter in his study.’
‘Good, because I’m a detective, Captain, not a typist. Just so we’re clear about that. It’s a point I sometimes have to make.’
Korolev smiled – he liked this Slivka.
‘Well, I’m no typist either, but I’ll pull my weight. Still, it’s a good point. I want the interview notes to be typed and clear – if we’re to crack this
case, it’s because we organize the information well. Let’s see if any of these uniforms from the village can drive a typewriter. If not, we’ll have to see if we can persuade
Comrade Shymko to lend us someone. And the uniforms won’t have done too much work like this before – let’s make sure they know exactly what questions to ask.’
‘As per your instructions, Chief. Where were they? When did they last see the girl? Who did they see at the film shoot? What did they know about her? Did anyone dislike her? Who was she
most friendly with? I’ll have it all set out and typed up for them.’
§
Korolev found Andreychuk outside in the cold and told him to wait in the investigation room until he came back, then he started to walk towards the house, allowing himself a
little smile as he did so. All right, it was true this case was likely to turn out to be a terrible mess – but at least Slivka seemed as though she’d be useful to have around. Nadezhda.
Hope. And not just for the investigation: youngsters like Slivka were the future and, maybe, with citizens like her, a country would emerge from all this turmoil and fear that would shine as an
example to the world of how humans could live together, working as one, striving for a common goal. Maybe.
By the time he arrived at Lenskaya’s office, the forensics men were packing their equipment while the youngster Sharapov watched them with keen interest.
‘Sharapov. Out to the stable block. Sergeant Slivka has plenty of work that needs doing.’
The young Militiaman gave a cheerful salute and followed his instructions.
‘You were quick. Any luck?’ Korolev said to the forensics men.
The older of the two, whom Colonel Marchuk had introduced as Firtov, looked up, a grey-haired man with solid shoulders, silver-grey eyes and a cavalryman’s moustache. When he stood, he had
the bow-legged stance of a man more comfortable on a horse than on his feet.
‘We haven’t found much, to be straight, and if you ask me, someone cleaned the place,’ Firtov said. ‘There’s not a fingerprint in there, and that’s not
natural. Not even on the keys of the typewriter. A few human hairs and that’s it, and no telling when they were left here. Papadopoulos found those.’
The other forensics man looked up – he was smaller, rounder, with black hair that swirled in tight curls on his close-cut scalp. When he smiled his teeth were bright in his dark face.
‘Papadopoulos? That’s not a Ukrainian name, is it?’ Korolev asked, thinking he’d end up surrounded by foreigners in this case if he wasn’t careful.
‘The Greek is as good a citizen as you or I.’ Firtov’s voice had dropped to a growl. ‘Born and raised in Odessa. As his father was before him. Isn’t that right,
Greek?’
The Greek nodded, his smile flashing like a lighthouse once again.
‘No offence meant,’ Korolev said, offering his much-depleted packet of cigarettes as a peace offering.
‘None taken,’ Firtov said, helping himself. The Greek didn’t seem to smoke. Just as well, thought Korolev, looking at
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