Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

‘You could never be incriminated, not after all this time.’

Danilov couldn’t remember telling her of his activities: he guessed her husband had. He said: ‘Nothing would happen: he’d pay off the investigation.’ It was a valid objection; there were probably more corrupt than honest policemen in Moscow.

Larissa eased fully off the chair but stood very close to where he knelt, undressing for his enjoyment. ‘It would be so much better for us, if Yevgennie weren’t around.’

‘I don’t want to talk about Yevgennie,’ said Danilov, thickly. Larissa was naked, her black wedge only inches from his face. She’d oiled herself there, planning what she wanted him to do.

‘So much better,’ she repeated, thrusting the scented feast for him to eat, which he did. It was good, which sex always was with Larissa. She made love with complete abandon and in every way, with no inhibitions, anxious to exchange every pleasure, arching beneath him when she finally climaxed in time with him. Danilov grimaced at the pain of her nails driving into his back, fearing she had marked him. He’d have to be careful, later. Danilov moved off her, propping himself on his side. Her look-at-me breasts sprouted proudly upright, demanding approval. Seeing him look Larissa said: ‘They’re yours.’

Danilov kissed both nipples. ‘We have to go, soon.’

‘Your fault for being late that we can’t do it again.’

Danilov wasn’t sure he could have done it again. Her hair, long and richly brown, was disordered on the pillow, framing her face. Abruptly remembering where she lived, he said: ‘How will you get home?’

Larissa frowned. ‘Walk, of course. I always do.’

It would mean her passing completely through the area where Vladimir Suzlev and Ann Harris had been murdered. ‘Don’t,’ he urged. ‘Take the bus. Or the metro. A taxi, even.’

The woman brought herself up on her arm, to face him. ‘The buses and the metro will be crowded.’

‘The murder I’m working on. It’s bad. Quite near your area.’

She became serious. ‘You mean I should be especially careful?’

‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you.’

‘Shouldn’t there be a warning, in the newspapers or something?’

Maybe he should discuss the matter of a public alert with Lapinsk. ‘Just be careful.’

‘You are going to catch him soon, aren’t you?’ demanded Larissa, smiling uncertainly. ‘He’s not going to get away? Roam the streets?’

At the moment that was probably what he was doing, thought Danilov: roaming the streets, seeking another victim. ‘I’m going to catch him.’ It was a personal promise.

‘I’ll take a bus,’ she decided. Quickly, her mind butterflying, she said: ‘When we were at the cinema Olga suggested we all get together soon. Said we hadn’t done it for a long time.’

This was how the affair with Larissa had grown: two Militia colleagues introducing their wives, dinners reciprocated in each other’s apartment, bribery-equipped flat compared to bribery-equipped flat, bored Larissa flirting, he first surprised, then flattered. ‘What did you say?’

‘That it would be nice. It would, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Danilov. He wasn’t sure that it would be.

‘I should clean your room.’ Valentina Yezhov was a big-bodied, domineering woman who had convinced herself her husband had deserted them through his shame at fathering a mentally disturbed son, which was not true. The man had come to detest her, during the marriage.

‘I’ve cleaned it myself. It’s all right.’

‘What have you got in there?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘Nothing,’ insisted Yezhov.

‘Why can’t I go in?’

‘I don’t want you to.’ In the hospitals nothing had been private, the nurses and the guards opening everything, poking into everything, as the fancy took them.

‘What do you do , when you go walking at night?’

‘Just walk.’

‘I don’t want any more trouble.’

‘I’m better.’

She’d been foolish, not getting a duplicate of his bedroom key before giving it to him. ‘I’d just clean. I wouldn’t pry.’

‘It’s all right.’

‘Please don’t do anything silly again.’ The little-girl plea sounded odd, from such a big person.

‘I said I’m better!’

Danilov recognized this as continuing the familiar part of an investigation: the part where there was still so much to read and so much to assimilate but from which, hopefully, an inconsistency would suddenly flare up to illuminate a pathway, a brief light in the dark tunnel. At the moment he still felt enclosed in blackness.

Already waiting for him when he got back to his office were the promised forensic findings and a sealed envelope upon which Pavin had written Telephone Log. There were additional notes from his assistant, reporting that the evidence room had been equipped as requested, all the evidence containers deposited there and every known room key in the building surrendered, to prevent unauthorized entry. The cleaners had also been warned off.

To the line of documents already set out on the desk Danilov added the pathology report and sat for several moments staring down at it all, unsure where to begin. And then didn’t begin at all, not immediately. Olga responded on the third ring. He said he still had a lot to do and would be late. There was some bortsch she would leave on the stove, for him to heat if she was already in bed. He said he wasn’t hungry but agreed he might be, later. There had been a letter from the supplier, confirming their order for the Jiguli was still on record but there was not yet any date for the car’s delivery. The washing machine in the basement was repaired but two other women in the block were ahead of her: she wasn’t sure if she’d get the shirts done that night, but she was going to try. The film she had seen the previous night with Elena and Larissa had been good. Danilov said he was glad. The union restaurant afterwards had been good, too: she’d have to take him there sometime. Danilov said he’d like that.

‘Got the murderer yet?’ The interest in Olga’s voice was about the same as her intonation when she’d discussed the soup she’d leave on the stove for when he got home.

‘Not yet.’

‘The taxi was expensive last night: nearly six roubles.’

‘I’m still glad you took it.’

‘If you used some influence like you did in the district we’d have our own car. Look how easy things seem to be for Yevgennie and Larissa. I’ve arranged an evening with them, by the way.’

‘I …’ started Danilov, unthinking. ‘Fine,’ he concluded.

‘At their flat. Not here.’

‘If you don’t want to do it, say so!’

‘I want to do it.’

‘I probably will be asleep when you get home.’

The pathology account first, he decided: the Americans held a copy, so it was the likeliest source of immediate discussion. He had to be prepared. Danilov’s instant impression was that Novikov had rewritten and redrawn the entire report, after the warning the previous day of the victim’s identity. The presentation was faultless, with none of the written-over mistypings with which Novikov was normally prepared to let his documents be distributed. There were margin sub-headings, too, another innovation.

Danilov was particularly careful to check the details of the wound against Novikov’s verbal account, convinced the man would have checked every note and supposition after learning of the American involvement. The depth of the wound was now given as nineteen and a quarter centimetres and the thickness wad qualified as just under five millimetres at the back of the knife but with minimal evidence of sideways cutting at the other edge, indicating extreme, easily entering sharpness. So as well as being sharply pointed the blade had been honed, as well. There was an abrupt change of opinion, needing another reminder pad notation, about the direction of the entry wound. During their conversation, Novikov had said the knife had entered in a slightly upwards trajectory. Now he stated categorically that having entered between the eighth and ninth rib, the wound graduated upwards to be a whole centimetre higher at the point of contact with the heart from the place of entry into the body. Danilov broke away, scribbling on his pad, noting beside it that Ann Harris had been one point six five metres tall and writing ‘killer height?’ and encircling it.