Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

Where was the sneaky, smart-assed son-of-a-bitch motherfucker? wondered Cowley. Respond in kind, he concluded, this time thinking ahead of what he was about to say. He smiled again, taking any criticism from the remark, and said: ‘It didn’t get off to a very good start at the embassy, did it?’

Danilov smiled back, briefly. ‘Misunderstandings on both sides.’

Cowley nodded, accepting the inference of a new start. So why not let it run that way, completely to ease his way in? All he had to do was to remain alert; careful against any advantage being taken from him. ‘Those ground rules suit me fine. Which means I’m missing the forensic examination of her apartment. Whatever the importance might have been from what you took from it. And if there was anything of importance in what’s simply listed as “correspondence” which you also removed.’

Cowley had itemized everything a trained detective would need to see, in addition to whatever had already been made available. Testingly, Danilov said: ‘My assessment? Or the material?’

He would probably have posed the same question himself, Cowley acknowledged. ‘Both. But the material first: I don’t want to assume any preconceptions you might express, in advance of my seeing what evidence is available.’

Danilov again recognized the correct professional reaction. ‘Everything’s along the corridor.’

There was certainly no room for it in this nest, thought Cowley: he hoped he hadn’t let his attention wander. ‘I’d better start getting up to date.’

Cowley thought the Russian exhibit room pitiful: three baizetopped, collapsible tables (one containing a map, the other completely barren), two obviously new filing cabinets (presumably unfilled), two long-corded telephones, brown Formica everywhere (Formica wall strips and Formica panelling and Formica wall platforms), and heightening the whole scene into farce a new, multi-horned pedestal coat-rack upon which no coats hung. And with no office personnel whatsoever. In America, had the murder victim been a Russian diplomat with the sort of political connections of Ann Harris, there would have additionally been a computer bank, staffed by operators, possibly a mini-telephone exchange, an exhibit and evidence controller in charge of an assembly group and at least three more display boards, one clearly indicating hour-by-hour and day-by-day progress. Cowley said: ‘Seems pretty well organized to me.’

Danilov looked at the American curiously, pointing towards the one occupied exhibit table. ‘That’s what you want. I’ll be back in my office. Take your time.’

Cowley lowered himself to the table as the Russian left the room but did not move at once to the document files, trying instead to assess the encounter. It barely qualified as preliminary. But was useful nevertheless. Certainly very different from what he might have expected from the warnings from Barry Andrews. So Barry had mishandled it, at the beginning. He wouldn’t completely ignore the warnings, though. He would simply wait, as he’d always intended to wait, to reach his own judgement on the Russian investigator. What was that judgement so far? Ill-dressed and uncomfortable with it, from the frequent shrugging together of his jacket and the fingering of his tie, against his crumpled shirt. But reasonably sure of himself, which was an advantage. In Cowley’s operational past, personal uncertainty of any sort in a partner — and he had to think of the Russian as a partner — had always been a hindrance as well as sometimes a danger in the field. He thought Danilov was clever, too. If there was one conclusion — premature maybe, wrong possibly — that Cowley had reached about Dimitri Danilov it was that the man was definitely not a fool. Which was another advantage. Enough, so early in the acquaintanceship: perhaps more than enough. He leaned forward for the first of the correspondence bundles.

Back along the corridor, Danilov reached the Director at the first attempt on the internal telephone, anxious to cancel the pointless afternoon briefing. The meeting with the American had seemed to go reasonably well, he assured Lapinsk. Cowley was now studying the outstanding documentation. After which they were to talk again. Beyond that, there was nothing to report apart from forensic proof that the notes referring to pain which had been retained by Ann Harris had been written on American paper in American-manufactured ink: the report had been waiting when he’d returned from the morning briefing, which was why he hadn’t mentioned it then.

‘It’s amicable, then?’ demanded the Director, an elderly man needing to be reassured more than once.

‘It seems to be, so far,’ said Danilov.

‘How much does he know?’

‘We’ve only talked about the woman at the moment.’

There was a burst of coughing. ‘Call me at once if any problems arise later. I want to be warned in advance.’

Pavin entered the office as Danilov replaced the receiver. The Major said: ‘How’s it gone?’

‘We’ve agreed on complete openness. He’s looking at the correspondence and the forensic report on the flat. It’s really too early to decide what sort of man he is.’

‘Do you think he’ll keep his word about sharing everything?’

‘I don’t know,’ Danilov admitted. ‘We’ll have to see.’ Did he intend sharing everything? And how could he check on the other man’s honesty? He was going to have to remain very alert.

‘He’s certainly big enough,’ said Pavin, another big man. ‘I was downstairs when he arrived. He came by ordinary taxi. I thought there would have been an embassy car but there wasn’t. Just an ordinary street taxi.’ Pavin appeared surprised.

‘We’re talking again, when he’s completely filled himself in. You’d better be here, to meet him.’

‘How good is his Russian?’

‘Seems all right.’ The two men looked at each other, nothing left to say and with nothing positive left to do. An absolute cul-de-sac, Danilov thought again. He was genuinely anxious now to expand the conversation with the American, to see if a fresh mind would come up with anything new. Only four more days before the next Tuesday, he remembered. ‘What about the case history search of psychiatric clinics?’

‘We’re still assembling lists. It isn’t easy,’ Pavin apologized. ‘I’m having the house-to-house done again, around both scenes. And I’ve got a street map, from the bookstall at the Intourist Hotel: I’ve already pinned it up. It’s not as detailed as I would have liked — misses out a lot of the alleys and sideroads, although the street where she was killed is there — but it’s the best I could do: at least we can section off the area where they both happened. Stationery here say they’ve had maps on order for six months. If they get some they’ve promised to let me know.’

‘How many Militia posts cover that area?’ demanded Danilov, suddenly.

‘I’m not sure,’ admitted the Major, doubtfully. ‘Eleven and 122, certainly. Depends how wide you really want to extend the area.’

‘Mark out a radius maybe two or three kilometres beyond where both bodies were found and see if that takes in any other Militia districts,’ ordered Danilov. ‘And have the street patrols from all of them checked. I want every report of prowlers, stalkers, Peeping Toms, any violence that can’t be explained as an ordinary street brawl, where everyone involved has been identified. Go back …’ He paused, seeking a manageable period. ‘… a month before Vladimir Suzlev was killed.’ Guessing the cause of the scepticism on Pavin’s face, Danilov said: ‘We can demand any facility we want. I know it’ll take time but assign extra men.’

Pavin shrugged acceptance. ‘The criticism has already started at the amount of resources we’re utilizing. This will make it worse.’