Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

The man accompanying Ralph Baxter was the patrician-featured diplomat in the second photograph Danilov had seen that morning, the person upon whose arm Ann Harris’s hand had been lightly resting. The hair was pure white, combed forward Roman statesman fashion, to hide the fact that it was receding, the face beak-nosed and close to being unnaturally grey, putty-coloured. The man wore a black suit and a completely black tie: a dead man mourning the dead.

Danilov waited, expectantly. It was not until Novikov said: ‘ Pazhalsta ’ — which in the circumstances was a clumsy welcome — that the pathologist realized a difficulty for which he had not prepared.

‘I’ll translate,’ Danilov offered, first in Russian, then in English. At least, he thought, I’m achieving that long ago ambition.

Baxter nodded acceptance, without speaking. Novikov’s face darkened. Danilov wondered why he had to bother with all this: it was practically a hindrance in trying to catch a mentally deranged killer. Determined on names this time, Danilov thrust out a hand, forcing the unknown American to accept the gesture and by so doing to identify himself. The reluctant hand was soft and moist. The man said: ‘Paul Hughes, senior economist at the embassy.’ He paused before adding: ‘Ann worked in my department.’

An address-book name to which to put a face, thought Danilov. He politely completed the introduction to Novikov and took over the pathologist’s role, offering them seats.

‘We don’t expect this to take long,’ said Baxter, as if he were already late for something else.

‘A necessary formality,’ insisted Danilov.

As Danilov translated the exchange for Novikov’s benefit, the diplomat said, in Russian: ‘I understand the language.’

In English Danilov said: ‘I know. But there won’t be the unfortunate misunderstanding there was yesterday.’

Baxter’s face blazed and the economist looked curiously between the two of them. The ill-feeling came down like a lowered curtain.

‘What is this?’ queried Hughes. He had a clipped way of speaking, shortening the end of his words.

‘Nothing important,’ Baxter dismissed. Returning the other American’s look he said, expectantly: ‘Shouldn’t we get on?’

Hughes took the cue. From his briefcase he extracted a batch of legally bundled documents, secured with pink tape, and extended them towards Danilov. The Russian made no attempt to accept them. Hughes said: ‘These are legal demands for the return to American custody of the body of Ann Harris, the opening and return to American jurisdiction of Ann Harris’s apartment at Ulitza Pushkinskaya 397, and a return to American custody of each and every article taken by the Russian authorities from that apartment.’

Danilov remained with his hands beside him, taking his time to repeat to Novikov what the American had said: towards the end, imagining trouble for Danilov, the pathologist’s face relaxed just short of a smile. To the white-haired man Danilov said: ‘Legal demands under whose law? American or Russian? I am unfamiliar with any Russian legislation that would be open to you.’ This was another hindering distraction. He wouldn’t let himself become involved.

Now it was Hughes who coloured, although not so fully as Baxter. So whey-faced was the man, however, that the effect was more marked, two patches of bright red on either cheek like rouge badly applied. The man said: ‘I would suggest you accept these writs. My authority is as Ann Harris’s superior: head of the section.’

‘And I would suggest you present them to the appropriate legal department of the appropriate Russian ministry,’ replied Danilov. ‘This isn’t a matter for me.’ He thought men with flamboyant face whiskers that wobbled as Baxter’s did shouldn’t get angry.

Baxter swung sideways to his embassy colleague and said: ‘I told you …’ before jerking to a stop.

‘Identical demands have today been served upon both your Foreign and Interior Ministries,’ said Hughes. The man’s anger made the threat sound slightly too artificial.

‘Then there is no need whatsoever for me to have copies, is there?’ said Danilov, in further rejection. He hesitated, then said: ‘Although I appreciate your courtesy, in making it available to me …’ There was another pause, while he went to his briefcase. ‘… In return for which I need to give you this. It is the complete list of every article and possible piece of evidence removed from Ulitza Pushkinskaya …’ He thrust it towards Baxter, who regarded the list uncertainly, then took it. More rapidly than before, Danilov relayed the complete exchange to the pathologist. ‘You prepared a duplicate of your examination, I hope?’

Novikov was aware of the tension in the room, but despite the complete explanation did not fully understand what it was about. He said: ‘Yes … I … of course. It’s here … fingerprints I promised, too …’ and took several sheets of paper from a folder on his desk.

Danilov reached forward and the pathologist dutifully handed it over. It was not until Danilov was passing it on to the Americans that Novikov realized the policeman had taken from him the opportunity he considered rightfully his. He’d even rehearsed a brief explanation.

Baxter took the offered document. Unthinkingly he began to open it, as if it had to be studied and questioned. Beside him Hughes pulled back the hand holding the legal demands. Baxter said: ‘I will report this obstruction, to the ambassador.’

‘Then please report it accurately,’ said Danilov. ‘In no way and at no time are you being obstructed.’

‘Are you going to release the apartment and the items taken from it?’ demanded Hughes. Without seeking approval from the man whose office it was, he fumbled to light a cigarette, a strongsmelling French Gitane.

‘When I am ordered to do so by my superiors,’ said Danilov.

‘You will be,’ said Baxter, positively.

‘We’re here for a purpose,’ said Danilov, briskly, not wanting another trouble-making argument. ‘Let’s get it over.’

Novikov led along the corridor but stood back, herding them into the elevator ahead of him. They descended unspeaking. The muscles stood out on Baxter’s cheeks, where he was clenching his jaws in determination. Hughes’s grey face had a sheen of perspiration.

Danilov detected the smell before they reached the examination room. When Novikov paused at the door, Hughes said: ‘I don’t have to make the actual identification. I’ll wait out here.’

Baxter frowned at his colleague, denied support, but said nothing. He nodded his readiness to the two Russians. Novikov led again; Danilov was the last to go into the room. The formaldehyde and disinfectant stench was as strong as before, but Danilov was not as upset this time. At their entry an assistant withdrew the coffin-sized drawer from the refrigerated bank in a wall to the left: there were puffs of whiteness from the freezing air inside colliding with the warmer, outside atmosphere. Novikov was careful to pull back the covering only to expose Ann Harris’s face and shorn scalp. The face was grey, like the American economist’s in the corridor outside: the death snarl had almost completely melted away.

‘Oh dear God!’ said Baxter, his familiar phrase. He swayed and then retched, so badly that Danilov thought the man was going to vomit. He put a handkerchief to his mouth, coughed, and then wiped his eyes. He said: ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Is this the body of Ann Harris?’ demanded Danilov, formally.

‘Of course it is,’ said Baxter. ‘Oh my God! Poor Ann.’ Weteyed he looked to Danilov for guidance. ‘What must I do now?’

‘Nothing. That’s all,’ said Danilov. He stopped just short of taking the man’s arm, gesturing him instead towards the door. Immediately outside Baxter leaned back against the wall, ignoring Hughes for several minutes. Once he almost retched again, at the last minute turning the distress into a cough, behind his bunched-up handkerchief. Hughes was smoking a fresh cigarette.