his few remaining cigarettes. Two, after he took one for
himself.
‘We’ll look at the dining room, and wherever else you want, but it’s as though a human never stepped into this room.’
‘What about the books?’ Korolev asked, looking up at the shelves.
‘Well, we haven’t gone through them page by page,’ Firtov said. ‘But the covers are clean. It’s unusual, as I said.’
The forensics men finished packing their equipment and made their way to the dining room, but Korolev remained, examining the office carefully.
The room wasn’t that big and books loomed in from the walls to make it that little bit smaller. Savchenko’s Theory of Film was there, with Lenin and Stalin; Marx – as
you might expect – and other writers of the Revolution. But there was something about the way the paper was stacked, and the books lined up spine against spine in a perfect row – it was
just a little too tidy. Someone hadn’t just cleaned up fingerprints if his hunch was right – they’d carefully rearranged the entire room. And why would they have done that?
Of course, the most likely reason was that it had been the scene of the crime. After all, this was where she’d last been seen by Andreychuk and the dining room was only a few steps away.
He looked at the desk once again, imagining Lenskaya sitting in front of the typewriter, her assailant behind her. Perhaps he’d spoken to her – she might even have answered, not turning
round from her typing, recognizing the voice, and then had come the flash of the cord as it passed before her eyes and the bite as it cut into her neck. Korolev had once throttled a German back in
the war, not a memory he liked bringing to mind – the fellow had managed to get his hand under the thin rope and had hung on to life with a fervour that had been extraordinary. But the fact
was Korolev had been unlucky about the hand. Usually, once a rope was tight round the victim’s neck, resistance ceased almost immediately. That was something he’d learnt early on as a
detective.
‘What are you thinking? Your jaw has that hard look to it. And there’s a vein pumping in your forehead. You’ve gone pale and I can hear your teeth grinding.’
Babel had appeared, wearing a pair of carpet slippers and a surprisingly vibrant silk dressing gown. Korolev looked at the writer, then turned his attention back to the dead girl’s
workplace. The killer had to have made a mistake. Babel’s appearance had distracted him, but, still, there had to be a mistake.
‘This is where she died,’ he said at last, the words coming out as though he’d been holding his breath, and perhaps he had. ‘That’s what I’m thinking. That
this is where he killed her.’
Chapter Eight
WHEN KOROLEV returned to the investigation room, he found Andreychuk sitting in front of the desk Korolev had appropriated for himself. He nodded to the caretaker, sat down and
opened up his notebook.
His first impression was that the fellow didn’t look strong enough to have lifted the girl up to the bracket, or even to have strangled her if she’d resisted. But he quickly
corrected himself – the old were often stronger than they looked, and Andreychuk clearly led an active life. Indeed, on closer examination the man’s shoulders were broad, as was his
chest, despite the fact he was no longer young. And, of course, there was always the possibility he’d had assistance, that there had been two involved in the attempted deception, and perhaps
the murder itself. Andreychuk seemed to have had the opportunity to commit the crime, but what motive could he have had? None that Korolev could immediately think of, and then there was his very
obvious grief. Not that that could be trusted. And if the office had been cleaned of any forensic evidence, did that point to the perpetrator of the crime having been a simple caretaker? It seemed
much more likely that it pointed to someone with connections to the Security
himself.
‘We’ll look at the dining room, and wherever else you want, but it’s as though a human never stepped into this room.’
‘What about the books?’ Korolev asked, looking up at the shelves.
‘Well, we haven’t gone through them page by page,’ Firtov said. ‘But the covers are clean. It’s unusual, as I said.’
The forensics men finished packing their equipment and made their way to the dining room, but Korolev remained, examining the office carefully.
The room wasn’t that big and books loomed in from the walls to make it that little bit smaller. Savchenko’s Theory of Film was there, with Lenin and Stalin; Marx – as
you might expect – and other writers of the Revolution. But there was something about the way the paper was stacked, and the books lined up spine against spine in a perfect row – it was
just a little too tidy. Someone hadn’t just cleaned up fingerprints if his hunch was right – they’d carefully rearranged the entire room. And why would they have done that?
Of course, the most likely reason was that it had been the scene of the crime. After all, this was where she’d last been seen by Andreychuk and the dining room was only a few steps away.
He looked at the desk once again, imagining Lenskaya sitting in front of the typewriter, her assailant behind her. Perhaps he’d spoken to her – she might even have answered, not turning
round from her typing, recognizing the voice, and then had come the flash of the cord as it passed before her eyes and the bite as it cut into her neck. Korolev had once throttled a German back in
the war, not a memory he liked bringing to mind – the fellow had managed to get his hand under the thin rope and had hung on to life with a fervour that had been extraordinary. But the fact
was Korolev had been unlucky about the hand. Usually, once a rope was tight round the victim’s neck, resistance ceased almost immediately. That was something he’d learnt early on as a
detective.
‘What are you thinking? Your jaw has that hard look to it. And there’s a vein pumping in your forehead. You’ve gone pale and I can hear your teeth grinding.’
Babel had appeared, wearing a pair of carpet slippers and a surprisingly vibrant silk dressing gown. Korolev looked at the writer, then turned his attention back to the dead girl’s
workplace. The killer had to have made a mistake. Babel’s appearance had distracted him, but, still, there had to be a mistake.
‘This is where she died,’ he said at last, the words coming out as though he’d been holding his breath, and perhaps he had. ‘That’s what I’m thinking. That
this is where he killed her.’
Chapter Eight
WHEN KOROLEV returned to the investigation room, he found Andreychuk sitting in front of the desk Korolev had appropriated for himself. He nodded to the caretaker, sat down and
opened up his notebook.
His first impression was that the fellow didn’t look strong enough to have lifted the girl up to the bracket, or even to have strangled her if she’d resisted. But he quickly
corrected himself – the old were often stronger than they looked, and Andreychuk clearly led an active life. Indeed, on closer examination the man’s shoulders were broad, as was his
chest, despite the fact he was no longer young. And, of course, there was always the possibility he’d had assistance, that there had been two involved in the attempted deception, and perhaps
the murder itself. Andreychuk seemed to have had the opportunity to commit the crime, but what motive could he have had? None that Korolev could immediately think of, and then there was his very
obvious grief. Not that that could be trusted. And if the office had been cleaned of any forensic evidence, did that point to the perpetrator of the crime having been a simple caretaker? It seemed
much more likely that it pointed to someone with connections to the Security
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