Free The Bloody Meadow by William Ryan

mean?’ Marchuk asked, glancing at Mushkin for some direction. The Militia colonel sounded panicked – as well he might, thought Korolev.
    The doctor pointed to the marks on the girl’s neck. ‘With a suicidal hanging the marks of the rope or ligature are generally above or on the thyroid cartilage, and carried obliquely
upwards. Do you see?’ He mimed a rope holding his own neck up, and ran his finger at an angle from underneath his jaw to the back of his head. ‘We have such a mark here.’ He
pointed to the girl’s neck. ‘And you see this rope? It’s thick enough, yes?’
    ‘Peskov, pull yourself together.’ Colonel Marchuk’s cheeks were reddening as he inclined his head towards Mushkin. ‘This is no time for blathering.’
    ‘My apologies, Comrade Colonel.’ The doctor’s face seemed to become even paler in the solitary light bulb’s glow. ‘But this is an important point. It implies that
the rope she was found hanging from was not the cause of death. Do you see here, the long thin bruising, below these other marks? See how it is horizontal rather than oblique? This was caused by
something much finer – a cord of some sort, I should think. In short, it seems likely that the girl was dead before she was hung from this rope. In fact it seems most probable she was
strangled – from behind if you want an instant view – and that the thicker rope was applied after death. To an extent this is conjecture. I’ll have to examine her thoroughly in
the proper conditions. There is generally internal damage to the laryngeal cartilage and other bones in the neck. I’ll know for certain . . .’ He looked at his watch. ‘. . . Later
tonight.’
    There was silence after the doctor finished speaking. Shymko looked dour, the colonel as though he might be ill and Mushkin grim as a tombstone.
    ‘You’re saying she was murdered.’ The major paused. ‘You’re saying it wasn’t suicide but murder.’
    ‘I’d like to undertake a full autopsy, if that’s possible, back at the hospital. I’ll call for an ambulance immediately.’ The doctor looked up at Mushkin. ‘I
understand this is a priority and you’ll have my findings as soon as humanly possible – but I will have to examine her properly.’
    ‘But that’s your initial view?’ The major looked at the doctor and then at Korolev. Peskov shrugged, deferring to Korolev.
    ‘I think we should treat her death as suspicious, Comrade Major,’ Korolev said, feeling about as unhappy at the prospect as Mushkin looked, thinking that the odds on a quick return
to Moscow and the chance to visit his son in Zagorsk had just lengthened considerably. ‘That would seem to be the most sensible approach. And we should not discount murder.’
    Korolev’s last word seemed to echo as first Babel, somewhat enthusiastically, then Peskov, in quiet agreement, and finally Marchuk, in horror, all repeated it. Korolev saw the colonel
begin a movement with his right hand that looked suspiciously like the sign of the cross, but he’d remembered where he was by the time his hand touched his forehead, and instead began to rub
his eyebrows with his fingers, looking furtively at Major Mushkin out of the corner of his eye.
    ‘Murder?’ Shymko said, long after everyone else. ‘But Citizen Lenskaya was a model worker, an activist of the highest standing.’
    ‘Maybe that’s why they killed her,’ Mushkin replied, and for a moment Korolev thought he’d made a very dark joke. ‘Well, it will be for Colonel Marchuk to find
out.’
    Marchuk’s drooping head started up as though he’d been half-asleep and someone had kicked his chair.
    ‘Perhaps Captain Korolev . . . ?’ the colonel began, his voice dropping to a whisper in the face of Mushkin’s impassive stare. ‘We’re short of good men. It’s
the drive on hooligans and bandits. It’s time-consuming.’
    ‘And you’d like Korolev to break his holiday to investigate one of your cases because you have too